Work Text:
There's a voice.
A young woman, patting her hair as she speaks.
Martha ignores them.
There's a man by her bedside, crying.
Just leave me alone, she doesn't say.
(It's too much energy to -)
There's light in the room, and the window is open, and through it a rare winter sun reaches in.
(She turns to the other side, and put the pillow on her face.
Please. Just stop.)
“Once upon a time,” says a young woman,. “There was a young girl named Dorothy, who lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with her Pa, who was a farmer, and her Ma, who was also a farmer.”
Dorothy , she thinks.
And: That sounds familiar.
And: Oh.
“Are you reading me a kids’ book now?” her voice cracks.
The person by her bedside startles.
“I remember,” she says carefully, “The stories that you told me. From when I was sick. I thought – I'm not good at making things up. I'm not good at telling stories. But I can read to you?”
She opens one eye.
It's hard.
She moves her head, looking at the girl on the stool.
Sarah.
“Why?” she asks. Why would you do that? Why do you care? Why are you here?
And those brown eyes are filled with tears.
“'Cause– ‘cause I care ‘bout you, Aunt Em,” she says. “We all do. You're here- you're always here, and I know we're not blood or nothing, but. You gotta know I love you, right?”
There's a woman on an old bed, who hasn't washed herself in days.
There's a girl with tears in her eyes who couldn't care less about smell and hygiene and bodies.
There's pain, in this room. There are tears.
(There's love.)
Sarah hugs her, and even through it all, Martha can't help but reach a weak arm and gently pat her old charge's back.
“There, there, Baby,” she says. “It's okay. I'm here now. It will be okay.”
(She doesn't cry.)
She doesn't cry a week later, when Johnathan, looking older than ever, puts his foot down.
“No more,” he tells her. “We're not doing it again.”
"No,” she refuses. “I promised you a family, and I'll give you one.”
“No,” he tells her. “No, I can't do this again.” His voice breaks.
"You are my family," he tells her, tears in his eyes. "And I can't lose you. You're all I need, Martha."
She doesn't cry in that dark room, as her husband's quietly sobbing, hugging her living body.
On her daughter’s first birthday (Johnny would be almost eight–), they are quiet. They visit the graves.
(Two stones, now. Two stones, and a placeholder, and four little tokens Martha marked as a memory of everything that they loved and lost and are missing, always, every day and night.)
She sends Johnathan home.
(He won't go, she knows. He'll wait in the car.)
She pulls out a notebook, and tells all of her kids their stories.
“And this– this is a new one,” her voice is shaking. “You hear me, Johnny boy? You're a big brother now. You gotta watch out for your baby sister, you know? Even if—even if she's picking on you, or– or even if she's taking your toys, baby. She's, she's a baby sister. That's what –
that's what baby sisters do.”
And then, finally, she cries.