Last Time in Damaged, Broken, and Unhinged:
"And done." I stop blocking Darius's hand so she can take his paper money. "Now," I say, stepping back and turning to Darius, "let me get you your money."
"Damn it, Katniss, I don't want your money!"
Our front door opens, and Prim and Aven step inside. All of us freeze, staring at them.
My siblings stare back.
"Um…" Prim says, her voice unsure, "did we come at a bad time?"
oOo
Damaged, Broken, and Unhinged
by RoseFyre & FanficAllergy
oOo
Chapter Thirty: Mother of Foresight
oOo
"Fear is the mother of foresight."
― Thomas Hardy
oOo
The silence stretches out like a rubber band… becoming thinner and more taut with each passing second. No one says anything. No one knows what to say.
Yes. They came at a bad time, but there isn't any possible good time. Not in a situation like this.
"Katniss?" Prim asks, her eyes finding mine.
I take a deep breath. "Mom's dead."
And just like that, the rubber band snaps.
Prim's eyes go hard. "Good. It's about time."
Someone gasps. It could even be me.
"Prim!" I say.
"What?"
I look pointedly at Darius, Jacintha, and Chet. They don't need to know our private business. Especially Jacintha and Chet.
"Oh." My sister doesn't look chagrined, merely annoyed. I can tell she's not the least bit contrite over her lack of appropriate grief, but at least she understands that now is not the time to express that.
"What's dead?" Aven pipes up, looking around. "Why're all these people here?" He points at Jacintha and Chet. "Who're you?"
Aven's questions bring me back to the matter at hand. I can't deal with Prim's anger and resentment right now, but I can help Aven. I have to. There's no one else.
Setting the spoon on the counter, I kneel in front of my brother and say, "Remember when Daddy died and we told you that he wasn't going to be able to play with you or talk to you ever again?"
Aven sticks a finger in his mouth and nods, his eyes solemn.
"Well, Mommy's not going to be able to do that either."
He wrinkles his nose, confusion evident on his small features. "But she hasn't been able to do that in forever." He's right. Our mother has barely left her bed since our father died. It hasn't even been six months, but for a three-year-old, that must feel like forever.
I want to cry, but I can't right now. Will my brother remember our parents as they were, full of life and love? Will he even remember them at all? "I know. Because she's been sick. But like Daddy, she didn't get better from her sickness."
"But she wasn't coughing like Daddy," he says around the finger in his mouth.
"I know. But not everyone coughs when they're sick. Sometimes they go to sleep and never wake up." His eyes widen, and I realize the mistake I've made. Shit. But I don't know how to fix it. I don't know what to say. How do you tell your three-year-old brother that he's an orphan?
I look around the room, hoping that someone will be able to help me. But they're all watching me with varying expressions of pity and discomfort on their faces.
Aven hugs himself. "Does that mean I'm gonna die when I go to sleep?"
"Oh no, Little Man." I brush my hand over his hair. "Mommy was sick. Her sickness made her sleep. She didn't want to sleep. But her sickness made her."
Tears begin to well up in Aven's eyes. "I don't wanna sleep. I don't wanna be dead."
"You're not sick, are you?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
He shakes his head. "Nooooo."
"And you don't have a fever." I put my hand on his forehead as if to emphasize my point.
He knocks it off with a little giggle. "Nooooo."
"And you don't feel bad, do you? You're not sick in your tummy." I give it a little tickle.
Aven squirms away, saying, "Nooooo."
"Then you're fine. You're not going to die in your sleep," I promise with a certainty born of desperation.
"Katniss is right," Darius says, backing me up. "Your mom's been sick for a while. Like your dad was, right?"
"Uh huh," Aven says, the finger going back into his mouth.
"And you're not sick."
"Nuh uh."
"So you've got nothing to worry about," Darius says, trying to reassure him.
Aven doesn't seem convinced, but he lets the subject drop and points at Jacintha and Chet once again with his now-wet finger. "Who're you?"
"I'm Peeta's brother," Chet answers.
Aven looks at Peeta, betrayed. "I didn't know you had a brother!"
"I have two," Peeta responds, amusement twinkling in his eyes even as he tries to keep a straight face.
"But I wanna be your brother!"
Peeta shoots me a look. "I… don't know what to say."
"Welcome to the club?" I tell him dryly before returning my attention to Aven. "Peeta can be your honorary brother."
"What's 'honorally' mean?"
"Honorary," I correct automatically. "And it means that he's your brother because you decide to be but you're not actually related by blood."
He seems to understand because he nods once. But my relief is short lived when he asks, "Can Darius be my brother too? Honorally?"
"I don't think so," I answer, shooting Darius an apologetic glance.
"Why not?"
I don't know how to explain how Peacekeepers and families work to him, nor do I really know the details myself. I'm already in the weeds, and there's no point in getting even deeper. So I just ignore the question and answer an earlier one. Pointing to Jacintha, I say, "And that's our cousin, Jacintha. She's going to stay with us for a few days."
Aven eyes Jacintha, taking in everything with the focus only a small child can muster. "You're fat."
"I'm not fat! I'm pregnant!" Jacintha bristles.
"What's that?"
"She's going to have a baby," Prim says, rolling her eyes.
"But they come by the stork!" Aven pronounces with all his three-year-old wisdom. "That's what Posy says."
I shoot my cousin a look as if to say 'Do you want to explain childbirth to a three-year-old?'
"Your friend Posy is mistaken," Darius says. "Babies come from their mommy's belly."
"But how do they get in there?" Aven is staring at Jacintha's stomach with total concentration, and it's clearly making her nervous.
Darius stares at me, the request obvious in his eyes, and I just smirk. He got himself into this. Now he gets to be the one who gets to explain the facts of life to my baby brother.
Darius hems and haws and finally says, "Your sister will explain that to you when you're older."
Aven stamps his foot. "But I wanna know now!"
"Later," I tell him with absolutely no intention of telling him later. They teach this stuff in school, right? I seem to remember my first grade teacher reading us a book about where babies came from. Or maybe it was second grade. It doesn't matter; I'm not going into it now. Or ever, if possible.
Aven quiets, sticking his finger back in his mouth and wandering over to the kitchen table to climb under it. Three-year-olds!
With him out of the way for the moment, Prim picks up the thread. "Why are you staying with us?" she asks, glaring at our cousin. My sister knows as well as I do the animosity with our mother's side of the family. Our aunt and uncle have never hidden their distaste for us.
Jacintha gives my sister a bland look and says, "If you want to go to the Community Home, it's fine by me. But your sister seems to think that it's a problem, and since we're family, it's my responsibility to step in and help." She turns her head and stares at Darius very pointedly.
Prim crosses her arms. "We don't need your help."
I've got to nip this in the bud; we don't have time for Prim's preteen belligerence. "Yes, Prim. We do."
"Why?" my sister demands.
I don't want to go into it all over again, so I say, "I'll tell you later."
"You mean it?"
I nod, knowing that, unlike Aven, this is a conversation I can't avoid. But I don't need to have it now. And I really don't need to have it in front of everyone.
"Fine. So now what?" she asks, glaring at everyone equally.
Darius steps in. "Now somebody needs to get the doctor." He takes a few steps closer to me and says in a low tone, "I think we've put it off long enough."
He's right. We can't put this off any longer. I consider who to send. Normally, I'd go myself, but I don't think that's a good idea, and sending Prim is right out. I consider asking my cousin to go, but she's eight months pregnant and she'd probably refuse—justifiably—since it's a long walk. I need Peeta right now, so he's out, and Darius should probably stay. It adds the veneer of lawfulness to this whole messed up situation.
That leaves only one option. "Chet, can you go?"
"Of course. I should've volunteered," he says, gathering his coat to head out the door.
"Don't run," I say as he leaves.
As soon as he closes the door, the reality of the situation crashes down on me. As soon as the doctor officially pronounces my mother dead, everything could go to hell. Our house isn't our house anymore, and despite my deal with Jacintha, we could still end up in the Community Home if Haymitch doesn't let us live with him. I have to think. I have to prepare for the worst. I turn to Darius. "Do you think they'll let us stay here?"
"They should," he says soothingly.
I am not soothed. 'Should' isn't a yes. "If they don't, what can we take with us?"
"Whatever isn't on your person at the certification of the death goes into probate. A Capitol representative will take an inventory, comparing it against what was present in the house at the time of initial occupancy. Any replacement furnishings must stay with the house, but those items of a personal or disposable nature will be itemized, and a claim can be submitted for their return." The words come out of his mouth almost robotically as if he's had to regurgitate them from memory multiple times. As far as I know, he probably has. It doesn't mean it makes it any less incomprehensible.
Apparently I'm not alone in not understanding the Capitol gobbledegook, because Jacintha asks, "What does that mean in real speak?"
Darius gives her a twisted little smile. "Keep anything important on you, because you probably aren't getting anything else back."
My eyes meet Prim's, and I can tell that she's thinking the same thing I am. What can we save? What do we have to save? If I'd known, I would've taken my mother's rocking chair to Thom's and asked either him or Delly to hold onto the chipped and well-loved chest of drawers. But we can't do that. There's no longer time.
"Prim," I say. "Grab your bookbag and pack enough clothes for all three of us for the next two days. Pick the best ones. Change clothes if you have to, layer, get as much as possible."
She nods and heads into the bedroom.
I grab my unused schoolbag and open the drawer that my parents stored all of their important papers in. Without even reading them, I shove them into the main compartment of my bag. If I had time, I'd go through them, weed out the old bills for things that we don't even own anymore. But I can't afford to lose the important documents that are mixed in with everything else, and I don't have time to sort the coal from the dross.
"What can I do to help?" Jacintha asks.
"Can you watch the soup?"
"Only if you're okay with me tasting it."
"Fine." I don't care. In less than an hour even the soup on the stove isn't going to be ours. "Aven," I call under the table, "I need you to get your lunch pail and put your favorite toys in it, okay?"
He peeks his head out. "But my wagon won't fit in my lunch pail."
The wagon! "We can put your lunch pail in the wagon."
I admit it, I'd forgotten about the wagon, but it might be our salvation. We can put more things in it. Things like the old wooden candle holders that my father managed to keep despite living in the Community Home. We might be able to take other things too. What else? I look around the room, taking in the worn furniture and faded pictures. I pluck my father's book from its place of honor on the mantle and shove it in my bag along with what few photographs we have. I need to get my nest egg, but that's in the bedroom. Should I bring the seeds I'd bought? Food? If we're staying here, we'll need to eat, so I can't empty all of the cupboards. "Oh shit," I exclaim as something hits me.
"What?" Darius, Peeta, and Jacintha ask in unison.
"The animals. The chickens and goat."
"You've got a goat?" Jacintha asks, surprised. "You're better off than I expected."
"Yeah, I've got a goat." I turn to Darius. "Will the Capitol claim them?"
He nods.
I'm not about to let everything I've worked for be taken. "That reminds me." I point to my mother's apothecary cabinet. "If you want what's left of my mother's stocks," I say to my cousin, "you'd better grab them now."
My cousin pales and drops the spoon, beelining for my mother's stores. "Do you have any pouches?"
I point to the bottom drawer of the cabinet, and my cousin hurriedly starts filling them up. Peeta pulls out a box that used to hold firewood and hands it to her. She takes it gratefully and begins to fill it with the numerous glass bottles from the cabinet.
Prim walks in and hands me some of my clothing, which I start to pull on over what I'm already wearing with no regard for anyone else. "You can stop with the clothes," I tell her. "I need you to put what you can in the wagon and then take the goat and the chickens to… to…" I don't know where to tell her to take them.
"Delly," Peeta says. "The Cartwrights will be willing to help, and they've got space to keep your animals for a few days."
"And take Aven with you."
Prim looks at me. "And the wagon too? I can't carry Aven and Buttercup and try to herd the chickens and the goat all on my own."
"I'll go with you," Peeta offers.
I shoot him a grateful smile. "Thanks." I finish putting on the last of my clothes. "Let me make one more sweep of the bedroom before you go."
Prim nods.
I enter the room to find my mother still lying where I found her what seems like eons ago. A little frisson of resentment burbles up, but I quickly squash it down. She didn't mean to die and cause all of this panic. And I can't afford to think about this right now.
I kneel on the floor, pull up a floorboard under my bed, and fish out the jar I have hidden there: my nest egg. I don't count it out—I don't have time—instead I grab a pair of old socks and pour the coins out into it. It'll have to do for now; I just hope that they're not holey.
To cover any jingling and block any holes, I wrap the whole thing in an old crocheted blanket that my mother made when she was expecting Prim. It's faded and worn, but no one will question why I'd want to keep it. For good measure, I grab the blanket from Aven's trundle bed. This way he'll have something familiar at Delly's.
With that done, I go back into the main room. I glance at the clock and realize we've run out of time. Chet will be back with the doctor any time now. I pile everything onto the wagon and hand Peeta my bookbag with all of our important papers. "Take care of this for me," I say.
"Always," he answers.
"Take this too," Jacintha says, shoving the box full of my mother's herbs into his arms.
"Sure. Should I take it to the Apothecary?"
Jacintha pales. "No. Just take it to the bakery, and I'll pick it up from there. But don't let your mother see it, and don't stick it by the ovens!"
He nods. "I'll do my best."
"Prim, get Aven."
"What about—"
"You can figure out how you're getting everything there. Just go." I shoo them out the door, glancing around to see if Chet's on his way back or if anyone's paying attention. Thankfully, the street is quiet. And soon enough, I hear Prim and Peeta corralling the animals. It takes them several long minutes, and I keep worrying that Chet's going to return with the doctor and then the jig will be up.
But Peeta's brother must have taken me at my word and taken the long way to the doctor's office, because when Chet returns with the doctor, Prim, Peeta, and Aven have been gone for twenty minutes.
Doctor Medea Wakefield may have once been a good doctor. But that was before she came to Twelve. As the smallest and least important district, we only ever get the new and untested, the old and busted, or the broken—often, two of the three. Doctor Wakefield is definitely the latter two with her dark gray hair streaked with faded purple and a mouth that looks like it's perpetually sucking on crabapples.
She enters our home with a sort of a weary resignation and asks, "Where's the body?" in the kind of tone that somebody asks 'Where's the toilet?'
I lead her to the bedroom where my mother is. Was. Is. I don't know the right way to even think about this. It's too raw. Too soon.
The doctor sees the blanket-covered lump that used to be my mother and grunts, then gets to work. I don't know if I should stay or go, so I stay. A few seconds later, I feel a warmth at my back and turn to see Darius lingering in the doorway. He gives me a half-hearted smile before going back to watching the doctor work.
As she examines the body, her already puckered, disapproving expression deepens. A thick line appears between her immaculately plucked eyebrows, and her nostrils flare—possibly from the smell, I'm not sure. The examination takes longer than I expect, and I shift from foot to foot as I wait nervously. Is it supposed to take this long? I've never been present for the certification of death before. My mother took care of that for my father.
The doctor rolls my mother's body over and lifts up her nightgown to reveal the huge sores on her lower back. The woman gasps and then turns to glare at me. "Why are these here?"
I stare at the doctor. "I… don't know? You're the doctor. They just… showed up."
"They just showed up," the doctor repeats incredulously. "Pressure ulcers this severe don't just 'show up.' They take weeks, months, to develop."
Shit. "My mother's been sick for a long time."
"That," she says with a sniff, "is painfully clear. What is unclear is why nothing was done about this." She motions to the sores.
I stare at her in silence. What does she want me to say? What should I say? I feel like there's no right answer.
The doctor looks over my head at Darius. "Ah. Good. Peacekeeper Freeman. You're here. I need you to make an arrest."
Darius stiffens behind me and says, "Who? And on what grounds?"
"You can start with this reprobate." She motions to me. "And the charge is murder."
oOo
AN:
Written: 11/8/22
Revised: 1/7/24
Dun Dun Dun!
So this scene wasn't planned out, we were just going to infodump it in a different chapter, but we realized that you deserved to see it so yeah… here, have an unplanned chapter. LOL Oops?
It's weird writing this after more than a year, but it's nice to actually return to fic writing.
And coming back to this over a year later—we've been going through a lot, including severe burnout and three different cancers. So when we get comments that get pissy about us not updating, we… don't update even more. So yeah. That's why this chapter was written over a year ago and edited/posted now.
Please be kind to your fic writers! Because you never know what else is going on in their lives.
You can get more information about our original writing here:
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