(seven different places need a bit of mending) we use our eyes to fill in most the gaps
[faberry drabble from judy's pov; fits into the art of boxes universe, because i just have all of these deleted scenes. quinn and judy's relationship makes me super sad and interested and eventually all fluffy. sometimes the best happy endings are those we earn, right? title, etc, from freelance whales' "ghosting." gorgeous.]
...
(seven different places need a bit of mending) we use our eyes to fill in most the gaps
.
(but oh you caught me sleeping in the power sockets, you caught me mildew in the tiles of the bathroom. and oh, you shot a glance like i was doing okay, but i am never on my way.)
...
(monday.)
.
When Lucy is eight, she brings home the third book in the Harry Potter series, proudly. Her teacher had given it to her as a present, because she'd written such an "imaginative and meaningful" short story that she shared aloud with the class.
She bounds off of the bus with it, Frannie dragging along behind her with an eye-roll but a smile, beautiful and wispy, tendrils of her hair floating in the breeze, her skirt pressed along one side of her body. Frannie's striking because she reminds you of the children you'd see in old films, the children who didn't last the movie, who died of tuberculosis or polio or some other awful disease. Frannie isn't like that, though; she's deceptively strong, athletic, smart and talented, but she works to fill moments. She's not solid.
Not like Lucy.
Lucy inhabits space unlike anyone you've ever seen: She's gentle with it, pushing at the corners tenderly, crinkling the edges of pages instead of filling them, afraid to shift anything too much. It's breathtaking, this elegance she was born with, this sweeping, quiet passion and kindness and silky cape of melancholy, but it terrifies you at the same time.
Lucy brings her new book with her to read at Frannie's soccer practice, and then, when you go home, she sits at the kitchen table while you make dinner.
"Do you have homework?" you ask.
She doesn't lift her head from the book. "Of course not."
You smile softly as you make sure the pot roast is done.
Russell gets home just as dinner is finished, after Lucy and Frannie have set the table.
"Frances, wash your hands," he instructs, putting down his briefcase. Frannie glances at her hands-which are constantly smudged with at least a little bit of paint or charcoal-and shrugs, then scrubs at them at the kitchen sink.
Then Russell looks at Lucy and you're about to tell him how proud you (should be) of her present from her teacher, for her accomplishments, when he says, "What book is that?"
Lucy looks up, wide-eyed at his harsh tone. "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban."
Russell's face gets red. "Who gave you that?"
"Miss Foster. I-I wrote a story and it was the best in the class and-"
"You're not allowed to read those books, Lucy." Russell yanks the book from beneath Lucy's small hands. "They're witchcraft."
Lucy's lower lip starts to tremble and then tears spill down her cheeks as Russell tosses the book in the trash, then takes his place at the head of the table. Frannie dries her hands, sits down violently across from Lucy, who's sniffling, and then, as you put down Russell's plate in front of him, Frannie stands up.
"Jesus Christ, Dad," she says. "Sometimes people just need heroes, okay?"
"Frances," he yells, but she walks toward the front door.
"Frannie," you try.
Lucy stares.
"And the paint's not ever going to come off my hands," Frannie says before she slams the door.
Lucy smiles into her mashed potatoes.
...
(tuesday.)
.
From outside of Frannie's room, you hear her crying when she comes home from college after Lucy-Quinn-has her surgery. You watch through the crack of the door as Frannie traces the line of Quinn's perfect nose with shaky fingers; you think of E.E. Cummings and the power of intense fragility.
"What's wrong?" Quinn asks, and Quinn sits down on the edge of Frannie's bed, where she's curled up, messy and careless, crumpled in on herself.
Frannie turns away from Quinn but grabs her hand.
"I thought you'd-I want to be like you," Quinn whispers.
Frannie screams a little into her pillow before turning to Quinn. "You have to be like you," she says, then stands up, throwing on a coat.
Quinn doesn't move to stop her; she sits perfectly still on the bed, and you move silently into the little crook of dark hallway outside Frannie's room as you hear Frannie step toward the door.
"Lucy," Frannie says, and her voice breaks. "Don't run away."
As soon as Frannie's down the stairs, Quinn says, "I can't."
...
(wednesday.)
.
Quinn squeezes your hand, hard. She cries and every part of her fills as much space as possible, without apology, and it's the first time you've ever seen her become anywhere near truly violent.
At the beginning of Beth's life, you strangely think then of the god Shiva-recalling from your one World Religions class in college-because Quinn is at once creator and destroyer: Beth is perfect, and she looks like Frannie; Quinn is empty, in all senses of the word.
Two days later, Quinn is back at home (or living in your house, because you're not entirely sure they're quite the same thing anymore). She doesn't talk, and you don't really ever catch her crying. She reads, and she runs.
One day, you come home earlier than normal from work, quietly open and close the front door-Quinn flinches when anything is too loud-and see Quinn kissing Santana Lopez on the couch in the living room.
You stand in the doorway for a few moments, trying not to make a sound and trying to remember to breathe. Quinn is balancing above Santana, and she doesn't have a shirt on. Santana's darker hands roam down along the waistband of Quinn's running shorts.
Quinn is crying; you remember that Shiva is also in charge of concealing.
You shuffle out of the room and shut the front door silently, then sit in your car until you see Santana leave.
When you go back inside, you keep your breathing even and try to think that Quinn is just hurting, that she's just going through a phase, that she's just rebelling.
"How're you?" you ask when you see Quinn sitting on the couch. She's put on a t-shirt. She's reading.
You're both good at lying, because she tells you, "Fine."
...
(thursday.)
.
After Quinn's diagnosed with depression, she sits down on the couch in your living room and tells you, "I-I've been hurting myself for a year."
You don't have any idea of what to tell her, how to say you're sorry. How to begin to tell her that you've pushed back her disappearing the same way she disappeared: frantically, harshly, unnaturally.
She takes your hand and continues quietly. "After Beth was born, I couldn't feel-right. I'm sick, Mom," she says, and it sounds like breaking; it's gentle. "But I don't want to be like this anymore. Last year and this summer-I-I'm going to get better. I'm going to be happy."
After you hug her, after you cry, the next day, on your lunch break, you drive to the Barnes & Noble at the mall. You wander around for a few minutes before you find the Psychology section, and then you stand above the shelf that has book after book about depression. You glance around quickly and imagine for a second how much bravery it must have taken for Quinn to ask you for help, because it's nearly impossible for you to even pick up a book off the shelf; then you take a deep breath and pick up one labeled Understanding Teen Depression.
You buy it; you ask for a bag.
But later that night, when Quinn walks into your room in underwear and a t-shirt, you don't hurry to hide it under your pillow or sheets.
She stares at the book for a few seconds before she smiles a little. "Goodnight, Mom," she says.
"I love you," you tell her.
"I love you too."
...
(friday.)
.
You meet Collin just after Quinn turns twenty-one. He's just moved to town from Kansas City; he's a lawyer. You meet him at the grocery store. He asks you out to coffee, and you agree. He reminds you nothing of Russell; it's May.
His wife passed away from cancer four years ago, so you talk about your kids instead. He has a son a year older than Frannie, who is a cardiologist practicing in Denver.
You tell him about Frannie, about how when she was born you were always so afraid of how much power she held, like holding the most beautiful bomb in the world, one you were sure had the potential to destroy everything if it went off. You tell him about Quinn, who held power in a different sort of way, like a willow in a storm-she never breaks. You tell him about Frannie and Robert, who are getting married in October. You tell him about Quinn and Rachel, who have been together two and a half years now.
You're fiercely proud of both of your girls. You hold your breath.
Collin simply smiles. "Your kids sound amazing," he says. "I'd love to meet them sometime."
You reach out for his hand. "Quinn and Rachel will be home from school next week."
...
(saturday.)
.
When Quinn is a few months into her second year of grad school, Rachel calls you one morning, early. She sniffles, and your heart rockets through your chest, roaring and scorching, reckless, when Rachel says, "Quinn's in the hospital-she woke up in the middle of the night with a fever and she has pneumonia and now they-the doctors, they want to do another thorocatomy because the bottom half of Quinn's lung is just too damaged and-"
"-Rachel," you say, calming, even though you're panicking too. "Hey, she's going to be okay." You say it for yourself, too, because you need to believe it, because you'll never quite banish the image of Quinn, years ago, stitched together and bruised and so hurt, out of your head, although you think that maybe your chest remembers it best, with a frantic ache.
Rachel takes a shaky breath. "They want to operate today because Quinn's having trouble breathing."
"Can I-is she-"
"Hi, Mom," Quinn says. Her voice is quiet and raspy and sleepy, sloppy, not precise like you're used to. "Love you."
"I love you too," you tell her, and then Rachel's back on the phone.
"I'll give her a hug from you," she says.
"Thank you, Rach," you say. You mean it.
You make plans immediately to get two tickets to New York; Collin is beside you the entire time, simply and stoically.
When you get there, Rachel meets you in the lobby. She's wearing sweatpants and one of Quinn's old Yale sweaters, and her hair is loosely braided. She doesn't have any makeup on, and she looks exhausted, which you know is because she hasn't slept since the middle of the night before, and now it's evening of the next day. You hug her tightly and kiss the top of her head, because you know that Quinn's everything to her.
Rachel wipes a few tears and starts off purposefully in the direction of the elevators. "Quinn should be out of surgery soon," Rachel says, getting out of the elevator when it reaches the correct floor, leading them to a waiting room that says OR above it. "So far all of the updates have been good."
You nod and Collin squeezes your hand with a small smile; you sit down next to Rachel. Soon, a doctor walks toward Rachel, and she quickly explains who you are. The doctor smiles and says that Quinn did perfectly, that she's just waking up but she's already off the ventilator and should be back in her room in about an hour.
You all thank the doctor and Rachel slumps back against her seat when she leaves, running her hands over her face.
The next hour passes quickly and then someone is leading you down a maze of hallways to Quinn's room. She's lying on her right side in the bed, hugging a pillow, and her gown is pushed aside so that a new incision, running just above Quinn's tattoo, is left exposed, stapled together and covered with a thin layer of bandages. She crinkles her nose, and her hair messy and short and spilling into her face.
Rachel walks toward her without hesitation-not like the first time Quinn had been in the hospital, when Rachel had wavered at the doorway and cried silent tears-and this time Rachel smiles sadly when Quinn pokes her right arm, clad with a hospital bracelet, out from under the pillow and flutters it around in the air.
Rachel takes it and sits down and Quinn mumbles something along the lines of I told you so, which makes Rachel emit a strangled laugh, before Rachel brushes aside her bangs and kisses her forehead.
You and Collin sit beside Rachel, and Quinn smiles at you and manages a hello before she falls asleep again. You stay with her until visiting hours are over, and Rachel wants to stay the night. She offers to let you and Collin stay in the guest bedroom of she and Quinn's apartment.
You agree, and after Rachel gives you a key and directions on how to get there. Their apartment is airy for New York, you think, with more windows, and you see so much of Quinn in it that you almost never want to leave. There's a desk with a typewriter and a MacBook Pro on it, cluttered with poetry anthologies and fountain pens and journal after journal. There's a record player and neat shelf full of vinyl-sometime in the past year, Rachel must have made Quinn relinquish her prized plastic crates. One of Frannie's oil paintings is hanging over a fireplace, and there's a framed Playbill from Rachel's first Broadway show on the wall above a small bookshelf.
You peek in Quinn and Rachel's large bedroom, which is neat all but for the unmade bed and a pair of Quinn's wedges near a dresser. There are pictures of them everywhere, smiling, moments of happiness, so easily documented.
The guest bedroom is small but pretty, and it has its own tiny bathroom. The fridge is full of fruits and vegetables and vegan forms of food, a few cartons of Chinese takeout, and there's a fresh loaf of rosemary bread on the kitchen counter.
The entire place smells like Quinn.
You rise early the next morning-not because you couldn't sleep, but just because you want to see Quinn-and head to the hospital with Collin. When you get to Quinn's room, Santana and Brittany are already there, dozing off in a chair and a half, and Rachel has managed to fit into bed with Quinn, her arm wrapped so carefully around Quinn's waist, their noses almost touching. It's at that moment you realise with calm and wonderful certainty that Rachel is Quinn's opposite: not the world, not large enough to fight off storms, not the source of Quinn's life, but that Rachel is spring; she lets Quinn be alive. They're growing and building such an astoundingly unremarkable, normal, functional, miraculous life together.
You don't tell them that the night before you'd happened upon a blue box from Tiffany's hidden behind the guest towels in the closet, which you know is meant for Quinn because she'd discussed ring specifications with you before.
You have no doubt that it will be soon, though, and that Quinn's answer will be yes, because when she wakes a few minutes later and groans, Rachel's eyes snap open and she kisses Quinn softly.
Quinn smiles, even though you're certain she's in a lot of pain.
...
(sunday.)
.
You imagine so much for them, like a perfect wedding (Quinn said yes, the day before her twenty-fifth birthday, and the wedding will be in spring, full of gardenias), or having them call and tell you excitedly that Rachel's pregnant.
What you've imagined longest, though, is this: Quinn's first novel-her published MFA thesis-is critically acclaimed from the moment it debuts. You read it all the time, buy it whenever you see it, even though Quinn already sent you four copies; Frannie designed the cover. You and Collin frequently go on dates to the Barnes & Noble at the mall, just to smile at its spot on the Bestseller shelf; (he asks you to marry him here, just like that, and you say yes, because he loves them like you do). Quinn is soon being heralded as the next Gabriel Garcia Marquez, with her distinct magical realism, and yet something entirely new, with her lyrical prose, the implicit strength and fragility of her characters; sometimes her style is reminiscent of Cummings, they say.
One particularly favourable write-up in The New York Times says that Quinn's main character is a stitching together of ghosts, of myths, of gods like Shiva-Quinn says they're called antiheroes-into a being just tangible enough to exist, someone so gentle and powerful that heartache is inevitable and painful and cherishable. The strangest, strongest, most necessary and real sort of hero: Someone who is not really a hero at all.
Then, expectedly and remarkably, Quinn's novel is nominated for a National Book Award. She's twenty-five.
One morning, your phone rings. "They just called me," Quinn says, her voice wobbling. You hear Rachel whooping in the background. "I won."