The Designated Mourner
"More than most, I know the pain of surviving." ~Ann Aguirre
December 2012. Washington, D.C.
Things were beginning to move quickly—the BAU was finally aware, finally playing John's game, although they were still so far behind, still stumbling to figure out the rules.
John Curtis had always known that once they finally realized what was going on, the pace of this match would increase dramatically, and he began preparing himself for the endgame. Soon, he was going to show them that he was following their every move, but until then, he wanted to use his time wisely, collecting as much information as possible.
For the first time ever, he was grateful for the hordes of holiday shoppers which flooded the Capitol, because it allowed him to follow the BAU members at a closer range, without attracting undue attention.
Not that his current target would have noticed, anyways. Despite her past issues with stalkers and various other forms of being watched, Penelope Garcia was still probably the most oblivious person on the planet. In a way, he admired her—she never tried to alter her appearance to blend in, never looked over her shoulder or cared when people stared, never seemed afraid of anything, although she had every right to be a fearful creature, considering previous experience. Of course, her bravery was also foolhardy, and it made her less of a challenge, but she made up for her lack of difficulty by being entertaining to watch.
Technical Analyst Garcia had, by far, the most interesting schedule. She jetted around from parties to art exhibits to plays to ukulele lessons to grief support to her own personal counselor to coffee shops, a complete whirlwind of bright colors and odd ensembles. For example, right now, she had some kind of fiber optic lights in her hair, which were twinkling with the holiday hues of green and red as she moved easily through the crowd of shoppers, her big brown eyes glancing at shop windows (she obviously was on the hunt for a very specific gift, because she had that determined look about her). Someone accidentally bumped into her, and she waved away their apologies with a warm smile.
In that moment, John Curtis decided that when it came to the final checkmate, he wouldn't kill Penelope Garcia. After all, there had to be someone left behind, someone left to recount the legend, someone from the inside, who would remember just how brilliant and intricate his vendetta was. There always had to be a survivor, someone to tell the rest of the world what really happened, and she was the most logical choice—whenever they finally figured out his identity, she would be the one to compile his folder, to regulate the details of his life into neat, orderly rows, to see and understand the connections between them (both orphans, both so easily misunderstood and swept aside, both so uniquely suited for their respective roles), and to reveal that story to the rest of the Bureau. Yes, she would sit at a glass-top table made muddy with so many fingerprints, across from the director and all those other cold, dark suits who played with people's lives without a second thought, and with her tear-stained face, she would tell them, You did this, you brought this on your own heads.
Yes, Penelope Garcia was most certainly the perfect messenger.
It had been years since John Curtis had to buy Christmas gifts for anyone (or gifts for any occasion, for any reason), and generally, he disliked being out and about in the holiday traffic, surrounded by all these cherry-cheeked fools with their pointless chatter and their mundane lives and their clawing, incessant need to prove their love through cheap gifts that would be forgotten and discarded within a fortnight (much like the way the Bureau discarded their own agents, without thought or pity or second glance). But following the easily-tracked blonde through this maze was actually enjoyable.
Penelope Garcia had ducked into a little boutique, something that boasted items from rare books to hand-crafted clocks, and John followed her inside, leisurely taking the time to scan the rows and stacks of items as his target began leafing through old manuscripts.
He noticed a table dedicated to hand-carved chess sets, and he moved closer to inspect them. One set in particular caught his eye—made from polished oak, it was lacquered and shining, the stark white squares contrasting perfectly with the vibrant black, and the pieces were a shale grey and a deep, waxy red. He gingerly picked up the red knight, perfectly weighted and expertly crafted, with baroque detailing on the base.
Perhaps he should buy himself a gift this Christmas. Something to commemorate this glorious culmination of his revenge. He set the knight back in its proper place and gave a small smile. Yes, this would be perfect. Almost as perfect as his eventual defeat of the BAU.
Now his current target was chatting happily with someone else in the store.
"You know, I don't even mind having so many gifts to buy," she was saying, her smile beaming. "It makes me happy, knowing that I have so many people whom I love enough to buy a gift."
He almost (almost) felt a pang of pity for the cheerful technical analyst. By this time next year, she'd have seven less gifts to worry about. Well, six—he didn't imagine that she would be getting a present for Erin Strauss, who had a very poor friends-to-enemies ratio.
There had to be a survivor. As lonely and heartbreaking as it would be, Penelope Garcia was the chosen one, the designated mourner. She was used to living in grief; she would find a way to carry on—and with her, she would carry John's story, becoming the breathing memorial for all the ways the Bureau had failed, all the ways in which it had taken their brightest and best for granted, and she would force them to look in the face of their failure and their transgressions on a daily basis.
Really, there couldn't be any better revenge. Living ghosts always were the most persistent and haunting.
May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.
"Please understand, I share your concern wholeheartedly."
There was a time when Penelope Garcia would have highly doubted this statement, considering its source, but now she knew that Erin Strauss was being completely honest with those words.
"However," the older woman continued. "The director wants assurances that you are not letting your personal feelings towards the team unduly influence your decisions about which cases you choose to send them on."
"Ma'am, all due respect, but you and I both know that I would never—"
"I know. I do." Erin assured her. She took another deep breath, "It's just that the director doesn't share my faith in you. He pointed out that the team hasn't been out in the field—it's a lull, I know that and you know that, it's just how it goes sometimes, but he thinks it's too...coincidental."
"So, what does he want me to do? Throw them out into the field, regardless of whether or not there's an actual police department asking for our help?" Penelope knew that Erin shared her frustration, but that didn't lessen her anger. She didn't like the implication that she wasn't doing her job—because after all this time, hadn't she proven herself? Hadn't she sent her loves into harm's way again and again, without complaint, simply because she knew that it was the job?
"He just wants assurances," Strauss repeated in a low tone, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers.
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"Oh, hell if I know."
There was a beat as both blondes took in the absurdity of the moment, and suddenly they were both laughing, more out of frustration than actual mirth, because really there wasn't anything else to do in this situation.
"I just want this to be over," Strauss admitted, closing her eyes.
"Me, too," Penelope said quietly. After another beat, she cautiously asked, "How's your son?"
"He's fine. He's handling it better than I am." Erin felt a small measure of satisfaction in being able to be completely truthful with her next comment, as she confessed, "He gets that from his father."
"Parents always worry more than the kid," the younger blonde assured her. "It's like an unwritten law of the Universe."
The section chief gave a small smile of agreement. There was another silence as both women realized that in two days, all of this worry and anxiety would be resolved, one way or another.
"I know," Strauss cleared her throat, her fingers fluttering at the edges of her lips as if she was trying to hold back her next words, but continued anyways. "I know that you aren't intentionally keeping the team out of the field...but...but if...if you could, just for the next two days—I can't officially ask you to, you know, but I—"
"I will," Penelope promised quickly, without any hesitation, because she understood the love and concern behind it (it was the same love and concern that she'd fought back every time that she accepted a new case over the past six months, and Erin's worry justified her own—because, after all, she'd just received a command from her superior, despite how secret and unofficial this command was). "And...and we never had this conversation."
Strauss gave a curt nod as she turned to leave, "Thank you, Garcia."
"For what, ma'am?" Penelope inquired with her most innocent and confused expression.
The older woman grinned, a true grin that reached from her dimples all the way up to her eyes. She silently wondered how she could have ever disliked the wonderful creature that was Penelope Garcia.
Washington, D.C.
Alex Blake heaved another box of books into the back of her husband's SUV, silently wondering for the hundredth time how on earth this man was going to store all of these books in his tiny new office at Harvard. There was definitely a glass of wine calling her name, once this was all finished.
Lightly kneading the muscles of her lower back as she went back inside, she traveled back into her husband's study, the cozy room filled with every nuance of him, which had been her sanctuary during the long months of his absence—she hated losing this connection to him, as selfish as it may seem. Before he'd returned home, some sleepless nights she would slip into this room, curl up in the huge wingback chair, and simply soak up the distinct feeling of James that always seemed to permeate from every corner, from all the little things that were his, the books and the sculptures and the photos and odd little knick-knacks like birds' nests and smooth stones.
Now the room looked bare, almost too open and sprawling, now that all of the books were packed into boxes, patiently waiting to be moved to their new home.
"Why the long face, Lex?"
He was the only one who called her that, and she smiled at the tenderness in his voice. "I'm just going to miss having a room that feels entirely like you."
He simply grinned at her response, moving across the room to pull her into a hug, kissing her mouth. She hummed in approval. His hands were roving, and she easily slipped out of his grasp, "Oh, no, we've got way too many boxes left to pack—"
"They can wait—"
"No, you said that yesterday—"
"And look, they waited! Such patient little boxes."
She laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed another box and headed back out to the vehicle, tossing over her shoulder, "Later, Dr. Blake."
By the time she'd reached the vehicle, James was at the doorstep, with another box. He called out after her, "I'm holding you to that promise, Sexy Lexy!"
"James!" She hissed, looking around quickly to make sure that none of their neighbors were within earshot.
"What? Who cares if anyone hears?" He was still grinning as he set the box in the back of the SUV. He gave a wave to Alex's security detail, the black sedan parked halfway down the block (and by their grins, she could tell that they heard her husband's words). Alex simply rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation as she went back into the house.
He was laughing as he bounded in after her, "When are you gonna get rid of those guys, anyways?"
He was being nonchalant and playful about it, but Alex still heard the concern in her husband's voice. He tried to be supportive, tried not to let the dangers of her job worry him, and she'd always been grateful for it. Still, that didn't mean that he didn't worry.
"I don't know," she answered honestly, giving a heavy sigh as she double-checked the contents of a box. "I think the director is getting tired of allocating money and resources toward protecting a team that hasn't had an actual direct threat. I figure if our UNSUB doesn't make a move this weekend, then we'll probably lose our security details by next week."
"And what if your UNSUB does make a move?"
"I still don't know. It depends on what that move is."
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't."
"Pretty much," she gave another heavy sigh. James lifted another box, and she did the same, following him back out to the vehicle.
Because there was an SUV with two on-duty agents sitting less than 100 yards away, Alex Blake didn't glance around at her surroundings. And because she didn't look around, she didn't notice a nondescript man in a nondescript baseball cap walking a nondescript dog across the street. And because that man was so nondescript, he blended in perfectly with his surroundings, walking right past Alex Blake—getting within thirty feet of her, without even drawing the slightest bit of attention to himself.
It always amused John Curtis, how the FBI seemed to think that a protective detail was the end-all be-all to ensuring someone's safety. Really, it only meant that John simply had to curtail his surveillance to times and places where he would blend in, like supermarkets and movie theatres—however, this was a problem when it came to Alex Blake, who didn't seem to leave her house unless it was to go to the rare occasion that she spent an evening with friends, they invariably came to her house to visit. However, John didn't mind a challenge, although it wasn't much of a challenge at all—he simply went to a local shelter, picked up a generic-looking canine, parked his car approximately eight blocks from the Blake residence, and leisurely walked by, looking for all the world as if he belonged in the neighborhood.
Of course, Alex Blake didn't give him a first glance, much less a second thought.
Under the brim of his baseball cap, he watched her from the corner of his eye (never actually turning his head in her direction, never making it seem as if he noticed her at all, never drawing a second of unwanted attention). She was moving with her usual relaxed gait, grinning as her husband walked beside her, laughing at whatever he said. They were packing up his vehicle, but whatever the reason for the packing, it seemed joyful and mutual.
She looked so perfectly happy, in her pretty little home in the District, with her world-saving husband and their neatly-packaged little collection of achievements and accolades, with her protective detail just down the street, because she was such a valuable Bureau asset, the chosen one of the week, the flavor of the month on the insatiable palate of the FBI.
She had stolen everything from him. When they'd parted ways in 2002, he hadn't wished her ill—in fact, he'd hoped that she, too, would have a chance to regain what she'd lost, but he hadn't expected it to come at such a steep price. He hadn't expected her redemption to come at the cost of his own career and damnation.
No, he knew that Alex Blake hadn't chosen this—at least not directly, perhaps not even actively—but the fact that she was back in Erin Strauss' good graces implied that she had somehow capitulated to the system, that she'd turned into another sniveling sycophant which the Bureau was so fond of producing, that she had become a traitor.
Yes, Alex Blake was a traitor. She'd accepted a position that she knew she wasn't qualified for, that she knew was meant for John Curtis, and that made her a cold-hearted traitor. And if she hadn't thought of John before accepting this position, well, that made her an even worse kind of turncoat—she was so deep within her own selfish world that she couldn't even acknowledge her betrayal. It meant that she'd truly become part of the Bureau, a mindless, soulless body devouring others without actual malice or forethought, but rather simply because that was how she survived.
He wasn't going to regret killing her. No, she was the whole reason behind this exercise, the catalyst for the destruction heading their way—besides, John was going to get a certain joy in proving just how wrong they were for choosing her (because she wouldn't be able to stop him, because she would only further prove her own ineptitude and weakness and inferiority in the end, because he would show the Bureau the error of their ways and further compound that lesson by taking away their shining star and their hope in her).
As if on cue, the muscles in his lower back gave a slight pang, reminding him of the fact that Alex Blake was even a source of physical pain in his life—he'd just returned from a long road trip to drop off another hint to the intrepid little team of analysts, and after so many months of traveling around the country, he'd begun to realize that his body was losing its youthful stamina.
Despite his fatigue, John felt a surge of gleeful anticipation. This next set of clues was the opening note of his final act, his Magnum Opus, the beginning of the inevitable end. Soon the whole world would know just how brilliant he was, soon the Bureau would recognize their own folly, soon his journey to redemption and vindication would truly begin.
Oh, he'd been so patient and persistent. And soon, he would be rewarded. Very, very soon.
August 2012. Boston, Massachusetts.
"There is an occasion for everything, and a time for every activity under heaven: a time to give birth and a time to die..."
Erin Strauss squinted under the midday sun as her grey-green eyes looked out over the cerulean blue sky. It was a beautiful day. Andrew would have loved it. Ever her smiling boy, he always loved the days when nature seemed as exuberant and joyful as he was.
The priest continued reciting the verses, those words of ages past that still somehow held depth and meaning in a world as strange and distant as this. "A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance..."
This was certainly the time for weeping and mourning. Even as the priest spoke, Andrew's coffin was being slowly lowered into the ground, and Erin was thankful for the sunshine—the earth would be warm, like the sand at the house on Nantucket. He always liked digging his toes in the sand. She had a sudden flash of memory, a cotton-topped toddler Drew grinning up at her with cheeks rosy from the summer heat, giggling when Erin pretended to panic because she thought he'd lost his feet, which were actually burrowed deep in the sand.
There was a physical pain that washed over her like a wave, and she tightened her jaw to keep from actually wailing at the realization that her sweet, darling brother was now gone, and all that remained was an empty husk filled with harsh preservatives, trapped in a heavy metal box that would soon be buried in the earth.
"A time to search and a time to count as lost; a time to keep and a time to throw away..."
There was a light sob and Erin's eyes flickered to the source—Carole, wrapped in her husband Philip's arms as she covered her mouth with her hand, eyes squeezed shut in a vain attempt to hold back the tears that were slipping down her cheeks. She was certain that Carole's mind was projecting similar memories, warm moments with the little boy who had been the light and life of their parents' home, who'd always loved them all with such whole-hearted abandon that one wondered how his heart didn't simply explode from so much love and empathy, the little boy who grew into a honorable man, who dedicated his life to improving the lives of others through public service, who'd always been so graceful and gracious, and so very, very brave during the last months of his all-too-short life.
Anna, who was standing to Erin's left, simply shifted closer to her mother, and Erin wrapped her arm around her own bright baby, who laid her head on Erin's shoulder. Her skin was warm from the sun and her hair smelled like flowers and she was so painfully fresh-faced and beautiful and alive and young and so untouched by life, and the fiercest mother-part of Erin Strauss wished that she could keep her daughter like this forever, wished she could bottle up the youth and innocence and vitality and let Anna keep it with her always, wished that she could somehow ensure that her own child would never know the pain and suffering that comes to all humans, that she could always be safe and happy and loved and unmarred by time.
It was a futile wish, one that didn't even receive the slightest bit of hope, because Erin knew that such things were beyond her control. If wishing made it so, then Andrew would still be here—her wishes for Anna had been the same things that she'd wished for Andrew, and for the first time in many years, she'd prayed to a god in whom she no longer believed to make the past year simply a bad dream.
Of course, when praying to a nonexistent entity, one was certainly doomed to failure.
"A time to be silent and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace." The priest quietly closed his Bible, taking a moment to look out at the large flock of mourners who huddled around the final resting place of Andrew Breyer. "Andrew has finally reached his time of peace. We must take comfort in that fact, in knowing that he truly is free from sin and pain, for the first time since his birth. And though it will not diminish how much we love him, or how deeply we miss him, it is the promise of seeing him again to which we must cling, with all hope and joy as we await our final reunion with our beloved friend and brother."
She wished that she could believe that there was something after this—that the sweet Elysian peace in which her father and mother had so devoutly believed was true, that her own doubt was unfounded, that beyond this shade was a place where her loved ones lived on, without pain or fear or worry. All of her life, she'd been taught these things, taught the wonders of Heaven and the terrors of Hell, and for a time, she'd even thought that she believed them.
And oh, how she had wanted to believe! How she longed for her father's quiet faith, for the beautiful peace she saw in his face as they sang hymns during Midnight Mass, for her mother's moral fortitude, for such divine strength in the face of human adversity, but over the years, her certainty had faded as she'd drifted further into the cold darkness of reality.
Lena, who'd lost thirty pounds due to the sleepless stress of the past few months and now had dark circles under her puffy red eyes, stepped forward, her hand shaking as she grabbed a handful of the freshly-churned dirt and sprinkled it over Andrew's casket, which was now safely tucked into its six-foot hole. Peter, who was standing at Erin's right side, moved forward as well, and his older sister followed after him with halting steps. Her children came behind her, followed by Carole and Philip and their children, and the rest of the family. They all repeated Lena's ritual, slowly creating a fine mist of earth over the polished coffin.
As they came back to their original positions, Peter's hand slipped silently into Erin's and they automatically squeezed each other in reassurance and comfort, the grit from the earth rubbing into their skin. We're still here, we're both still here. I'm right here and you're right here, and we're still together, we've still got an ally left, we're still here.
Andrew had been the one who called her when Mother died. Peter had been the one who called to say that Andrew had died. Who would call her when Peter was gone? Who would stand beside her and hold her hand when her other brother was laid to rest? Who else would know how to comfort her with their mere presence, with the mere reassurance of a shared history?
Her gaze wandered back over to Carole, and not for the first time, she wished that things between them had been different. She briefly wondered if her younger sister would even shed a tear when Erin died. The fact that she didn't know the answer only increased the mournful longing in her chest.
The day that they'd buried their father, they had all sat in the funeral limo and quietly acknowledged the fact that they were orphans now. It had been a moment of pure white-hot fear at the realization that they were now the heads of their family, the oldest surviving generation of their particular branch of the Breyer tree. Their own frailty and mortality had been almost palpable in that stuffy black cabin as they all silently stared at their knees, too tired to cry anymore.
Today they were leaving behind one of their own generation, the youngest, the one who was supposed to outlive and outshine them all. It was a bitch move on Fate's part, a cruel, spiteful, fucked-up thing to do, and yet, there it was, really happening before their grief-stricken eyes.
This was why Erin Strauss couldn't believe that there was a god. If there were some supreme being, then surely there would be some sense of order and justice in the world.
This was not the order of things.
This was not just.
And if there still somehow was a god above, then she thought he was rat bastard. She would never forgive him for punishing the innocents whom she loved and adored, while the imperfect and impure like her were allowed to roam free, blessed with goodness and great things beyond their own worthiness.
After everyone came by to shake her hand or hug her neck and offer empty condolences (words, words, words, always trying to fill the void, don't you know that silence is best?), Erin's children retreated to the car while Erin and Peter stayed behind with Lena to watch the men fill the rest of Andrew's grave, shovelful by shovelful.
There was a quiet rustle behind them, and from the corner of her eye, Erin saw Carole moving next to her. Philip had taken their two children back to the car as well.
"He would have been happy," Lena broke the heavy silence. "He would have loved seeing the church filled with so many people."
"And the press," Peter added, and this earned him a slight smile from his sister-in-law. By the time of Andrew's death, the entire state had heard of his condition, and they had rallied behind him, his constituents sending cards and fruit baskets and holding candlelight vigils in his honor. He'd truly been loved and adored by the people whom he'd dedicated his life to serving, and it had been touching to see that his passion was recognized and appreciated.
"Yes," Lena said warmly. "He would have loved that, too."
"A funeral befitting of a Kennedy—he wouldn't have expected anything less." Erin pointed out, and everyone smiled again.
"I think he would have probably wanted a horse-drawn glass hearse though," Carole mused dryly, and that was what sent everyone into laughter (because she was right, because their Drew had always been a dramatic boy, given to pomp and circumstance and grand shows of affection).
"And a military marching band in full plumes," Peter spread his hands out grandly, as if he were picturing the scene in his mind.
"And professional wailers," Lena added. "No shoes, with sackcloth and ashes—the full works."
They were all chuckling softly at their over-the-top additions, all somehow feeling that Andrew was still standing next to them, grinning in agreement.
Another beat passed as they settled back into a quiet sadness, four warriors worn down and scarred up from the battle of life, the four remaining centurions on the Hadrian's Wall of their mutual grief and loss, staring down into a hole that kept getting smaller and smaller.
"I'm so tired," Lena announced sadly. "So very, very tired."
Peter simply wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his other hand taking Erin's again. Without a second's hesitation, Erin reached over and grabbed Carole's hand, too.
Surprisingly, Carole didn't pull away. Instead, she simply stood there, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into the soft and worn skin on the back of her elder sister's hand, which suddenly felt so much like their mother's that she wanted to cry—it had been so long since she'd felt her mother's hands, and for a split second, she had regained a small fraction of what had been lost.
They stood there until the grave was completely filled, and the dark dirt smoothed over and patted down. The groundskeepers went away, and the four Breyers still remained.
"I'm going to plant a rose bush here, I think," Lena spoke again.
Erin gave a small nod of approval. "Souvenir de Saint Anne's is his favorite."
No one corrected her use of the present tense, though everyone felt it.
As usual, Carole took charge, moving around her siblings to take Lena in to her arms, "C'mon, Lena, let's get you back to the car. I think you could use a good nap."
The younger woman nodded in agreement, taking a moment to hug her other in-laws before walking back to the car with Carole, who simply offered a small smile to Erin and Peter.
A beat passed as the two eldest Breyers watched them go, then they turned back to their baby brother.
"I never had kids," Peter stated, somewhat unnecessarily. "But I think I know what they mean when they say a parent should never have to bury their child."
Erin made a small noise of agreement, her hand slipping into his again, this time clutching it for dear life.
"I think I know the feeling, too," she admitted softly, fighting back another wave of tears. She and Peter had practically raised Andrew, showering him with love and shielding him from their mother's harsh tongue and their father's work-related indifference. Their parents had been parents, when they could, but it hadn't been enough for a boy so determined to be loved, for someone like Andrew, who placed so much of his own happiness in the opinions and praise of others.
"How can the world possibly keep on turning?" Erin asked. "I mean, how do we just leave him here?"
"He isn't here anymore, Erin," Peter pointed out, his voice cracking with emotion.
Erin suddenly turned to her brother, and they held each other fiercely as they simply cried, truly cried for the first time in days. Erin's knees began to buckle and Peter caught her, steadied her as she clung to him with the helpless and frenzied fervor of a drowning woman. Peter was so much taller, and she could feel his shoulders slumping forward, pressing into her with heavy weight of grief, and she realized that she was holding him up just as much as he was supporting her.
They stayed there for some time, until the flurry of grief calmed into the quiet red-eyed sniffles of regained composure, both still holding onto each other as they found their own balance again with slight smiles at their own awkwardness.
Peter took another deep breath, wiping away the tears on his cheeks as he took one last look at the patch of dirt. Then he offered his hand to his sister again, which she gladly took. They slowly made their way back through the rows of headstones, shining in the bright afternoon sun like the polished bits of shell that they used to find on the beach when they were children, those little treasures that had seemed so beautiful and wondrous to their curious minds and fingers.
In a way, Erin had known that this was how it would always end—she and Peter had always said you and me against the world, and now, it was slowly moving from a figurative to a literal truth. Here they were, still holding hands as they walked through the valley of darkness, just as they'd done for over half a century, just as they would do until one of them betrayed their unspoken vow to live forever.
Peter began humming some old hymn, and Erin felt that she should know it, but her mind couldn't quite remember the words. She considered asking Peter the name of the song, but she felt too tired to open her mouth again, and the answer wasn't that important. The melody itself was comforting, and she thought perhaps it was one that their father used to sing, back when they still lived in Somerset, before he was a Federal judge, back when he still had time to scoop them onto his lap as he sat in the big wooden rocking chair on the back porch, his wide chest reverberating with the warm, smooth sound of his voice, lulling them into peaceful, protected drowsiness.
Now that all of the people were gone, Erin could hear the faint chirping of birds, and she smiled, because she knew that Andrew would have liked it here, surrounded by the sights and sounds of Mother Nature.
Gods, was this what it meant to be a survivor—to have every waking thought overtaken and possessed by the ghosts of those long past, to see the remembrance of lost loved ones forever reflected in the world around you, to feel pain in all the things that once brought you only peace and joy? Was this what life would become—a mere shade of its former self, as you turned into a ghost as well, haunted by all the things you did and didn't do, all the chances you didn't take to say I love you, all the moments forever robbed from you by those thrice-double damned bastardly villains Time and Chance?
It was then that Erin prayed (again, perhaps futilely) with every fiber of her being that she would never be the last of the Breyers. She didn't want to be the one who survived. Not when she understood the cost of such survival. Perhaps this made her selfish, but she suddenly realized that guilt was a whole lot easier to deal with than grief.
And all those sloppy human emotions were for the survivors, for the living, for those left behind. All the more reason not to be one of them.
For now, she was one. She was a mourner, a survivor, a soul which still had a body, still subject to all the ills and devastations of life. She still had bits of sand left in her hourglass, still had minutes and hours and perhaps even years and decades left to go, and she shouldn't be wasteful. Andrew had taught her that lesson so well over the past few months—nothing is sacred, nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. She knew that now, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.
Life was not sacred, it was not just, it was not balanced and weighted and measured to your actions. It was simply a grand mind-fuck, and if you were stoic enough to pass through without completely losing all of your marbles, well, your reward was the exact same thing as everyone else's. Nothing. Nada. Big zip.
They reached the car and Peter quietly opened the door for her. They slid onto the black leather seats, not even bothering to smile at Lena and Carole and the rest of the limo's occupants, who'd all been patiently waiting for their arrival.
Here they were. The last Breyers standing. The remnants of Elaine and Jameson's grand love affair, pitifully huddled together like a raft of survivors from the Titanic.
Peter was still humming softly, his faced turned to the sunny sky as the car pulled away, leaving their baby brother behind. Erin's hand found itself in Peter's again, without conscious thought or explanation, as her mind repeated its refrain, Please don't let me lose him, ever, ever, ever. Please don't leave me, Peter. Please, please, please. You are the only one who knows me, who will ever know me—if you leave, I will disappear too, I'll slip and fade away, like a mere figment of your imagination. Oh, don't ever leave me….
As if he could read her thoughts, her brother simply gave her hand one long, solid squeeze of reassurance (I'm here, I'm still here, I'm always here).
She hated herself for wishing to go before he did, for wanting to leave him on his own, as the solitary mourner, the sole survivor, but Peter had always been stronger than she was. He would understand; he would forgive her because he loved her. She knew that he would. He always did.
"For He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous." ~Matthew 5:45