Spider Webs
"Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational." ~Hugh Mackay
August 2011. Nantucket, Massachusetts.
Erin gingerly lowered herself into the wooden rocking chair on the back porch, her body suddenly feeling so much older and so much more brittle from the weight and stress of grief. In the chair beside her, Andrew rocked calmly and steadily, his classical profile softened by the late afternoon sun.
Gods, he was such a beautiful boy. Even now, at forty years old, he still looked like Apollo or some other youthful and shining god of old, so perfect and handsome and worthy of adoration.
But Erin's golden boy was a mere mortal—a fact that had been made so painfully evident earlier today, when he'd sat the family down in the large living room (the same place they'd tumbled and giggled and imagined in as children) and had quietly informed them that he'd been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer.
There had been tears, and a few questions, and then everyone had disappeared into different corners of the house to slowly come to terms with this new sharp-edged grief, which came so closely on the heels of the death of Jameson E. Breyer, the man of steel with a razor-sharp mind who'd devolved into an unknowing collection of bones and loose flesh.
As the eldest daughter (and now the unofficial head of the Breyer family), Erin still felt the need to fulfill the role of comforter, which was why she wasn't crying in her room, but rather sitting beside her younger brother, just as calmly as if he hadn't told her that he was dying a mere half-hour ago.
They sat in silence for awhile, their chairs creating the familiar groans against the worn wooden slats of the porch as they simply stared out at the horizon.
"Go ahead and ask, RT," he broke the silence, using her old childhood nickname (Erin had been shortened to Rin, which Peter had changed to Rin-Tin-Tin, just to annoy her, and then somehow it became RT for short).
Normally, she would smile at how well her baby brother knew her, but now it just brought tears to her eyes, because she realized that soon, that familiarity would be forever gone from her life.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to remain calm as she quietly asked, "So, you're not seeking treatment?"
The corner of his mouth quirked into a wry smile, but he didn't turn to look at her.
"My highest survival rate is somewhere between 28 and 10 percent. I don't much like those odds." There was a pause before he added, "I don't see the point in fighting it."
"I see," was her only reply.
Now he looked at her, "You think I'm making the wrong choice, don't you?"
Her green eyes locked onto his, the ones that so perfectly matched her own, and the tears building at the corners slipped onto her cheeks. That was the only answer he needed.
"I'm not a fighter like you are, RT," he turned his face back to the sea. "Never have been, never had to be. All my battles were fought for me—not that I minded, and not that I blamed anyone for doing it. I just...it's just not who I am."
"And what about Lina?" Erin asked softly, reminding him of his girlfriend, who'd been with him for almost ten years now and who was currently upstairs (she wanted to ask, what about me, but she didn't, because she knew how childish and selfish that sounded).
"We're getting married," he stated matter-of-factly. He looked back at his sister's shocked expression as he gently explained, "I want her to be able to get full spousal privileges while I'm in the hospital, and afterwards, I want her to get the full benefits from my pension. And since...since I'll probably still be in office by the time that happens, as my widow, she'll be able to take my seat. There won't be a hasty election, and I can rest easy, knowing that she's going to finish what we started."
He gave a wry smile as he added, "You know, after my first wife, I swore I'd die before I got married again...and now...well, careful what you wish for, right?"
He was trying to dispel the grief with humor, because that was how he'd always been—the happy-go-lucky baby, the one who always found a way to make his family smile, the one who lived for the laughter and adoration of others.
She wanted to cry, and he didn't want her to, so as always, she forced a smile that could dazzle an entire room. That was how it had always been between them—she adored him, had always been more like a doting aunt than a sister, had always done whatever he asked, because she loved seeing him smile, and he returned her adoration, at times finding her more loving and maternal than their own mother (who was so tired of raising children and being the shining judge's wife by the time he came along), had always tried to make her smile, because when she smiled, he could see the love shining from her eyes.
She hated feeling so helpless. She reached over, gently taking his hand in her own.
"I'd give you my liver, if I could," she said softly, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she spoke with the full conviction of her heart, mind, body, and soul.
"I know." He replied quietly.
Erin grimaced as she turned her face back to the horizon, "Well, I'm not sure it'd be much help anyways—I'm pretty sure it's already shot to hell."
He gave a small snicker at the quip, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze—because he knew how big of a drinker Erin was and had been for most of her life (though she'd never told him how bad it had gotten, never told him about her 28 days in rehab, only Peter knew about that, because she so desperately feared becoming a failure in Drew's eyes, and she wanted more than anything to be the golden and glittering bastion of strength and dependability that he'd always thought she was).
With a small smile, he spoke again, "You know that's the real reason Peter calls you Rin-Tin-Tin—because you always try to save the day."
"Really? He used to tell me that it was because my nose made me look like a German Shepherd." Erin watched another smile creep across his face as she continued, "Of course, when we got older, sometimes he would say that I was acting like my namesake—it was the only way he could call me a bitch without getting a smack across the face from Mom."
"Peter always was the most imaginative one of the bunch," Andrew admitted.
With a small hum of agreement, Erin disengaged her hand from her baby brother's, standing and moving down the porch steps to inspect the flower beds, which were in a sad state due to lack of care. She leaned over, gingerly pulling out a few weeds, though she knew it was a losing battle—it had been nine years since anyone had paid any attention to these beds, and nature had reclaimed the land.
A few minutes of gentle silence passed as Andrew continued rocking, watching his sister in mild amusement. She reminded him so much of their mother in this moment. I'd give you my liver, if I could. I'd give you my life.
He knew that she didn't tell him everything—a part of him was grateful, because he didn't think he wanted to know everything (he quite liked the rosy, romanticized view he had of her, liked the ideal of his strong and determined RT, the flaxen-haired warrior of the family—the problem was that she was a warrior, and warriors were often bloodstained and battle-worn and bruised, and that wasn't the reality he wanted to have of her). He had noticed little things, like how she hadn't had a glass of wine at dinner for the past few days, how she'd seemed more "collected" over the past few months as they'd banded together and prepared for the inevitable loss of their father, and he thought that he knew what it meant, but he didn't truly want to know for sure.
He had noticed other little things, things which weren't quite as positive—how strained things seemed between her and Paul, how his brother-in-law didn't hold her hand like he used to, how they didn't stay in the same room for long periods of time, how her cheeks didn't glow the way they used to whenever the family spent the week out here. And again, he was sure of what it signaled, but he didn't want to know.
She was losing all of the men in her life—her father, her brother, her husband, everyone except for old dependable Peter (who probably did know all the things about her that Andrew didn't, who was closer with her on a different level, on more equal footing) and sweet little Chris (who wasn't so little anymore, but who would always be a wide-eyed kid in Andrew's mind). That was the thing that made Andrew feel the guiltiest, knowing that by refusing treatment, he was signing his own death sentence and depriving Erin of one more ally in this strange battle of life. He hated knowing that Peter and Carole and Lina still needed him, too, hated knowing that by choosing this noble route, he was hurting the people he cared about the most (though they'd never say so, no, because they loved him too much to make him feel bad about his decision, because they all wanted him to be at peace and free from pain). He hated that this had to happen so soon after their father's death, when they truly needed one another the most. He hated every single bit of this unfair game of life, which had decided that he had to be the one in this situation, faced with these impossible choices and this harrowing fate. More than anything, he hated that after a lifetime of being a source of laughter and joy to others, his condition was now the creator of so much grief and despair.
Naturally, Lina was his first priority. They'd known for about a week now, and she was already experiencing insomnia as dreaded anticipation began to creep through her bones (the same way the cancer had crept through his body, slowly but surely taking over). He hated knowing that he was the reason for the dark, deep grooves under her eyes (she used to say, A girl loves a guy who can make her laugh, and nobody's ever made me laugh the way you do, Drew, but now she didn't laugh quite so much). He loved Lina, she was a good and strong woman who hadn't blinked twice about his decision, who had simply begun finding ways to transition their lives towards an inevitable end. He knew her strength came from within, but her sanity and balance throughout came from a good support system of family and friends who would help her through the trying times ahead, just as they had helped her through so many trials before.
Erin didn't have that support system. Though she'd probably die before admitting it, she was in many ways still a lost and uncertain child, a loner who somehow, despite her looks and charm school background, was never very good at making friends (not like Andrew, who could charm anyone into thinking they were his bosom buddy in less than fifteen minutes). Her children loved her, but they were in no way equipped to become her friends and confidants, not in the way that her brothers had been, not in the way Paul was supposed to be.
This was too depressing to contemplate, and Andrew hated depressing things.
"If it spreads to my kidneys, I'll still expect you to give one up," he broke the silence, causing Erin's head to snap up at the pronouncement.
"Even if we aren't a match?" She queried, tossing a few more weeds onto the small pile that she'd begun to build.
"Absolutely," he vowed. He gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, "Just because, you know, I can."
She grinned at his words. "I think they're still in relatively good shape. Although I was hoping to sell one on the black market, to pay for the rest of Jordan's college tuition."
"What you do with the second kidney is completely up to you," he decreed magnanimously. "But the first one is mine."
She gave a wry grin, throwing a weed at her brother's smiling face. "I should have let the bullies down the street beat you up more often in grade school."
"Ah, you were always looking for an excuse to fight," he retorted, easily tossing the offending weed back into the flower bed, where Erin retrieved it with a slight sigh of feigned exasperation. "And it was the only way Dad wouldn't bawl you out for beating up the neighbor's kids."
"They deserved it," she gave a slight shrug, feeling no shame in the fact that on more than one occasion, she'd physically threatened kids that were half a decade younger than her, in defense of her little brother.
"They did," he agreed with a decisive nod. She simply grinned and shook her head wryly, returning her attention to the flower bed.
From the kitchen, Paul Strauss watched the quiet exchange between his wife and his youngest brother-in-law through the glass door that led to the back porch. It looked like such a peaceful scene, the two blond replicas of their parents, chatting and joking with one another—but Paul knew the darker truth that lay underneath, the heavy realization that there wouldn't be many more moments like this between them.
Instinctively, he knew that this would be Erin's last straw at sobriety. She'd survived Jameson's death because they'd been preparing for it for years now, and over the last few months, she'd gotten to say a slow and agonizing farewell to her father.
But fathers were supposed to leave this world before you. Little brothers weren't. Especially when that little brother was the family darling, the young and vivacious pride and joy of all.
He suddenly felt very tired. He knew the road that lay ahead for them—Erin's slow descent back into her alcoholism, the glassy-eyed stare at the end of the night, the way she seemed to leave her body whenever he tried to touch her, the way she confused sex with intimacy and the way she'd pretend that nothing was wrong while every fiber of his being screamed to be released from this hellish prison.
He realized that he didn't want to go through that again. He couldn't, he wouldn't, he shouldn't.
He had been the good and faithful husband for almost thirty years now—and before that, he'd been the good and faithful fiancé, the good and faithful boyfriend, the good and faithful friend. He had been everything that Erin needed, had been her stability, her lifeline, her lover, her friend, her partner, and what had he received in turn?
That wasn't a fair question, and he knew it wasn't. Despite her shortcomings, she had given him three beautiful, intelligent, driven children, had supported him and loved him through many dark times, had tried to be what he needed as best she could.
He was struck with the painfully clear truth that it simply wasn't enough anymore. For years, he'd told himself to be content, that what he had been given was truly enough, but now he knew that it wasn't.
She was coming up the steps again, brushing the dirt off her hands onto her pants (it's just earth, it's a part of us, she'd say) as she gave a breathless laugh at something her brother said.
God, she was still just as captivating as she was the first time he met her—right now, she was sober, and her eyes were bright and quick again, her cheeks were slightly pink from the sun, her skin glowing with the first signs of exertion from her floral endeavors. Beneath the loose clothing was a body that was still quite lovely, which she would dutifully offer to him later that night (she was always so accommodating when it came to sex, he often felt that she didn't attach the same sentiments to it that most women did), and in which he would just as easily find release and satisfaction. And afterwards she would lay her head on his chest and cry over her brother, and he would lie and tell her that everything was going to be alright, and then he would kiss her to make her stop crying, would take her again to make her stop crying, and then they'd fall asleep and tomorrow she'd be stoic again. Then they would go home to Vienna and she would probably pour herself a glass of wine (because Paul still drank, occasionally, so they kept it in the house), and it would start all over again.
There would still be good moments in-between, and there were still so many bright memories from before, but god, it wouldn't be enough. Not anymore.
She walked into the kitchen, wiping her feet on the mat (she always ran around the house at Nantucket like a barefoot heathen) before walking over to him with a small smile, her arm easily snaking around his waist as she moved past him to the sink (she got dirt on his shirt, and that irritated him, because she didn't even notice, she was like a child that way).
"You alright?" He asked, more out of habit than concern.
"I suppose I don't have much of a choice," she answered truthfully, her back still turned to him as she washed and dried her hands. Suddenly she seemed much smaller. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, and he knew that she was taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself. That was enough to melt away his irritation (he knew that she was trying to be strong, that she was trying to hold herself together so that she could take care of everyone else, knew that it was taking everything she had not to simply melt into a puddle of tears and angry grief), and he walked over to her, wrapping her into an embrace.
"I don't—I don't know how I'm going to tell the kids," she admitted quietly, her throat tightening with unshed tears. Andrew had waited until the all of his nieces and nephews had gone out to the beach before sitting down his siblings and in-laws to deliver the news with Lina. The kids were still out enjoying the beautiful day, completely oblivious to the little tragedy that awaited their return.
"I'll tell them," he answered softly, kissing the top of her head as he felt her muscles relax in relief.
"I want to be there," she whispered. "I just...I just can't tell them myself. I don't think I could."
"I know," he replied simply, because he did know. He knew how Erin's tender mother-heart hated bringing any kind of pain into her children's lives, even if she wasn't the cause of it. He couldn't help but think (a little bitterly) that Carole would sit down and tell her own children the news—of course, Erin's little sister was better at dealing with crisis than she was. Time had proven that over and over again.
"I'm going to take a walk," she informed him, turning around and rising on the balls of her feet to give him a quick kiss, her hands firmly planted on his chest. She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for his response, but Paul took a step back.
"I think I'll stay here. Lina might need someone to look after her."
The slight hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, but she simply nodded in agreement, giving his arm one last pat as she disappeared out the door again.
He watched her from the kitchen window, her smooth gait traversing the dunes and sands with an easy familiarity that bespoke years of practice and experience. Normally, he would have gone with her—and that was what she had wanted, he knew—but so much had changed. He wasn't going to abandon her, not when she needed him the most, but he knew that he had to begin disentangling the strange web of enabling and codependency that he'd created with this woman over the years.
She needed to learn to walk alone.
May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.
It was horrible and sad that the moment when Erin needed him the most, Paul suddenly needed to escape their strange relationship with the feral clawing urgency of an animalistic survival instinct. Over the past two years, he'd often wondered that if he'd broken the cycle earlier, perhaps Erin wouldn't have spiraled into such a wreck that she'd ended up in a 90 day treatment program.
Looking at her now, as she sat at the edge of the pool with her feet dangling in the water, he wondered if she would have been this happy and healthy so many months sooner, if he'd had the strength and the courage to leave before he did. But at the time, he had thought that she needed him, thought that he needed to be there for her—now he could see it as it truly was, a pattern of dependency that had developed over the years, the inferred needs and implied resentments, the things he should have done, the things he never should have done, the way things could have been, the way things should have been.
Coulda woulda shoulda.
Despite whatever images had filled his head at the sight of her new wardrobe, today he was reminded of why they were ill-suited. She was notoriously passive-aggressive and a bit of a sulker—as evidenced by the fact that she'd hardly spoken to him all afternoon, simply because he hadn't told her why he was acting so strange. Of course, she didn't act that way in front of the kids—whenever they were around, she was still all smiles and jokes and easy laughter (she'd always been so good at playing the role of perfectly happy couple, and even now, she was slipping into that old familiar pattern, even though it wasn't necessary anymore).
With analytical eyes, Erin watched Paul as he splashed around in the pool—Anna had tricked him into coming close to the edge, under the guise of asking him a question, and Christopher had snuck up and pushed him in (she was beginning to detect a pattern with her children and their love of throwing people into the pool). Paul had simply laughed and spent the next few minutes swimming around, still fully clothed. It was nice, seeing him relaxed, after the awkwardness that had occurred over the past few hours. She'd tried to avoid him, just because she wasn't sure what was going on, and part of her thought she didn't want to know. Of course, it's a bit hard to avoid someone who's constantly within a twenty-foot range of your person.
What she really wanted was for him to leave, so that she could simply enjoy the quiet calm of her own house, without having to worry about what he was thinking.
As if on cue, Paul did the exact opposite of what she wanted, swimming up to her with a cordial smile. She braced herself.
"I think I'll have to steal some of Chris' clothes," he announced, and this made her smile, because Paul was several inches taller than Christopher, and finding something that fit him would be interesting to say the least.
"I'll go find you something," she assured him, pulling her feet out of the water and leaving little wet footprints on the concrete as she grabbed her cover-up from the chair and disappeared into the house. Paul got out of the pool, grabbed an oversized beach towel, and went inside as well.
Erin was already on the staircase, stopping her upward trek to admonish him, "You stay downstairs—I don't want you dripping on the carpet. You can change in my room; I'll leave Chris' clothes by the door."
For some reason, that reminded her of the first night that David had come to stay—poor Christopher, his wardrobe was the lending tree for every other man who walked through these doors, apparently.
How she could find that amusing was beyond her, but Erin still smiled at her inner quip.
The front doorbell rang as she was coming down the stairs again, and she'd simply dropped the clothes beside her now-closed bedroom door as she continued into the foyer. She didn't even glance through the peephole as she opened the door (after all, she had two SUVs full of FBI agents in her driveway, why the hell should she worry about who was coming to her front door?).
Her heart stopped in her chest when she saw the face of David Rossi staring back at her.
David had a full speech prepared, a whole outline of exactly what he was going to say, and exactly how he was going to say it—which of course, immediately evaporated from his mind at the sight of her.
This was the closest they'd been since the evening in his living room, and the mere sensation of being in each other's presence sent odd sparks and old longings dancing underneath their respective skins like a bolt of pure lightning. A beat passed as they simply looked at one another.
"You're…you're here," she whispered, not caring that she sounded like some breathless damsel in distress from a cheesy detective film.
The love and the relief and the fear and the hopeless passion contained in those simple words made David forget his demands (he was going to sit her down, to politely and calmly ask her to tell him everything, remaining detached and unaffected, but as usual, what he wanted and what Erin Strauss made him do were two totally different things). What place did calmness and logic have in a moment like this, when she was falling to pieces in front of him, when all his heart did was jump and sing at her mere arrival, when suddenly all he wanted and all he needed was to feel her skin against his own again? How could he remain aloof and distant when every fiber of her being screamed out to every fiber of his being, which answered back with an equally deafening scream? How could he care about his pride and his hurt, when all he wanted to do was sob at the nearness of her?
They weren't in the office, weren't forced to pretend as if nothing had happened, weren't followed by watchful eyes and silent stares. They were simply alone, simply themselves, simply two hearts laid bare. Now was not the time for pride or strong defenses. Now was the moment of truth, of naked vulnerability, of pure unadulterated honesty.
So instead of saying what he thought was proper and right, he said the only thought that had been on his mind for what seemed like an eternity, the only thing that he knew would take away the fear and sadness in those green eyes that looked at him with some kind of anxious expectation.
"I told you, bella," he said softly, the tears evident in his voice as he watched her body react to the familiar nickname (the hitch of her shoulders, the hand at her chest as if it were holding back her wayward heart, the slight widening of those eyes that a man could lose himself in). "I told you that I couldn't give up on you, even if I wanted to."
She made a small noise in her throat, something between a cry and a laugh, as she clapped her hand over her mouth, her teary eyes still watching him cautiously, as if she feared that this was all some very cruel joke.
"Can I come in?" He asked, his voice still low and gentle.
She nodded quickly, not trusting herself to speak without completely breaking down into tears, as she opened the door a little wider for him to enter.
He brushed past her and her skin felt as if it had been set on fire. He turned back to her, watching as she closed the door, turning to him with an outstretched hand, which she quickly pulled back. It was that little movement—the hesitancy, the fear, the sadness, the longing, the pure devastation—that broke David's heart in the best of ways, and he ended her torment by simply pulling her into him, nearly sighing with relief at the familiar feeling of her body molding into his as her arms returned his embrace.
Erin Strauss didn't know why David was here, or why he chose today of all days to return, but gods, she didn't care, so long as he was really, truly here. The sheer comfort of feeling his body returning to hers was enough to make her cry, which she did, burying her face into his chest and tightening her arms around him as if she feared he might disappear again.
David could feel tears brimming in his own eyes again as he kept one arm around her, keeping her firmly pressed against him, his other hand moving to her blonde head, losing itself in those disarrayed curls as he relished the familiar scent and weight of the woman in his arms. There were questions that needed to be asked and answered, so much to sift through and understand, but they could wait just a few seconds longer as another part of his soul healed, the part that had missed her presence like the earth missed the sun.
"Erin? Erin, is everything Ok?"
The sound of another male voice went off like shotgun blast in the still house. David felt Erin's entire body seize as he disengaged, slowly turning around to see Paul Strauss, a towel wrapped around his waist as he held a set of clothes in his hands, peering from the doorway of Erin's bedroom.
The image landed like a sucker-punch in David's gut.
They'd been apart for a week and she was already back with her ex-husband.
Some things never changed.
*Author's Note: Oh, you know I had to. Don't act surprised.*