(no subject)
Title: Things I Never Said
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG-13 (character death)
Timeline: Goes AU after Do No Harm.
Summary: Future Fic. Aaron POV. The survivors gather after the death of one of their own.
The day the letter comes mum looks a little more weary, downtrodden. Her fingers are trembling as she opens the envelope, her name written neatly in what is obviously a woman’s scrawl. It’s fancy, like I saw on an invitation to a wedding that we never went to. Didn’t matter in the long run since the divorce was only a year afterwards. Mum says it’s because Aunt Shannon doesn’t know what she wants, or maybe she can’t have what she wants, I can’t remember which. Normally mum’s happy when she gets letters from the other survivors, but she tells me she has a bad feeling about this one as she unfolds the letter. After she reads it she goes upstairs and I don’t hear more from her for a straight hour. I linger outside her door to see if she’s crying but she’s not, she’s just sitting there as far as I can tell.
I’m halfway through my homework when she comes back down, phone in hand. Her gaze is on me, but it’s not looking at me so much as looking through me. “We’re going to Los Angeles.”
This comes as a surprise to me. I’ve been there only once, when I was a baby mum says, the day after we were rescued we landed there. But she never liked the city, she said it was too polluted, and too busy. Plus she didn’t like the threats of earthquakes and wildfires at any given time. So we moved back to Australia after they were done questioning everyone, and haven’t been back since. I’ve seen other letters inviting us to weddings, baby showers, even a reunion or two. Mum always brushes them off and writes back that we would if we could but she’s got work, or I’ve got school, or money’s too tight right now. She didn’t dismiss this one immediately, and now we’re actually going. It makes me curious. “What for?”
She’s silent for a moment, and her fingers gliding over the rubber buttons on the phone is getting a bit distracting. Finally, she takes a deep breath, and speaks, “The funeral.”
My eyes widen. She doesn’t give me a name, but walks out with the phone pressed to her ear instead. I reach for the letter that she’s left on the table, and skim it looking for a name. The return address is marked with Sun’s name, and I remember her because I’ve seen her the few times she’s come to visit. No one would be writing a letter about their own funeral so I continue scanning it until I find the name that has to be it. This one I remember only from comments made in passing by mum, or Shannon, even Hurley. But I’ve never seen this person and why the death holds so much weight to my mother is a mystery to me.
We’re on a plane to Los Angeles three days later.
-------------
After the funeral, mum struggles to keep me with her as she mingles with her old friends. I don’t mind so much because I’d rather be with her than among the three dozen or so strangers that fill the room, for some sort of reception. Hurley musters a smile when he sees me, but he’s the only one who does so, and it fades soon afterwards. He gives me a pat on the shoulder as he leaves to go talk to a man who has just entered.
Sun approaches us next, and she hugs mum before speaking in that softly accented voice of hers, “I am glad you came. I wasn’t sure where to send the letter, I did not even know if you still lived there.”
“How come you wrote the invitations? I assumed that-” Mum begins, but Sun interrupts.
“She couldn’t bring herself to. It has been some time since I have seen anyone so broken up.” Sun’s face has sympathy written all over it. Of course, I don’t actually know who they are talking about but I don’t speak up. I figure I’ll find out sooner or later.
“Where is she?” Mum starts scanning the room for this woman, then goes back to looking at Sun, a good give away that whoever she is isn’t in the room right now. “She is coming right?”
Sun nods her head, “She is probably in the rest room. I am sure she will want to see you.”
They start talking and playing catch-up and I use that time to slip out of the room. It’s more crowded than anywhere I’ve been before and it’s suffocating. I nearly run into a Middle Eastern man on my way out. He mumbles an ‘excuse me’ and continues on inside. Another survivor I haven’t met yet, I assume. Sometimes I wonder why my mother didn’t keep in contact with these people from the crash. I know if I were stranded on an island for several months I’d want to keep in contact with my fellow survivors, if only because they would feel like family. I was stranded there too, but there’s only so much a six-month old can do.
The building has a long spiral staircase that looks like the one in an old black and white movie my mum likes. It leads out to a small hallway and then to the front door. They’re long enough in fact that I’m halfway down them before I even see the silhouette of a woman clothed in black, hunched over on the last step. Black heels are placed next to her form. She is so still that it could almost be a trick of my tired mind. Mum says you start seeing things after a while when you’re very tired. But she also says it’s usually something you want to see so I know that’s not it. I don’t even know this woman.
I go on down the stairs because as mum says I’m too curious for my own good. She doesn’t move as I pass by, but when I come to stand in front of her on the hardwood floor she looks up, placing her chin on folded arms that hug her knees. It’s the first time I get a good look at her. Her eyes are rimmed red and there are tiny black dots underneath them. I figure it’s probably that stuff mum uses-oh what is it-mascara, yeah that’s it. The brown hair, that looks like it was originally put up in some sort of updo, now falls in waves on her shoulders. “What?” She asks, eyes glassy.
“Why aren’t you up there?” I respond, pointing to the room I just left. I wonder if it’s for the same reason I’m here. To get away from everyone, all these faces I don’t know.
Her face contorts, and she gives this look that scolds me for asking, like I should already know. “I just want to be alone.” She puts her head back down, probably because she thinks I’ll just leave but really I’ve got nothing better to do. She looks at me again, but this time she isn’t so annoyed. “You don’t have a clue what’s going on do you?”
I nod, my blonde hair getting in my face as I do so. “My mum brought me. Said it was real important.” I take a seat next to her on the steps, moving her shoes down, and she doesn’t seem to mind. “Everyone thinks I remember, I guess that’s why no one bothers to tell me anything.”
There’s a flash of recognition in her eyes, and she tilts her head slightly at me. “Aaron?” Her voice is breathy. “You’re Claire’s son aren’t you?”
“Yep.” I find it strange if not disconcerting that she can tell who I am, but I still don’t know a thing about her identity. Though something tells me she’s the woman my mum and Sun we’re talking about.
“It was there the night you were born. I delivered you.” She sighs faintly, the memory obviously holding a deeper meaning to it for her. I barely remember mum saying something about this but I can’t pull out any names.
“Are you a doctor?” It’s a safe bet because, as far as I know, doctor’s always deliver babies. I think I remember someone saying there had been a doctor on the plane. Maybe she’s it.
A tear falls down her freckled cheeks, and she shakes her head. “No, I’m not a doctor.” She closes her eyes to push back more tears and takes a shaky breath. “Jack was busy, so he couldn’t come. I had to deliver you instead.”
There’s that name again. Jack. The one I read on the letter. She’s most definitely the broken up woman they were talking about. “Were you two married?”
Regret is plain on her face. “No. No we weren’t.” It wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “We were just good friends.” It’s bad when a kid can see right through your lies.
She lets her head drop again, and I place a small hand on her back. It’s something I’ve seen others do to comfort someone. Surprisingly she doesn’t shrug me off, just shakes underneath my touch. I can tell she’s started crying again. We sit like that for a while before her shaking subsides and I remove my hand, letting it fall back into my lap. Bravely, I ask, “Are you going to up there now?”
When she glances at me this time, she actually smiles a little, through sparkling tears, and nods. “Yeah, I will soon.” Apparently she needs more time. “But you should go back up now. You’re mom will be worried.”
I shrug my shoulders, and wrinkle my nose, but I still get up and head up the stairs. Mum raised me to listen to my elders, and I do. Most of the time. I know that I shouldn’t have wandered off in the first place anyways and that guilt surpasses any apprehension I have about going back. Maybe, if I’m lucky, mum won’t have noticed that I was gone.
She whispers something, and I have to think about it a moment before I realize what she said. Thanks. It makes me feel like I did something good, and if I do get in trouble it might have been worth it.
--------------
Back inside, mum doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’ve gone anywhere. She’s deep in conversation with Sun, and now it appears to include an African American man, and what might be his son. I gravitate towards Shannon once I see that Hurley seems to also be in a conversation. She’s the last person here that I know. She sits by herself, alternating glaring between the Middle Eastern man I ran into earlier, and an older bald man. I bet one of them is the guy she was married to.
Shannon gives me a smile that’s colder than I’ve seen from her before, and asks why I’m not with my mum, and why I’m even here at this man’s funeral. When she says his name it’s bitter. The smell of her breath is strong and distinct. It reminds me of a boyfriend mum once had. He was loud and angry sometimes, usually late at night, and mum said it was because he was drunk. I think that must be what Shannon is. Drunk. I’m not even completely sure of the concept, except that it makes you say stuff that’s on your mind. Mum finally spots me, and gently escorts me away from Shannon, right around the time she mutters “Bastard” under her breath. That was aimed at the bald man I take it. When I ask mum if Shannon’s drunk she mumbles a yes, and looks at her disapprovingly.
At some point in all of this, my new friend from the stairs has come up like she said she would. She sends as much of a smile as she can muster my way when she sees me, and, catching this, mum raises an eyebrow. I give her my best look of innocence but she clearly isn’t buying it.
She’s only there for a minute or so before someone else slips inside. It’s a man this time. He’s tall, with shaggy dirty blonde hair and three day old stubble. He is one of those people who look completely out of place here. Concerned eyes scan the room, and I watch him walk over to the woman, coming up behind her.
A hand lands on her shoulder and turns her around to face him in one smooth movement. She’s in his arms as soon as she sees him, grasping at his sides to hold herself to him. No one else seems to notice the two; everybody is too immersed in conversation, and themselves. If I strain my ears, I’m close enough to hear her muffled voice crying out into the man’s shirt. Choruses of ‘I can’t believe he’s gone’, and ‘I’m so glad you’re here,” and ‘I never got to tell him’. He kisses the top of her head, and holds her tighter, and I think this must have been why she was on those steps. She was waiting for this man who seems to be the only one from which she can get the comfort she truly needs. Just his presence soothes her. I watch his eyes drift towards the photo on the table, of a man with short dark brown hair, and a smile on his lips that looks almost playful, before he looks away like he’s sickened. The man in the photo is Jack, I decide. The woman was in love with him. And the man who holds her now must’ve been the guy who lost out in all of this. At least that’s the story I’ve made up for them. Whether it holds any truth at this moment is irrelevant.
I have to look away through because it feels like I’m intruding on something that has nothing to do with me. Shifting my attention back to my mother I speak up. “Why are there so many people here?” I’ve never been to a funeral, and certainly never to the part afterwards. It just seems odd that so many people would gather together for somebody who is no longer alive anymore.
“When we were on the island, Jack was our leader. He didn’t want to be but he was. Everything was chaotic and he took charge. If you needed help he didn’t back down and he tried to fix whatever he could even if it was beyond fixing. And he was a hero.” The way she says it reminds me of the comic books that lay on my bed at home. Somehow I figure she doesn’t mean someone who wore a red cape or flew around saving the world. I’m old enough to know that’s not anything a real person does. I think she means someone selfless, someone who always tried to do good. “At one point or another I think he saved all of us. You can’t let something like that go unrecognized. So I’m here because I wanted to say goodbye. That’s why everyone’s here. To say the things we never got to say.”
Looking back at the woman from the stairs, who’s still crying into the man, I think back in what she said, that she never got to tell Jack something. I don’t know for sure what it was, but she’s admitting it now, just like mum is saying. But what does it matter once a person’s gone? Why tell things to a lifeless body in a casket, or to friends who it doesn’t matter to? I remember a teacher once told me it was because the person is watching us from heaven. But how do we know? And why do we wait?
One the plane back home I make a promise to myself never to wait that long. And I remember to tell my mum I love her everyday as I go off to school because you never know when it will be the last time. And I don’t want to spend my life thinking about the things I never said.
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG-13 (character death)
Timeline: Goes AU after Do No Harm.
Summary: Future Fic. Aaron POV. The survivors gather after the death of one of their own.
The day the letter comes mum looks a little more weary, downtrodden. Her fingers are trembling as she opens the envelope, her name written neatly in what is obviously a woman’s scrawl. It’s fancy, like I saw on an invitation to a wedding that we never went to. Didn’t matter in the long run since the divorce was only a year afterwards. Mum says it’s because Aunt Shannon doesn’t know what she wants, or maybe she can’t have what she wants, I can’t remember which. Normally mum’s happy when she gets letters from the other survivors, but she tells me she has a bad feeling about this one as she unfolds the letter. After she reads it she goes upstairs and I don’t hear more from her for a straight hour. I linger outside her door to see if she’s crying but she’s not, she’s just sitting there as far as I can tell.
I’m halfway through my homework when she comes back down, phone in hand. Her gaze is on me, but it’s not looking at me so much as looking through me. “We’re going to Los Angeles.”
This comes as a surprise to me. I’ve been there only once, when I was a baby mum says, the day after we were rescued we landed there. But she never liked the city, she said it was too polluted, and too busy. Plus she didn’t like the threats of earthquakes and wildfires at any given time. So we moved back to Australia after they were done questioning everyone, and haven’t been back since. I’ve seen other letters inviting us to weddings, baby showers, even a reunion or two. Mum always brushes them off and writes back that we would if we could but she’s got work, or I’ve got school, or money’s too tight right now. She didn’t dismiss this one immediately, and now we’re actually going. It makes me curious. “What for?”
She’s silent for a moment, and her fingers gliding over the rubber buttons on the phone is getting a bit distracting. Finally, she takes a deep breath, and speaks, “The funeral.”
My eyes widen. She doesn’t give me a name, but walks out with the phone pressed to her ear instead. I reach for the letter that she’s left on the table, and skim it looking for a name. The return address is marked with Sun’s name, and I remember her because I’ve seen her the few times she’s come to visit. No one would be writing a letter about their own funeral so I continue scanning it until I find the name that has to be it. This one I remember only from comments made in passing by mum, or Shannon, even Hurley. But I’ve never seen this person and why the death holds so much weight to my mother is a mystery to me.
We’re on a plane to Los Angeles three days later.
-------------
After the funeral, mum struggles to keep me with her as she mingles with her old friends. I don’t mind so much because I’d rather be with her than among the three dozen or so strangers that fill the room, for some sort of reception. Hurley musters a smile when he sees me, but he’s the only one who does so, and it fades soon afterwards. He gives me a pat on the shoulder as he leaves to go talk to a man who has just entered.
Sun approaches us next, and she hugs mum before speaking in that softly accented voice of hers, “I am glad you came. I wasn’t sure where to send the letter, I did not even know if you still lived there.”
“How come you wrote the invitations? I assumed that-” Mum begins, but Sun interrupts.
“She couldn’t bring herself to. It has been some time since I have seen anyone so broken up.” Sun’s face has sympathy written all over it. Of course, I don’t actually know who they are talking about but I don’t speak up. I figure I’ll find out sooner or later.
“Where is she?” Mum starts scanning the room for this woman, then goes back to looking at Sun, a good give away that whoever she is isn’t in the room right now. “She is coming right?”
Sun nods her head, “She is probably in the rest room. I am sure she will want to see you.”
They start talking and playing catch-up and I use that time to slip out of the room. It’s more crowded than anywhere I’ve been before and it’s suffocating. I nearly run into a Middle Eastern man on my way out. He mumbles an ‘excuse me’ and continues on inside. Another survivor I haven’t met yet, I assume. Sometimes I wonder why my mother didn’t keep in contact with these people from the crash. I know if I were stranded on an island for several months I’d want to keep in contact with my fellow survivors, if only because they would feel like family. I was stranded there too, but there’s only so much a six-month old can do.
The building has a long spiral staircase that looks like the one in an old black and white movie my mum likes. It leads out to a small hallway and then to the front door. They’re long enough in fact that I’m halfway down them before I even see the silhouette of a woman clothed in black, hunched over on the last step. Black heels are placed next to her form. She is so still that it could almost be a trick of my tired mind. Mum says you start seeing things after a while when you’re very tired. But she also says it’s usually something you want to see so I know that’s not it. I don’t even know this woman.
I go on down the stairs because as mum says I’m too curious for my own good. She doesn’t move as I pass by, but when I come to stand in front of her on the hardwood floor she looks up, placing her chin on folded arms that hug her knees. It’s the first time I get a good look at her. Her eyes are rimmed red and there are tiny black dots underneath them. I figure it’s probably that stuff mum uses-oh what is it-mascara, yeah that’s it. The brown hair, that looks like it was originally put up in some sort of updo, now falls in waves on her shoulders. “What?” She asks, eyes glassy.
“Why aren’t you up there?” I respond, pointing to the room I just left. I wonder if it’s for the same reason I’m here. To get away from everyone, all these faces I don’t know.
Her face contorts, and she gives this look that scolds me for asking, like I should already know. “I just want to be alone.” She puts her head back down, probably because she thinks I’ll just leave but really I’ve got nothing better to do. She looks at me again, but this time she isn’t so annoyed. “You don’t have a clue what’s going on do you?”
I nod, my blonde hair getting in my face as I do so. “My mum brought me. Said it was real important.” I take a seat next to her on the steps, moving her shoes down, and she doesn’t seem to mind. “Everyone thinks I remember, I guess that’s why no one bothers to tell me anything.”
There’s a flash of recognition in her eyes, and she tilts her head slightly at me. “Aaron?” Her voice is breathy. “You’re Claire’s son aren’t you?”
“Yep.” I find it strange if not disconcerting that she can tell who I am, but I still don’t know a thing about her identity. Though something tells me she’s the woman my mum and Sun we’re talking about.
“It was there the night you were born. I delivered you.” She sighs faintly, the memory obviously holding a deeper meaning to it for her. I barely remember mum saying something about this but I can’t pull out any names.
“Are you a doctor?” It’s a safe bet because, as far as I know, doctor’s always deliver babies. I think I remember someone saying there had been a doctor on the plane. Maybe she’s it.
A tear falls down her freckled cheeks, and she shakes her head. “No, I’m not a doctor.” She closes her eyes to push back more tears and takes a shaky breath. “Jack was busy, so he couldn’t come. I had to deliver you instead.”
There’s that name again. Jack. The one I read on the letter. She’s most definitely the broken up woman they were talking about. “Were you two married?”
Regret is plain on her face. “No. No we weren’t.” It wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “We were just good friends.” It’s bad when a kid can see right through your lies.
She lets her head drop again, and I place a small hand on her back. It’s something I’ve seen others do to comfort someone. Surprisingly she doesn’t shrug me off, just shakes underneath my touch. I can tell she’s started crying again. We sit like that for a while before her shaking subsides and I remove my hand, letting it fall back into my lap. Bravely, I ask, “Are you going to up there now?”
When she glances at me this time, she actually smiles a little, through sparkling tears, and nods. “Yeah, I will soon.” Apparently she needs more time. “But you should go back up now. You’re mom will be worried.”
I shrug my shoulders, and wrinkle my nose, but I still get up and head up the stairs. Mum raised me to listen to my elders, and I do. Most of the time. I know that I shouldn’t have wandered off in the first place anyways and that guilt surpasses any apprehension I have about going back. Maybe, if I’m lucky, mum won’t have noticed that I was gone.
She whispers something, and I have to think about it a moment before I realize what she said. Thanks. It makes me feel like I did something good, and if I do get in trouble it might have been worth it.
--------------
Back inside, mum doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’ve gone anywhere. She’s deep in conversation with Sun, and now it appears to include an African American man, and what might be his son. I gravitate towards Shannon once I see that Hurley seems to also be in a conversation. She’s the last person here that I know. She sits by herself, alternating glaring between the Middle Eastern man I ran into earlier, and an older bald man. I bet one of them is the guy she was married to.
Shannon gives me a smile that’s colder than I’ve seen from her before, and asks why I’m not with my mum, and why I’m even here at this man’s funeral. When she says his name it’s bitter. The smell of her breath is strong and distinct. It reminds me of a boyfriend mum once had. He was loud and angry sometimes, usually late at night, and mum said it was because he was drunk. I think that must be what Shannon is. Drunk. I’m not even completely sure of the concept, except that it makes you say stuff that’s on your mind. Mum finally spots me, and gently escorts me away from Shannon, right around the time she mutters “Bastard” under her breath. That was aimed at the bald man I take it. When I ask mum if Shannon’s drunk she mumbles a yes, and looks at her disapprovingly.
At some point in all of this, my new friend from the stairs has come up like she said she would. She sends as much of a smile as she can muster my way when she sees me, and, catching this, mum raises an eyebrow. I give her my best look of innocence but she clearly isn’t buying it.
She’s only there for a minute or so before someone else slips inside. It’s a man this time. He’s tall, with shaggy dirty blonde hair and three day old stubble. He is one of those people who look completely out of place here. Concerned eyes scan the room, and I watch him walk over to the woman, coming up behind her.
A hand lands on her shoulder and turns her around to face him in one smooth movement. She’s in his arms as soon as she sees him, grasping at his sides to hold herself to him. No one else seems to notice the two; everybody is too immersed in conversation, and themselves. If I strain my ears, I’m close enough to hear her muffled voice crying out into the man’s shirt. Choruses of ‘I can’t believe he’s gone’, and ‘I’m so glad you’re here,” and ‘I never got to tell him’. He kisses the top of her head, and holds her tighter, and I think this must have been why she was on those steps. She was waiting for this man who seems to be the only one from which she can get the comfort she truly needs. Just his presence soothes her. I watch his eyes drift towards the photo on the table, of a man with short dark brown hair, and a smile on his lips that looks almost playful, before he looks away like he’s sickened. The man in the photo is Jack, I decide. The woman was in love with him. And the man who holds her now must’ve been the guy who lost out in all of this. At least that’s the story I’ve made up for them. Whether it holds any truth at this moment is irrelevant.
I have to look away through because it feels like I’m intruding on something that has nothing to do with me. Shifting my attention back to my mother I speak up. “Why are there so many people here?” I’ve never been to a funeral, and certainly never to the part afterwards. It just seems odd that so many people would gather together for somebody who is no longer alive anymore.
“When we were on the island, Jack was our leader. He didn’t want to be but he was. Everything was chaotic and he took charge. If you needed help he didn’t back down and he tried to fix whatever he could even if it was beyond fixing. And he was a hero.” The way she says it reminds me of the comic books that lay on my bed at home. Somehow I figure she doesn’t mean someone who wore a red cape or flew around saving the world. I’m old enough to know that’s not anything a real person does. I think she means someone selfless, someone who always tried to do good. “At one point or another I think he saved all of us. You can’t let something like that go unrecognized. So I’m here because I wanted to say goodbye. That’s why everyone’s here. To say the things we never got to say.”
Looking back at the woman from the stairs, who’s still crying into the man, I think back in what she said, that she never got to tell Jack something. I don’t know for sure what it was, but she’s admitting it now, just like mum is saying. But what does it matter once a person’s gone? Why tell things to a lifeless body in a casket, or to friends who it doesn’t matter to? I remember a teacher once told me it was because the person is watching us from heaven. But how do we know? And why do we wait?
One the plane back home I make a promise to myself never to wait that long. And I remember to tell my mum I love her everyday as I go off to school because you never know when it will be the last time. And I don’t want to spend my life thinking about the things I never said.