Part 1

A/N: The first of four related vignettes. Much love and lots of cupcakes to catch22girl and xbedhead for ensuring this made sense. Ooh, plus uber-thanks to xbedhead - I borrowed her timeline and her personal Bauer family canon for this. (I promise to put both back where I found them.) Title taken from a Death Cab for Cutie song of the same name. And, as always, feedback is love, but be brutal; I welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.

***

"Sir, it’s your wife.”

Phillip’s hand stills. He stifles an impatient sigh, his pen hovering over the neat column of figures for a moment before he presses the intercom button. “Thank you, Nancy.” He caps the pen and places it on the legal pad, then picks up the phone.

“Sarah, what is it?” he asks without preamble, the words clipped but not unkind. “Did Saint Augustine’s call about the boys again?”

“No, they’re fine.”

“Then what — ”

“I need you to come home.”

Phillip glances at his watch. “It’s not even lunchtime yet,” he excuses, his eyes on the stack of half-finished paperwork, “and I have to — ”

“Phillip, please.”

He frowns at the slight waver he hears in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitates, and static crackles over the line.

“Sarah?”

“I just got back from the doctor and I — I got the results.”

“And?” he prompts, leather creaking as he leans forward in his chair.

“It’s — ” Sarah clears her throat. “Could you — do you think you could come to the house, just for an hour?”

Phillip glances down at the meticulously catalogued details of the Jameson Industries acquisition. “It’s bad.” It’s not a question.

The hitch in her breathing tells him more than her careful reply. “We should really talk about this together.”

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

“Phillip — ”

“I can’t,” he repeats gruffly. “I’m sorry, but I’m busy here. I have to go.”

“All right.” The resignation in Sarah’s tone is unmistakable.

“We’ll talk tonight,” he promises awkwardly before hanging up, then reaches for the pen once more.

***

Part 2

Summary: “Mom’s sick — is she gonna die?”
A/N: The second of four related vignettes; this part is set about a week after the first.

***

Cancer.

It’s a small word with sweeping implications, difficult for a nine-year-old to grasp.

But Graem tries.

After his mom explains that her blood is sick, he hurries to his father’s study and pulls down the correct encyclopedia volume, then reads the “leukemia” entry as closely as he can. He tears a blank page from one of the legal pads on the desk and carefully copies the words he doesn’t understand. Though the list spans nearly the entire length of the yellow sheet, he looks up each one in the dictionary afterward.

* * *

He’s already changed into his Star Wars pajamas and brushed his teeth when he pads down the hall and knocks on his brother’s door.

“Come in.”

“Hey.” Graem pokes his head inside to see Jack sprawled on his stomach on top of his blue comforter, reading a Hardy Boys mystery.

Jack holds his place on the page with his index finger and looks up.

Graem shifts his weight in the doorway, still holding the knob in one hand.

Jack sets the book aside and sits up. “What, Grae?”

Graem steps inside and closes the door behind him, then digs his bare toes into the brown shag carpet. “Mom’s sick,” he blurts. “Is she gonna die?”

Jack furrows his brow. “No, that’s dumb.”

“Nuh-uh,” Graem shoots back. “I looked it up and leukemia’s bad, Jack. I think it’s gonna kill her, I think — ”

“Stop it. She might be sick, but she said the doctors can fix her. She’s not dying or anything, okay?”

Graem frowns. He wants to believe his brother, but Jack’s talking in the same voice he used when Graem broke his arm two years ago and Jack told him it wasn’t bad even though there was bone sticking out.

“Okay,” he says finally, but as he walks back to his room, he asks God to help his mom, just in case Jack’s wrong.

***

Part 3

Summary: “Have a good day, Mom.”
A/N: The third of four related vignettes; this one’s set about two years after the second.

***

It’s the fatigue that’s the worst. It leaves her achy and hollow, so nauseous that she’s only half-lucid sometimes.

This morning is no exception. She’s rising from the spindle-back chair to help Jack when the kitchen tilts.

She grits her teeth and gropes for her chair, curling her fist around its smooth cherry surface. She’s thankful Jack’s attention is elsewhere; he’s fumbling with his striped navy tie.

“Sweetheart,” she manages brightly, still gripping the chair for balance, “why don’t you have Grae do that? He’s much better at it, and I don’t want you two to be late.”

“Sure,” he agrees distractedly, unraveling his sloppy knot.

Jack exits the kitchen and clambers upstairs to Graem’s room; Sarah exhales. Eyes burning, she wills the dizziness to pass.

She hates this. Hates that the latest round of radiation has left her so weak and off-kilter she can’t help her thirteen-year-old with his tie before school. Hates knowing that soon, she won’t be able to hide how sick she is from the boys.

She can already see Graem’s worried frown, can imagine Jack’s eyes darkening at the realization.

God help her, she’s so angry; she’s terrified that she won’t get to revise Jack’s essays for his college applications or see Graem off on his first day of high school. And with Phillip practically living at the office now, Sarah can only imagine the hours he’ll work after —

“Mom?”

Startled, she turns her head and forces a smile. “All set?”

She sees a flash of something she can’t quite catch in Graem’s gaze, but he only nods, shouldering his backpack and straightening the cuffs of his white oxford.

“Grae, c’mon,” Jack shouts from the hall. “Bye, Mom!”

“Bye, honey,” Sarah calls before turning back to Graem. “Be careful on those bikes, okay?”

“We will.” He steps closer and brushes his lips against her cheek. “Have a good day, Mom.”

She nods, her throat tight. “You, too.”

When the front door closes, she silently counts to ten before she allows the tears to fall.

***

Part 4

Summary: “You heard what Dad said. You’re too young.”
A/N: The last of four related vignettes; this one takes place two years after the third.

***

“I’m helping tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Am, too.”

“Grae, no.” The words are quiet, gentle. “You heard what Dad said. You’re too young.”

“I’m thirteen,” Graem bristles, frowning. “And you’re only fif — ”

“Don’t argue,” Jack interrupts with a shake of his head.

“But — ”

“There’s only six spots and they’re filled, all right?”

Graem narrows his eyes and strides out, slamming Jack’s bedroom door with enough force that Jack swears he hears the frame splinter.

* * *

The starched collar of Jack’s white button-down chafes the sunburned skin at the back of his neck. His tie feels too tight and he’s sweating beneath his navy blazer, but his hands are icy.

The cloying scent of flowers makes his nose itch and his throat burn. He ignores the urge to rush outside and claw at his Windsor knot until he can pull in a deep breath that doesn’t smell so sickeningly sweet.

He wants to run all the way to the beach, dive into the Pacific and swim hard enough to drown everything else.

But he forces himself to nod politely toward each guest who approaches Graem and him. He swallows back a bitter chortle at every hushed, kindly, “She’s in a better place.”

She’s not, he wants to argue, because she’s not here, not with him, not with Grae. Not anymore.

He watches his father, solemn and austere as always, across the polished hardwood. His gaze moves to the front of the sanctuary, just below the pulpit; his eyes sting and his cheeks start to burn.

She was supposed to get better, the treatments and the pills were supposed to work ...

Jack escapes to the bathroom, and as he splashes water on his face with unsteady hands, he vows that he’ll never become as cold as Phillip.

* * *

The casket should be heavier.

At least, he thinks it should be, but he’s never been a pallbearer before. He doesn’t think he’s doing a very good job because his palms are sweat-slick and the silver bar is slippery in his grasp.

Then he remembers that this is the last thing he’ll ever do for his mom, so he tightens his grip and blinks back tears.

Jaw clenched, Jack can’t look at Graem’s too-pale features in the pew to his left. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the open double doors ahead as he, his father and his four uncles march the coffin to the waiting hearse.

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