A Total Eclipse of the Heart:
A FBorFW fic by MeganKoumori
Rated PG for heavy alcohol use
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She wanted the morning to go away. Away sunlight, away bleeping alarm clock. All she really wanted was to snuggle under the covers and sleep off her hangover.
Alas it was not to be.
"MA! HEY MA!" Screamed a shrill voice. "ARE YOU AWAKE YET? WE’RE STARVING MA!"
Elizabeth Caine (Née Patterson) pushed off the blanket with one foot. Forcing herself up, she could see one of her eight-year-old sons at the door. He was dressed in racecar pajamas that were stained with grape jelly and yogurt.
"Come on, Ma! Fix us breakfast!" He whined, his dark hair falling over his forehead. His twin brother peeked around the corner, then ducked back. "Ma!"
"All right, shut up!" Snapped Liz. She grabbed a bathrobe off the closet door handle and wrapped it around her. It trailed around her feet as she saw no need to tie it. She wanted to vomit.
"Don’t you kids have school?" She said gruffly as she sidestepped an action figure lying in the hall.
"No, Ma! It’s Saturday!" Mischa, as usual, was the one who spoke up. Anthony Jr. just followed, sucking his thumb.
Downstairs, Liz grabbed a box of ‘Frosty O’s’ from the cabinet. She tossed it on the table. "Here."
"What? You’re not going to feed us?"
"You’re eight-years-old! You should be able to pour a bowl of cereal!" She snapped at him. He gave her an ugly pout. Ugly, because it reminded her of Michael.
Everything about Mischa reminded Liz of her brother. His tantrums, his pranks, his disregard for anything that didn’t directly involve him were all frighteningly reminiscent of Michael. Mischa even looked like him.
And why not? She had been practically forced to give Mischa Mike’s namesake.
Elly had started it. Seven months pregnant and looking twelve, Elizabeth was helping wash dishes after their usual Sunday night dinner at the Tiny Train House.
She was drying, Elly was washing. "Those new fangled things are so confusing! Why my mother could clean our kitchen top to bottom in an hour!" Elly lectured whenever questioned about getting a real dishwasher. "All this new technology makes us lazy and spoiled!" No one ever bothered to point out that dishwashers had been invented in 1886.
As Liz rubbed down a plate with a towel, Elly inquired, "Do you think you’ll have a boy this time?"
"I think so." She answered. "The doctor said at least one of them looks like a boy."
Elly closed her eyes in her usual smug way. "You know, it’s too bad Mike and Dee can’t have any more children, what after the two miscarriages and all. Poor Deanna."
Liz didn’t answer.
"They really wanted another boy to name after Michael. But I suppose it’ll never happen." Elly danced around the subject. "Just the same, it would be nice for someone to name one of their children after him…" Elly hadn’t said out loud to name her baby after her brother, but the point was clearly made. To drive it home even further, she added, "I think family names are so nice, don’t you?"
Elizabeth hated the name ‘Michael.’ Not only was it overused to the point it should be illegal, but it put a bad taste in her mouth. Michael was the self-serving, arrogant twit who had tortured her all her life. Michael was a bag of hot air that she wanted to pop every time they were together. But she knew Elly would push the name the way she pushed Anthony until Liz could no longer stand it. She compromised; she chose ‘Mischa’, a variation of ‘Michael’ that sounded like ‘Mitch-a.’
Mischa was out first, always pushy from the moment of birth. He forced his way down the birth canal and greeted the world with a loud scream. He hadn’t stopped screaming since.
Anthony Jr. on the other hand, was a small, sickly baby with ivory white skin and blue lips. Even though the twins were only a week early, he had been as small as a preemie. For the first few months of his life, Liz and Anthony wrapped him in warm wool sweaters and knit caps to keep him from freezing to death.
Now at eight, he was the spitting image of his father. Frail and colorless with thin strawberry-blonde hair that Liz could see through to the scalp, he made her insides churn. The boy hadn’t a backbone in him; he let bullies steal his lunch money without complaint and never objected when Mischa took his dessert.
"Stop sucking your thumb! For the love of…" Elizabeth didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she pulled Anthony Jr.’s thumb away from his mouth. "Do you want an appliance like I had?"
"What kind of appliance?" Mischa interrupted, banging his spoon on the table. "Like a va’coom cleaner or a blender? Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!"
Liz ignored him as she rummaged through the cabinet above the microwave. Her fingers touched something glass and cool.
Anthony Sr. was now in the kitchen; he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to read the paper.
Liz pulled the bottle out, careful to shield it with her body. There was no need; Anthony knew about her drinking. How could he not? The empty bottles in the recycle bin, the vomiting, and the constant smell of rum on her breath were all obvious signs, but Anthony was as soft as stuffing and as timid as a rabbit. Rather than confront her, he preferred to live in denial. There was nothing wrong with his family! Why, the idea was absurd! He and Liz lived the All-Canadian Family Ideal, four children and a goldfish! They might even get a Cockatiel by Christmas.
Liz poured the spiced rum into her empty coffee cup and sat down across from her husband. He didn’t look up from the paper but said, "Heh, heh. BC is so funny today. I’m so glad it wasn’t cancelled after Johnny Hart died."
Liz took a big swallow. It burned her throat, a nice pleasant warmth that she savored. "Anthony," She said. "Why don’t we go out today? We can leave the twins with the girls and catch a movie. Then maybe we could go for a picnic in the park."
"Hmm," Again Anthony didn’t look up. "Sorry Liz, but tax season’s coming up and Gordon needs help going over the books. Besides, our budget doesn’t allow for movies this month."
"You always say that." Muttered Liz. Anthony was a stickler for keeping to the budget. Every penny was computed and put into its proper place. There was never any money left over; Anthony made sure of it. Any extra was saved for a rainy day that would never come. At this thought, she poured rest of the rum down her gullet.
Anthony stood. "I’d better get going or I’ll be late." Anthony was never late for anything. "Bye, Liz." He bent down to kiss her. She turned and gave him her cheek; she hated the way his mustache felt against her upper lip. Why did he have to grow it back? With a passive "Goodbye" to the twins, he was gone.
Mischa was now in the living room watching TV; he had the volume turned up to thirty. Anthony Jr. had followed him listlessly, but at least he put his bowl in the sink and made an attempt, albeit clumsily, to wipe up around his area. Mischa’s bowl, half eaten with milk and cereal split all around it, was still on the table.
That boy drives me crazy! Thought Liz as she sponged up the mess. Why can’t he ever pick up after himself?
There was a rumble in the driveway. Liz hoped it wasn’t Mike. She knew it wouldn’t be April; she hadn’t seen April in years. Not since that ungrateful minx eloped with her boyfriend, Alejandro, and moved down to his farm in Costa Rica. She sent a Christmas card once a year.
Someone was knocking at the door. Liz tied her robe shut. "I’m coming!" She hollered. "Keep your shirt…" She swung open the door and froze. "Paul?"
A hundred memories rushed back into her brain in a nanosecond. How he’d come to return her mother’s glasses one starry evening and left with her heart. There were hours of long conversations about absolutely nothing. There were warm hugs and tender kisses. Then Liz inexplicably decided to move back to Milborough, using homesickness as an excuse. Her long awaited return to the village found Susan in her place, both as a teacher and as Paul’s girlfriend.
"I’m sorry, Liz." He said, noting the bags under her eyes and the stench of alcohol. "Maybe this isn’t a good time." He turned to walk down the porch steps.
"No!" Cried Liz, surprising them both. "I mean, come in."
"I can’t stay for long." Paul said as he hung his jacket up on the coat tree. "I needed to tell you something. And I thought it would be better in person."
"Well, sit down and I’ll pour you some coffee."
"Plain iced tea, if you have it." Paul took a seat in the kitchen as Liz poured the drink. She poured herself some more rum and sat across from him.
"Thank you." He took a sip, then put the drink down on the table. "Liz, it’s about Jesse."
"Jesse?" The raven-haired mischief-maker, once her favorite pupil, found his way into her thoughts often, and once in awhile into her dreams, usually as a fox or a coyote. "Oh, Jess. How is he? Still making trouble, I’ll bet."
"Liz, he’s…" Paul’s voice cracked. "He’s dead."
Liz dropped her mug. It shattered, splashing the dark brown liquor on her robe and legs.
"What do you mean dead?" She asked stupidly.
"It was a dirt bike accident." Paul didn’t look at her, but instead focused on his glass. "He and some of his college buddies were racing down by the creek. He lost control and was thrown into a shallow part of the brook. He cracked his skull on some rocks. That was two days ago. Yesterday, he passed away in his sleep at the hospital."
"Oh, Paul." Liz reached over and grasped his arm. "I’m so sorry!" Guilt started to nag. You promised to visit, but you didn’t! It screamed. Some White Goose you are! More like Lying Swine!
She ordered the thoughts to go away. "How’s his aunt?"
"She has good spells and bad. Right now she doesn’t understand what going on."
"What do you mean?"
Paul took a sip of tea. "Oh that’s right. You haven’t kept in contact. Marg has Alzheimer’s. She’s had it for three years now."
"Oh," Another pang of guilt. She changed the subject. "So how are you doing? How’s…Susan?"
Paul searched her face to see if she was trying to start a fight. She looked neutral, so he said, "We’re doing fine. I’ve been…"
The front door opened and two panting preteens trooped into the kitchen.
"Hi Mom," Said Francie. Her dark brown hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She grabbed a glass and stuck it under the faucet. "We ran two miles today."
"Good for you." Said Liz without much enthusiasm.
Elisa leaned against the doorway, sucking in air as if it would vanish in a second. Francie and Elisa, despite a near four year age difference, were the best of friends. Francie was the only one who could put Elisa in her place when she started to have a tantrum. A tantrum not unlike her Grandma Elly.
Francie, though strikingly similar looking to the Indian Actress, Udita Goswami, had clear blue eyes the color of a Husky’s, and they stuck out against her olive skin. Elisa, on the other hand, was a golden blonde with large lips; she was a carbon copy of her mother. The two girls were yin and yang, Francie smart, sensible, and strong willed, Elisa, indecisive, passive, and whiny. Privately, Elisa was Liz’s favorite of all the children, though it was no secret that Francie was the only one with any brains in the Caine household.
Francie took an audible gulp of water, then turned her attention to Paul. "Hi! I’m Francie!" She grasped his hand and shook it.
"Paul. I’m an old friend of your mother’s." He said, pleased at her friendliness.
"Paul?" She repeated. "Not Constable Paul Wright, your old flame?" She looked at Liz, who flushed.
"Actually, I’ve been promoted." Said Paul, either ignoring or not noticing Liz’s embarrassment. "I’m now a Super."
"Well, congratulations!" Said Francie pleasantly. To Liz, she said, "I’m going to go wash up." Elisa followed her, still gasping for air.
"How many?" Asked Paul.
Liz blinked. "How many what?"
"How many children do you have?"
Liz started. "Oh! Four! Three, technically. Francoise’s…not mine. And you?"
"Two boys." Paul finished his tea. He stared into the empty glass. "How’s Anthony?" His voice sound strained.
"Fine." Said Liz, just as strained. They looked into each other’s eyes. Without speaking, they knew. They knew Liz had left Paul for Anthony, not Paul for Susan. Paul wouldn’t have even been reunited with Susan had Liz not inexplicably packed her things and left.
Paul pushed out his chair. "Well, I’ve got to get back. Are you coming for the funeral? It’s Monday afternoon."
"I’ll have to see." Anthony would never let her go, she knew. Not with what gas prices being what they were.
"In that case," Paul said, grabbing his jacket. "I’ll see you there." Liz followed him out into the cold March air. She stuck her hands under her armpits.
"Yeah…See ya…" Her voice trailed off.
He opened his car door, then paused. Turning he said, "You know, Liz, I would’ve married you had you not left."
She shrugged. "It was fate, Paul."
"I’ve always believed that you make your own fate." The words weren’t meant to be cruel, but they slapped her in the face anyway. "Goodbye, Liz."
"Goodbye, Paul." As his unmarked car backed out of the driveway and down the street, there was a whistle behind her.
Liz turned to see Francie in the doorway, a wet towel around her head to cool her off. "What a babe." She said. "How’d you let him get away?"
Liz closed her eyes and stuck her hands on her hips. "What do you mean? Your father’s just as good looking, if not better."
Francie rolled her eyes. "Right. Time to get your prescription updated."
"My glasses?" Said Liz, touching her frames. "I just got new ones last month."
"I meant your meds, Mom."
Liz growled. "I do NOT take medication!" She snapped.
"Therein lies the problem."
Liz contemplated chasing her like she used to do April. Instead, she just slammed the door shut and went to get another drink.
The End.
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"For Better or For Worse" is the creation/property of Lynn Johnston. If it was mine, Paul would've married Liz, who wouldn't be such a spaz. Oh, and Mike would've been eaten by a crazed rhino years ago. So there.
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