There's a part of her that can be proud about how utterly steady her voice is.
(Forget that she's got her hand resting just below her throat, fingers spread, as though trying to keep something in. Forget that she's stood poised like that, stood still, for the last five minutes.)
There's a part of her that she's doing her very best to ignore, to shove down and away. That will be for later, when everything is taken care of, when she's alone.
(Her sons are -- were -- very different, and while Peter never saw everything, he always seemed to see enough to know. And in turn, she always let him.
Not any more.)
And then there's the part of her that will do what has to be done. That will show Nathan the way. She's had her turn for grief.
Nathan turned toward her voice, and could see how she was standing. Poised, and yet something wrong.
"Where is he?"
He started to walk through the doorway, and then he caught sight of where she was looking. At the person laid out on the settee. Peter's head was tilted to the side, and as he got closer. He noticed the blood on his cheeks, but it was getting harder to see as tears began to obscure Nathan's vision of the grisly sight.
Dear God! how beauty varies in nature and art. In a woman the flesh must be like marble; in a statue the marble must be like flesh.
Victor Hugo. She lets the thought (his autobiography, it's in French at her bedside, she reads when she can't sleep and she'll be reading from it tonight) repeat, resonate: in a woman the flesh must be like marble.
"He's gone, Nathan."
She doesn't move, and her voice doesn't shake; the flesh must be like marble.
But Nathan has his answer when he finally could make out Peter's clouded eyes staring at nothing.
"No, no." he cried.
He lifted him up to his arms, briefly remembering the times he picked him up as a baby, as a toddler, already looking out for his little brother. Burying his head into Peter's shoulders, trying not to think of how cold he was already.
"Peter. He isn't supposed to die this way! He wasn't supposed to die this way. He was wrong." Peter was wrong, and damn that bastard, Linderman was wrong too. But this meant the bomb wasn't to go off?
He finally lifted his head to glance over at his mother, "Oh what do we do?"
Nathan has had his moment of initial shock. And now he's trying to figure out what has to be done.
And it's the only thing that can be done, really, if one looks at it with logic; a death under suspicious circumstances, a violent death, clearly, and with all the mess about Peter and the building and the trip to the hospital for the suicide attempt --
And she'll have to explain it. And in explanation --
"Till after the election." In explanation she can move. She can stop trying to hold it in; she can let her hand fall. "Last thing he would have wanted was to bring you down with him."
She's at their sides now, hands clasped loosely in front of her. Flesh as marble, marble as flesh.
(On a fundamental level she cannot bear to see her live son holding her dead son in his arms.
The challenge of humanity has always been to transcend its fundamental leanings.)
That thought doesn't make sense. It's kind of like saying the grass is purple.
But Peter's dead.
(Except he was supposed to be like her, Claire thinks. He shouldn't be. He shouldn't.)
She hears Nathan come in and waits a minute, waits another, and then decides that she's here, and Peter was her--was her uncle, she guesses, and heads towards the room, slowing when she reaches the door frame.
She really, Claire realizes, has no idea what you say in a situation like this. (She doesn't think anyone could have ever been in one like this before.)
This isn't fair.
She knows that sentence, if nothing else, is very true.
It doesn't really take that long to find the words she didn't think she had.
"I know you don't want me here." It's to her da--it's to Nathan, she thinks, but her eyes dart up to her grandmother (to Nathan and Peter's mother) as she says that, low and almost hoarse. "But I just want to see him." Her voice breaks, and then it's only hoarse again.
And she can see Nathan turn back to Peter, turn away from Claire -- and she can't blame him, not for that, not now -- but there's work to be done.
And Nathan has had his turn.
(Claire is a Petrelli. And they're all under her jurisdiction, there's no question about that.
Amid everything else --
She can feel sorry, deeply sorry, that this is Claire's introduction to her family. But there's no going back from here. There's only going forward, in a world without Peter in it.)
She gave Nathan his turn. Now, stately, august, calm, with authority: "Let the girl have her moment."
There was much he wanted to say. And no, he didn't want her here now, or not like this. Wishing they could meet in better circumstances. Wishing that he had been there for her growing up.
He carefully placed Peter's body back down on the settee, and got up.
Peter's her uncle, she does have the right to say goodbye.
So he got up, and joined Angela out in the hall. Seeking comfort of any kind now.
And wondering how he's going to go on without his brother in his life.
Her fingers brush against it, not quite cutting--or if it cuts, it's light enough she doesn't even know it before it heals--and Claire's breathing almost stops.
(If you cough up a bullet, it's like having a penny in your mouth and sucking on it. The taste is ridiculously similar. But it lingers, all through your mouth and throat and nose, for hours.)
She's careful when she moves his head, turns it, and sees the shard--it's bigger than she thought at the first touch--in his skull.
She almost wants to laugh.
It slides out with a sound that would turn her stomach if she hadn't had the skin burned off her body, if she hadn't heard that sound coming from inside her before, and she looks at the triangle of metal and the blood--less than she thought there would be--on it.
There's a part of her that can be proud about how utterly steady her voice is.
(Forget that she's got her hand resting just below her throat, fingers spread, as though trying to keep something in. Forget that she's stood poised like that, stood still, for the last five minutes.)
There's a part of her that she's doing her very best to ignore, to shove down and away. That will be for later, when everything is taken care of, when she's alone.
(Her sons are -- were -- very different, and while Peter never saw everything, he always seemed to see enough to know. And in turn, she always let him.
Not any more.)
And then there's the part of her that will do what has to be done. That will show Nathan the way. She's had her turn for grief.
Let him have his.
Reply
"Where is he?"
He started to walk through the doorway, and then he caught sight of where she was looking. At the person laid out on the settee. Peter's head was tilted to the side, and as he got closer. He noticed the blood on his cheeks, but it was getting harder to see as tears began to obscure Nathan's vision of the grisly sight.
He knelt down by him, starting to cry.
Reply
Victor Hugo. She lets the thought (his autobiography, it's in French at her bedside, she reads when she can't sleep and she'll be reading from it tonight) repeat, resonate: in a woman the flesh must be like marble.
"He's gone, Nathan."
She doesn't move, and her voice doesn't shake; the flesh must be like marble.
Reply
"No, no." he cried.
He lifted him up to his arms, briefly remembering the times he picked him up as a baby, as a toddler, already looking out for his little brother. Burying his head into Peter's shoulders, trying not to think of how cold he was already.
"Peter. He isn't supposed to die this way! He wasn't supposed to die this way. He was wrong." Peter was wrong, and damn that bastard, Linderman was wrong too. But this meant the bomb wasn't to go off?
He finally lifted his head to glance over at his mother, "Oh what do we do?"
Reply
Nathan has had his moment of initial shock. And now he's trying to figure out what has to be done.
And it's the only thing that can be done, really, if one looks at it with logic; a death under suspicious circumstances, a violent death, clearly, and with all the mess about Peter and the building and the trip to the hospital for the suicide attempt --
(One must look at it with logic.)
"We hide it."
Reply
Anything but what his mother stated.
He stared back at her, "What?"
Reply
"Till after the election." In explanation she can move. She can stop trying to hold it in; she can let her hand fall. "Last thing he would have wanted was to bring you down with him."
She's at their sides now, hands clasped loosely in front of her. Flesh as marble, marble as flesh.
(On a fundamental level she cannot bear to see her live son holding her dead son in his arms.
The challenge of humanity has always been to transcend its fundamental leanings.)
Reply
Despite his own interests, and ambitions, and maybe because of them, and Linderman's recent words to him. He didn't care anymore.
"Why does it matter anymore? Peter's dead. I'm not having this conversation."
Reply
That thought doesn't make sense. It's kind of like saying the grass is purple.
But Peter's dead.
(Except he was supposed to be like her, Claire thinks. He shouldn't be. He shouldn't.)
She hears Nathan come in and waits a minute, waits another, and then decides that she's here, and Peter was her--was her uncle, she guesses, and heads towards the room, slowing when she reaches the door frame.
She really, Claire realizes, has no idea what you say in a situation like this. (She doesn't think anyone could have ever been in one like this before.)
This isn't fair.
She knows that sentence, if nothing else, is very true.
Reply
He turned his head the other way, and was definitely surprised to see who was standing in the door frame.
The cellphone picture was very poor comparison.
"Claire," he said, and finding this awkward. Meeting his long believed dead daughter while holding his dead brother in his arms.
This... definitely wasn't the kind of family reunion he'd ever expect.
Reply
"I know you don't want me here." It's to her da--it's to Nathan, she thinks, but her eyes dart up to her grandmother (to Nathan and Peter's mother) as she says that, low and almost hoarse. "But I just want to see him." Her voice breaks, and then it's only hoarse again.
"I came all this way."
Reply
And she can see Nathan turn back to Peter, turn away from Claire -- and she can't blame him, not for that, not now -- but there's work to be done.
And Nathan has had his turn.
(Claire is a Petrelli. And they're all under her jurisdiction, there's no question about that.
Amid everything else --
She can feel sorry, deeply sorry, that this is Claire's introduction to her family. But there's no going back from here. There's only going forward, in a world without Peter in it.)
She gave Nathan his turn. Now, stately, august, calm, with authority: "Let the girl have her moment."
Nathan has had his.
She passes out of the room.
Reply
He carefully placed Peter's body back down on the settee, and got up.
Peter's her uncle, she does have the right to say goodbye.
So he got up, and joined Angela out in the hall. Seeking comfort of any kind now.
And wondering how he's going to go on without his brother in his life.
Reply
She didn't really pay attention to them leaving. They're just gone, and there's her.
And there's Peter.
She wonders, a little, if this is what she looked like on the autopsy table as she strokes his hair without thinking and looks at his face.
Claire doesn't know if she's crying or not.
"I didn't even get to know you." Now she can half cry, as she whispers. "You're the only one that made me feel safe."
She has to swallow around the lump in her throat.
"I thought you were like me."
He was supposed to be like her.
He's not supposed to be dead.
Reply
And there's something sharp hidden under the mass of dark hair.
Reply
Her fingers brush against it, not quite cutting--or if it cuts, it's light enough she doesn't even know it before it heals--and Claire's breathing almost stops.
(If you cough up a bullet, it's like having a penny in your mouth and sucking on it. The taste is ridiculously similar. But it lingers, all through your mouth and throat and nose, for hours.)
She's careful when she moves his head, turns it, and sees the shard--it's bigger than she thought at the first touch--in his skull.
She almost wants to laugh.
It slides out with a sound that would turn her stomach if she hadn't had the skin burned off her body, if she hadn't heard that sound coming from inside her before, and she looks at the triangle of metal and the blood--less than she thought there would be--on it.
Reply
Leave a comment