Roswell Fanatics

Title: The Mourning After
Author: Karen
Disclaimer: The characters of "Roswell" belong to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, WB, and UPN. They are not mine and no infringement is intended.
Pairings/Couples/Category: AA
Rating: Mature
Summary: This is a series of short stories about how people deal with loss. That doesn’t mean that all of the chapters will deal with death, simply with something they have lost. Part one belongs to Kyle


Part One: Everybody Knows Your Fate

Ugh! I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe this!

What is this crap? Who do you think you are? Or should I use the past tense when referring to you now? Who did you think you were?

And why should I believe that any of this really happened? Because there was a big boom and you’re nowhere to be found? I’m not buying it. I’m not buying it for one damned second because I know what a liar you are. Until I see charred alien bits, you’re still alive out there somewhere, waiting to ruin another innocent life.

How many people have you destroyed? Aside from Alex, how many? At times I think that he got the better end of it, to rest in peace and not have to deal with your bullshit anymore. But the rest of us, no, we weren’t granted such a reprieve. We get to suffer and wonder and get wounded by this.

And I’ll tell you what disturbs me most about your “sacrifice” – you never gave up anything for anyone before. This is why I don’t believe that you gave yourself up to save us, to save that baby in the other room. I don’t believe it because you’re a selfish little bitch who has only ever thought of herself and her “cause.” Dead? No, you’re not dead. You’ve simply wiped your hands of the whole situation – including your son, I might add – and you’ve moved on to another life where you can start treating someone else badly. You’re a manipulative wench and no one is ever going to believe you.

You’re everything I fucking hate and I’m everything that you could never be.*

But…

There was Christmas…

I don’t want to think about Christmas. That was just another way for you to wheedle your way into our home, to gain our trust, so that you could carry out your plan while we were blissfully unaware of what you were doing. Christmas was just a ploy, another lie.

But…

You made my favorite dish…

It doesn’t matter. That was all a part of the plan, to try to make me believe you cared that I liked potatoes. I was probably lucky that you didn’t poison them. For all I know, you did and I’m just dying a slow death.

And…

You brought my dad and Amy together…

So what? So freaking what? Just another distraction. Keep Dad fat and happy, give him a girlfriend and then he’ll mind his own business. Speaking of Dad, you managed to get him fired, didn’t you? At first I blamed all of you, but I don’t think that Evans or Guerin or Isabel would have wanted him out of his job, not while he was protecting them.

But you. You, on the other hand, needed him out of a position of authority, didn’t you? You needed him to be a civilian when you killed Alex. Too bad he came across that accident, huh? Hadn’t planned on that, had you?

But you did plan to use me, didn’t you? All of those nights watching TV together, laughing like idiots, all along you were just grooming me to be your baggage service. How could you do that to me!! You made me carry my dead friend’s body so that you could get rid of it! What the hell is wrong with you!

You didn’t get away with it, though, did you? You thought we were all so stupid. Silly little insignificant humans. Just in the way, a necessary evil. How could any of us outsmart you? Liz did. She will always be smarter than you, kinder than you, a better person than you. She, too, is everything you will never be.

Or maybe you could have been…

Maybe you could have been a good person. Maybe, if you’d been raised by someone with an ounce of humanity. Maybe, if you’d been raised with love and respect…

No – screw that! You weren’t a child anymore – you could have made your own decisions. Nasedo had been dead for months by the time you killed Alex – that was plenty of time for you to see that what you were doing wasn’t right. I’m tired of hearing that you were a victim. I’m tired of the excuse that you had no good influences in your life. What about us?

What about me…

I could have – would have been your friend until the end. I would have been there for you when you were lost or confused or afraid. I would have cared about you.

I might have loved you…

But now we will never know, will we? You’re gone, so Liz claims. And gone with you is the opportunity to prove to the others that deep down inside, you could have been a good person. I hate you for that, Tess. I hate you for taking away the chance you had to set things right. Now, nothing will ever be right.

They all hate you, even Max, who fathered your son. Even your own kind, who has found out that blood does not make you family. And I can’t prove to them that once I saw a glimmer of the person you could have been.

At Christmas, thanking us without words for taking you in. I don’t want to believe that that night was just a sham. I have to hold onto it for what I thought it was – promise.

You had that. You had promise to be a good friend, a decent person. But you weren’t strong enough to overcome your demons. And I wasn’t strong enough to help you.

I supposed this is your way of making amends. Rather public, if you ask me. I know that deep down, even though they frown and pretend to grieve, the others are relieved you’re gone.

I’m not relieved.

I’m just…

Hollow.


*Title and lyrics from “I Fucking Hate You” by Godsmack



Next up: A Piece of Maria

I should mention that the stories are not inter-related. Feedback will follow


Part Two: A Piece of Maria

Sandra looked past the driver and out of the car window at the gloomy, towering building on the other side of the street. A swirl of snow, caught on a frigid wind, momentarily obstructed her view and for a second she reconsidered the stiletto-heeled boots she’d chosen for this evening; she hadn’t planned on snow fall, hadn’t even considered that there would be snow at all. Not that it would have affected her footwear choice, however – these boots had been made to manipulate and she was going to need all of their power tonight.

“Are you sure this is the place, Nige?” she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Positive,” Nigel, the driver, answered in a slight but distinctive British accent. He turned a handsome-in-his-own-way face to her and gave her a disarming grin. “Have I ever led you astray, Sandy?”

Nigel was the only person who ever got away with calling her Sandy. She preferred Sandra or Ms. Montenegro; “Sandy” sounded like something from high school and had the tendency to dredge up visions of Olivia Newton-John and Broadway musicals.

Sandra looked past her friend at the building again. It was easily seven or eight stories – hard to tell with the snow blowing so hard – and was made of brick that hadn’t been clean since sometime near the turn of the twentieth century. There was a lone man slipping and sliding down the sidewalk, but other than that there was no one to be seen. If this was where she was going to find what she was looking for, she’d expected a line all of the way around the block.

“I don’t know,” she finally sighed in response to Nigel’s question. “It looks so…desolate.”

“It’s Minnesota, love,” he said as though that explained everything. “And it’s January. It’s cold, it’s dark. Can’t expect people to stand outside waiting to get into a club, can we?”

She worked her mouth. All of this time spent chasing – if this was another dead end she was going to scream, have a nervous break down and move to Barbados.

“I do have to say you look smashing tonight,” he said, letting his eyes fall over her outfit. “If anyone is going to get him to talk, it will be you.”

Sandra gave him a tender smile that she only showed in private. In public, she was a barracuda, going for the kill, stopping at nothing to get what she wanted. “Thanks, Nige.”

“Shall we?” he asked, tipping his head toward the club across the street.

She drew in a breath and nodded, then threw open her car door. The wind assaulted her immediately, making her shiver and curse under her breath. An icy gust blew up her tiny leather skirt and made her skin prickle. Swearing louder, she tightened her leather jacket around her throat and tilted her head away from the snowfall. Nigel was at her side, taking her beneath the elbow. It was a good thing, too, because at that moment the stiletto heels betrayed her and she felt herself falling to the sidewalk.

Sandra never hit the icy pavement, though, as her counterpart’s hand steadied her.

“Little steps,” he advised her with a chuckle.

Together, they shuffled across the street, hurdling rows of snow that had been created by a passing plow. Sandra cursed beneath her breath, wished she’d stayed in L.A.

Until they got inside.

Once inside, the drive in her sparked again and she forgot all about the fact that her thighs had turned to ice. She knew now why the street outside was deserted – everyone was inside. There was barely room to stand or to shoulder past the patrons who had wandered too close to the door.

As the raging wind sucked the heavy wooden door shut behind them, Sandra was filled with excitement. She could feel it – they were so close! Nigel, who was nearly a foot taller than her, turned an expression in her direction that read he was feeling the same thing. Tonight was the night. All or bust.

Tugging on his sleeve, she prompted him to lower an ear to her so she could be heard over the crowd. “How did you hear about this place?”

“I have my sources,” he grinned. “Now I’m going to the bar to get a cocktail. What would you like, love?”

“Vodka tonic,” she said over the din of many voices.

Nigel was swallowed up by the crowd quicker than his height might have dictated. In his absence, Sandra inspected Minneapolis’s residents with a critical eye. Thirty years ago, Prince had reigned over this frigid city, creating a synthesized sound that Sandra thought sounded ridiculous in the modern day. That had been the city’s only musical claim to fame.

Until now. Potentially.

“There’s a table in the corner by a very large speaker,” Nigel shouted over the crowd as he handed her a drink. “I left my coat there to claim it. Follow me.”

Sandra obliged, noting the locals giving her the same critical eye she’d given them. Not that she cared. She had way more class and panache than any of these people ever would. Hadn’t they ever seen a leather mini skirt before?

“People here are so pale,” she said in disdain as she settled into her seat. It was much quieter here than it had been near the bar, but she had to wonder about their proximity to the large speaker.

“It’s Minnesota,” Nigel reiterated. “It’s January.”

“They don’t have tanning beds here?” she countered. “Or spray tans like the rest of the world?”

“Shush,” he said playfully in an attempt to steer her back on track. “Who cares how pale these people are? In a very short amount of time, you’re going to get what we came for and then you’ll be famous.”

Sandra grinned widely. “He’s here, isn’t he? You can feel it, can’t you?”

“As sure as I can feel my next breath. So let’s just be patient and ignore the mighty whitey glow in this place.”

“Have you got your cameras?”

“Digital and 35 millimeter.” Nigel patted the pocket of his over-sized overcoat, then frowned. “Ever wonder why we’ve seen no pictures of him?”

Sandra shrugged. “He’s elusive. He’s enigmatic. His followers protect his identify for him. Who knows? I’m sure photos exist somewhere. Just because we haven’t seen any doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Well, ours are going to be seen.”

“Yes, they will. You’re the best, Nige.”

“At what I do,” he agreed without humility. “And you are the best at what you do.”

She was about to agree with the mutual patting of one’s self on the back when suddenly the club fell uncomfortably silent. Startled, she looked around the large room and found people facing the stage, shifting in anticipation. Someone at the back coughed, a chair squeaked, but everyone else remained mute.

Sandra was about to turn to the photographer and ask what the problem was when her gaze drifted over his shoulder and her words halted in her throat. Even though they sat a mere ten feet away, she hadn’t seen the man take the stage, hadn’t seen him sit down and place the guitar on his lap. It was like he had appeared out of thin air.

Nigel caught her startled expression, then whirled to see what she was looking at.

The man had his head tilted downward, a curtain of dark hair obscuring his face from the onlookers. He was clad in a pair of faded jeans, work boots and a flannel shirt. With a speed of movement that suggested he was in no hurry to go anywhere, he brought his hand up to lightly tease the strings of the guitar.

Sandra was reminded of Kurt Cobain, whose shyness had kept him from making eye contact with his audience. Already, she was forming the first paragraph of her story in her head.

Nigel turned her way with a victorious grin.

Then the man started to sing and Sandra realized she didn’t need to be worried about the speaker since he was going to play acoustic. His voice was not exceptional, but it was unique. It wasn’t going to matter. Many singers had made it big with a less-than-conventional voice. Springsteen, Morrison, Young came to mind.

For an hour, then two, then nearly three, the man sang his songs and the crowd was transfixed. Stopping only occasionally to take a sip of water, he spoke of love lost, of time that would never be regained, of mistakes made and the consequences that followed. Although the subject matter might have strongly suggested it, his words weren’t a plea for pity.

They were a warning.

Love the ones you love, don’t be too proud to admit your love, don’t let that person out of your life.

Or what?

You’d be stuck traveling in anonymity, playing every Podunk bar in North America? Sandra frowned. This guy didn’t make sense. All of the rumors she’d heard of his immense talent were true. He could be so much more than this. He could be rich and famous and that would show the bitch who had broken his heart, wouldn’t it?

The last couple of songs left Sandra with a sting in her eye – a fact that startled the beejesus out of her. Nothing made her cry, nothing moved her to tears. Not an apartment fire in Boston that killed six children, not an overturned bus in Bolivia that took the lives of a whole family. But something in this man’s tone, in his softly whispered words, broke her heart in two.

“What are you waiting for?” Nigel said, snapping Sandra out of her daze. “Get him before he leaves!”

Quickly, she glanced at the stage, saw the curtains drift closed in the man’s wake. She jumped to her feet, adjusted her sweater, smoothed her skirt and hurriedly applied another coat of lipstick.

“How do I look?” she asked, already rounding the table.

“I’d do you right here and now.”

She barely registered the photographer’s words as she quickly jumped onto the low stage and hurried through the curtains. Backstage was nothing more than a long, cold hallway. The man was nowhere to be found and immediately she started cursing her inaction. But as she walked the length of the hall, she could hear noises coming from one of the rooms on the left side. She approached cautiously, spotted the blue flannel shirt through the crack of the door.

Show time.

Sandra straightened her posture, pouted her lips and casually pushed open the door to the small store room. The man was gently laying his guitar into its case. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for clues as to who he was, but all she saw were containers of condiments and some industrial-strength cleaners.

“Hello there,” she said, planting herself in the doorway, aggressively blocking his exit.

The man looked up and for the first time she saw his intense dark eyes. There was something unusual about them, like they’d seen more than one lifetime’s worth of events. Those wizened eyes followed her face down to her boots and she felt her hopes skyrocket.

“Hello yourself,” he said, straightening. “A little under-dressed for Minneapolis, aren’t you?”

In an instant, she felt foolish for the mini skirt and boots. That confused her – usually the boots could walk her into places most people couldn’t go. Quickly, she recovered her composure.

“Maybe I’m not from Minneapolis.”

“Guess not,” he said, crossing the room to a small desk that held nothing but a jacket and an MP3 player. “Unless, of course, your tan is fake.”

Internally, Sandra frowned. It was unusual to have someone so not attracted to her. “Okay, I’m from LA.”

“Explains a lot. By the way, people here are immune to your come-fuck-me boots.”

He went about stuffing the money he’d received in his tip jar into his jacket pocket.

“All right,” she said, dropping the coquettish air she was trying to put on. “I’ll level with you.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“My name is Sandra Montenegro.” She waited for him to show some sign of recognition – he showed none. Another hint was needed. “I’m a reporter.” Nothing. “I want to do a story on you.”

“No.”

The word wasn’t spoken harshly or rudely, but definitely with finality.

“Why not?” she begged. “You don’t seem to realize how big you could be. I’ve heard rumors of you all over, everywhere I go. People are buzzing about you. If you were to put out an album, it would shoot to number one immediately. I’m sure of it!”

“That’s not why I do this,” he said, tugging on the coat.

He was getting ready to leave. Panic flared inside of Sandra. She didn’t like that – she never panicked about anything.

“Then tell me why you do,” she baited.

He stopped as he was about to retrieve his guitar case, his eyes locked on hers. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was holding himself back.

“I’ve been trying to find you for two years,” she said, attempting to appeal to his sense of sympathy. “Roanoke, Boston, Pittsburgh, Tallahassee, Seattle. You name it, you were there and I was always just one day too late. Please. I’ve finally found you. Give me something to go on, to understand you, even if it’s something small. Just one thing.”

He pursed his lips and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “There’s a piece of Maria,” he said, “in every song I sing.”*

Sandra’s face lit up. “Maria?”

He nodded and bent to grab the guitar case.

“Who is she?”

“You said one thing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve hardly explained yourself.” She tried guilting him this time.

“I don’t have to explain myself,” he said without confrontation. “I travel, I sing. End of story. You, on the other hand, have to explain why you’ve wasted two years of your life chasing a shadow.”

Sandra couldn’t stop the stung look that came to her face.

“Go back to LA,” he advised, his words softening a little. “And forget about me.”

“Why do you do this?” she asked, shaking her head, the reporter laid to rest as personal curiosity took the fore.

He paused, then said simply, “I have to.”

Nigel’s head appeared in the doorway and both Sandra and the man looked his way. A Nikon hung around his neck.

“How’s it going in here, love?” he asked, glancing at the man.

“All right,” she said, though her tone held defeat. She turned to the musician. “This is Nigel, my photographer. Could we at least take a few pictures?”

The man looked at the camera around Nigel’s neck. “Hey, man, I used to have a camera like that. Mind if I see it?”

Nigel may have been smiling when he handed it over, but he half expected the man to smash it into pieces. But he didn’t. He simply turned it over in his hands, looked through the view finder, and gave it back.

“I guess a few snaps wouldn’t hurt,” he said, dropping the guitar and moving to put his arm around Sandra.

Nigel anxiously took the pictures, unable to believe the enormous score, then pulled out his digital to take some more. After a few snapshots, the man reached for that camera as well.

“I’ve never used one of these,” he said as he took the tiny camera from the photographer. “Go stand by Sandy. I’ll take a shot of the two of you.”

Sandra was so astonished at his openness for the pictures that she barely noticed he called her “Sandy.” Maybe if she didn’t have enough material for a feature, she and Nigel could publish the pictures together. This night wasn’t wasted entirely.

After the photos had been taken, the man shook each of their hands and disappeared out the door that stood at the end of the hallway.

“Wow,” Sandra breathed.

“Serious wow,” Nigel agreed, carefully tucking his camera into its case. “Did you get enough for a story?”

She shook her head.

“Did you at least get his name?”

“Shit!” she swore, then took off down the hallway as fast as her stilettos would allow.

Shoving the door open, she fought the frigid air to search for the man. Even though he’d been gone only a minute, there was no sight of him.

“Dammit!”

Nigel met her at the door. “Want me to go look for him?”

Sandra shook her head. “No. You’ll never find him.”

On the drive back to the airport, she watched the snow zip past the car, garish in the lights of passing vehicles. She never wanted to come here again.

“Oh, cheer up, Sandy,” Nigel said as he signaled to switch lanes. “At least you finally found him. At least you got to meet him.”

“To what end? There’s nothing to write a story from here. Anything I would try to write about some mysterious traveling troubadour is going to sound so fake and convoluted. People are going to think I fictionalized all of it.”

“I’ll tell you to what end.” He grinned. “You and I are going to publish those pictures. Once people see his face, he won’t be able to hide for very long. And then maybe he can be persuaded to come out of hiding.”

Sandra smiled back at him. He was right – the chase was far from over. The pictures were their tickets to fame, to the interview to end all interviews.

It wouldn’t be until they got back to LA that they would discover that the digital camera’s memory card had been erased and that the film in the 35 millimeter had somehow been exposed.

And somewhere in the word, a mysterious man roamed free, paying his penance and warning others of the mistakes he’d made.


*Title and lyrics from “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by The Counting Crows


Next Up: "All That's Left of Me"

Okay, I lied "All That's Left of Me" will be next This one came to me yesterday and I had to write it first before the muse took it away from me. Be warned, this is GZ (but perhaps not the way you'd expect )


Part Three: A Lead Role in a Cage

With the slightest rustling, a tiny leaf landed on the gray surface of the desk, its death nearly as silent as its life. Still, he heard it and turned to mourn its passing. Without much more sound than a falling leaf, he retrieved a coffee cup, rose from his desk, then slid into the hallway.

“Good morning, Mr. Evans,” an intern smiled in his direction, her eyes lingering on his only a moment before falling southward, over his fine linen suit.

He returned a gracious, disinterested smile and internally hoped that hers would be the only interruption on his trip to get some water for his neglected plant. He didn’t feel like talking. He never felt like talking.

In the kitchen, two of his coworkers were before the coffee machine, reliving last night’s game as though they had actually played it. One of them fell back and launched a fake football while the other eagerly helped him reenact what had happened. The men were loud in their retelling, laughing raucously at the victory they’d in some way helped to secure. Max looked at them from the corner of his eye as he filled the cup with water. He’d forgotten what it was like to be passionate about something and seeing their enthusiasm only made it blatantly clear that he wasn’t passionate about anything.

In fact, it had been years since he’d felt strongly about something. Or someone.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Ten miles away, she sat writing out bills at their kitchen table. Seventy-four eighty-nine to the cable company. Sixty-three forty-seven for electric. She went about her task mechanically, the numbers meaning nothing, signing each as Maria Evans. When she had them all written, she laid the envelopes out before her and affixed a stamp and a return address label to each, the latter adorned with a delicate pink rose.

Her task complete, she let out a sigh and rested her chin in her hand. Every morning was like this, nothing but boredom, too much time to think. She’d already scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom until they gleamed. The laundry was done, dinner was already in the refrigerator, waiting to be tossed into the oven an hour before Max was due home.

Her eyes settled on an envelope amidst the junk mail she’d cast off while paying the bills. Pictures. She’s forgotten about them. Happy for the diversion, she snatched up the envelope and pulled out its contents – snapshots taken during their Christmas party the month prior.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she slowly flipped through the photos; it felt good to see her friends and family again. She paused when she came to a picture of she and Max – she had her head thrown back in laughter and he was smiling at her.

But there was something missing in his eyes. There was no adoration there, no undying love for her. He was smiling at her like just another relative, someone who knew her well and enjoyed her company, not someone who was mad about her.

Maria’s eyes drifted over his shoulder – her mother was there in the background and there was nothing missing in that woman’s eyes. Amy knew their marriage was a sham and it seemed as though she’d just been waiting for it to fail. Maria snorted as she looked at her husband again. Just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.*

But there was no blaming Max. Not entirely. Her eyes fell on her checkbook – somewhere he never snooped – and her mind went to what she had stashed in the back of it.

*~*~*~*~*~*

At the office, Max carefully poured the water from the cup into the potted plant. It had been a gift from his wife, a little reminder of her, she’d said. As the water trickled into the soil, his gaze shifted to their wedding picture, a dutiful addition to his workspace. She was beautiful, his blonde bride, and he thought maybe on some level he did love her. When he was with her, he felt good, comfortable, safe.

But when they were apart…

A flash of dark hair raced through his mind, a giggle from the past. Closing his eyes, he sank to his chair and covered his face with one hand. He knew he hadn’t really seen her, hadn’t really heard her laugh, but there had been a time when he’d been unable to separate reality from fantasy. Only recently had he stopped looking for her when his memories haunted him. This was his penance, to be reminded of what he’d lost.

Dropping his hand, his eyes returned to his wedding photo. He felt a million miles away from that day, when he’d vowed to spend the rest of his life with Maria. It had felt right then, as he’d held her tiny hand in his and had slid that gold band onto her finger. With his thumb, he toyed with his own ring, realized that it felt heavy on his hand and yet he felt naked without it.

Who are we kidding? he silently asked the picture. His heart was somewhere else and he had the suspicion hers was as well.

With an abrupt sweep of his hand, he knocked the fallen leaf into his trash can.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Maria tentatively pulled open the back flap of her checkbook and peeked inside. A stack of cards was there – prescription plan, AAA, movie club – but there was a photo as well. She’d sometimes feared that while renting DVDs, the picture would fall out and Max would see what she’d been hiding. The thought filled her with shame, but at the same time she was unable to stop herself from retrieving her prize.

She cast aside the membership cards, an old hair appointment card, a gift card to have her nails done, until she came to what she most coveted. Inside, her heart leapt and her stomach did a little somersault.

His eyes were dark, his hair an unruly mess about his head. He was smiling, sort of, the most he ever smiled. She found herself smiling, too, then reaching to touch the smooth surface of the print as though she could actually touch him through it.

She liked that fantasy, that somewhere in the world he could feel her fingers on his face as she traced its outline in the photo. She hoped that wherever he was, he’d just put his hand to his cheek, unknowingly covering her hand with his in the process, wondering where his memory flash had come from.

The doorbell rang and Maria jumped. Hastily, her daydream obliterated, she shoved the cards and the photo into the back flap of her checkbook and moved to answer the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*

She thinks you love her.

Max’s eyes were still fixed on Maria’s likeness. Was it true that he didn’t love her? No, not entirely. He did love her on some level, just not the level she deserved. But need did not equal love.

And he did need her. Someplace deep inside jolted with the thought of losing her, of being alone in the world. That fear was replaced by guilt. It was unfair to stay with her only to assuage his insecurity.

He needed to break it off. Slowly. He’d start tonight.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Wrong address.

Somewhat disappointed, Maria closed the door and turned to look at her immaculate house. What had she been hoping for? That there would be flowers from her long-lost love? Or maybe that he’d be there in person to take her away from suffocating suburban boredom?

It was never going to happen. She needed to come to grips with that now, before Max got home and saw the melancholy in her eyes.

Pulling herself up straight, she cleared her throat and went to the kitchen. Maybe they needed something special for dessert. Making something would take her mind off things it shouldn’t be on in the first place. Maybe Max would appreciate the gesture, not that he ever acted inappreciative of anything she did. No, quite the opposite – he was always thanking her, complimenting her. He was gracious that way.

He was a good husband.

As Maria cracked an egg into a mixing bowl, she burst into tears. She had it all – lovely home, handsome, loyal husband, time to indulge any interested she had. But she was miserable. Especially during the day, when she didn’t have enough indulgences to keep her mind and memory from wandering. Her unhappiness boiled down to one thing.

She didn’t want Max.

She wanted something, someone she couldn’t have. At the time, Max had seemed like a knight in shining armor, perfect in every way. But then the glow had worn off a few months after the wedding and while she realized that she did love him in some ways, she could never love him the way a wife should.

They needed to separate. She dried her eyes with the back of her hand and went to get some sugar from the cupboard. She would tell him tonight.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Max turned off the car and sat in the driveway, his eyes taking in the Colonial they’d saved so many years to buy. The lawn was perfectly manicured – the work of a landscaping firm, since he wasn’t home enough to do it himself. He knew that the interior was spotless, that sometimes Maria went a little OCD with her housework. To the outside world, it was a perfect suburban home.

Max sighed. Maybe it was going to be a relief to her, to have him gone. Maybe she’d simply been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it was just time.

Mustering his courage, he reached for the door handle.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Maria heard Max’s car in the driveway and drew in a deep breath. It was going to be difficult to tell him she wanted out. It was going to hurt him to be alone, she realized this. He needed her, but he didn’t love her.

She, on the other hand, would be fine. She was used to being alone. She’d been alone since they’d gotten married. She knew his mind was usually preoccupied with someone else, and she couldn’t fault him for it. After all, she’d been preoccupied as well.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Max’s fingers touched the brass door handle and he paused a moment to wonder how many nights he’d walked through the door to the same scene – his wife welcoming him home, taking his coat and briefcase from him, ushering him to the table for dinner. Soon, he’d be coming home alone. But he wouldn’t come home here – he’d leave her the house, it was the least he could do.

Making sure his resolve was in place, he turned the knob and entered the house.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It will only hurt for a little while, Maria told herself as she heard the door handle turn and the front door swing open. She cleared her throat and straightened her sweater, tried to calm the nervous pounding of her heart. She told herself to be calm through dinner, to bring it up later that night. Let him down easy.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Max wasn’t surprised that Maria wasn’t at the door – she didn’t greet him every night, after all. Her role as door greeter was probably exaggerated in his memory, and he realized that that was one thing he’d liked about their marriage, that she’d sometimes met him at the door like she was eager to see him, that she was happy he’d finally returned.

With a frown, he rationalized that a Golden Retriever could bring the same satisfaction. It was little upon which to base a marriage.

He hung his coat in the hallway and counted to ten. It was time.

Maria placed the china on the table and waited for Max to enter the dining room. When he did, she found that she was happier to see him than she’d anticipated. In the ten hours since he’d been gone, she’d forgotten how boyishly handsome he still was, about how he managed to walk tentatively and confidently all at once.

Max’s eyes shifted to the carefully-set table, then to his wife. She was breath-takingly pretty in person, her skin nearly flawless and he remembered what it was like to touch her soft skin. In a series of memories that was stronger than a flash of brunette hair, he recalled climbing into bed with her, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her soft body against his. He recalled how she laughed against his ear, pulled him close, told him that she loved him.

Even if she didn’t entirely.

He found the doubts from earlier that day flitting away now that he was home with her. In fact, it seemed ridiculous that he’d even considered leaving her.

Maria saw his slightly smile and felt a warm spot glow in the center of her chest. True, he wasn’t her true love, but he was still one of her favorite people and she wondered why she thought she could live without seeing him every day.

“Something smells wonderful,” he said, coming to stand beside his chair at the table.

“I made something special,” she announced, returning his smile.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The opportunity was perfect. She could tell him that she wanted their last night as husband and wife to be special, that this was the last time she would cook for him. But she couldn’t force the words past her throat. Instead, she stepped forward and put her arms around him, a silent tear slipping down her cheek.

“I missed you,” she said simply.

After dinner they would make love, each thinking of someone else. And in the morning, the cycle would start all over.


*Title and lyrics from “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd

So here it is -the final chapter of The Mourning Afer. I thank all of your for your patience and hope you enjoy this last story. What better way to end things than to bring Alex back to life one more time?


Part Four: All That’s Left of Me

Aggrieved. Banished. Crushed.

It was a game Alex liked to play with himself – to see if he could get to the end of the alphabet and find a word that started with each letter that fit his mood. Today he was scribbling the words in the corner of his notebook as he sat in one of the Crashdown’s booths.

Doomed. Emasculated. Failure. Grief.

A little sense of satisfaction flitted briefly through his veins. It wasn’t easy to come up with an emotion that began with an E. Ironic, considering that emotion itself started with an E…He did have to give himself additional props for switching from adverbs to nouns. That was a new creative twist.

“Emasculated?” came the disbelieving voice of Liz Parker, who was seated across from him, her own books opened before her.

Alex gave a grin. “SAT word.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied patiently. “But she did not emasculate you, Alex.”

The grin faltered. “It felt like it.”

Liz looked like she wanted to say something in reply, but simply resorted to sighing and giving him that sisterly sympathetic look he sometimes hated.

Hated. That was a word that began with H.

But he didn’t hate the cause of his pain. He couldn’t ever hate her, even if she someday ripped open his chest, yanked out his heart and stomped all over it. Without any control of them, his eyes shifted toward the back of the café, where the object of his rejection sat totally ignoring him.

Ignored. That worked. On to J.

Liz turned in her seat to follow his gaze, then turned around to face her friend again. “Alex, are you sure you want to be here right now?

His blue eyes snapped back to hers. “Of course. I said I would study and here I am, studying.”

“You’re studying Isabel Evans,” Liz stated bluntly.

Alex’s cheeks turned slightly pink. “I can’t help it,” he confessed sheepishly.

“Of course you can’t. That’s why I think you might get more work done if we went upstairs.”

“No!” he protested a little too emphatically. “No, I’m fine here.”

Liz raised a dark eyebrow, but said nothing more as she returned to her math homework. Alex watched her for a long moment, knowing the only reason she was able to concentrate was because Max Evans hadn’t come to the café with his sister. Still, Liz’s work was at a minimum considering she needed to look toward the door every time the bell sounded.

Alex knew that it had been a long road for Liz and Max, and that things still weren’t perfect there. Maybe they never would be. But he knew that they loved one another and they would try their hardest. Just as he loved Isabel and would continue to struggle for her affections.

Because deep down, he knew she was interested in him. She was just so afraid of what may happen that she couldn’t seem to let her guard down. At least that’s what he thought. It could very well be that she wasn’t interested in him one iota, but he refused to get the message.

“She’s so beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his eyes glazing over as he watched her lazily stir her iced tea without lifting her head from her studying.

“Alex.”

Alex jerked and found Liz looking at him in mock reprimand.

“What?” he asked innocently.

Liz tapped his book with the end of her pencil. “Chemistry test tomorrow, Alex.”

He couldn’t help it. He looked at Isabel again. “If only I had the right chemistry.”

At his sappiness, Liz groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“Then maybe she’d love me,” he sighed. “It used to be that every morning she was my first thought. One smile would get me through the day. I was a complete man, looking forward to each and every moment of my life. Now all that's left of me is what I pretend to be.”*

Liz dropped her hand and lifted her eyebrows. “Did you just speak in rhyme?”

“I’m a shell,” he pined. “Nothing what I once was. A hollow vessel, whose only purpose is to collect despair.”

“Okay, stop,” Liz said, putting up her hands. “Stop before you break into song – a depressing one at that. All she did was say she didn’t want to go to the dance with you, Alex. She didn’t curse you to the ends of the earth.”

“She may as well have,” he frowned. “I’ve nothing to look forward to.”

“Well then, you might as well fall on your sword and get it over with,” Liz deadpanned.

Alex punctuated her words with a heavy sigh of agreement.

She closed her book over her pencil and leaned forward in the booth. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s all over.”

“Alex, one more comment like that out of you and I will seriously consider doing the emasculating myself.”

He gave a nervous chuckle and sub-consciously cupped one hand over his zipper.

“Now,” she continued. “What can I do to pull you out of this funk? Want me to find you another date? I’m sure I can find someone –”

“No, only one will do,” he sighed, then caught himself. “I mean, no thank you, I’m sure everyone has a date by now.” Whew – mutilation averted.

“Then what?” Liz asked. “Want me and Max to skip the dance and do something with you instead?”

“What? No.” He gave his head a quick shake. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Besides, being with them all night might drive him to slitting his wrists.

“Want to come with us?” Her face brightened at the idea. “We could make a threesome of it. Not in that way – you know what I mean. We could all get dressed up and just go as friends. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

It would be fun, and it would totally rob her of a more romantic time with Max. Alex shook his head.

Liz deflated visibly, sinking into the padding of the booth. Eventually her eyes drifted to Isabel’s booth. “Alex,” she began carefully. “Do you want me to try?”

Alex’s heart leapt in his chest at the mere thought.

Joy! An excellent J word!

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he protested half-heartedly.

Liz gave him a knowing smile. “But you’d like me to anyway, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…”

Before he could finish his sentence, she had slid her slim body from the booth and was walking toward the back of the café. Why was it that the aliens always took the back booths?

Alex’s palms started to sweat to the point where he had to wipe them on the thighs of his jeans. He tried to act like he was reading his book, but his eyes kept traveling over the top of the pages so he could watch Isabel’s reaction to Liz’s visit.

For a few moments, Liz’s body blocked his view, but then she shifted and Alex didn’t like what he saw. Isabel was shaking her head slowly, her eyes flitting away as though she was under deep scrutiny. Liz’s arm waved toward Alex and he quickly averted his gaze again. When he looked up, he saw Liz turn to retreat, but not before Isabel gave her a smile of apology and returned to her books.

Kicked. Lost. Morose.

Never.

She was never going to go out with him, plain and simple.

Liz came back to the booth wordlessly, simply patted his hand in comfort before sliding back into her seat. She opened her book, picked up her pencil and resumed her homework.

Alex felt sick inside, kind of like he was coming down with something. But he knew there was nothing physically wrong with him. His heart was just breaking, that was all. Maybe in time it would repair itself, but tonight it felt hopeless.

He didn’t even feel like finishing the alphabet. He always got tripped up on the X and Z anyway.

Movement at the back of the café caught his eye and without thinking, he glanced that way. Isabel had stood to put on her coat and he felt a pang that maybe Liz’s visit on his behalf had chased her off. But then his eyes met hers and he found a surprise.

There was no rejection there. There was curiosity, a little bit of longing and a whole lot of uncertainty. She hadn’t closed the book on him. Not entirely.

In that moment, Alex decided to skip the O and go straight to P.

Patience.

He would be patient with her because when he looked in her eyes, he felt an H word he’d never really expected.

Hope.


*Title and lyrics from “Behind These Hazel Eyes” by Kelly Clarkson

THE END