Song: Fix You by Coldplay
Chapter 3 – The Book (P)
I pause the tape at the point where Katniss and I sit in the sand to begin our watch. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them, and press play. I'm not even exactly sure what I'm looking for at this point. Every word and tone of our conversation, every gesture and expression visible in the night have long ago been ingrained in my memory.
The familiar scene unfolds before me. I tell her I would never be happy again if I were to return without her, give her the locket, and remind her she is needed at home. She confesses to need me, I look as if I want to protest, and we kiss until the lightning strikes. It's the kiss that I can't make sense of.
By now, I have pieced together enough of my memories to know some things with certainty. I know that I've loved Katniss for a long time, and that everything I said to her on that beach was sincere, even my implications about Gale, because I wanted, and still want, her to be happy.
That kiss, though. There's a quality surrounding that memory that makes it distinct, but it's not the same kind of shine of the jacker venom memories. It's something else, something…light. The only person who could possibly help me untangle this and other knots in my memory is Katniss.
But Katniss, who is among the most injured of the war's survivors, has her own wounds to heal. All throughout the spring and summer, people returned to District 12 and slowly began to dust off the ashes, slowly came back to life. But Katniss has been so much more difficult to put back together than the district. A spirit, once broken, is infinitely more complicated to mend than a building.
So I will keep trying. I have to. Katniss is alive, and as long as that remains fact, I know I can never give up on her. It's not that she hasn't shown any signs of recovery. We've developed a bit of a routine over the past several months. I sleep by her side whenever she allows it, which is more often than not. Most mornings, after we have breakfast, are spent apart. I bake; sometimes Katniss goes back to bed (although she doesn't really sleep), sometimes she wanders around her house, sometimes she walks the woods or hunts. She typically comes to my house for lunch, one of our most consistent rituals we've developed since returning to 12. In the afternoon, I like to paint. When she feels like it, Katniss will sit and watch me, the way she did when I was helping her with her family's plant book.
I remember working on that book with her, although those memories still need some clarification. That's really what I need from Katniss right now. But Katniss doesn't acknowledge her past, or her future. She merely exists in the present.
Those cold winter days we sat before the fire in Katniss' house, before the chaos of the Quarter Quell was upon us, stand out to me for several reasons. They're odd in the way they feel so…normal. Carrying her in my arms, working with her to amend the book, enjoying each other's company. At least, that's how I remember it. But this memory also rings true for me because it seems to lack completely that shiny quality I can discern in some.
I stop the video and look at the clock. After putting away the tapes, I take the bread from the oven and start to think about what to have for lunch when Katniss, game bag in tow, comes through the kitchen door. She's been hunting more often as of late. I take this as a good sign.
"Hi," she says. "What's for lunch?" This is the general nature of our current conversations. The day's activities, the weather, food.
"You read my mind, I was just thinking about lunch. Sandwiches?" I offer, thinking of the vegetables, fresh bread, and leftover meat on hand.
"Sounds good," Katniss replies. "I gathered some herbs for you," she continues as she transfers several bundles of rosemary and dill from her bag to my kitchen counter. "And look, I found the first of the fall apples." A dozen small red apples tumble from her now-empty bag.
"Thanks," I say. "No game today? Or did you already drop it off at your place?"
"I…" she starts in a quiet voice while she sinks into a chair. "I didn't feel like it today. And I knew we had meat, so I just…walked. Gathered plants."
"It's okay if you don't want to hunt," I say, sitting beside her and placing my hand on hers. "I'm happy for the herbs. I remember these two being among the oldest entries in your family's book." Something tells me that bringing up the book is the right thing to do.
When Katniss speaks again, I hear more light in her voice than I have in a long time. "I'm glad I still have it, after everything. It's like…being able to hang on to my family, keep them with me."
Katniss sits quietly as I go to put lunch together. It's rare for her to talk so much and so candidly about subjects that I know are painful for her. When I speak to Dr. Aurelius, he tells me that I should encourage her to talk, but not push it if she seems overly emotional or distressed, which is probably what I would do anyway. So I follow both his advice and my own instinct and let Katniss be.
"You know," she says as we eat, "there are a few new additions I could make to the plant book. If you want to help me?"
"That's a great idea, Katniss. Of course I'll help you." It's the first activity she's wanted to do in months. My hope that Katniss can recover surges, but I try not to let it get the best of me. Even if this turns out well, it will still only be one step on a very long journey.
We spend the afternoon in my art studio adding new information that Katniss had picked up in District 13. Going back through the old pages, I touch up colors in some places while she checks over the information. It's a quiet, subdued activity by almost any measure, and yet I feel this is the most meaningful interaction I've had with Katniss since our return home.
We are just wondering if there is anything else the book needs when my phone rings. "Doctor time," says Katniss. "I better go home. Wouldn't want to keep Dr. Aurelius waiting."
"Can I come by for dinner?" I ask hopefully. An invitation to dinner usually means an invitation to spend the night, and if emotional closeness is too painful for Katniss right now, at least the physical closeness of our nights together helps me somewhat. It helps her, too, of course.
"Sure," she says, and for a brief moment I think I can barely discern a faint smile play across her face.
I find myself awake before dawn the following morning, her small form warm in my arms, still sleeping. Without warning, Katniss' body twinges and she cries out in her sleep. I brace myself around her, as if doing so can shelter her from the terrors she faces in the night. There is nothing I wouldn't give to be able to reach into her mind and pluck out her tortured thoughts.
We sit with steaming mugs of tea in front of us and munch on a breakfast of bread, apples, and cheese. Although Greasy Sae had for many weeks obligingly cooked two meals a day for Katniss and later me as well, I had decided some weeks ago that breakfast was easy enough to take care of by ourselves. Now, she only comes by nightly to cook dinner.
Greasy Sae actually remains on the government's payroll as long as Katniss is receiving treatment from the Capitol doctors. Katniss and I, along with the rest of the remaining victors, are still given monthly stipends from the government. While we are not paid quite as handsomely as we were under Snow's regime, President Paylor and her administration have decided that we deserve to remain provided for as recompense for all the suffering we have endured. Somehow, it still doesn't quite seem fair. I don't think it ever really will. Still, at least now we're able to fulfill my wish of having little Rue's family receive a portion of our earnings. Neither of Thresh's relatives had survived the war.
Katniss bites into one of the crunchy red apples she picked up in the woods yesterday. "You know," she says slowly as she chews, "I don't think this variety of apple is in the book."
"Let's add it, then. I don't need to do much baking today. We could work on it this morning, if you'd like," I offer. I'm trying not to be too enthusiastic, but I can't help but admit how thrilled I am that Katniss seems to be taking interest in something other than moping about and the occasional hunt.
After breakfast, I sit, focused on the small chalk pastel drawing in front of me. The curve of the fruit, its red skin lightly variegated with green, form under my dusty fingers. Without having to look up, I can sense Katniss' eyes on me as I work. I suppose being watched might make other artists nervous, but nothing could be more comforting to me in this moment.
"What do you think?" I ask, holding the drawing up for her inspection.
"It's perfect, looks just like the real thing," replies Katniss. Her eyes study the image of the apple, and then scan away from the drawing to a corner of the page where I left a smudge of red pastel that blushes pink against the parchment. I can barely hear her whisper when she says, "Prim's cheeks would turn this color sometimes, when she was nervous or embarrassed… I wish she were a plant, so we could put her in the book, too."
"Why not?" I answer back. "If the purpose of the book is to preserve valuable information so no one forgets it, then why can't we put her in there, to keep with you forever?"
"But then… we'd have to put my dad, and your family, and everyone in it. We'd need a whole new book…" Katniss' voice trails off before her eyes widen and she gasps. "Peeta! We need a whole new book! Not a plant book, but a people book."
"That's a wonderful idea, Katniss," I agree. What better way to commemorate those who had been lost, to remember them, to keep them alive? "We'd need more supplies, and I'm sure our doctors will want to know about it, but of course we can make a book for them. I would be honored to help you with it."
Without warning, I find her blazing eyes looking into mine, and I kiss her before I can stop myself. Although I'll admit that I've stolen pecks on her cheek and forehead while she sleeps, this is the first kiss we've shared since Katniss had kissed me back in the sewers of the Capitol. Then, her lips had driven the hiss of the muttations from my mind kept me sane when I had been near to turning on her.
Now, she pulls back from me, although not before she hesitates ever so slightly. "Peeta-" she starts, but I cut her off.
"No, I'm sorry. I just got carried away. It really is a great idea, Katniss." I know I have violated our agreement to keep our relationship platonic. While I don't think I could ever really think of her as a mere friend, I have decided to let her take her time.
Later that day, I'm on the phone with Dr. Aceso, telling her about the idea for the book. She agrees that it should be a good way for both of us to bring closure to everything. The doctor then turns the conversation back to me.
"Have you been watching the replays of the games, as we discussed?" She asks me.
"Yes, I've been able to watch both of them all the way through a few times," I reply.
"And how do they stack up against what you think you remember?"
"There are definitely memories I know are false because the videos prove otherwise. For instance, I know I never actually killed anyone in the first arena. When Cato sent me to finish that girl, she was a moment away from death anyway. All I did was hold her hand and say something about how much her family loves her as she died."
"Yes, that's right," Dr. Aceso says, echoing my soft tone. "I remember watching that and thinking what a sweet gesture that was."
"But there are other parts I still can't make sense of, and I'm not even sure they're related to my torture at all."
"Involving Katniss?" she asks knowingly.
"Yes," I reply. "There are moments that feel different than the others, but I can't remember what exactly made them different. I think Katniss might be the key to helping me figure them out, but I'm afraid if I ask her, she'll…I don't know, break down or something. But I want so badly to know." I can hear my voice nearly break.
"You've been so patient with her, Peeta, and I wish I could tell you something other than to hang in there. But she seems to be improving. Her idea for the book is a hopeful sign, at any rate. Support her and help her with it, and if the time is right to bring up your past together, you'll know it."
I wish I could be so confident. That night, I dream that Katniss and I are amidst a beautiful landscape, but trapped in separate cages like wild animals.
Our work on the book begins. Even before the extra reams of parchment arrive on the train, Katniss begins collecting photographs of everyone we have them for, and we start on these pages first.
Katniss starts the book with her father, as a sort of dedication page. Prim's entry consumes many days' work, and contains photos, my drawings, Katniss' descriptions, and other tidbits spanning several pages. Katniss cries the entire time, mostly silent tears that stream down her cheeks. But when she takes one of Prim's hair ribbons in her hand, Katniss fingers the soft satin between her fingers before collapsing into loud sobs. All I can do is hold her, rub her back, wipe her eyes. I want desperately to tell her that things will be okay again, but she wouldn't believe me if I did.
When it comes time to archive my own family members, it is Katniss' turn to help me through the process. I think of all the nice things I can about my mother. Although I was never particularly close to Lucca, my oldest brother, I find I have plenty of fond memories of him. My father's best traits are easy to remember: his gentle nature that made him so easy to be around, the patience with which he had taught me to bake, his own expertise in flour and yeast, sugar and eggs.
The page for my brother Marko is the hardest for me to bear. Two years older than I to the day, Marko was the closest friend I ever had. We write about how funny and outgoing he was, how he taught me to wrestle, the time he tried to beat up Lucca for accidentally giving me a black eye and ended up with his own shiner. I manage to hold off on my own tears until I describe the time he had swiped a whole cake from the bakery counter on our birthday and hidden it under our bed to be eaten clandestinely that night.
"Marko knew all my secrets," I say as Katniss writes. She looks up, eyebrows knitted together.
"He knew…about me?" she asks.
"Yeah," is all I can say. Marko had known everything about Katniss: how much I had always loved her, how hurt I had been when we came home from the first games, how conflicted I had felt about her after the Victory Tour, everything.
I still remember the day when I was fourteen years old and Lucca had seen a sketch in my school notebook, a drawing of Katniss and the initials PM+KE inscribed in a heart. Sounding all too much like our mother, Lucca had teased me mercilessly, calling Katniss a "scrawny Seam rat", but later Marko had pulled me aside and told me that Lucca was just being a jerk of a brother. With a wink, Marko had added that he couldn't blame me, that he had noticed how cute Katniss was when she brought her little sister in to look at the cakes. This had resulted in my slugging his arm, which had lead to a wrestling match. Pinning me to the ground, Marko had growled, "Don't you even think about her, Peeta. Katniss has always had a crush on me. She even kissed me behind the slagheap once. I hear she kisses all the boys behind the slagheap…"
No. I perceive the saturated golden tones pervading the memory as I feel my body start to tense up.
"Peeta, it's Katniss. I'm here. I'm here. Peeta…" The sound of her voice and the sight of her beautiful face in front of me bring me back to where I am: Sitting on the sofa in Katniss' living room as we work on our book. Her eyes are awash with fear and concern. I realize I have an iron grip on her hand, and I'm crushing her small fingers.
Loosening my grip, I take a deep breath as I take in the worried face in front of mine.
"Was it Marko?" she asks. "Did they mess with memories of him?"
"Yes," I say, "but really only to change my perception of you. In that memory, it sounded as if Marko had told me you had kissed him, and we were fighting. But it didn't really happen, of course. No, he thought- he said we would look cute together." I feel my cheeks go pink as I recall what had really happened that night. We had wrestled, but only in sport. Marko had even let me try to pin him a few times just for the practice before he had eventually bested me. He then jokingly offered to bust Gale Hawthorn's face, if I thought that might help my chances. I remember laughing at the time, thinking I would never have a chance with Katniss. But now…
"Katniss?" I ask gently. "Can I ask you something? You know, like real or not real?"
"I guess," she says, her voice tentative.
"You've been confused about your feelings for me," I say.
"Real," she says, her voice shaky.
"Confused for a long time? Since the first games?"
"I- maybe." I can almost see her withdrawing into herself.
"It's okay, you don't have to answer any more right now," I say as she all but collapses into my arms. Her voice and expression have told me what I want to know.
Katniss decides to lie down for a nap, although I have a feeling she just wants to be alone for the time being. When her phone rings, I assume it's Dr. Aurelius and answer. "Everdeen residence."
"Peeta! How great to hear your voice again. Spending time with Katniss, are we?" It's Plutarch Heavensbee. I can only imagine why he's calling.
"Hello, Plutarch. If you called for Katniss, she's-"
"Not to worry, your answering the phone will save me from having to make a second call. I'm sure you've seen my newest television specials, yes?"
I don't watch much television now that there's no longer any required viewing, but I actually had caught most of an early morning rerun of one of Plutarch's shows while I was waiting for dough to rise one day last week. He's doing a series on the rebuilding of Panem after the war. It's called The Rebirth of a Nation: The Formation and Unification of the Republic of Panem et Populi, and it highlights the rebuilding efforts in the Capitol and some of the districts. The particular episode I had seen focused on plans for a memorial in the City Circle.
"I've caught a bit of them," I tell Plutarch, wary as to his intentions.
"Good, then you're familiar with the angle I've been taking," he replies.
"You mean all the interviews, the people talking about the horrors and injustices suffered under Snow, and how the new Republic is going to bring a new day to Panem?" I ask, recalling scenes I had watched.
"Yes, that's been my general take on it. Well, as you can see, we're taking a very human approach to the series, featuring people and stories ordinary citizens can identify with. We've received good feedback so far, but we feel they need…more."
"You mean they need us," I shoot back. There's no way. Not yet, at least. The last thing Katniss needs right now is Plutarch's cameras in her face.
"The people have always responded so well to the two of you, and we'd love to catch up with-"
"Look, Plutarch," I cut him off, blood beginning to boil under my skin. "Katniss never wanted to be the face of anything. No one asked her to be the Mockingjay, to bear the weight of all she's had to go through. If we were really fighting for freedom, please let Katniss have hers now. She's earned it."
"Well," he says. He seems a little taken aback. "I merely wanted to extend the invitation for an interview."
"Well, I'll pass along the message," I say.
"They tell me the rebuilding is beginning in District 12 will begin in proper this spring," Plutarch continues, changing the subject. It's nice to hear that the new government hasn't forgotten about our dusty little district, at any rate.
"Yeah, the cleaning up took a long time. There was a lot of rubble, ash. Bodies." My voice grows soft as I think of all I'd seen over the past few months. I continue to keep the cleanup and construction teams in fresh bread, and during deliveries I've witnessed firsthand the bleak reality that remains in District 12.
"Peeta, the reconstruction is slower than we all would like, but do know the Republic is making every effort to rebuild Panem bigger and better than ever before. Did you hear about the plans for a new medicine factory in Twelve? They plan to lay the foundation as soon as the ground thaws this spring. I'll be out there to cover it, of course, when it happens."
"Of course," I say. I didn't know about the factory. I think about the jobs it will bring, the opportunities and the people. Maybe this really will work out, it just needs time. Like Katniss needs time.
"I'll tell Katniss you called," I say, suddenly wanting to be with her and off the phone with Plutarch. "But don't expect her to say yes to anything. At least not yet."
"Thank you for relaying the message. We'll be in touch, Peeta."
We hang up, and I'm soon climbing the stairs and knocking softly on Katniss' bedroom door.
"Come in," she replies. "Who was on the phone?" she asks as I enter.
"Plutarch," I say, sitting next to where she lies on the bed. Responding to the sudden widening of her eyes, I quickly follow with, "It's okay, told him no." I gently take her hand and stroke the back of it with my thumb. Katniss smiles up at me.
"He wanted to put us on T.V.?" she guesses correctly.
"Yeah," I say. "I don't even know for what, specifically. I didn't let him get that far." I find I'm smiling by now too, although I don't know why. "He's doing a series about the rebuilding efforts. Maybe you should watch some, they're pretty good. They remind me of those We Remember propos in a way."
"I don't know," she says, which I take for a no.
"It's okay." Without thinking, I lean down and kiss her cheek. I don't realize what I've done until I see her eyes, expression unreadable, widen slightly. "Oh," I start.
"It's okay," she says softly. "I don't…I mean, don't expect me to, but it's okay," she manages. She's smiling again, if only ever so slightly, so I bend down and kiss her again, since I can. Once more on the lips. This, too, is accepted, and now we're both smiling. I make a mental note to remember this moment, to cherish it.
Maybe everything really is okay. Or it will be. It could be.
A few nights later, Katniss' thrashing wakes me. Normally, she screams herself awake from nightmares. But tonight, her eyes are wild and her body convulses violently, but she can't utter a sound, even after I calm her and ask her what happened. So I lie her back down, and as I lean over her, I can't help but kiss her.
My Mockingjay, with her broken wings and silenced voice.
A/N: Chapter 4 has been a little slow going, but I promise it's in the works! A huge thank you to all of my reviewers for your feedback. I'm thrilled that you enjoy my writing - I know I have a great time doing it! Love.