I

13 years ago, February

The first day of February dawns with a chill. Donna pulls herself out of bed. The amount of effort it takes to move her limbs is almost insurmountable, like there is something grabbing at the hem of her clothing, dragging her back toward the sheets, telling her persuasively there is just no use. There is no use because today will be just as bleak as yesterday. No use because Alice is gone and what's left in her life will never be enough to make her feel whole again.

She might as well not get out of bed.

She might as well be—

Downstairs Donna puts on a pot of coffee, picks up the newspaper for Jonathan – eyes darting over her shoulder as she sneaks out the obituary section – and then disappears up to the balcony. She paces, bare feet treading cold stone, weaving around garden planters which have fallen into such a state of neglect she's received letters from neighbors discomforted by the overgrown jungle of weeds. Her garden used to be something to envy: sword-shaped Yuccas with large white flowers, velvety green Plectranthus and Strobilanthes, white- and pink-mottled leaves of Roseopicta (Alice's favorite because they look like they've been snowed upon). Now it's nothing but withered-up husks and rotted petals, botanical decay, and to Donna this is how it should be. Dead at the peak of the season. Dead at the peak of their beauty. Dead with a whole life ahead of them. It's only fair.

She scans her list of deceased, looking only at ages: two five-year-olds, an eight-year-old, a little girl of three. It makes her sick that she finds solace in dead children, but she needs to know for her sanity that she hasn't been singled out. It's a sadistic sliver of comfort, picturing this other mother out there, standing alone in her equally decrepit garden having just buried her three-year-old (yes, she got four more years with Alice, she's the lucky one). Still, it doesn't ease her sadness; it only makes her feel less alone.

Horns honk on Greenwich Street. Seagulls dive and swoop through the slate sky. Donna feels the world whiz by her, circling around and around, this infinity that never stops, not even for a moment.

Overwhelmed, she goes back inside and puts a check mark next to 'spend an hour outdoors.' If she doesn't cancel on her therapist this week, she won't be able to look the woman in the eyes.

Jonathan comes down at seven-thirty, showered, shaven and dressed. He reads over the financial pages while Donna wraps his tie, remarking coolly as she pulls the knot up to his collar, "We're still out of groceries."

Donna lies without hesitation. "I'm sorry. I meant to go shopping yesterday, but it slipped my mind." To admit she actually left the house, got a cab, picked up half the shopping list and then broke down in the middle of the bakery aisle would almost certainly lead to another one of his lectures—You have to snap out of it, Donna. You can't be sad forever, it's just not practical—as If it's within her control.

"It's alright," he says dismissively, but his eyes challenge her. You know better than to lie to me, they say. You know better.

She does know better…but how does she tell someone, especially someone as insensitive as her husband, that everything is beginning to feel like too much effort. That going out into the world means seeing the people around her functioning and living, and having to wonder why she's the only one who is struggling, breaking, falling to pieces, perpetually stuck between being terrified this pain is enough to kill her and half-hoping that it does. Donna can hardly come to terms with it herself, this strange and almost frightening thought that maybe it would be easier to just feel nothing.

That maybe she should just—

"Something bugging you?"

She looks into her husband's gray eyes and feels an overwhelming throb of resentment

(you're the saint holding her down while they cut her open)

She says "no" just so she doesn't have to say anything else.

Normally Jonathan wouldn't press, but this morning he surprises her. "How are we supposed to salvage our marriage if you won't speak to me?"

"There's nothing to say."

"Then tell me how you're feeling."

"Isn't that what you pay the shrink for?" She adjusts his tie knot, twisting it more to the center. She entertains the idea of pulling the knot tighter, of choking him with it, but forces herself to let go. "I would hate to burden you with my sadness."

Jonathan smiles to show he gets the dig, but thinly to show he doesn't find it amusing. "Aren't you a fucking little know-it-all?"

"Your methods aren't exactly inconspicuous. More coffee?" She doesn't wait for him to respond, but takes his cup and moves to the other end of the kitchen. A light flurry has started. Snow swirls and flutters above them, turning the glass ceiling opaque.

He says at her back, "You act like I scorn you for being emotional."

"Don't you?"

"Only when you're being overdramatic."

"My daughter died." There is no reproach in her voice, grim as the conversation is, her tone remains remarkably indifferent. "I should be allowed to occasionally cry myself to sleep over it."

"My daughter died too and I'm still able to leave the goddamn house every once in a while."

Donna turns to hand him back his cup. Filled to the brim, it almost spills over in the exchange.

Jonathan stares into her eyes, waiting for a reaction she's not capable of giving. Like everything else, fighting back has become too much effort. She says, "I guess we grieve differently."

"It's been six months. You should be passed this."

"How?" She demands helplessly, "Please, tell me. What's your secret?"

He senses her accusation. "There is no secret. I'm just as miserable as you are, but I have bills to pay and a wife to take care of. You have to drag yourself up from the ground and keep going."

"Toward what?"

And to this, Jonathan doesn't seem to know what to say. She watches his firm face fall into an expression of uncertainty that is so rare she freezes at the sight of it. He has always been her answers; his rationalizations are harsh but honest, and the fact that he can't offer her even a simple platitude is more than disheartening, it is absolute. She is staring down the barrel of a gun, seeing the trajectory of her life reflected in his solemn eyes: bleak, lifeless, graygraygray. It expands and keeps going.

Resigned, Jonathan grabs his cell phone off the counter and signals for his wallet. "You're acting like the first person to ever lose a child. But people die, Dee – babies, children, spouses. Experiencing loss isn't unique."

Donna lets out a sigh and looks out the window. Then, reluctantly: "Why can't I just feel what I feel without having to constantly justify myself to you?"

"Because I can't be happy unless you're happy. And in order to make you happy I've thrown away three hundred thousand dollars, four years of my life, and committed an innumerable amount of felonies, all so that you could have a sense of closure when Alice died." And because everything boils down to a business deal in Jonathan's head, he adds, "I've held up my end. Now I want my wife back."

"Are you saying I owe you?"

Jonathan gazes at Donna steadily. "I'm saying this refrigerator better have some goddamn milk in it when I get home." Then he turns away and through the darkening, too quiet house he walks, steps so filled with grace and power each footfall makes Donna wince inwardly, as if being crushed.

Suddenly she wants to scream, cry, beg: Stop. Please stop. Turn around, tell me you love me, tell me I'm recoverable, tell me it isn't all meaningless.

But the front door swings shut behind him. She is dismissed and disregarded, left with the overwhelming thought reverberating in her head—

I can't do this anymore.

II

In the intimacy of her own home Donna never sits properly, Harvey realizes. She is either perched or Indian-style, sometimes her legs are tucked beneath her, sometimes they're pressed against her chest, and never is she on a surface meant for sitting. There's something in it, something free-spirited and unruly, that he thinks maybe has to do with her mother. From the single time he met Sandra, he got the impression she was one of those 'keep your back straight, honey, no one likes a slouch' types, and here is Donna, nearly forty and still defiant, sitting on top of the counter, a leg pulled up to her chest, and would be exposed if it wasn't for the strategic placement of her foot, which is centered in such a way to hide what lies between (Harvey is grateful for this, with her dress hiked up as it is, seeing so much of her bare legs is enough to drive him mad).

The power came back on around midnight, prompting the party to disassemble. Harvey lingered after the rest left, partly because he thought Donna might open up about the case with the others out of earshot, but mostly he didn't want to leave her alone in the state she's in.

They talk quietly in the kitchen together. Harvey washes the dishes and Donna dries. She is talking about Mike and Rachael, their upcoming wedding, how they can't agree on a song, and all he can think about is how the lipstick has rubbed off her lips and the natural color of them is so much sexier than all that gloss she wears. He's thinking about her hands, and how right now they're carefully polishing a dish but they'd be better running through his hair, down his chest, unbuckling his—

Donna nudges Harvey with a barefoot. "Quit that."

He swallows. "Quit what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Am I not allowed to look at you?"

"Not like that."

"And how is that exactly?"

"Like you don't recognize me anymore."

Harvey is startled; he can't see how she came to this conclusion. It's unusual for her to be wrong, especially about him. He tries to amend: "I'm just trying to figure out what kind of person makes six figures, yet doesn't own a dish washer." He hands her another plate. She sees that he's missed a spot and hands it back to him.

"This apartment didn't come with the hook-ups for it."

"There are other apartments." And because he's been meaning to bring this up, he adds, "You've been living here since I met you. Don't you think you're due for an upgrade?"

"I like it here."

"No one likes it west of 34th."

"I do."

"Why?"

Donna is serious for a moment. She searches his eyes, her face carefully blank aside from a thoughtful crease between the brows. Finally she says, "Alice is buried at the back of St. Michael's," then grabs the plate back from him, feigning casualness, but her posture is terse, as if she is standing naked before him and fighting like hell not to be self-conscious about it. "Home is where your heart is, right?"

An emotion rises inside of Harvey, an unexpected breathlessness, like missing a stair step. Suddenly he sees Alice's freckled face, nose scrunched up by the force of her over-eager smile. He remembers her laugh, how it seemed to expand and fill the room. He hears her say, clear as day, "I like it when they do the slides." And his heart just breaks. How can someone so alive be reduced to 'buried at the back of St. Michael's'? He doesn't understand and the question echoes and echoes and echoes.

He leans forward and clasps his hands to the sink basin. Tight, because all his hands want to do right now is break something. Stop it, he tells himself. Pull yourself together. But his chest is already feeling compressed by the heaviness of panic, like he's being held under water, drowning.

Before he can stop himself, he confesses, "Donna, I knew her."

There is silence for a moment. The tap drips, plops heavy and too loud into the sink. Somewhere outside an ambulance howls.

Then: "I know."

Harvey turns to her slowly, surprised by her direct response and even more shocked by the calm in her voice.

But of course she knew. She saw him at the hospital…gave him the same look she's giving him now: placid, assured, resilient. How the hell had he missed this?

"I remember the first time I heard your name." She offers him a tired smile. "I had just picked Alice up from a sleepover. Do you know what a colostomy bag is?"—She points to her lower abdomen—"She had one fitted after one of her surgeries. The seal must not have been on well enough and while she was sleeping it ruptured and leaked everywhere. I thought she'd be hysterical – practically pooping the bed at a friend's house is beyond traumatic – but when I picked her up the next day she was perfectly fine. I thought she was just numb, you know? PTSD. So I started to console her, accidents happen, it wasn't your fault, that sort of thing, but she interrupted me with this charming piece of wisdom: In order to be great you gotta shit the bed every once in a while." She quirks a knowing eyebrow at Harvey, her smile more genuine. "After the shock of hearing my darling seven year old curse at me, I asked her who she was quoting. She said, 'Harvey Specter. He's an attorney. He puts away bad guys.'"

Harvey swallows against a tightening throat and smiles apologetically. "I didn't mean for her to take me so literally."

"Kids can be silly like that." Donna slides off the counter and drops the dish towel next to the sink. "Anyway, I'll finish these up tomorrow. It's getting late."

With nothing left to say, she crosses into the living room; Harvey stands by awkwardly, a little confused by the sudden shift in conversation. She comes at him like a wave, slamming him with honesty, watching him falter, then recedes back before he can show her that maybe he could bear it if given a moment to regain his footing.

Realizing he's being dismissed, Harvey follows after her. There are too many questions circling around in his head, too many unknowns and not enough constants. Watching her reach for the door, he skips the formalities and asks in a subdued voice, "How come you never told me about her?"

She seems content to ignore him, so he presses, "If you knew I knew her, why not tell me you were her mother?" Were? Are? Shit.

She turns to him and considers. There is a hint of irritation in her eyes, a tired weariness – haven't I given you enough? Then she exhales and drops her hand from the door handle. "I was afraid you'd think I let her down."

"Why the hell would I think that?"

Her eyes shift away from his. It is answer enough.

"Donna, what happened to her wasn't your fault."

"How do you know that?" She bends her dark eyes on him piercingly. "I could have been more vigilant with her check-ups and caught it sooner. Maybe I did something while I was pregnant that caused it. You don't know."

"I know you," he argues, his voice taking on the edge and confidence of a trial attorney. "I know you're the most capable woman I've ever met, and I know that in the thirteen years you've given me you've never once let me down."

She shakes her head stubbornly, angry eyes filling with tears. She turns away before they can spill over and takes in a shaky breath.

Harvey lifts a hand out. For a moment it only hovers between them, idle, a bold thought without the confidence to back it up. Then he thinks, to hell with it, and steps forward. He takes her chin and gently coaxes her back to him.

"You're Donna," he tells her softly. "If there was anyone in this world that could have saved her, it was you."

Her mouth parts in surprise. Without thinking Harvey brushes his thumb against the soft swell of her lower lip, outlining the curve. He feels a strange inertia, a push to close the gap, the vitalness almost as necessary and visceral as breathing.

He forces his gaze back up and meets her eyes. She stares at him, anxious—afraid, confused. Then her eyes drop down to his lips and Harvey senses – briefly but very much there— desire, a yearning nearly equal to his, and for all of his willpower and years of keeping away he knows in this moment there's no more pretending.

He lowers his mouth slowly and brushes his lips over hers. It is just a touch, experimental, almost childish, and like a childish first kiss it bears down on him, gigantic, transcending mere romance and filling him with a passion he thought he lost with his youth. His blood beats through him in a wild uproar, sending a dizzying, slightly intoxicating cascade of ecstasy rippling all the way down to his toes.

He kisses her again, firmer. More certain. She greets him with gentle open lips, her tongue touching his tentatively, warm and sweet with the flavor of cabernet. He parts with a groan and she clings to his bottom lip, not aggressively, but with a desperate need to keep contact. Whatever composure Harvey has left dissolves. He buries a hand in her hair and tips her head up, deepening the kiss, and with the other, takes hold of her hip and presses her against him.

Donna's breath hitches; she pulls off. "Harvey," she whispers, sharp, like a warning. He tries to reconnect but she turns her face, exposing her long graceful neck. He sees it as an invitation and leans in, pressing his lips against the delicate skin along her jaw, mouth parting to taste her. She gasps, and again his name comes to her lips. Pleading.

He pulls back. Their eyes brush passed each other's. Everything is still for a moment aside from their labored breathing. Then, something shifts inside of her, dies out along the curve of her mouth and in her eyes. Like a spell breaking, the air around them grows stale and remorseful.

Harvey's hands fall away. He straightens and steps back.

Donna neither speaks nor moves. She stands, a statue of shock, the whites of her eyes showing all around her brown irises.

"Donna, I..." He trails off. "I better go."

Dazed, almost sick with regret, Harvey shows himself out the door.