The Despair of Grief

by Laurawritesfiction

A gentle nod to KarlieQ's story, To Be Frank. It's now been two weeks since Frank Fletcher died and Jessica's isn't doing well. Seth tries to help. Seth/Jessica.

A/N: KarlieQ's story, To Be Frank, deeply touched me. I kept thinking about it and came up with this one-shot. Not much is known about mental health medication as a means to deal with grief, yet somehow this story came to life. But I am not a doctor, so I have done the best I can here at describing Jessica's state of mind and what Seth might do to help her.

My first fanfic story that I posted was The Start of Something, in which I explored the start of Jessica and Seth's friendship. This one-shot felt like a return to thinking about how they started out as friends, which to me, was comforting.

I don't own these wonderful characters. I just love them so much.

It had been two weeks since Frank Fletcher had died. It had been solemn around the small town of Cabot Cove ever since, as though a fire had gone out and no one knew how to restart it. Well-loved, he and his wife were pillars of the community. With him being a real estate agent and her being a teacher, they knew everyone in town. They volunteered on numerous committees and were often found outside, working in their garden, or walking down by the coast while holding hands like young lovers.

After the flurry of the first few days after his death, the doorbell at 698 Candlewood Lane had rung incessantly to deliver flowers and casseroles, with a few neighbors stopping in to sit with Mrs. Fletcher in the living room or kitchen. Her nephew, Grady Fletcher, had arrived the day after his uncle died, helping put into motion all the funeral arrangements that Frank had planned during his illness.

The funeral and burial had gone forward without an issue five days later, Mrs. Fletcher wearing all black, complete with a black hat and heels. Going through the receiving line before the funeral began, her face was vacant and devoid of expression. The light had gone out of her blue eyes and Seth thought bitterly how wrong it was for people to lose spouses so early in their lives, when it was clear they were made for each other. Frank Fletcher should have lived another twenty to twenty-five years. His wife would probably live another thirty at least. She was such a vital woman. He did hope she could learn to live again, even though he knew it would be a long time in the future, even if it did happen.

Being a physician, he had witnessed too many deaths. It was his job to keep people alive and when it was obvious that no modern medicine could succeed at that anymore, make them as comfortable as possible until the end.

Seth had watched her from a distance in the church during the funeral, trudging outside afterwards on that gray day, to watch her husband's casket as it was lowered into the ground, as she stood supported by her nephew tossing in their flowers and a handful of dirt. For one brief moment, he thought he saw a flash of fear cross her face, as though she would try to escape and run in her heels out of the graveyard, in a moment of madness to deny the reality she was facing. Instead, she had squared her shoulders, and held vigil, watching as the gravediggers put the dirt over his grave. Seth had found the effort on her part deeply moving, and he maintained his own stance out of her viewpoint, wanting to show his respect for this couple who were now cruelly separated by an unjust god, if there was one.

Now, two weeks after Frank Fletcher's passing, Seth Hazlitt was sitting at his desk at the end of the day after seeing patients and doing rounds at the hospital, staring at the death certificate that had now had the state seal affixed to it. Seth had signed it, submitting the paperwork for it, as he was there the night Frank died.

Seth thought back to that night.

Seth had given the man a bit of oxygen at the end to allow him to talk to his wife one last time, slipping out of the room, to give them privacy, but standing by the bottom of the stairs, so he would be close if he was needed. Seth had known it was the end. He just did. The man had tried to stay with his wife as long as he could, but he was tired of fighting a losing battle and he had prepared her as best he could for life after he was gone. Somehow, Seth had seen in his eyes that Frank was letting go that night and he knew it would not be long.

Their voices had been low, Frank's barely audible, as he had shut the door softly behind him, but he thought he could hear Mrs. Fletcher singing to him. Her voice was soft and lovely, but his face grimaced. He would never understand this life, no matter how long he lived. He lost his dear Ruth many years ago now and he still felt raw at times like these when he was privy to the most terrible times in a person's life. As time had gone on, he had been surprised to feel jealous that Ruth had got to go on and that he was the one left behind. Ruth had been so strong. She could have survived and thrived on her own. Far better than him. Look at him, he was a cantankerous old man, who would never find love again.

Suddenly, a low cry was heard from behind the closed door, followed by the sound of sobbing, and he knew.

Frank Fletcher had taken his leave.

Glancing at his watch, he sat down on the bottom step of the stairwell to wait. He would give her a quarter hour or so alone with his body, before he would go to check on her and make the necessary arrangements. He knew she would need some time now though and he would not rush her.

Rubbing his face with a rough hand, he felt deeply tired. He loved his chosen profession and understood it was a calling that sometimes took every ounce of his soul to stick with, but he was also profoundly grateful that he was able to be with those when they needed him most. It was a privilege. But it didn't mean that days like this one didn't hurt him. He would likely dream of Ruth dying for the next few nights at least. Even as he had the thought though, he cringed, knowing that a few dreams would be minor compared to the grief the woman in the next room would be going through for the foreseeable future.

When the sounds of the sobbing had lessened, he looked at his watch and stood heavily to his feet. It was time to be professional and help Mrs. Fletcher do the necessary things that she would hopefully not remember in the days to come.

Sighing now, as the recent memories of the past two weeks faded, he rubbed his hand over his face again, sitting back in his desk chair, his other hand still covering the death certificate. He could have had the state mail it directly to Mrs. Fletcher, but he never allowed that if he knew the bereaved. For some reason, it felt heartless to let someone who was already grieving open their mailbox to find the death certificate of their loved one in black and white. He always requested that the state mail them to him directly with a few copies and he would make a house call to drop them by personally. It allowed him to make sure the grieving family was eating, sleeping, and didn't need medical care themselves.

Staring at the death certificate though, with Frank Fletcher's birthdate and date of death, and his own signature bearing witness of the man's death, it was always such a stark reminder of how short life was, even when people lived to be a hundred. He did not relish bringing it to Mrs. Fletcher, even though he was troubled about her.

Beverly had spoken to him that morning, telling him that she had been to Loretta's yesterday and although all the ladies there made no secret of being at the center of the gossip in town, everyone was genuinely concerned about Jessica Fletcher. From what Beverly could gather, no one had seen the woman for a week and yet, they were convinced she was home, as a few lights were noted to be on at different times of day, and her mailbox was emptied by the time the mailman arrived every afternoon. Apparently, a few of the women had even stopped by over the last week to check on her, but the woman had not opened the door.

Now that her nephew had gone back to college after the funeral, Seth suspected that Mrs. Fletcher was withdrawing from life. While he understood that despair and grief had likely taken hold over her now, his conscience could not allow it to go unchecked.

Standing up wearily from his desk chair, he grabbed his coat and hat, carefully placing the death certificate back into the envelope that contained several copies, before putting the envelope in his breast pocket.

He had planned on walking to Mrs. Fletcher's house, as much to clear his head before seeing her, as to get a bit of exercise. However, standing on his front porch, he realized that was a foolish notion. No one in town had seen her in a week. Suppose she needed medical care? Or perhaps groceries? He knew she didn't drive. No, he would take the car and his medical bag. Returning to his office, he grabbed it, checking to make sure all of his supplies had been replenished from his house calls earlier in the week and grabbed his car keys off his desk.

Arriving at Mrs. Fletcher's house less than five minutes later, Seth parked close to her back porch, away from view from passerby. He grabbed his bag and walked to the back door, prepared to let himself in, as he knew that the woman never locked it, as most people rarely did in Cabot Cove.

Seth worked to compose himself, taking a moment to breathe and check one last time to make sure the envelope was in his breast pocket. There was a light on in the kitchen, but no sound. He hated doing this, even though this particular chore was self-imposed and a badge of honor in his desire to care for others.

Quite suddenly, there was a cry of pain, followed by a crash of crockery and a wild scream of "Fuck!"

What the hell?

Did he hear what he thought he did?

No longer knowing what he was walking into, but truly concerned now, he rushed through the back door without knocking, trying to take in what he was seeing.

Mrs. Fletcher was on the floor in an old navy bathrobe that Seth suspected had been her husband's, leaning back against the bottom cabinets. She was sobbing to the point of almost hyperventilating, a coffee mug still spinning on the floor from its apparent flight from the counter, coffee splattered across the surface as evidenced by the dark liquid that had left a trail over the linoleum. But the most disconcerting detail was realizing that Mrs. Fletcher was holding her left hand in her right, a trail of blood dripping from her clenched hand onto the old bathrobe. Looking back to the counter, Seth took in half a chopped apple, a knife, and blood on the cutting board underneath both.

She had heard him enter, the back door banging against the kitchen wall. Confused, she looked up at him, somehow managing to say his name as a question, "Dr. Hazlitt?"

Cajoling her to stand, he held her arm, guiding her to sit at the kitchen table with him. Never before had he been so thankful he had turned around for his medical bag. First things first, he barely needed to glance at the wound, before knowing she needed stitches. He would clean and suture the wound and then he would assess her mental state.

She was still crying, but she had gotten the sobs under control, clearly trying to suppress her distress in front of him. He had yet to say a word aloud. He didn't trust himself to say anything useful. He was far too worried about her and he knew she was in the midst of hell right now and no matter what, nothing he could say or do would really help. She had to go through this. The only thing he could do would be to let her know she was not alone and that what she was dealing with, he had been through personally.

Setting out a suture kit on the kitchen table, he prepared everything he needed, as she watched him warily. Once ready, he reached for her hand, hoping she would cooperate without a struggle. She allowed him to grasp her left hand, even as she flinched at his touch. Her hand felt tiny and frail, as though she was a fragile bird that he could break without realizing.

Trying to not be obvious, he first felt for her pulse. Seemed steady. Then, wiping down her hand and fingertips gently, he inspected the jagged laceration on her index finger. The nail appeared to be intact and although the wound was deep, he did not think she had damaged any tendons. Despite putting pressure on the wound, it was still bleeding, so he set to work.

He didn't want to scare her and he had the strangest feeling that apart from her outburst when he arrived, she had not spoken aloud in some time. Trying to keep his voice low and soothing, he said, "Mrs. Fletcher, you need several stitches. I am going to give you an injection in the finger to numb the area first. And then I will place the stitches. Alright?"

She did not speak. She only nodded her assent.

Going into his efficient mode, Seth set to work. He gave her the injection and noticed that she watched his every move. Rarely did people watch him give injections into their own bodies or watch blood flow with no emotion. But she had no facial affect at all.

After he was confident that the numbing medicine had taken effect, he disinfected the wound and began suturing. He placed two internal stitches, before closing the outside with three more.

Once finished, he covered it with a sterile dressing.

Getting her a glass of water, he asked, "When is the last time you have eaten?"

A shrug was her only reply.

Placing two ibuprofen in front of her on the table with the water, he said, "Well, you need to take those but you have to eat first. Let me clean the counter and I can slice a new apple for you and see what else is in the refrigerator."

Busying himself with the cleanup on the countertop, he heard a broken sob again. He turned around to see the woman kneeling down by the coffee mug. It was brown pottery, rather masculine in appearance with a wide base. Despite her apparently throwing it, the only damage seemed to be the broken handle. She had picked up both pieces, pushing them together as though to verify it would fit and there wasn't another missing piece.

"You just need some super glue on that. Should be fine."

She spoke the first words since she said his name when he had entered her home, "It was Frank's. When I cut my finger, I got so angry that I reached for the nearest thing to throw and it was my coffee. The second the mug left my fingers, I realized my mistake. I…can't believe I broke it."

"If you have some super glue, I can fix it for you." When she nodded eagerly, telling him it was in the drawer behind him, instead of insisting she eat first, he realized that taking care of this mug would calm her down to where she hopefully would eat.

Seth lined up the handle with precision, squeezing glue on the mug before holding the handle in place for a couple of minutes to seal it. Once done, he said, "Now, let it set overnight and it should be right as rain tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Now, let me finish sanitizing the counter and wiping the coffee off the floor and I will see about getting you some food."

"I can manage," she said.

Turning back to look at her, she didn't make eye contact. Seth said, "No, I don't believe you can manage, Mrs. Fletcher. Not right now. And it's okay that you can't. You just lost your husband two weeks ago. It's okay to need a bit of help right now."

He cut up a fresh apple that didn't have blood on it, setting it on a plate in front of her before opening her refrigerator. He knew she lived alone now but never before had he seen a refrigerator with so few ingredients to actually cook anything. Thank god that she still had a couple of casseroles from neighbors.

He confirmed that they had been pulled from her freezer the day before and had not spoiled before heating up one with some type of noodle and another that appeared to be chicken pot pie.

Sitting down next to her, he asked, "I hope you don't mind that I fixed myself a plate? I thought it might make it easier to eat if you had someone to eat with." She nodded in reply. He continued, "When my wife, Ruth, died I had a hard time eating alone at home. I ate mostly at the hospital and on the go."

"I didn't know you were married." Seeming to notice the wedding band he still wore on his hand for the first time, just as she was wearing her own, she murmured, "I should have realized."

"You've had other things on your mind. Ruthie was a wonderful woman. We had a lot of happy years together and our daughter looks just like her. She is an adult now with a family of her own."

She cleared her throat, trying to speak. He noticed her face began to grow red, as though she already felt embarrassed for what she wanted to say.

"Dr. Hazlitt."

"I think you need to call me Seth." Before she could argue, he added, "And I will call you Jessica. I think you are going to need a friend. And you don't call your friends, doctor."

Shaking her head, somehow not having the energy to argue, she stumbled ahead, "Seth…I need to apologize."

Startled, he asked, "For what?"

Her face still flushed, she said, "I know you heard what I said before you came through the door. I…I have never said that word before in my life. I felt such rage at that moment. It scared me. And I suddenly wanted to say the worst thing I could think of. It seems foolish now. I doubt most people would be bothered these days but I don't make a habit of saying vulgar things. I wouldn't want you to think I did."

Jessica was rather charming. Seth had always known she was well-educated, proper, yet worldly. The idea that she said something in a moment of grief that she thought only she would hear, only to discover immediately that someone else had heard her, felt somehow sweet and innocent to him.

"Jessica, there are no rules to grief. You have lost the most important person in your life. Get angry. Be sad. Yell every curse word you have ever heard for all I care," he bravely suggested, seeing her mouth turn up in a small half-smile, which must have seemed foreign to her, as it disappeared before he was positive he had seen it. Continuing on, he added, "Feel whatever you need to. The only thing I ask is that you don't withdraw from the world. I didn't know Frank well, but the last few weeks that I spent time with you both, I heard him say that to you often enough. Let those in town help. I would like to help when I can. Call that nephew of yours to help, too. Even though you can't see how it is possible right now, you will find a way to live again. It won't ever be the same, but retaining who you are and learning how to survive on your own is the greatest thing you can do to honor Frank's memory and his love for you."

"Did you find a way to live again?"

Startled a bit at the intensity of her question and her blue eyes that had lost their sparkle, even as they bore into his own, he was not sure how to answer. He was a doctor and he had found a way to channel his survival into his profession by helping others. It was his purpose and calling in life. Simple as that. His personal life never really factored in, even as his own Ruth had tried to extract her own promise from him that he would love again. Crazy woman. God, he had loved her dearly. Despite that, he knew in his heart of hearts that he had not thrived personally since Ruth died. He also understood that he wouldn't succeed at fooling Jessica with a lie, nor could he bear the thought of attempting to lie to her.

"Professionally, yes. It was easy to immerse myself at the hospital in Portland for a long time, before I realized that I would end up in the grave beside her if I didn't take some time off on occasion. So, I moved back home a few years ago and I do try to fish and take plenty of walks along the coast."

"Hmm…" was her only response.

Thankfully, she did not appear able to interrogate him further. He could see the fatigue in her eyes and he considered how to assess her further. She had eaten about half of what he had given her from the two dishes he had reheated for them, as well as the apple. He would not push her to eat anything else.

Best to push forward with the rest.

But before he could, she surprised him by asking, "Why did you come here today?"

Seth had almost forgotten. But reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the envelope. Sighing, he said, "His death certificate arrived today. I don't like these things coming through the mail. I try to bring them to people personally. Make sure they have them, so they can submit for life insurance. I'm…sorry," he said, moving the envelope in her direction across the table. She didn't pick it up. But she nodded in reply, even as her fingers twitched as though she was thinking about picking it up.

Watching her again, he finally asked, "So, tell me, how long are you sleeping every night?" She was looking down at her hands, absentmindedly rubbing her injured finger. Seth pulled her hand away, "Don't touch it. Let it be." Chastised, she pulled her hand away from his own and nodded.

He waited. Oh, she was a stubborn one. He could tell. She thought she could wait him out, but she didn't know he had all day. He could see the moment she gave in, as her shoulders seemed to cave in and she sighed.

"I'm not really."

"Are you having trouble falling asleep, staying asleep or both?" When she didn't answer, he asked another question, "Or are you having nightmares?"

Shrugging, she finally said, "All of the above."

"What else? Are you actually eating meals or is an apple your idea of food right now?" He had noticed the two dishes in the refrigerator only had about a serving of each missing and she had claimed to pull them out of the freezer yesterday.

Again, a shrug, "I like apples. But I suppose, I'm only eating one real meal a day right now."

"You look to me like you have lost at least five pounds since he died. And you didn't need to lose anything."

She didn't respond.

He didn't need to ask about her emotions. He had seen them on full display when he arrived. Every last thing she was dealing with was totally understandable, but it didn't make it any less painful.

"Alright, Jessica, I have a plan and I want to tell you what it is before you argue with me about it."

She cocked her head in reply, curious why he thought she would argue with him.

"You need a good night's sleep. I know it won't fix anything, but you look like you could collapse at any minute. What would you have done if I hadn't walked into the door and stitched your finger earlier?"

"I don't know."

Staring at her, she didn't add anything else.

He sighed, "Alright, I want to help you get upstairs and get comfortable, and I'll give you an injection of a sedative that will let you sleep for eight hours or so. I certainly can't do that every night, but under the circumstances today, I think it's reasonable. Then, I want to call in a couple of prescriptions that I will pick up for you and bring by tomorrow. One is a sleeping pill." He held up his hand, when he saw her open her mouth. She was going to start arguing, and he swore to god, he might lose it if she did. She was her own worst enemy right now and who better than Seth Hazlitt to know and recognize it when he was the same not many years ago when he lost Ruth? Hell, he lost himself in far too many bottles for too long. If he could help this woman, for some reason it felt like a way to honor Ruth and Frank. "Let me finish. Please," he said a little softer. She closed her mouth in a thin line, making it obvious that she was making no promises. "One is a sleeping pill that I only want you to take if after three nights of no sleep, you still can't relax to go to sleep on your own. You can't deal with anything if you aren't sleeping." A pause, before he said, "The second medication is an antidepressant."

"I won't take that."

"I asked you to listen please. I am a doctor and more importantly, I'm your doctor and I would be within my rights of patient care to place you in-patient for twenty-four hours to make sure you aren't a danger to yourself."

"How dare you!"

She moved to stand up, but he grasped her uninjured hand. "Wait." Giving her the opportunity to settle back in her seat, he let go of her hand and she quickly moved them both into her lap out of view.

"Antidepressants take about six weeks to get in your system. Grief isn't depression, but it wears on your body in many of the same ways. They may not help, but they might. I think it could be worth it to try them for at least three months, but maybe up to six. Just to see if they can get you over the hump of the worst of this right now while you deal with your insurance and investments and so forth."

Skeptically, she stared at him for a long moment. She must have seen in his eyes that he would not back down, before she responded, "I'll try them for three months. But I won't promise six. Will you promise not to pressure me to keep taking them after three months if I don't think they are helping?"

"Scouts honor," he answered, holding up his fingers in the traditional salute.

Still feeling defensive, she said, "I'm not depressed. I'm grieving."

"I know. Believe me. But if it could help you right now to get back on your feet, I think it's worth trying. If you have bad side effects, you can stop them at any time and that's before three months if needed."

Nodding, she said, "Alright."

"Now, if you will allow me to escort you upstairs, I will give you that injection. I would do it here, but I am concerned you are so exhausted that you won't make it up the stairs without collapsing."

They stood up from the table, with Seth grabbing his medical bag and following her lead, wanting to watch her to make sure she could ambulate safely. She was slow, but moved well, and they arrived in her bedroom, Seth taking in the unmade bed, the closed blinds, and a book left open by the bed. It was not messy by any stretch of the imagination, but it also was not neat as the house had always been, even when Frank Fletcher was dying. He supposed she had no one to see it anymore. The realization made his chest constrict. Life wasn't fair.

Seth sensed her discomfort at having a man in her bedroom who wasn't her husband, even as he would retain the professional mantle needed right now. Before she could climb into bed with the old bathrobe still wrapped tightly around her, he motioned for her to stand still, as he set his bag at the foot of the bed to prepare the injection.

"This will have to go into your hip, Jessica, but if you want to just pull up the back of your pajama shirt, I can manage to move the waistband of your pants down a bit to reach."

Out of the corner of his eye, Seth could see Jessica untie the robe, her rumpled blue pajamas underneath looking like they could do with a wash. She removed her right arm from the sleeve of the robe, and then lifted the back of the top, waiting for him.

Moving to stand behind her, he used an alcohol swab to wipe her skin and then gave her the injection, feeling her jolt slightly at the stab of the needle. Putting a band aid in place, he said, "All done."

Packing up his bag, he helped her get comfortable with her pillows and quilt.

"Alright, you get a good night's sleep and I'll be back in the morning with your medicine and to check on your finger. And tomorrow, your assignment is to shower, dress for the day, not pajamas, and wash this bathrobe," the blood from her finger clearly visible on the robe, as it now lay across the foot of the bed.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Doesn't matter."

They stared at each other in a battle of wills. Seth would win. He would make sure of it. She finally looked away, turning on her side, already yawning, while muttering, "Fine. If it will make you leave me alone."

Chuckling, he said goodbye, closing her bedroom door behind him.

He would check on her in the morning. She would be okay.

One day.

In the meantime, he believed he had found a friend.