Chapter Text
Claire
With one hand resting on the life we’ve created together, I mourn the one we’ve lost.
The life I pictured with him.
Now that I've known him, had and loved him, the hurt is incomparable.
I see his face in every stranger everywhere I go. His voice in every breeze.
I miss his smell and his smile, especially when he sleeps. I miss his ridiculously long arms wrapping around me, his fingers caressing my skin, his curls tickling my nose.
I long to feel his touch.
To temper my desire, I brush my woollen sweater against my cheeks, trying in vain to emulate the feel of his stubble against my skin.
But nothing can come close to him.
The ache, longing and pull I felt for him when I was John’s, before we became Jamie and Claire, was painful, but this…this is crippling.
Now I’ve lost Raymond too.
If it weren’t for John, I would be all alone.
My soul is being destroyed day by day. It’s like I’m being consumed by a black hole expanding within myself.
But, I can’t let that happen. I have to keep going. I have to keep living, I have to keep hoping, cause now I live not only for me but for our children.
Because of the bleeding I suffered in early pregnancy, I’ve had fortnightly appointments with the obstetrician and monthly ultrasounds. So far everything is going well. The babies are growing and my belly is rapidly expanding. The excitement of impending motherhood is slowly expanding too.
But along with the joy of seeing the babies, every appointment brings with it painful reminders that I am alone in this.
Sitting in the waiting room. Lying on that bed.
Feeling the cold sting of the gel on my belly. Staring at the chair sitting empty beside.
Even the simple, silly act of tying a knot at the back of my gown.
All these things are done alone.
All have become opportunities for his ghost to haunt me.
John has been nothing short of amazing. He’s been by my side, been and said exactly what I needed at two of my appointments; holding my hand through the scan and whispering words of reassurance. He was even mistaken for my husband by an apologetic doctor.
Today he’s trying to get me out of my funk, my pyjamas and the house and into a pair of jeans, to a movie theatre or a restaurant. We’re sitting on the couch and he’s talking to my stomach, using my unborn children to manipulate me into going shopping for baby things. I think he hopes it will distract me from the funeral service this afternoon.
“We could look for those massively ugly double strollers. Maybe the most traumatising matching jumpsuits we can find? Oh, and cribs! Giant twin cribs.”
My response is as fast as it is pathetic.
“Thank you, John. But no. I don’t want to buy anything. Not till he comes home.”
The unwavering belief that he will come home has never left me. Even in my rage, when I hated him and cursed the very ground he walked upon, when my pride and feminist instincts said I should never take him back, that I can do this alone, I still believe he will come home. To me. To us.
In all of my darkest moments, a tiny ember of hope remained and as long as I see that tiny speck of light in the darkness, I will maintain that hope.
~~~
Jamie
Why the hell did I drink last night? Oh, that’s right, cause I’m awkward as fuck and it’s the only way I could talk without vomiting.
Turning up to a funeral with a massive hangover isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the first man or woman to ever do it.
The church is packed. So many have come to pay their respects that they have the church doors open and people are standing and listening to speakers that have been placed outside. Even with the progress I made, the sheer number of people in a confined space is a bridge too far.
It’s just too much, too soon, so I stay at the rear of the crowd but within hearing distance of the speakers.
There’s no sign of Claire, or John for that matter. I expect her to be inside and sitting toward the front and he will more than likely be with her.
I hope he is. She needs a friend.
I stand with my head down and my sweaty hands clasping together at my front. I listen to the priest and do what he does; mark the holy cross against my chest and say amen in all the right spots. It’s amazing how Catholic I am, how the traditions and routines are so ingrained in me even after everything.
Along with my innocence, youth and sanity, war stole my faith too. My dusty old boots haven't set foot inside a church for many moons.
But as I listen, the words of love, healing and forgiveness are not only ringing in my ears, they are seeping through my open, thirsty pores.
It’s refreshing. My soul is absorbing every last drop. Replenishing me from within.
He speaks of faith not being a cure-all, but a crutch.
“The Lord cannot stop or prevent bad things from happening, cannot spare us from grief when we lose one so close we think we cannot breathe without them. Rather, our faith in Him gives us strength to carry on, to find comfort in memories, and teaches us to breathe again.”
Father Monohagn’s certainty and conviction of faith are the most solid and concrete words I’ve heard since I last uttered those three wee words—I love you—to Claire.
My last holy trinity.
It’s all-consuming, the feeling blossoming inside me.
Something lost, is found.
My faith.
Just like that, the hood has been removed from my eyes. A shadow lifted.
I see the light. And now I hear it.
Claire.
I’d been so consumed by my own thoughts I didn’t hear her introduction.
“Raymond gave me a home when it’s all I really needed. He provided a shoulder to cry on, advice to grow from, and direction to find my path. I truly loved, will always love him, and will carry his compassion, strength and knowledge with me for the rest of my days. Namaste.”
How eloquently she speaks.
How brave she is.
I’m lost in her soft, melodic, buttery voice. So instantly and completely carried away with its soothing highs and lows I only notice the service is over when people begin exiting the church and milling around me.
I ignore them all; see right through them as though they were glass.
I only have eyes for her.
The crowd keeps coming. How many freaking people were in there?
No one is left inside, the damn church is empty and she has not walked by me.
Fuck, I must have missed her. How did she skip by me?
There’s a back exit!
I had my confirmation here. For our own protection, all of us kids were brought in and out of the church through a door at the rear of the building. Father Monohagn literally shielded us from the flashing cameras of the paparazzi—I mean our proud Mams and Das.
Pushing my way through the crowd, I make it to the lawn and break into a sprint until I reach the rose-covered side of the building.
There.
There she is.
I see her.
Her curls are pinned up. Her beautiful body is wrapped in a tight black dress but she wears bright yellow shoes and a matching bag that hangs precariously on the tip of her shoulder.
Yellow. Raymond’s favourite colour. Hers too.
She looks so damn heartbroken.
What the fuck do I do now?
Do I say something?
Do I leave?
Do I run and scream and throw myself at her feet?
I have no idea what I need to do but I know I need to do something.
Stirring in my belly is that odd combination of excitement, fear and longing I always feel when I’m around her. My heart is beating through my chest, my brain is searching for the right words to say.
The closer I get, the harder I breathe. I may pass out at her feet rather than beg.
She’s thanking the priest and a small group of mourners I recognise from the gym but they seem to be leaving now. All are walking away.
This is it. What am I going to say?
Wait. One person remains by her side.
John remains by her side. Holding her hand.
My eyes zoom in on his thumb and the way it's intimately brushing back and forth over her knuckles.
You fucking bastard.
“Sae, ye two are back together, then? Ye didnae tell me this yesterday, John. Is this yer way of hurting me? Encourage me tae come and then rub yer happy, sexy, English people touches in my face?”
“Jamie!” Claire spins to face me and I can feel my eyes bulging from my head. I knew she was pregnant. Knew there was a bairn growing inside her but she's really, really pregnant. Like really. Her tall slender frame has nowhere to go but out, and out she has gone.
She looks utterly shocked. “What are you doing here? How… Wait, John, did you go and tell Jamie about Raymond?”
“No. I mean, yes, I did tell him but I didn't go to tell him. I saw him at work and thought he should know.”
“You went to John's work, Jamie? Why?”
John and I just glare at each other and Claire looks like she’s about to lose it.
“Will someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on!”
Back and forth she looks between us, her head twisting like she's at centre court at Wimbledon. All that's missing is the strawberries and cream.
“Aye. I’ll tell ye what’s going on. I didnae go tae his work. He came tae mine and was all sweetness and smiles and rainbows and now I ken why. He's been rutting my lass.”
Once again John’s fist collides with my face. This time it’s my chin and lip the blood spews from, not my nose, but I manage to remain standing.
“That, my friend, will be the last unanswered blow. Hit me again and I will no’ hold back.”
Our chests smash together. I’m right in his face and he’s pushing right back as we jostle for superiority, stupidity and dominance.
Claire runs to my side and pulls me away and glares at John over her shoulder. Her gentle touch as she wipes the blood from my lip surprises me and has my head spinning more than any John Grey punch ever could.
“Jesus, John. He’s bleeding. What the hell did you do that for?”
Suck shit, buddy.
“Me?” John’s stunned. His mouth just hit the grass. “Claire, he just accused us of sleeping together and you're upset with me?”
“Well, I'm not particularly happy with him either but I’m not going to punch him. Not at a funeral anyway—hey…wait a sec… Jamie, what did you mean by the last unanswered blow?”
Proving what a canny lass she is, she grabs John's hand and inspects the red and quickly swelling knuckles.
“Oh my god, John! The hospital! When you came to pick me up, your knuckles were bruised. You punched him that day too, didn’t you? How the hell did you manage to fit a fist fight in before you got to me?”
I free myself from Claire and am back in John’s face. “Ye picked her up from the hospital? Wow, ol’ mate. Ye were ready tae pounce, weren’t ye? Ye just couldnae wait fer me tae fuck things up sae ye could be the knight in shining armour as always.”
John and I are seconds away from a full bar fight when bloody bubbly blonde Tiffany and her equally blonde boyfriend show up and stand between us.
“Time and place, lads. Time and place.”
I don’t know who the fuck this guy is but I bet his name is Steve or Bruce and he has us two idiots standing on either side of him like two raging bulls at a buff Scottish gate.
And there we remain, breathing and spitting insults at each other until we both realise Claire is gone.
“Now look what ye’ve done, Grey.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who couldn't get his shit together. Who abandoned her, pregnant and crying, in a hospital bed.”
My response—a massive fuck you—is queued and ready to roll off my tongue but before it's discharged, I realise he’s right, and shut the hell up.
I’m not gonna tell him that though.
Pushing myself free from the Steve/Bruce fence, I walk away in search of Claire but when I see John heading in the other direction, I turn on my heels and quickly follow.
It was a wise decision as seconds later, I see her in the distance, sitting in his car, her face buried in her hands, and from what I can see, her body is trembling.
John hears me grunting up behind him and stops, drops his head and sighs.
“For fuck’s sake. Go and talk to her and for once, don’t be an arse.”
“Hmmpff.”
I’m barely three steps away when he adds, “I’m not sleeping with her by the way. She loves you, Jamie. Only you.”
The saccharine sincerity in his voice makes me hate myself, which is honestly not hard to do, but still I can’t stand to look at the man. I’m focused on one thing and one thing only.
Approaching the car, I wipe the blood with my sleeve then breathe and breathe and breathe until my lungs can take no more and my head is spinning.
“Sassenach, I’m sorry.”
“Are you? And what is it you’re sorry for? Making a scene at a funeral, for pretty much calling me a slut, stalking me at my house or leaving me at the hospital?”
Guilty on all counts.
“Right, I can see ye’re mad. I’ll leave then. But I am—”
“No! No, you are not leaving. You can’t show up like this and leave when you don’t want to hear what I have to say. You will get in this car and you will listen.”
I move to climb into the front beside her but she shakes her head and points behind her. “In the back.”
“Ye want me tae sit in the back?”
“Did I stutter? In. The. Back. I don’t want to look at you when I say what I have to say.”
Begrudgingly, but suitably, I climb into the back seat like a toddler in time out and for some stupid reason, I put on my seatbelt.
“You can’t just turn up here and accuse me of things you have no right to even care about anymore.”
“I ken that. I’m sor—”
“Shhh. Shut up and let me finish. You had your go at the hospital. It's my turn to speak.”
Eyes the colour of burnt honey flash briefly at my reflection in the rear view. She sighs, and takes a deep, slow breath.
“I am not sleeping with John. We are not back together and you owe him a debt of gratitude you will be hard-pressed to ever repay. I have not been well, Jamie. My morning sickness has knocked me off my feet for days. I have scan after scan to check everything is okay and have been so brokenhearted and defeated I couldn’t get out of bed. John has been there for all of it. Fed me, kept me company, listened to me when there was no one else around, cleaned me up after I vomited.”
My lips quirk with the force of a thousand sorries building inside me but she stops me dead, shooting me a ‘don’t you dare’ look in the mirror and I hush straight away.
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad or jealous or both. I am telling you because you need to know the cost of what your decision truly was and is. You think I am better off without you, well I am here to tell you that I am not. I need you. I want you. I miss us. I shouldn't, but I do with all my heart.”
She pauses, breathes, and then carries on.
“I know you’ve been coming to my house. I know you called me and left me roses.
But you can't keep doing this. You can’t be half present, a shadow that's behind me even in the dark. I can be patient, I can be kind, I'm not running away. But, Jamie, it may be your favourite movie, you may know each and every line and kill me by humming the songs as you go to sleep, but you are not Peter Pan. You are a grown man and you cannot fly away to Neverland when things are hard. You have responsibilities and you have to decide what it is you want. I am here, I am yours. I am pregnant whether you like it or not. When you are ready to grow up and stop playing pretend, I’ll be here.”
Shakespeare couldn’t write a tragedy, couldn’t produce the words to move me more than Claire just did.
Unsurprisingly, I have nothing to say and for once in my stupid ginger life, I don’t want to act impulsively. Time and thought are needed.
My hand moves to her shoulder, squeezes gently and releases. I take off my seatbelt and silently slide out the door,
John sees me exit and without a word, replaces me in the car. In the driver's seat of course, not the back like me.
He starts the engine and I hear it clicking into gear.
I can’t watch this.
I can’t say goodbye again.
So, I do what I do best. I walk away.
“Jamie! I'm having an ultrasound on Friday.”
“What?” I turn and step back to her open window.
Sad eyes meet sad eyes. Breathing halters. Tears fall.
“It’s at ten, at this address and I’d like you to come. I’d like you to see what we made together.”
She passes me a slip of paper. Our fingers touch and for the briefest of seconds, everything in the world makes sense again.
I should tell her I’m sorry.
I should tell her I love her.
I should tell her I’ll be there.
Always.
But she pulls her hand away before I can find the words.
The window slides up.
She looks ahead.
And she’s carried away by her hero's white horse.