(no subject)
Title: Live Free
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Mrs. and Mr. Connor, Grandpa (no pairing)
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Death (not main character), angst
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: A fic-tribute to Veteran's Day; Casey says goodbye.
Casey's whole body felt numb as he walked down the hallway, knowing that it was probably the last time he'd be doing so. With both his grandmothers gone and his paternal grandfather living in Florida, no other elders in the family would be staying here at 'Brightwood Nursing Home'. It may have been a nice enough place, unlike most Casey knew about in town, but he hadn't chosen his field of study lightly. In six months, he'd be a licensed psychologist; his parents would live their 'golden years' in comfort and security, if he had anything to do with it.
But with his father a struggling construction worker and mother waitressing all hours of the night at the college kid hot-spot, 'Gus' Diner', Grandpa Henry had been given this one, sole choice. Casey had understood--it was how things were. When this had all started two years before, Casey had protested.
"Mom, give him MY room. I use it about twice a year, and when I come home to visit, I can sleep on the couch--"
"Honey... I want that so badly. But we c-can't, all right? I don't want Daddy to go, but..."
So Casey had to relent, visiting his grandfather in a small room shared by another older, grouchier man instead of the beautiful, almost magical house his mother had grown up in. Gone were the giant lilac bushes, the swamp just past the trees where Casey and his cousins had hunted frogs, the rope swing, all of that replaced with nice but anonymous nurses, bedpans and game shows in the home's common room. They held game nights, at least; Grandpa Henry loved bingo.
But he hadn't played in a long time. Six months before at Thanksgiving, Casey home for the holidays, he had gone with his parents to visit the man. He'd been warned that Henry had changed, that he'd get angry over nothing--that sometimes, he'd forget you were there, even if you were sitting in front of him. A ray of hope came when Casey had entered the room, and Henry had made a wide, happy grin. "There's my Frogger!" he'd all but cheered, the nickname he'd given eight-year-old Casey after winning the cousin's 'frog-count contest' still remembered. The first hour had been pleasant. The residents and their families were treated to a turkey dinner in the common room, and even though the food wasn't as homemade-fresh and personal as it'd been back at Grandma and Grandpa's during Casey's childhood, Casey had enjoyed it immensely. But when they'd gotten back to Henry's room...
"Why... why don't you c-come and visit me, Casey?"
It hadn't mattered to Henry that Casey went to school all the way out in New York City, and that compared to other careless, flippant teenagers, Casey had always made time for his grandfather when he could. The man had been hurt, unable to see the reasons behind Casey's absences. He'd started crying and went into himself, choosing to spend the last hour of their visit by the window, staring out at the snow covered bushes and oak trees. The whole ride home, Casey had silently sniffled to himself; he hadn't been alone.
"He knows, sweetie. Deep down, he knows," Mrs. Connor had told him, tears in her own eyes.
In the present, Casey had stopped dead in the hall two doors down from Henry's room. Though there were always overcrowding issues in these places, his parents had given the extra money to ensure Henry had a room to himself for the last month. There was a clear-cut reason for that; they wanted the man to die in peace. Casey's parents were due to arrive within the hour, but Casey had flown out early enough, getting here via a rented car to make sure he got a few precious, one-on-one moments with the man. With a great sigh, he moved on and got to the open doorway. He looked in and felt his stomach clench.
Two months ago at his last visit, he hadn't liked the man's state. He'd grown thinner, more absent in mind and barely talked. Casey hadn't expected him to look even worse than that, even with his mother's more urgent warnings. An IV was in his arm, and instead of the usual brown nightshirt and favorite green robe, he wore a hospital jonny, nothing more. His chest jerked up and went down slowly with every breath. With his head turned away from the door, eyes set on the window, he didn't see Casey's worried expression, his halting in the door--scared. Nauseous. Casey forced down all apprehension and finally stepped in. He made it to the chair before he saw Henry's eyes flick away--not looking at him just yet, but noticing the presence of another. His open-mouthed moved up and down a moment before he turned to Casey fully.
"He might not know who you are, honey. But you know who HE is, just talk to him. Just... talk t-to him."
"Frogger."
The guttural, shaky, almost unrecognizable voice didn't bother Casey--he knew. Casey put on a shaky smile and reached to Henry's hand. "Hi, Grandpa."
Henry was bleary and confused for a few moments, but a sudden, blissful smile crossed his lips. "Y-You visit me," he murmured.
"Yea. I flew out all the way from the city."
"Pa... Paris?"
A stab of worry hit Casey, but he fought it off to shake his head. "No, Grandpa. New York. That's where I go to school, remember?"
"Mmm..." Henry drifted off and stared at the window again. "Go to Paris, Casey. In the summer. Go to Paris. The Nazis are gone, it's safe. I made sure of that. Sure of that."
Casey nodded. He knew where the man was now; not oblivion, but memory. Wanting to hold onto his grandfather's state of mind as best he could, he smiled, squeezed Henry's hand and scooted the chair closer to the bed. "Tell me about France, Grandpa."
"Ohh... oh, it's so beautiful. That's where I met your grandm... mother," Henry said past his dry lips. "Caramel hair. Big blue eyes."
"You said I have her eyes."
As if wanting to check--or remember--the man turned back to gaze into Casey's face. A beautiful glimmer of recognition came in his bright smile and sigh. "You do. You h-have Corrine's lovely blues," he said. "Her fam-ily's bakery, was heaven. Delicious. And she came home... with me."
"Yea. She loved you so much," Casey said. "You saved her, Grandpa."
"I loved her. I loved her. I m-miss her." Henry's smile faded and his head lolled a bit. "But I'm gonna s-see her again. She's waiting, nine years, she's... waiting. Thirsty."
Casey snapped out of his trance and sat up; to his left was a tray table, a pitcher and plastic cup and straw upon it. He dutifully filled the cup, put the straw inside then brought it to his grandfather's lips. "Sip slow," Casey said while helping the man sit up. Though he struggled with sucking onto the straw, he finally managed to take it a few sips. He made a deep grimace and groan before pulling away and laying back down on the bed.
"Ca-Casey?"
"Yea?"
Henry closed his eyes and pursed his lips tight. He seemed to be trying desperately to find words, eyes rolling around behind the lids. He finally held up his hand, a finger extended. "Soyez... li-libre," he murmured shakily. "Remember. Soyez..."
Live free. Casey made quick nods. "I do, Grandpa. I really do," he said.
"That's why I fought. What I did. Out of ev... every, ev--liberté," Henry said. "That's what C-Corrine told me."
A low hum rumbled in the man's frail chest as he settled into the mattress further. Casey's lower lip trembled. Was this it? "Grandpa?" he said with another squeeze to his hand. He was still breathing, evenly, but he didn't respond. Casey waited, and waited, and waited, but nothing happened. After what seemed like an eternity, Casey heard a voice from behind.
"Casey?"
The young man turned to find his mother standing there, looking concerned. "He's still here," he said, letting go of Henry's hand.
She nodded, took a deep breath and walked in. She met Casey's side; after giving him a hard kiss to his temple, she squeezed into the same chair with him, put an arm around Casey's shoulders and took her father's hand. "Hi, Daddy," she said.
A slight flicker of movement came in the man's cheek. "Mer..." he murmured.
Mrs. Connor said nothing for a few moments. She stared upon the dying man's face, deep breaths making Casey move with her. Finally, she parted her lips to speak. "Remember Momma's lulluby?" she asked. When the man didn't reply or move, she smiled, swallowed and began whispering in song. "L'était une une petite poule grise, qu'allait pondre dans l'église, pondait un p'tit' coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud..."
Casey knew this one from both his mother and Meme singing it to him as a child. As he mouthed the lyrics with her, he found himself sinking against her side, wanting to feel secure and warm. Never mind his twenty-six years; he was here to be a grandson, reaching out to his youth. To remember. Though all Henry did was move his lips up and down, they were in time with the words of the song. He knew.
~*~
Seven Days Later
It didn't matter if Casey's career was to be spent in an office. He was, and always would be, an artist first. He'd spent the last two days proving it through boxes of photos, thick posterboard, pencils and ink. Now that it felt finished, he stepped back to survey his work.
He'd had a few days of tears, nothing but; his professors were kind, thankfully, and excused him from the usual hard work that past Monday and Tuesday with the promise to make up the work in two weeks' time. He was home again on Thursday, allowing him to pore over memories with his mother through the pictures and other items she'd given to him for this purpose. Before him on the coffee table sat a large collage of those photos, each one arranged in miscellaneous disorder. Young and old pictures of Henry melded together, most of them the youthful versions. Mrs. Connor, then Meredith Pines, the only child, was featured in various situations from birthday cakes, Christmas trees and fishing trips. All of them showed a proud father and mother standing nearby or hugging her tight.
Of course, the world needed to know of his military hero status. So many pictures of pride with Henry in uniform, at parades, getting awards... some of those awards were next to Casey on the couch in a display case, glinting in the Spring sun creeping through the window across the living room. He turned to look at them; five, the most important one featured in the middle. The World War II Victory medal gleamed, making Casey feel great pride in his mother handing these to him the day before.
"He'd want you to have these," she'd said. They'd be on his wall back in New York, then his office wall, wherever he'd be able to see them every day.
Casey turned back to the collage and smiled warmly at his favorite shot. An awkward adolescent, fourteen-year-old Casey stood within it, wearing a too-big sweater vest, button-up shirt and gray slacks. On his right stood Henry, dressed in jeans, sunglasses and Casey's Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt. Underneath the picture on the board read 'April Fool's Day '95'. That HAD been a hoot, and everyone had bellowed with laughter when they'd emerged together as a 'Freaky Friday' sort of joke.
Yes, it was done. Casey stood up, capped markers and put away supplies then went to the kitchen for a soda. In a half an hour, his parents would be home to pick him up and head to the funeral home for Henry's wake, where Casey would place the board by the coffin to give everyone a peek at the man's life. They'd read the calligraphic words in the middle and hopefully take the message home...
Soyez Libre... Live Free
La Petite Poule Grise
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Mrs. and Mr. Connor, Grandpa (no pairing)
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Death (not main character), angst
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: A fic-tribute to Veteran's Day; Casey says goodbye.
Casey's whole body felt numb as he walked down the hallway, knowing that it was probably the last time he'd be doing so. With both his grandmothers gone and his paternal grandfather living in Florida, no other elders in the family would be staying here at 'Brightwood Nursing Home'. It may have been a nice enough place, unlike most Casey knew about in town, but he hadn't chosen his field of study lightly. In six months, he'd be a licensed psychologist; his parents would live their 'golden years' in comfort and security, if he had anything to do with it.
But with his father a struggling construction worker and mother waitressing all hours of the night at the college kid hot-spot, 'Gus' Diner', Grandpa Henry had been given this one, sole choice. Casey had understood--it was how things were. When this had all started two years before, Casey had protested.
"Mom, give him MY room. I use it about twice a year, and when I come home to visit, I can sleep on the couch--"
"Honey... I want that so badly. But we c-can't, all right? I don't want Daddy to go, but..."
So Casey had to relent, visiting his grandfather in a small room shared by another older, grouchier man instead of the beautiful, almost magical house his mother had grown up in. Gone were the giant lilac bushes, the swamp just past the trees where Casey and his cousins had hunted frogs, the rope swing, all of that replaced with nice but anonymous nurses, bedpans and game shows in the home's common room. They held game nights, at least; Grandpa Henry loved bingo.
But he hadn't played in a long time. Six months before at Thanksgiving, Casey home for the holidays, he had gone with his parents to visit the man. He'd been warned that Henry had changed, that he'd get angry over nothing--that sometimes, he'd forget you were there, even if you were sitting in front of him. A ray of hope came when Casey had entered the room, and Henry had made a wide, happy grin. "There's my Frogger!" he'd all but cheered, the nickname he'd given eight-year-old Casey after winning the cousin's 'frog-count contest' still remembered. The first hour had been pleasant. The residents and their families were treated to a turkey dinner in the common room, and even though the food wasn't as homemade-fresh and personal as it'd been back at Grandma and Grandpa's during Casey's childhood, Casey had enjoyed it immensely. But when they'd gotten back to Henry's room...
"Why... why don't you c-come and visit me, Casey?"
It hadn't mattered to Henry that Casey went to school all the way out in New York City, and that compared to other careless, flippant teenagers, Casey had always made time for his grandfather when he could. The man had been hurt, unable to see the reasons behind Casey's absences. He'd started crying and went into himself, choosing to spend the last hour of their visit by the window, staring out at the snow covered bushes and oak trees. The whole ride home, Casey had silently sniffled to himself; he hadn't been alone.
"He knows, sweetie. Deep down, he knows," Mrs. Connor had told him, tears in her own eyes.
In the present, Casey had stopped dead in the hall two doors down from Henry's room. Though there were always overcrowding issues in these places, his parents had given the extra money to ensure Henry had a room to himself for the last month. There was a clear-cut reason for that; they wanted the man to die in peace. Casey's parents were due to arrive within the hour, but Casey had flown out early enough, getting here via a rented car to make sure he got a few precious, one-on-one moments with the man. With a great sigh, he moved on and got to the open doorway. He looked in and felt his stomach clench.
Two months ago at his last visit, he hadn't liked the man's state. He'd grown thinner, more absent in mind and barely talked. Casey hadn't expected him to look even worse than that, even with his mother's more urgent warnings. An IV was in his arm, and instead of the usual brown nightshirt and favorite green robe, he wore a hospital jonny, nothing more. His chest jerked up and went down slowly with every breath. With his head turned away from the door, eyes set on the window, he didn't see Casey's worried expression, his halting in the door--scared. Nauseous. Casey forced down all apprehension and finally stepped in. He made it to the chair before he saw Henry's eyes flick away--not looking at him just yet, but noticing the presence of another. His open-mouthed moved up and down a moment before he turned to Casey fully.
"He might not know who you are, honey. But you know who HE is, just talk to him. Just... talk t-to him."
"Frogger."
The guttural, shaky, almost unrecognizable voice didn't bother Casey--he knew. Casey put on a shaky smile and reached to Henry's hand. "Hi, Grandpa."
Henry was bleary and confused for a few moments, but a sudden, blissful smile crossed his lips. "Y-You visit me," he murmured.
"Yea. I flew out all the way from the city."
"Pa... Paris?"
A stab of worry hit Casey, but he fought it off to shake his head. "No, Grandpa. New York. That's where I go to school, remember?"
"Mmm..." Henry drifted off and stared at the window again. "Go to Paris, Casey. In the summer. Go to Paris. The Nazis are gone, it's safe. I made sure of that. Sure of that."
Casey nodded. He knew where the man was now; not oblivion, but memory. Wanting to hold onto his grandfather's state of mind as best he could, he smiled, squeezed Henry's hand and scooted the chair closer to the bed. "Tell me about France, Grandpa."
"Ohh... oh, it's so beautiful. That's where I met your grandm... mother," Henry said past his dry lips. "Caramel hair. Big blue eyes."
"You said I have her eyes."
As if wanting to check--or remember--the man turned back to gaze into Casey's face. A beautiful glimmer of recognition came in his bright smile and sigh. "You do. You h-have Corrine's lovely blues," he said. "Her fam-ily's bakery, was heaven. Delicious. And she came home... with me."
"Yea. She loved you so much," Casey said. "You saved her, Grandpa."
"I loved her. I loved her. I m-miss her." Henry's smile faded and his head lolled a bit. "But I'm gonna s-see her again. She's waiting, nine years, she's... waiting. Thirsty."
Casey snapped out of his trance and sat up; to his left was a tray table, a pitcher and plastic cup and straw upon it. He dutifully filled the cup, put the straw inside then brought it to his grandfather's lips. "Sip slow," Casey said while helping the man sit up. Though he struggled with sucking onto the straw, he finally managed to take it a few sips. He made a deep grimace and groan before pulling away and laying back down on the bed.
"Ca-Casey?"
"Yea?"
Henry closed his eyes and pursed his lips tight. He seemed to be trying desperately to find words, eyes rolling around behind the lids. He finally held up his hand, a finger extended. "Soyez... li-libre," he murmured shakily. "Remember. Soyez..."
Live free. Casey made quick nods. "I do, Grandpa. I really do," he said.
"That's why I fought. What I did. Out of ev... every, ev--liberté," Henry said. "That's what C-Corrine told me."
A low hum rumbled in the man's frail chest as he settled into the mattress further. Casey's lower lip trembled. Was this it? "Grandpa?" he said with another squeeze to his hand. He was still breathing, evenly, but he didn't respond. Casey waited, and waited, and waited, but nothing happened. After what seemed like an eternity, Casey heard a voice from behind.
"Casey?"
The young man turned to find his mother standing there, looking concerned. "He's still here," he said, letting go of Henry's hand.
She nodded, took a deep breath and walked in. She met Casey's side; after giving him a hard kiss to his temple, she squeezed into the same chair with him, put an arm around Casey's shoulders and took her father's hand. "Hi, Daddy," she said.
A slight flicker of movement came in the man's cheek. "Mer..." he murmured.
Mrs. Connor said nothing for a few moments. She stared upon the dying man's face, deep breaths making Casey move with her. Finally, she parted her lips to speak. "Remember Momma's lulluby?" she asked. When the man didn't reply or move, she smiled, swallowed and began whispering in song. "L'était une une petite poule grise, qu'allait pondre dans l'église, pondait un p'tit' coco, que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud..."
Casey knew this one from both his mother and Meme singing it to him as a child. As he mouthed the lyrics with her, he found himself sinking against her side, wanting to feel secure and warm. Never mind his twenty-six years; he was here to be a grandson, reaching out to his youth. To remember. Though all Henry did was move his lips up and down, they were in time with the words of the song. He knew.
~*~
Seven Days Later
It didn't matter if Casey's career was to be spent in an office. He was, and always would be, an artist first. He'd spent the last two days proving it through boxes of photos, thick posterboard, pencils and ink. Now that it felt finished, he stepped back to survey his work.
He'd had a few days of tears, nothing but; his professors were kind, thankfully, and excused him from the usual hard work that past Monday and Tuesday with the promise to make up the work in two weeks' time. He was home again on Thursday, allowing him to pore over memories with his mother through the pictures and other items she'd given to him for this purpose. Before him on the coffee table sat a large collage of those photos, each one arranged in miscellaneous disorder. Young and old pictures of Henry melded together, most of them the youthful versions. Mrs. Connor, then Meredith Pines, the only child, was featured in various situations from birthday cakes, Christmas trees and fishing trips. All of them showed a proud father and mother standing nearby or hugging her tight.
Of course, the world needed to know of his military hero status. So many pictures of pride with Henry in uniform, at parades, getting awards... some of those awards were next to Casey on the couch in a display case, glinting in the Spring sun creeping through the window across the living room. He turned to look at them; five, the most important one featured in the middle. The World War II Victory medal gleamed, making Casey feel great pride in his mother handing these to him the day before.
"He'd want you to have these," she'd said. They'd be on his wall back in New York, then his office wall, wherever he'd be able to see them every day.
Casey turned back to the collage and smiled warmly at his favorite shot. An awkward adolescent, fourteen-year-old Casey stood within it, wearing a too-big sweater vest, button-up shirt and gray slacks. On his right stood Henry, dressed in jeans, sunglasses and Casey's Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt. Underneath the picture on the board read 'April Fool's Day '95'. That HAD been a hoot, and everyone had bellowed with laughter when they'd emerged together as a 'Freaky Friday' sort of joke.
Yes, it was done. Casey stood up, capped markers and put away supplies then went to the kitchen for a soda. In a half an hour, his parents would be home to pick him up and head to the funeral home for Henry's wake, where Casey would place the board by the coffin to give everyone a peek at the man's life. They'd read the calligraphic words in the middle and hopefully take the message home...
Soyez Libre... Live Free
La Petite Poule Grise
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