I hear a quiet sniff from the far end of the couch. I can't look up; can't look our daughter in the eyes. Not now. I don't want to see her hurting, and I don't want her to see my pain. I've finished telling her about that fateful day. She's more mature—and stronger—than I give her credit for sometimes. I can feel her arms around my shoulders, and her cheek pressed into mine. I can feel her tears, as I'm sure she can feel mine. We won't look at each other—we can't, yet—but letting someone else know they're loved doesn't need sight. Or sound. I smile softly, my arms around our daughter. It's all about feeling.
"Thank you, mom," Joan sniffles again, her chin on my shoulder. "I'm sorry that hurt you."
"I knew it was coming…" I sigh. "I knew it, and it still hurt." Joan kisses me on the cheek. "But you asked, and you deserve to know your mothers' story."
"I… I'm not sure I'll be able to handle the ending," she sniffs again, sitting slightly apart from me. "I mean, I know it, it's just—you're really good at telling this story."
"What, just this?" I give her a mock frown. "Not Peter Rabbit? or Three Little Pigs?" She laughs. It quickly turns sombre.
"It's just… I'm… I don't know…" she frowns, looking away. "It's like I really know Elsa now—how you saw her."
"And how she's your mother, too."
"Yeah," Joan sighs, suddenly snuggling into my side, her voice wistful. "I wish I could really meet her…"
Baby, you don't know how much it hurts to hear you say that. I so often wish she could have met you. I dream about it sometimes too. And you, up there, frowning at me, aren't telling me anything I don't know. Why don't you come to her in a dream for once, stinker. I'm sorry, it's just… well, you already know.
"It's not enough…" my voice trails off. I can't think how to finish. We just sit for a while, Joan nestled into my side, my arm around her shoulders, keeping the world away. Just for now. Just for a little while. Until we're both ready to move again.
"Can we—Can we talk about this later?" Joan's voice is tentative; I'm not sure why.
I just nod. "Hey, you want some of dad's hot chocolate?"
"Yeah, I kinda do," she smiles. "That can fix anything, right?"
"Very nearly," I tousle her hair. "Come on, I think that's enough sadness for this afternoon." And now I have to put on a brave face, because I don't want her to know just how deeply telling this story is starting to affect me. I'm afraid she might want me to stop telling her, seeing it hurting me. I used to put on a brave face so much it was second nature—it's harder now, but I can still manage it. Kristoff, at least, knows how to see through it. He nods slowly, gesturing upstairs. We'll talk, later.
Joan takes her hot chocolate and walks out. Very much not what I was expecting.
"You know she can see right through you?" Kristoff's hand rests on my shoulder.
"What?" Damn. For the record, I blame you, Elsa. "She's too smart for her own good."
"Talk with her; before you talk with me."
"But we'v—"
"Feistypants, you've been telling her the story about her mother, you haven't been talking about it—about her."
I sip my hot chocolate, chewing one of the marshmallows to buy time as I stare at the floor. He's right, and I should've seen it sooner. She asked me directly not ten minutes ago. I am an idiot sometimes—and hey, what do you mean 'sometimes'?. A quiet breath as it strikes me that this is exactly what I should be talking to Joan about. I've been telling her about Elsa, about us, as a couple, but I haven't told her any more about me, about what all this means, and she's hinted about wanting to meet Elsa more than once in the past and why didn't I pick up on it then and—silence suddenly surrounds me.
Kristoff kneels next to me, his forehead against mine. I can hear—feel—his slow, deep breaths. In time I manage to match his rhythm. He smiles at me as I open my eyes. "Go. I can always make another cup for you."
I go, kissing him on the cheek before heading upstairs. I take a deep breath before I knock on Joan's door. This feels like a big moment. She knows already, or can guess, but she deserves actually hearing it from me. She's fifteen, after all, and a lot stronger than I might give her credit for. She had to be, growing up while I figured out how to mourn and remember the love of my life. I still think she gets that strength from you—that same strength that made you push me away so much at the start. A love so selfless it hurts. The door opens.
I lie on the bed next to Joan. "I'm not okay."
"And that's okay," she pats my arm. There's an odd silence. I can almost see her frown. "I guess Elsa told you that a lot too."
"She did, baby, she did."
"Do you still think about her—I mean, when you're not telling me your story?"
"Sometimes," I find myself nodding softly. "More on days like this, of course."
"What's it like?"
"Well today it's kinda sad. I remember how much it hurt for her to move sometimes, or be touched, or she'd feel so sick and there was nothing I could do about it."
"You still fuss over me when I'm sick or hurt."
"You want me to stop?"
"No!" I guess she didn't know I was asking in jest. "It's just…"
"I get it, baby, I do. I can't stand by and do nothing."
"And that's why it hurt so much when Elsa told you, right?" Joan holds up a hand so she can continue. "You knew you couldn't do anything—that there wasn't anything anyone could do. And you both knew it was too late. You could never stop loving each other." I'm about to answer when she snuggles up next to me and adds four words that fill me with pride and quietly crush me.
"And you never did."
I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek, but I'm not sure if it's from pride or shame. She's hugging me tight, like she hasn't been angry with me for the last month. But things change—and having her cast press into my back isn't entirely comfortable. I'm pretty sure it's not good for her either. I roll slightly, taking the weight of my shoulders off her arm. My arms fold around her, holding her close.
"Sometimes…" I whisper softly over her head. "Sometimes you remind me so much of her."
"And I still wonder how much of her is really in me. I wonder if she would like me for who I a—"
"She would, I know it."
"—who I am. I wonder what she would think of my fencing. Or what she'd think of Tink and me together and—"
I get the distinct feeling she wasn't meant to say that last part out loud. "Go on," I tease. "Make me believe it never happened." I can nearly feel her blush through my shirt. Oh, so busted. But I'm not mad. I'm not going to lecture her. Instead I take us back to the point. "You were wondering what Elsa would have thought of you?"
"Yeah—about a lot of things."
"I think she'd be proud of you—you're not her, you're not me, and you're not dad. You're your own person, and that's all she ever really wanted me to be."
"So she'd like me even though I'm different from all of you?" Not quite, baby, not quite.
"She'd like you because you're different."
"Oh." I know that tone, she's frowning in confusion. "You're sure? It doesn't make sense to me."
"Well, think about it this way: Why do you like Tina?"
There's a drawn out silence as she begins to understand. She's perceptive, just like you were, but she's got some odd blindspots, just like me. She also knows how to deal with it, like Kristoff. She really is so much like us, and yet, she's none of us. I think she might be our best selves all in one person. Sure, maybe she has a few flaws, but nobody's perfect—and she's still our daughter. My daughter. She's the light of my life as much as you were the love of my life, and I wouldn't trade her for anything. Even more time with you.
"Mom?" Joan's poking me in the ribs.
"What?"
"You kinda zoned out for a bit."
"I was just thinking," I smile at her. "That even if I could have had more time with Elsa, I wouldn't take it."
"Why?" Confusion, and a hint of anger.
"Because it would mean I might not have you."
Joan basically falls on top of me in a massive hug, wincing as her left arm twists the wrong way. I wrap her up in my arms and bury my face in her hair as she presses close against my chest, listening to my heart. I know, she used to do this a child. You used to do it too. And me. I still miss you.
"I still miss her," I mumble into Joan's hair.
"You've made me miss her too," Joan mumbles back. We hug each other tighter. Kristoff comes to check on us later, only to find that Joan's fallen asleep on top of me, and I'm dozing softly, only half awake to his voice. I don't hear what he said, but I see his smile as he closes the door and lets us rest, mother and daughter as one.
