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intheheartTitle: Memory
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Caty McKean doesn't remember her father.
Date: June 2031
AU: Straight
Notes: Somebody once said that a person's most certain route to immortality is through their children. That sentiment informs, but does not direct, this story.
WARNING for child and spousal abuse.
Caty McKean didn't remember her father. Not an inkling.
Which made sense, she supposed. She had been a baby when Mama left; six months old or so. Beth, who didn't remember their father either even though she said she did, had been two and a half.
Leah, who did remember, had been five, almost six. Robbie, who definitely remembered, had been just barely nine. Caty knew they remembered, because they got the same sad and haunted look that Mama got when she asked about him.
Caty had stopped asking by the time she was six. Beth was just making things up to feel important, and even at six, Caty knew she never wanted to see that look again.
Besides, she'd learned more than she ever wanted to know, just by eavesdropping. On Mama: It hurt. It's not supposed to hurt. You're not supposed to hurt the people you love. On Leah: He hit me once. I don't think Mama ever found out, because it didn't leave a mark, but I had nightmares about it for a week. On Robbie: Yeah, I know what you mean. I wish I'd told her sooner, what was happening, but...
It frightened Caty, what she heard, so much that she decided she was glad she had no memory of him. She was glad she didn't know anything about him, and she would go on happily like that for the rest of her life.
So it fell out that she turned thirteen before she even saw his picture.
It was in the newspaper. She found out later that Mama hid that day's edition, but she found it anyway, because Robbie brought over a copy to show Leah. Caty wasn't supposed to hear, but clearly, in her family anyway, eavesdropping was the only way to learn things, so she'd been listening at the door. She'd heard Leah's shocked gasp, heard her start to cry. Heard Robbie murmuring, "I know, I know. It's over now, Leah. It's over for real."
Caty crept away then, because she hated hearing Leah cry; it made her stomach tighten, and odd shivery feelings run up her back. But she crept back in later, stole the paper from the trash can, and took it back to her room.
She smoothed a palm over the crumpled pages, looking for anything that might have made Leah cry. There was only one section-- Robbie had only brought over the relevant part, she guessed. Only three pages, and yet there was so much that might have made Leah cry. She might have to guess.
As it happened, she didn't have to guess. She knew it immediately when she found it at last, in the obituaries.
Grant McKean, March 28th, 1985 - June 4th, 2031
Caty sat back in her chair, with a feeling like she'd been punched in the belly.
She felt a strange airlessness, too, an odd inability to get enough breath. Her father was dead. She did the math: he'd been forty-six years old. Wasn't that too young to die? Mama was forty-five. Did that mean Mama might die?
After a moment, her air came back, and she shook her head at her silliness. Mama was fine. Mama wasn't going to die. And even if she did, Caty knew for a fact that Robbie and Leah would take care of her and Beth. They always had, ever since they left their father; why should they stop now?
She sat forward again, and actually read the obituary. It was very short. It didn't say how he'd died, just that he had, and that he was survived by his parents. There was no mention of her or her siblings, no mention of Mama, but then Caty supposed that his parents wouldn't want them in there. Mama had told her once-- or actually, Mama had told Grandmama, but Caty had been listening-- that Grant's parents blamed her for the divorce, not him. They'd tried to force Mama to come back by saying they wouldn't see their grandchildren or help with money unless she did. Mama had flatly refused, saying that it was their loss, and that was why Caty didn't remember her paternal grandparents either.
Maybe they'd come see them now, she thought briefly, with something too lacking in anticipation to be hope-- but no. They hadn't even put Caty or anyone else in the obituary. They wouldn't come.
They had included a picture of him, though, and paid for color, for their adored son. Caty put her hand over the obituary text and studied her father's face for the first time in her life.
Beth and Robbie looked the most like him, she decided, at last, which was not really saying much. Robbie had the same crooked smile and blunt nose, the same edged jawline and small ears. Beth had the nose and the jawline too, and her hair was that same color, of spun spiderwebs dyed with sunlight.
Caty had hair that color. She reached up and twined a lock of it around her finger. Yes. Definitely the same color, a blonde sharp and cloudy at the same time.
She had Mama's sharp nose, though; she and Leah both. She and her siblings all had Mama's pale skin, and they all had Mama's blue eyes (except for Leah, a hazel she'd inherited from Grandmama, nothing to do with their father). Her father had light eyebrows, almost invisible; she and all her siblings had Mama's incongruously dark ones.
And none of them, she knew, had the sharp temper that edged the photograph's casual smile. None of them had his hard fists. None of them had his bone-deep conviction that it was always someone else's fault.
Caty looked at the picture for another moment, then crumpled it up again with a single, vicious movement.
Her father was dead. She had no memory of him. She never would.
Good, she thought, and threw the paper away.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Caty McKean doesn't remember her father.
Date: June 2031
AU: Straight
Notes: Somebody once said that a person's most certain route to immortality is through their children. That sentiment informs, but does not direct, this story.
WARNING for child and spousal abuse.
Caty McKean didn't remember her father. Not an inkling.
Which made sense, she supposed. She had been a baby when Mama left; six months old or so. Beth, who didn't remember their father either even though she said she did, had been two and a half.
Leah, who did remember, had been five, almost six. Robbie, who definitely remembered, had been just barely nine. Caty knew they remembered, because they got the same sad and haunted look that Mama got when she asked about him.
Caty had stopped asking by the time she was six. Beth was just making things up to feel important, and even at six, Caty knew she never wanted to see that look again.
Besides, she'd learned more than she ever wanted to know, just by eavesdropping. On Mama: It hurt. It's not supposed to hurt. You're not supposed to hurt the people you love. On Leah: He hit me once. I don't think Mama ever found out, because it didn't leave a mark, but I had nightmares about it for a week. On Robbie: Yeah, I know what you mean. I wish I'd told her sooner, what was happening, but...
It frightened Caty, what she heard, so much that she decided she was glad she had no memory of him. She was glad she didn't know anything about him, and she would go on happily like that for the rest of her life.
So it fell out that she turned thirteen before she even saw his picture.
It was in the newspaper. She found out later that Mama hid that day's edition, but she found it anyway, because Robbie brought over a copy to show Leah. Caty wasn't supposed to hear, but clearly, in her family anyway, eavesdropping was the only way to learn things, so she'd been listening at the door. She'd heard Leah's shocked gasp, heard her start to cry. Heard Robbie murmuring, "I know, I know. It's over now, Leah. It's over for real."
Caty crept away then, because she hated hearing Leah cry; it made her stomach tighten, and odd shivery feelings run up her back. But she crept back in later, stole the paper from the trash can, and took it back to her room.
She smoothed a palm over the crumpled pages, looking for anything that might have made Leah cry. There was only one section-- Robbie had only brought over the relevant part, she guessed. Only three pages, and yet there was so much that might have made Leah cry. She might have to guess.
As it happened, she didn't have to guess. She knew it immediately when she found it at last, in the obituaries.
Grant McKean, March 28th, 1985 - June 4th, 2031
Caty sat back in her chair, with a feeling like she'd been punched in the belly.
She felt a strange airlessness, too, an odd inability to get enough breath. Her father was dead. She did the math: he'd been forty-six years old. Wasn't that too young to die? Mama was forty-five. Did that mean Mama might die?
After a moment, her air came back, and she shook her head at her silliness. Mama was fine. Mama wasn't going to die. And even if she did, Caty knew for a fact that Robbie and Leah would take care of her and Beth. They always had, ever since they left their father; why should they stop now?
She sat forward again, and actually read the obituary. It was very short. It didn't say how he'd died, just that he had, and that he was survived by his parents. There was no mention of her or her siblings, no mention of Mama, but then Caty supposed that his parents wouldn't want them in there. Mama had told her once-- or actually, Mama had told Grandmama, but Caty had been listening-- that Grant's parents blamed her for the divorce, not him. They'd tried to force Mama to come back by saying they wouldn't see their grandchildren or help with money unless she did. Mama had flatly refused, saying that it was their loss, and that was why Caty didn't remember her paternal grandparents either.
Maybe they'd come see them now, she thought briefly, with something too lacking in anticipation to be hope-- but no. They hadn't even put Caty or anyone else in the obituary. They wouldn't come.
They had included a picture of him, though, and paid for color, for their adored son. Caty put her hand over the obituary text and studied her father's face for the first time in her life.
Beth and Robbie looked the most like him, she decided, at last, which was not really saying much. Robbie had the same crooked smile and blunt nose, the same edged jawline and small ears. Beth had the nose and the jawline too, and her hair was that same color, of spun spiderwebs dyed with sunlight.
Caty had hair that color. She reached up and twined a lock of it around her finger. Yes. Definitely the same color, a blonde sharp and cloudy at the same time.
She had Mama's sharp nose, though; she and Leah both. She and her siblings all had Mama's pale skin, and they all had Mama's blue eyes (except for Leah, a hazel she'd inherited from Grandmama, nothing to do with their father). Her father had light eyebrows, almost invisible; she and all her siblings had Mama's incongruously dark ones.
And none of them, she knew, had the sharp temper that edged the photograph's casual smile. None of them had his hard fists. None of them had his bone-deep conviction that it was always someone else's fault.
Caty looked at the picture for another moment, then crumpled it up again with a single, vicious movement.
Her father was dead. She had no memory of him. She never would.
Good, she thought, and threw the paper away.
