Need

[intheheart]

Title: Need
Rating: PG
Summary: Kayleigh and her mother.
Notes: The supplies just sort of came together for this one.
Warnings: Death in a car crash, some survivor's guilt.



For as long as Kayleigh could remember, she and her mother had a bedtime ritual.

Mommy would call her to bed; she would change into her pajamas, brush her teeth, and hop into bed. Mommy would come in, brush her hair and braid it so it wouldn't tangle, tuck her in, read her a story, and wait by her bed until she went to sleep, or pretended to.

Then Mommy would lean over her, kiss her forehead, rest her head by Kayleigh's, and whisper, "Little sylph. You're all I have."

Kayleigh's heart always skipped a beat, when she heard that.

--

Mommy cried a lot, when Kayleigh was little. Every time Daddy was supposed to come and didn't, every time Daddy was supposed to come and did, every time Auntie Claire or Kayleigh's grandparents came over.

Lots of things made Mommy cry, and that made Kayleigh feel bad inside. So every time Mommy cried, she went and put her arms around Mommy's neck, kissed her, and told Mommy she loved her.

Mommy would smile, then, through her tears, and hug Kayleigh close. "Little sylph," she said. "How will I get by without you?"

Kayleigh always promised she'd never have to try.

--

It wasn’t that Mom tried to control her. Mom just didn't want her to go anywhere.

"No, sylphette," she'd say, to requests for sleepovers. "You're still too young. Why don't you have your friends sleep here?"

"No, sylphette," she'd say, about class trips. "I don't trust your teacher to keep you safe."

"No, sylphette," she'd say, now, whenever Kayleigh brought up going out of state for college. "I don't want you going so far away from me."

Kayleigh always accepted her decision. Mom needed her so much. How could she leave?

If she resented it... Mom didn't need to know.

--

When she was little and her dad was visiting, she used to sneak out of bed, to hear what they said when she was supposed to be asleep. Mom always said eavesdroppers never heard any good of themselves.

You ruined my life with your brat! The words burned up in her memory, bitter and angry-- it wasn't only his life Mom had ruined.

"Why do you need me so much?" she shouted.

Mom seemed at a loss for words. "Sylphette... Kayleigh, you're all I have."

"If you're not careful you won't have me," she spat, and fled to her room.

--

She crept out of her room the next day, found her mother bent over coffee, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Mom," she said, when her mother didn't react. "I didn't mean it."

There was a long silence-- Kayleigh watched her mother's hands flit over the paper, nervously.

"I know," Mom said, at last. "But you need to be careful what you say, Kayleigh. You can hurt people very easily."

Anger caught at her heart again, a spiraling spark lighting by chance on dry timber. She clenched her teeth against the words, and said, "I will, Mom."

--

I wish you didn't need me.

She sat on the porch, watching the snow drift from the sky, dust the fences and the trees in powdered ice. She'd prayed for that last night; for Mom not to need her anymore.

The sky was grey and endless, shredded with clouds like gunpowder and twisted metal. I wish you didn't need me, she'd said. And Mom wasn't home.

"I didn't mean it," she told the sky. "I take it back. She can need me. I didn't mean it."

The whole landscape was tinted blue, the color of sorrow.

Mom still wasn't home.

--

Dad didn't come to the funeral.

She'd expected him. He might not have been around very often, but he was her father, and she thought maybe he loved her, and anyway, he was all she had. He had to take care of her now. She'd expected him to come and get her, and he hadn't.

She sat at the grave until everyone but her aunt and cousins had gone, staring at the coffin, wondering what was going to happen now, where she would go, if anyone would need her now.

Mostly, she wondered why she didn't feel anything at all.

--

Her sister, Paige, came two days later.

Kayleigh sat beside her on her aunt's couch and stole sidelong glances at her. She was so much older-- thirty at least-- but still pretty, with chestnut hair and the same blue eyes as Kayleigh. She looked like Kayleigh; the same face, the same features.

"Our father asked me to get you," Paige said, quietly. "To look after you. He said--" a barely perceptible pause-- "he'll come get you in a few weeks."

Which meant he wouldn't come, and Paige knew it too.

Kayleigh closed her eyes.

What choice did she have?

--

Her room in Paige's apartment was little, and smelled like Chinese food from the restaurant below. It was close and stifling, not at all like her breezy room at home. But home wasn't home anymore, and Paige was being very kind, and she just had to get used to it.

It was strange, living with Paige. Paige didn't need her. Paige seemed uncomfortable with her-- and why not? Kayleigh was the reason her parents had divorced. It amazed her that Paige had agreed to take her.

Paige also watched her with worried eyes, but Kayleigh didn't know how to ask.

--

Then the nightmares.

Twisted metal, people screaming, blood and fuel dripping on the pavement. She was caught inside a shattered car, fire racing toward her, and Mom stood just outside, looking at her with blank eyes. "Help me!" she screamed. "Mommy!"

"You don't need me," Mom said, and turned away.

"MOM!"

Then someone was holding her, rocking her against her shoulder while she cried herself blind. "Mommy, Mommy..."

"Shh," and that was Paige's voice, Paige's arm, Paige's shoulder. "It's okay. It's okay, Kayleigh, it was a nightmare. You're okay. You're safe."

She wasn't okay, but how could Paige know that?

--

Paige took her to the kitchen and made her hot chocolate, then sat next to her while she drank, an arm around her shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Kayleigh shook her head, then wiped her arm across her face and changed her mind. "I prayed that Mom wouldn't need me," she said, in a tiny voice. "I prayed it for months. And then she died."

Paige exhaled. "Oh, sweetie. It's not your fault."

Kayleigh shook her head. "No, I know, I..." She swallowed. "Not like that. I didn't want it like that."

"I know," Paige said, softly.

-

Kayleigh slept in Paige's bed that night, tucked up against her sister, shivering beneath the covers. She slept in Paige's bed the next night, too, and woke with her arms around Paige's waist and her head on her belly, Paige's hand on her hair, as if she'd been stroking it.

The third night she didn't sleep at all, but sat up in the living room, staring at the stars over the city, watching them fight their way through misty clouds and light pollution.

They looked so close she felt she could pick them up and hold them in her hands.

--

On the first anniversary of her mom's death, Paige drove her up to Pennsylvania to visit the grave, and stood tactfully off while Kayleigh stared at the headstone.

Lorraine Halechko, beloved mother. Not wife, never wife, because Kayleigh's father hadn't wanted it. Not sister or daughter-- that love had died when she got pregnant out of wedlock. They'd pitied her, yes, but pity was not love.

But beloved mother-- she had been that. For all she'd needed Kayleigh so much it strangled her, she'd been a beloved mother.

Kayleigh brushed her hand over the gravestone, and went back to Paige.