Thanks for the reviews, friends. I do so love to hear what you all think. Keep them coming!
Fair warning: this one is a bit...heavy. It was tough to write, but I'm very happy with how it turned out. I guess you could say it's based upon a comment in season 2's "Open Season" episode.
I know the quote is long, but it fit so perfectly that I couldn't bring myself to cut it down.
And finally, this one was written entirely to the wonderfully haunting tune "Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean" by Explosions in the Sky. It was my inspiration for this chapter, actually. Just one of those songs that seems to tell a story.
Happy reading =)
"It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things." – Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid
I find myself noticing things that are completely irrelevant, like the way the moonlight is hitting the metal rings of my binder, and the way I can feel the slightest draft coming from the window to my left. I'm acutely aware of time passing as the clock across the room ticks quietly, and yet I can't help but wonder if time has stopped entirely; it feels like time has stopped, freezing me in this moment. It seems strange to me that the world can carry on despite what I've been told – that people can go about their lives as though nothing's changed. I'm aware on some level that for the overwhelming majority of people on this earth, that fact is actually true; their lives would continue on as though nothing's changed. But it still doesn't seem right.
The phone is still sitting in my hand, even though the caller hung up several minutes ago. I can hear the faint tone signalling the end of the call, but I make no move to silence it. It grows quieter by the second as my mind tunes it out, and soon the room is completely silent. My gaze has wandered to the phone in my hand again and I stare at it blankly, blinking every so often, but not really processing what I'm seeing.
It isn't until my assistant steps in to let me know she's leaving for the night that I manage to escape the haze that had settled over me. She shoots me a concerned look and begins speaking quickly, asking me what's wrong, and repeating herself when I don't answer.
"My father died," I say plainly. It surprises me that my voice is steady and calm, but I suppose years of being a diplomat have led to that.
"Oh," she says sympathetically. "What can I do?"
"Could you book a flight to Geneva for myself and my daughter?"
"Of course, Ambassador. I'll see to it you're on the next flight out. It will probably be tomorrow morning though."
"That's fine. Thank you, Stephanie," I reply as my mind begins ticking through the things I have to do. "And could you-"
"I'll rearrange your schedule," she interrupts quickly. "You don't have anything urgent until your meeting with Patrice and Marco on the 26th. So you should be able to get away for a couple weeks. If you need me to rearrange anything past that just call and let me know, and I'll make it work."
"Thank you," I repeat, shooting her an appreciative smile. "Could you let Shane know I need a lift back to the house?"
With a quick, "Of course, Ambassador" she disappears from the room, and almost immediately I hear her hushed tone speaking rapidly into the phone.
I begin to shove random papers into my briefcase as my mind continues its list of things I need to do. I have to sort out everything with his will – that'll probably mean speaking to a lawyer regarding that – and I'll have to arrange the details for a funeral of sorts. I'll have to inform the few friends he kept of his death. And of course I'll have to tell Emily.
I find my eyes closing and my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose as I let out a heavy sigh. She isn't going to take it well. For all the distance that had steadily grown between us over the years, the two of them had remained thick as thieves. For every snarky comment and icy stare sent my way, she had a warm smile and kind words for him. For every heated argument and hateful silence she had with me, she had an engaging debate and comfortable silence with him.
I fear for her reaction, especially given how wild and erratic she's been over the past little while. I exhale again heavily, wondering how much of that was down to my relationship with her. My father had warned me during our last visit that she needed me then more than ever. He could sense something was off with her, but I didn't listen and instead brushed him off. That was almost 6 months ago. We had been scheduled to leave France for Italy almost immediately after that visit, and Emily had protested loudly, demanding to stay in France with her grandfather. In the end it was him who convinced her to go, promising to arrange another visit soon. A visit she'd never get apparently.
Emily had spiraled out of control quickly after arriving in Italy. She'd found some friends in some fellow Americans, but as easily as she seemed to settle in this time, it appeared to hit her harder. She began to smoke and drink, would sneak out routinely, and skipped school more and more often. As more time passed she spent less and less time with the friends with whom she was once inseparable. Her downward spiral was half the reason I'd requested a new assignment and would now be moving back to France in a few weeks' time.
"Ambassador? Are you ready to go?" My eyes fly open and I realize my driver has been waiting patiently for me to come back to reality from my haze.
"Yes, I'm sorry. Let's go," I say quickly, grabbing my briefcase and heading for the door. But before I've taken two steps my briefcase has fallen open, my papers spilling onto the floor. "Damnit!" I yell in frustration before kneeling down to shove the papers back into the briefcase.
"Ambassador, please, let me," Shane says, placing a hand on mine to still my frantic efforts. "Take a moment to collect your thoughts."
"I'm fine, I don't need-"
"Elizabeth," he says softly, his eyes finding mine, which are wide with shock at his use of my first name. "Take a moment. It's all right."
I blink several times to fight the tears I can feel forming. I allow myself one moment, just one moment, to let out a few shaky breaths before calming myself and pulling on my mask of composure. Shane nods once, and offers me his hand to help me up. I take a second to smooth out my pants and then follow him out to the car, my mind fully focused on how to break this news to my already apparently unstable daughter.
"How do I tell her?" I ask softly once we're situated in the car and headed to the house. While she may be my daughter, Shane seems to have a more intuitive understanding of her – perhaps a function of him spending so much time with her over the years.
Our gazes lock in the rear-view mirror. "Don't try to sugar coat it. You know how Miss Emily hates that. Be honest with her, and don't take anything cruel she might say to heart. It'll be the grief talking."
I nod and drop my gaze to my hands, my fingers picking at my nails for the first time in years. A nasty habit I thought I had all but quashed when I had become a diplomat.
"Will you be needing me to fly out with you? I expect you'll be needing a driver from Geneva to Talloires."
"I'm sorry?" I say distractedly, my mind still focused on how to break the news to my daughter.
"I asked if you'll be needing me to fly out with you to Geneva or if you'll be hiring a local driver there."
"You don't have to come, Shane. That's too much to ask for you to come with us all that way-"
"Nonsense, Ambassador. I'll call Stephanie to make the arrangements."
"Are you sure? I don't want drag you all the way there with us-"
"Of course, Ambassador. You and Miss Emily are like family to me, you know that. Family takes care of one another in situations such as these," he says confidently. "However long you need me, I'll be there for you."
"Thank you, Shane," I say with a small smile. "You're too good to us."
"Here we are, Ambassador. Anything else you need tonight?"
"No, thank you, Shane. That's all for the night."
"Thank you, Ambassador. I'll be here in the morning to pick you two up for your flight. 7am on the dot."
I nod absently and shut the door before heading into the house.
I raise my hand and knock gently on her door. I hear a flurry of movement as the music blaring from her room quiets slightly.
"WHAT?" she yells through the still closed door, anger already in her tone.
"Emily, it's your mother. I need to talk to you."
"WHY?" she yells back, and I hear heavy stomping as she walks toward the door. "I thought I told you last time I didn't have anything else to say to you," she finishes as she yanks open the door.
I inhale sharply as she comes into view. Apparently I've been more absent from her life than I thought. She's far skinnier than I remember, and seems…worn out and weary. Her skin is pale and the dark eyeliner accentuates the deep sadness in her eyes. The dark rings sitting underneath them show through, despite the heavy layer of makeup. It looks as though she hasn't slept in weeks. And it's certainly a far cry from the bright-eyed little girl with pigtails who always had a wide smile on her face, and held such a curiosity for the world.
"Yes," I finally croak after she shoots me an irritated look no doubt in response to my silence. "You made that quite clear. But this is important."
"Then what is it? Spit it out already, mother."
Shane's advice rings in my ears and I decide to cut straight to the point. "Emily, I'm-" I falter and find my ability to speak disappearing. I swallow and start again. "I'm so sorry, but your grandfather died."
She blinks several times in shock, otherwise remaining completely still. "What?" she finally asks in a quiet voice full of uncertainty and sounding so very different from the angry tone she'd just used.
"Your grandfather, he passed away in his sleep last night."
"No," she whispers. "He- But I just saw him a few months ago. He looked fine. He was fine!"
"I know, Emilene," I say softly, hoping to connect with her.
"Don't call me that," she spits. "That was his name for me." For the briefest of moments I'm relieved to see some emotion from her. She's been so distant and detached lately that I feared she'd closed off completely.
"I'm sorry, Emily. I know how hard this-"
"Don't tell me how hard this is! He was the only person in this family I could count on. The only one who didn't use me for their own gain," she says, looking at me pointedly. "The only one who loved me," she finishes in a whisper. As much as I was expecting it, her outburst shocks me. This is more than we've talked in months, years even.
"Emily, I love-" I begin to try and comfort her, but am interrupted immediately by Emily, her eyes burning brightly once more with anger.
"Don't you dare say it. We both know it's a lie. You haven't given a shit about me since your career took off. All I am is a political tool for you now – and not even a helpful one now that I'm not so cute and adorable anymore. So don't stand there and tell me you love me. It's a fucking lie."
I would usually scold her for her foul language, protest that I do love her, and argue that I've provided her with everything she could ever want. But I just don't have the energy. Instead I just stand there, watching and listening as my own daughter speaks so fervently against me, her eyes and voice filled with hate and disdain. Each word feels like a punch to my stomach, and I hear my father's words echo in my head.
"You take care of this little one, Lizzie. She's the most important thing in your life now, and you can't throw that away. Not for a guy, not for your career, not for anything. She's everything. Do you hear me? Don't you ever let her down."
"I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to stay in France, but you wouldn't let me. Instead you dragged me to this god awful country…"
"Emily needs you now more than ever, Lizzie. She's so terribly unhappy. She won't tell me why, but I can tell she is. Spend some time with her…she needs her mother, Lizzie. Not the Ambassador. Her mother."
"…and now I'll never see him again, or talk to him ever again. I could have had more time with him. YOU did this! YOU kept me from him!"
"I'll talk to her, Lizzie. I'll convince her to go with you to Italy, but you should listen to her once in a while. She's a child, and she deserves to be heard. She's tired of moving around, and wants to stay in one place for more than a few months. Think about it, Lizzie. Think very hard about it."
"I HATE YOU!"
My eyes close at her words. It isn't the first time I've heard them from her but this time stings more. I feel tears pricking my eyes as the truth washes over me. My own daughter hates me. Actually hates me.
"Do you hear me? I. HATE. YOU."
I swallow the lump that had formed in my throat and my eyes open again, but no words form.
"Don't even talk to me. You don't know anything about how I'm feeling. You don't know how much this hurts," she says loudly, slamming the door.
"YES I DO," I yell back, finally finding my voice and shooting out a hand to stop the door from slamming shut. "He may have been your grandfather, and I know you two were very close, but he was my father. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle, and carried me on his shoulders so I could see at the parade. He was the one who kissed my cuts and bruises better, and could make the worst days better with his ridiculous stories. He was the one who checked under the bed for monsters, and hugged me after graduation, and congratulated me when you were born."
My words seem to have shocked her, and her expression softens slightly as her shoulders slump.
"You may think me an ice queen and a heartless bitch, but he was my father, and I know exactly how much this hurts," I reply quickly in a low voice that is unnervingly calm. "Remember that before I was your mother I was his little girl."
"Mother-" she begins to reply, her tone soft and apologetic, but I cut her off.
"Shane is picking us up tomorrow at 7am to take us to the airport for our flight to Geneva. He'll accompany us and drive us to Talloires when we land."
"Mother-" she tries again.
"You'll need to pack a bag," I say evenly. "Bring something nice for the funeral." Her mouth hangs open, but she nods. "I suggest you get some sleep. It's going to be a very long few days. Goodnight, Emily."
"Goodnight, mom," she whispers after I've turned around and begun walking toward my bedroom. I close my eyes at her use of "mom". It's been years since she's called me that.
We buried Dad next to Mom, just as he'd requested. The funeral itself was well attended, with many of the people who live in Talloires, France – the small town where my parents had met and lived on and off throughout their lives – turning up to pay their respects to a beloved local businessman and former resident. My father was a kind man who always took time out of his day to chat with the people he met on the street, and the customers who came into his shop. He made a lasting impression on the town this way, and so when he retired and moved into his cabin on the mountain they were saddened, but to hear news of his death – that was actually devastating to them.
His will outlined that he'd left the local bookshop he'd owned to the lovely young lady who he'd hired as the shop's manager nearly two decades before, only stipulating that his granddaughter was to be given his private collection of books that he'd stored in his office in the shop. His cabin had been left to Emily, with instructions to "enjoy its solitude and the beauty of the land when life so requires". The rest of his estate was split evenly between a trust fund in Emily's name, and a lump sum for me.
We spent a bit of time in his cabin, trying to remember all the good times we'd had there over the years, and trying desperately to ignore the growing emptiness his death had left us feeling. Emily spent a lot of time at the secret spot the two of them would go to read and chat, and every time she came back her eyes would be red-rimmed and puffy. We both pretended I didn't notice. I spent most of my time inside the cabin, writing down absolutely everything about him that I could remember. What he looked like as a younger man, and how that grin and twinkle in his eyes never changed as the years passed. The way he always used to smell so strongly like his aftershave until he decided to grow out his beard, and instead began to smell faintly of the wildflowers and fresh mountain air that surrounded him at the cabin. The way he could always make Emily's eyes light up with excitement when he agreed to read or play chess with her. The way he could send me right back to my childhood with just one look – making me feel decidedly like a 5 year-old child in trouble for stealing a cookie. Those late-night talks over steaming mugs of tea, or those moments spent trying to hold in our laughter as a young Emily would try to catch something drifting by in the wind. It all was still fresh in my mind, and yet I was terrified that if I didn't write it down, I would forget it and I would forget him.
The days passed too quickly for either of our liking, and soon we were scheduled to head back down the mountain and travel back to Rome. Emily surprised me by asking me to accompany her for one last visit to their secret spot, her expression and voice conveying none of the hatred and disdain that had been so prevalent in the weeks leading up to our trip here. I agreed readily, and so we made our way there. She led me through a small meadow of sorts, and around a small forest nestled on the side of the mountain, finally stopping at a small, crudely fashioned structure.
"So this is where you two always disappeared to?" I ask softly, my eyes taking in the jagged pieces of wood making up the sides and roof.
"Yeah," she says. "He and I built it when I was 8 and you had flown to the States for an event with Harrison." I don't even blink at her use of her father's name instead of "Dad" or "father"; it's been that way since she was 10. "He said I needed a special place on the mountain where I could go to escape the hustle and bustle of the world."
"I thought it was both yours and his place…"
"It was. He made it for me, but I told him I didn't want it all to myself, because I didn't want to be alone. So I declared him the other occupant of the spot, and until now neither of us had visited it without the other."
"That sounds like you," I say with a small and quiet chuckle. "You were always precocious. It's one of the things he loved about you."
"It is?" she asks, turning to face me. I see the tears in her eyes, and can feel some of my own beginning to form. I blink quickly to stem the flow.
"Oh yes. He bragged about his little Emilene to anyone who would listen, and many who didn't want to. You were the light of his life, Emily."
I watch as she shuts her eyes tightly and desperately tries to hold back the tears. Again, even given the situation, I'm a little surprised by the amount of emotion she's showing. From the age of 10 onward she'd been cold and distant, never seeming to express any strong emotion.
Putting aside our usual rules of interaction I step toward her quickly and wrap my arms around her tightly. She begins to weakly protest and tries to push me away, but I stand firm and pull her closer to me. After a few seconds of her weak efforts, she gives up and seems to collapse into my arms. I feel sobs wrack her frame as the waves of grief and sadness roll off of her. I hold her that little bit tighter and will her pain to go away. I realize in that moment that I would truly do anything to take away her pain and sadness and grief, because it seems to be more than she can bear. And seeing her in such agony is more than I can bear.
I open my mouth to say something comforting, but find no words. Instead I rub soothing circles on her back as she lets out her grief and pent up emotion. We stay like that for several minutes before she mumbles something into my shirt.
"What was that?"
"Thank you," she repeats softly. She pulls out of my arms and wipes the remnants of tears from her eyes before looking at her hands as she picks at her fingernails.
"He loved you dearly, Emily," I say with a smile as her gaze jumps up to meet mine. "After your grandmother died, that spark inside him disappeared, but the first time he held you as a baby, it resurfaced. You brought out the best in him again and made him happy. Don't you ever forget that."
"I miss him," she says as tears begin to fall once more.
"I do too," I agree. "I do too."
As always, if you've got the time, let me know what you thought!
I've been writing up a storm lately, so lots of conversations to come! As always, suggestions are welcomed.