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Next Exit
by DiteyChapter Two
A/N: Oh my goodness! I actually updated! Believe it or not, this was incredibly hard to write. This was my third draft. So, for all of that time, you're probably expecting something really good. Hopefully, you'll be getting it. A big thank you to all my reviewers, including BellaItaliana (when will you be writing again? I miss your one-shots so much), kisstherain, Catherine, Stephanie, Funky, Rachel, visbot (especially, you're the best) and the others. Hehe.
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The funeral was a small one. Close family and friends. Actually, Dr. Brown didn't have many social friends. The thought struck Julia as odd when she thought of it, looking through her husband's address book to only see hospital numbers and patient refferals. His collegues, fellow doctors, patients who he had touched in some way attended in any case. It wasn't the same, though. They mourned the death of a gift. Not a person.
The Browns were in the front row. If they were to still be called the Browns. Maybe they should adopt Julia's maiden name now that Andy was...Silly thoughts barged in Julia's mind at the most opportune time. Like during the funeral.
It's not like she didn't respect the ceremony or anything. Far from it. But she found herself unable to concentrate on the speakers, blanking out at the words, 'Andrew Brown was more than just a man...' Yes, Andrew Brown was her husband, a respected doctor, albeit little absent-minded when it came to separating the lights and darks in the laundry.
He was also the person lying in the mohagany casket.
Julia cried. She cried and cried until her eyes were red and she forgot what it was she was crying about. She would straighten up and mentally review what she needed to do for dinner that night if Andy was coming home at nine...and then she remembered.
Delia cried. She was too old to be told her father had been taken to Disneyworld or some other fable that even Julia wished she could console herself with. Delia cried because she knew what death was. It was dark and cold and it meant that no matter how late she stayed up, her father would not be coming home from work.
Julia and Delia would spend afternoons in the backyard, swinging. Rocking Delia asleep as if she was an infant again, her small head buried in a maternal embrace. Julia's blouse was inevitably stained by the young girl's tears, no matter how hard they tried to distract themselves with the beauty of the garden. But at the end of the day, Delia wasn't alone in her silent weeping.
Ephram locked himself in his room for hours at a time. Julia wasn't quite sure what he was doing, and told him to distance himself from doing anything illegal in there. When they had their daily, 'coming to grips with reality/mother son talk', he was unusually silent, answering with nods so he could retreat back into his room.
Julia thought Ephram was getting better. He no longer snapped about his incompetant father. The first week, he loudly refused to write a eulogy for the service, quipping he didn't know enough about his father to say anything.
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When Ephram first heard about his father's death, he had just finished his recital. He was up to his shoulders in bouquets of flowers. Emerging from his retreat backstage, he expected to be showered in praise. Interested in the excuse his father had for not showing up, despite his promises. Eager to use some of his remarks back. He had searched the audience, finding only his mother, shrugging as if it would cover for his father's lateness.
When the police told him his father died, his first though was, 'that's a pretty good excuse.'
He was unbelieving for a moment. The high he had reached from playing the piano still ran through him, and he was incapable of comprehending words. When they sank in, it seemed like some sort of karma joke. A 'be careful for what you wish for' punchline. Because, really, how often did he scream in fits of rage his dreams of his father disappearing?
And he defensed into anger, as always. His father's death morphed into another instance in which he had let Ephram down. Immature, melodramatic, irrational, yes. But it somehow eased the need to deal with the reality of the situation.
No one talked on the car ride home. Ephram didn't really expect it to be a time for the Liscence Plate game. Delia fell asleep leaning her head against the window, and Ephram found himself smoothing his hand over her hair.
The next morning was so normal, that it made everything the day before seem like a dream. The standing ovation, whispers of praise in his ears. the police lights and sirens, sobs and apologies for his loss, and playing Canon until his fingers ached.
But his fingers still felt stiff.
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Yes, he hated his father with everything in him sometimes. When he snuck into the house at midnight with as little noise as possible, as if Julia delayed dinner until ten waiting for him. Or when he absent-mindedly prescribed Delia Ambien to cure her nightmares, or forgot her birthday, but gave her a fifty dollar note in the morning to buy some new hats. Ephram hated the way his father could read his newspaper and drink his coffee in six minutes to get to work on time, but his dinner meetings took three hours more than they were supposed to. He hated his optimistism in the mornings, and the way he sang Singin In the Rain ditties when getting ready, and his corny banter.
But at breakfast, Ephram missed his 'plastic surgeon walks into a bar' joke, and someone to notice Delia's new cap.
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The moping was a routine for the Browns. Ephram hadn't seen his mother since dinner the day before, and the sun was about to set again. Days, hours, minutes seemed too long, longer than even History class or the sadistic ritual called P.E. Ephram barely looked at his clockon those days, just passed the time getting lost in a book, or a song, or a drawing, or anything other than the fact that he was sitting in his room alone, and without a father.
He heard a knock on the door, but paid it no mind. His sister would come in, red eyed and blurry teared, and the sight of his sister in that state would drag him down into crying as well. Or his mother, coming in to talk about some self-help group, which he found to be an oxymoron.
The door opened nonetheless, and Ephram turned to see his mother standing in the doorway with a hair clip in her hand.
"How did you..." he began to ask, but his mother cut him off, saying, "A bobby pin is a girl's best weapon." He resumed his drawing and sulking, in that order, trying to ignore his mothers words. Ephram once again was able to conceal his insecurities under a stoic gaze. He called it a gift.
After a few moments, his mother ran out of things to say, and they both just sat in silence. He felt the sun set, lowering his shadow to a ethereal wash. Julia refound her voice after the uneasy silence, and once the first words came out, they just started to come faster and faster.
It was that night Ephram Brown learned of the virtues of a small town hiding beneath the Colorado Rockies. A town called Everwood.(c) everfic. cue edna's voice: i don't own squat, private.
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