Waking Hour

[intheheart]

Title: Waking Hour
Rating: PG
Summary: Mothers and daughters, to Vienna Teng's CD Waking Hour.
Warnings: Parental death, discussion of depression and anxiety, mention of miscarriage
Notes: Hopefully I'll manage the other two as well. Anyway, I pretty much wrote this on several different planes.


The Tower

Joanna can remember when her mother was happy. That's the worst of it.

Which isn't to say that Fatimah isn't happy sometimes. Sometimes, with the grandchildren, her mother's face relaxes and she smiles like she used to, when they cooked dinner together and the kitchen was full of sunlight.

And if she had any idea how to reach out, how to find the mother she remembered under the layers of bitterness and pain... but Fatimah had been hurt too much to let her walls down again.

Joanna can remember being like that. She wishes she knew how to fix it.


Momentum

One more time, they promised each other. They would try one more time, and then have done. She'd been through it all before, the drugs, the doctor's visits, the painful hope, and then the blood, the loss, the grief. One more time. She can't bear two.

And here is her daughter.

She is so alive. Her baby dances in her crib, kicking her chubby little legs. Children don't smile so young, but Acacia swears her daughter has been smiling from the womb. She pats with small hands across Acacia's face, and gurgles laughter, beaming, alive.

Joy.

What a perfect name.


Gravity

From the moment she saw the sonogram, she knew.

Maria's never said it out loud. How could she? It would be impossibly cruel to Arelie, and Lawrence wouldn't understand, and everyone else would only laugh. But it's true; Ahava was meant to be hers.

Ahava is six and Maria is brushing her hair, thick dark hanks spilling over her knees, when Ahava says suddenly, "Mommy, I think I was supposed to be yours."

It's like a lurch in her heart, a sudden, bittersweet jolt. Maria leans down, kisses her daughter's head.

"Yes," she says, as certain as gravity. "You were."


Daughter

Gina is slipping away from her.

Of course it's normal, of course it's just a part of growing up. Gina is an adolescent and she wants distance from her parents. She's learning to be an adult. But she's so distant lately, sad-eyed and quiet, and Susanna aches for her.

Even now, sitting together on the porch swing on a warm spring evening, Gina feels so far away. Susanna wants to tug her daughter closer.

Gina's looking at her now, puzzled. "What is it?"

Susanna smiles. It hurts. "You're so beautiful."

It's everything she wanted to say, and nothing at all.


Between

Lorraine loves her baby. God, of course she does. What kind of mother would she be, to hate her own child? Kayleigh is so small and perfect, with her snub nose and feathery black hair. She is so much her father's daughter.

And Lorraine does hate her baby. Only a little, but of course she does. Before she got pregnant, Adam stayed; he kissed her neck and told her how beautiful she was. Before the baby he swore he'd leave his wife. Before Kayleigh, he loved her.

Lorraine loves her daughter, so very, painfully much.

Kayleigh's all she has left.


Say Uncle

"My mother's dead," Clara says, and people murmur in sympathy. She appreciates that. They didn't know her mother, but they're sorry for her, and it makes her feel a little warmer.

The ones that really help, though, are the ones who want to know.

"My mother's dead," she tells Emily, and Emily murmurs, and then, "Tell me about her," Emily says.

There's so much to tell, it takes hours. Emily listens to every word, laughing or serious at the right parts, and says, "She sounds wonderful," when Clara is... not finished, but done.

"She was," Clara says, warm right through.


Drought

Sometimes Olivia wonders if she is her mother's daughter in more ways than one.

The thing is. It had to come from somewhere, didn't it? Her illness is hereditary; she has only to look at her own daughters. Her father's family shows no signs of it. That leaves...

It's not that she forgives Yvonne. She's not sure she'll ever be able to do that. But she thinks maybe she understands, when depression grabs her by the throat, when anxiety shakes her by the scruff of the neck.

She could never be her mother, but maybe, maybe, she can understand her.


Enough to Go By

Arelie wasn't sure about this. She didn't know how Ahava would feel, how she would feel, faced with the child she'd given up. And it's gone so well, so much better than she dared to hope for.

So much has crumbled in her hands over the years. Her parents, her childhood, her first great love, all of it so much dust now, but here is Ahava, bright and happy and healthy. If she didn't make her that way... well. She made it possible.

"You're not my mom," Ahava said, frowning, "but I love you anyway," and Arelie's heart still stutters.


Unwritten Letter #1

Rebecca loves her daughter. She loves her enough that she can admit that she failed Danny.

It used to hurt so much every time she thought about Danny, running away from her the moment she legally could. Now, though, she can remember her daughter, the little girl with the feathery blonde hair and the sunny smile, the child she chased around the yard, the baby who squealed when she tickled her stomach.

It still hurts. Of course it does. The sting is sweeter now.

She can't have her daughter back. She threw her away. But she can keep her memories.


Eric's Song

Felicity could easily have hated her mother.

Which is not to say—she did not have a bad mother. She was loved, her whole life, cherished and protected. Her mother hurt so much and still she always had time for Felicity's small pains and sorrows. On her bad days, the worst days, she would still get up to hold Felicity's hand.

They are so much alike, Felicity and her mother. She is more ambitious, she thinks, and less hurt, but for all that she is still her mother's daughter, and she could have hated her.

She doesn't.

She never will.


Soon Love Soon

Mama never lies to her. Summer appreciates that.

You are different, Mama said to her, and some people will not like that, and there is nothing you can do about it, and Mama was right; some people do not like her, and she cannot change it, so she does not try, and she is spared the pain.

You are different, Mama said, and you are perfect, and I will always love you, and Mama was right about that too. She is different. She isn't sure about perfect, but she is sure about loved.

After all, Mama never lies to her.


Lullaby for a Stormy Night

Ivy used to climb into her bed on stormy nights, her blue eyes wide and filled with tears. She would never cry, though; she would just cling tight and press her face against Gail's shoulder and shake until the thunder passed. She'd fall asleep then, her small face slack, drooling on her mother's nightshirt, and Gail had never had the heart to put her back in her own bed.

Ivy's so much bigger now, so much older, and still when she's frightened she turns to her mother.

It warms Gail through, to think she still makes her daughter feel safe.


Decade and One

Christine wakes up one winter night and realizes it's been eleven years since her mother died.

More than that, actually. Annelise turns eleven next week, and Thea didn't live to see her first granddaughter born. Eleven years. She never thought she would survive it.

She sits in the kitchen and watches the snow fall and thinks of her mother, of her warm smile and gentle hands, of how hard she tried, even when she was so sick, to hold her family together. Christine presses a hand to her chest.

She likes to think her mother would be proud of her.


Waking Hour

Olivia is showing Leah how to play the piano—nothing like what she can do, of course, only a few easy songs—and Leah is laughing, her hands curved carefully above the keys.

For a long time Gina thought she would never have children. There was Ivy, of course, but she wanted to be married, and she never thought it would happen. And then they were married, and then there was Andy, and then Leah on the sonogram, her hands distinct and clear.

She's picking out the Ode to Joy now, and Gina's throat feels tight.

She is so blessed.