To the lovely anon who promised me cake on Tumblr – this is for you and that chocolate cake we discussed. My address is: thepurplepineapple; Tumblville; Tumblverse. I expect cake.
A soft knock, a quiet creak of the door, a tender voice, "You ready?"
She turns around slowly, but stays seated on the bed, her arms resting lifelessly by her sides. "I… I think so." She says, her voice despondent. "I… can you zip-up my dress." And she drops her eyes to her shoulder, then looks back up at him.
"Of course." And he crosses the room in a few quick steps, until he's standing in front of her, offering her his hand. She takes it and gets up, turning her back to him, with a fleeting smile. He pulls the zipper up, and his fingers trace her spine. The dress is big now – she's lost weight. He follows the outline of her petite shoulders with his palms, the sharp bones sticking out. She relaxes under his touch, even if it's only momentary relief. He drags his fingertips down her arms, then engulfs her in his, wrapping his body around her, like a protective shield. He drops his head on her shoulder, and she leans her cheek on his. "I love you." It's all he says. It's all she needs.
"Liv?" And the translucence of the familiar voice startles her. She looks up from her iPad, and smiles, instinctually. The thing about hope - it's stronger than reason.
"You're awake." And the truth is, she doesn't know how long it will last this time, she doesn't know if there will be a next time; she doesn't know, anything, anymore. That's what the end feels like – the infinite unknown. Her mother taps the empty space next to her tired body with a heavy hand. She walks over, and sits at the foot of the bed, resting her hand on her mother's legs; running it up and down absentmindedly, as if trying to remind her heart to keep pumping.
"You couldn't have saved him." And Liv gives her a confused look – she's been hallucinating, drifting in and out of consciousness; mixing the wonder of dreams and the harshness of reality. "Your dad. You couldn't have saved him. No one could have. No one, Livvie." And it's the first time she calls her that, the only time. And it makes her breath get caught in her throat, behind a lump that feels like a dagger. Her mother opens her palm, inviting her to take her cold hand.
"I… I know." She says in a small voice. Unrecognizable.
"Not in your heart you don't. He was gone. He was gone a long time before he died Olivia. And you driving faster, getting there earlier, making the phone call sooner – none of it, nothing could have saved him. He was gone long before that night."
And suddenly, she is a child again; vulnerable and unsure; and oh-so-wounded. And before she can stop herself, before she can think better of it she's asking the one thing she always wanted answered, but never dared ask, "Why wasn't I enough?"
Her mother squeezes her hand, with the little strength she has left, then runs her thumb along her knuckles. "Because he was sick Liv."
And it's as simple as that. As heartbreakingly simple as that. It was never about her, it was about him; it wasn't about her inability to make him happy, it was about his inability to be happy. She never understood until this moment that his illness was no different than her mother's and that there was no way to save him, just like there is no way to save her. And there is relief that comes with recognition of one's limits; with acceptance of helplessness. A calm that settles with acceptance.
"I couldn't have saved him." She repeats slowly. And again. Like a mantra, the faint whispers that flutter off her lips.
When she looks down again her mother's eyes are closed. She's asleep. Slowly disappearing.
She irons the invisible wrinkles on her dress with trembling hands. She looks up, and finds peace in the pair of cerulean eyes; calm in the storm raging within her soul. She doesn't notice anyone else – not the family that disappeared as her father's illness progressed; the family she hasn't seen in years, not since the holidays in the South, not since the days of running along the river bank, chasing butterflies and falling asleep on the porch to a quiet buzz od mosquitoes, in the safety of her mother's arms. And then one summer, when she was five, they didn't go. They stayed in the city, and her mother hovered; and she dreamed of butterflies.
The next summer, they both hovered.
"My mom hated funerals," she says, her eyes never leaving his, "and she used to tell me that the best thing about dying is not having to attend any more of the grimmest of family gatherings." And she tries to say it lightly, the way her mother would have liked; she tries to keep her voice from breaking; keep the pain at the back of her throat. Small chuckles travel between the rows of tucked-in shirts and knee-length dresses. Her mother would have liked that.
The rest of the speech is utterly ordinary, conformist in every sense of the word. She smiles politely, before making her way back to her seat; the cerulean blue guiding her.
"I thought grandma wasn't religious?" Zo whispers to Fitz, as the reverend starts to speak.
"She wasn't." Liv replies with a small smile. "But your aunt Linda would lose it, if we didn't end this whole thing on a positive note. Heaven, eternal happiness and all." Fitz squeezes her knee reassuringly, then shoots Zo a look that makes her swallow her follow-up question back. "Your grandma probably would have rolled her eyes every time he said something sentimental."
"And then she'd stay after and grill him some." Fitz says through a small laugh. "Remember uncle Rob's funeral?" And they both chuckle at the memory of the reverend throwing his arms in frustration before telling Dianne that no number of Hail Marys would save her. And suddenly, the chuckling is turning into a laughter fit, a laughter fit that is erupting from every fiber of her body; uncontrollably. And the reverend clears his throat, his brows furrowed, displeasure evident on his face. But it just makes her laugh harder. And soon, he's laughing with her; and then so is Zoey, because it's infectious, paralyzing their minds, invading their bodies. And Cy is bending over, trying to at least muffle the loud sound. And as suddenly as she started, she stops; stills, completely. And a single tear rolls down her cheek. And he notices instantly – and the absurdity of death, it's no longer funny; it's heartbreaking.
"She's gone." She says, as if trying to discern what it means; trying to decipher it.
"She is." He replies, as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to his chest.
She can feel the indignant looks burning holes in the back of her head, but she doesn't care. Her mom, her mom wouldn't have been mad.
He hears a faint noise of slow movement and looks up instantly. His brain is used to the steady beeps, to the sound of the machines; he's used to the sound of voices that echo though the hallways – he's used to it, to him it's nothing more than white noise. But the shuffling of a small body in the sheets is unexpected, surprising; almost startling. She's disappearing, slowly. She's gone most of the time, and the moments of consciousness are just interludes between dreams. He gets up, and crosses to the bed, towering over her. He runs his hand down the side of her face; and for a moment it looks as if she's smiling; but it's a fleeting moment that becomes a memory in a single blink.
"I'll go get Liv." He says, but she shakes her head, bringing a trembling hand to her face. She pulls her oxygen mask down, and he protests, "Dianne-"
"I need…" and a sharp inhale of breath, that makes her monitors change their steady pace, "to talk…" and another one, "to…",inhale, "you." The last word is a mere whisper.
"You should rest." He says as he sits on the side of the bed, and takes her hand between the two of his; hoping to warm it up, even if just a little bit.
"She's scared." She whispers, lifting the oxygen mask that he brought back up.
"I know." And he does. He can feel her pulling away from him, disappearing as her mother disappears. He notices in the way that she looks through him, as if he's not really there; in the way she nods her head, but doesn't really say anything back; he sees the fear in her eyes, in the way she bites her lip, all the time, unconsciously; in the way she twists the hem of her sweater with her slender fingers. He sees fear in her feeble attempts to distract herself from it.
"She'll pull away." A sharp breath. "But she'll come back. She always comes back."
"She'll be OK." And that's a promise. He'll make sure she's OK. No matter how long it takes, how many sleepless nights and quiet days; he'll make sure, that one day her smile comes back; that her laughter fills the room once again.
"She loves you." And she smiles and nods his head. "Sometimes she just doesn't know how. She thinks that sadness breaks love, that vulnerability weakens it."
"I broke her." He says, quiet resignation in the crack of his voice. He doesn't know, and maybe he never will; about the five year-old who searched her father's face for a smile; the eight year-old who thought her perfection could heal his mind, could compensate for the failure of love; the eighteen year-old who held her breath as the camera took photos of a perfect moment. He doesn't know about a girl with blood on her hands. He doesn't know she still, sometimes, to this day, wakes up in the middle of the night to stare at her palms – to make sure they're not covered in sticky crimson liquid. He doesn't know that she fixes things not because they're broken, but because she is. He knows her, he feels her pain; but he will never be able to understand. Not really, not the omnipresent guilt that she is forever drowning in.
"No." And she squeezes his hand weakly. "You healed her."
And he nods, but he doesn't believe her.
And she can tell. That's the thing about dying, it comes with clarity. But she knows, one day soon he will see; he will understand that he did for her what she could never do for her father – he saved her and she let him. She saw what he'd seen, that she's worth saving.
"Could you…?" And her thread voice trails off, as she looks towards the door. Her eyes suddenly glossy, her mouth moving slowly, barely opening.
"Yeah, I'll go get Liv." And he kisses her temple quickly before getting off the bed. He pauses at the door and turns around; her eyes are closed but he can tell she's still there, hasn't yet drifted away. "You healed her too. You're the reason she is who she is; the reason she's an incredible woman, and an amazing mom. There is nothing more you could have done; no other way you could have helped her; no way you could have protected her. She has your strength, your resilience, and that, that's the reason she'll be OK. She is too much like you, not to be." And he sees a faint smile play on her lips, restrained under the plastic mask. She doesn't open her eyes. She can't. It's too much. But the smile stays on her lips as the tension leaves her body.
"You can head back to the car." She says as she feels him approaching. "Zo and Cy-"
"Are fine. Take as long as you need to." He says as he makes the last step, to stand beside her.
"I don't even know what I'm doing." She sounds tired, exhausted. And she leans on to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"You're saying goodbye." And he kisses her temple. She closes her eyes and lets herself disappear in the perfection of his touch for a moment.
"I already said my goodbye. At the hospital. A lifetime worth of goodbyes. The only difference is – now she's gone." She kisses the tips of her fingers, before laying the hand on the icy surface of the shiny casket. She turns her head away, before anything else, and then with a sharp breath she's walking away. She pauses next to the familiar headstone. The soft moss sticks to her fingers as she traces the top. "It's your turn to take care of her." She whispers softly; her voice disappearing in the howling wind.
"Liv…" she doesn't really say it – her voice is gruff and the mask muffles it. It's not her name, it's an indistinguishable sound. But she smiles. She's awake. Still alive and that's enough. She walks over to the nightstand and brings a glass of water to her mother's lips, but she just shakes her head, keeping the mask in place with a weak hand.
"OK." And she runs her fingers though her mother's hair, and she leans into her hand. She taps the empty space on the bed and looks up, opening her blood-shot eyes. "I shouldn't." Liv says, running her thumb along her mother's eyebrow. But the woman just smiles, it's small, a bare curving of her lips; but the thing is – her eyes smile as well. And that, that hasn't happened in a while. So she kicks off her shoes, and snuggles into her mother's side, laying her head in the crook of her neck. And her mom takes her hand.
"I love you." It's the last thing she ever says.
It's not the beep of the monitor that lets her know, it's the hand that's been holding hers, falling open, lifeless. She doesn't remember the racket, the doctors, the nurses, the rush. She remembers him, lifting her off the bed. She doesn't remember fighting him. All she remembers is the tears, and the moment they ran dry; the moment she nuzzled her head into his chest, her cheek resting on his wet sweater.
The last time she sees her mother, she looks at peace. Finally, at peace. Finally free. Free from guilt.
She's lying on the bed; in a tight ball; her knees next to her chest. He comes in, with a glass of wine and a cup of tea; unsure of what mood she's in. She lifts her head up to look at him, and smiles, even if it's faint, and even if it's fleeting – it's her smile.
"Can you unzip me?" And she sits up and he sits next to her. He swoops her hair to the side, then trails his fingers along her velvety skin. He drags the zipper down slowly. He pulls the dress off her body, and kisses her shoulder. He takes his NAVY sweatshirt off and puts it on her.
"Tea?" He asks with a small smile, "or wine?" And she takes the cup from the nightstand. The warmth fills her up, the love.
A soft knock breaks them out of their moment of quiet. "Sorry, I didn't realize…" Zoey says, in a small voice, looking at the floor.
"I was just leaving anyway Zo." Fitz says as he gets up. He kisses Liv softly, and runs his finger down the side of her neck. He leans his forehead on hers and smiles. "Better go put Nur down."
"No bring her up here." She says, before turning to Zo and tapping the bed next to her. "Come here." And the girl jumps on to the bed, then lies next to her. She lays her head on her chest, and runs her fingers through her hair.
"I love you." And she kisses her forehead.
He comes back, a sleepy toddler in his arms, and finds them snuggled together, on top of the covers. He puts Nur down next to Liv, and she snuggles into her other side, the small fingers playing with her hair. He throws a blanket over them, and kisses the tops of all three of their heads.
"I'm sorry." She mumbles, her eyes closed.
He doesn't ask what about. He knows better now.
She dreams of her mother that night. Carefree and young. Running along the bank of the river, chasing butterflies. She dreams of the past, the time before she knew how to be unhappy.
He dreams of her that night. Smiling and free. No longer tethered by guilt. He dreams of the future, of a time when she no longer knows regret.
Anon, on second thought – you could send that cake to Livvie. She needs it more than I do.
Well, this broke my heart, because no matter how happy she is, or how much love surrounds her, there's always a part of her that feels guilty about her father's death. And no matter how grown up she gets – that part always remains.
Let me know what you thought – I LOVE reading your reviews, I love how perceptive they are, and they just make me happy.