APRIL 10th, 1994, SEATTLE, WA
REAGAN BELIEVED THAT she finally understood the meaning of living in a fog. That phenomenon had never really happened to her, as she'd always been able to see the world with such precise clarity, even the parts of it that had appeared light-years away from her grasp.
If living in a fog meant not knowing how to function, even when it called for performing the most mundane, typical tasks, then Reagan knew that she was experiencing it firsthand.
She sat on the edge of her and Dave's bed, staring down at her stocking-covered feet. The thin black fabric was so ordinary, but seeing her legs sheathed in it made her want to furrow her eyebrows together. She couldn't recall ever having worn black pantyhose. They didn't exactly have a place in her typical wardrobe. But when Sarah had brought them to her that morning in a plastic shopping bag, she had gently suggested to Reagan that they were appropriate funeral attire.
Funeral. Kurt's funeral, to be exact. The two words were like opposing ends of magnets, clashing together without actually touching. There was a resistance between them. They didn't go together. It was like referencing the sky as being green, or hearing her name mispronounced. There was no sense behind it.
In between her fingertips, she slowly toyed with the last piece of Kurt that she had, the scratched guitar pick that he had slid into her hand on the final day she'd seen him. Reagan stared at it, pressing into the pads of her fingers into the plastic in hope that she'd feel a spark of his life's energy through it.
There was nothing.
The room was dark, dimmed by the overcast light that streamed through the blinds. The phone had rang several times that day, but Reagan had ignored every call, hoping that Dave might do the same although he was more inclined to let their loved ones know that they were okay.
If she'd had more to give, Reagan would have talked to everyone who had reached out to her. Besides the blurred phone conversations that she'd had after finding out Kurt was dead, Reagan avoided any sorts of interaction outside of those taking place inside her house.
Gracie had become the only thing that willed her out of the empty state that she existed in. Yet even then, it was entirely too painful to look into her daughter's eyes and think of Frances, uncomprehending of the loss she'd just experienced at such a young age.
Reagan didn't look up as the sound of muted footsteps crossed the threshold into the room. She knew it was Dave without needing to check, but that didn't stop her from wanting to hide behind her hair. It would have been impossible, anyway. She'd tied it back into a low ponytail for the occasion and the tendrils that hung limply around her face would do no good as a shield.
"Ready?" Dave asked. His voice was scratchy as he cleared his throat.
Reagan persisted in staring down at the floor. Her shoes, a pair of smart-looking, heeled Mary Janes were sitting in front of her. It was the last thing that she needed to do before leaving, but the simple act of pulling on her shoes exhausted her.
Leaning forward, stretching an arm out and threading the strap through its loop might as well have been like running a marathon. Her body ached, her face ached, and all she wanted was to lay flat in bed and wipe her memory clean of those past few days.
Dave approached Reagan and knelt down in front of her. She watched as he slid one hand down from her knee to her calf, his palm whooshing along the length of her pantyhose. That kind of touch would have made her shudder with pleasure on any other day.
Silently, Dave grabbed Reagan's heels and fitted them onto her feet, one foot at a time. She let him do it with a lump in her throat. Somewhere in the haze of her grief, she felt bad for making him take care of her. He'd been an impenetrable mountain since the day Kurt had been found dead, braving the turmoil that had followed without batting an eye.
There was no measurable competition between what she and Dave had individually lost, but that didn't defeat the truth that Dave's entire life had been split down the middle. Reagan had made an honest effort to console him, but the mere mention of Kurt felt like drowning.
She'd busied herself with Gracie during the day, having been granted a bereavement leave from work, and at night she let Dave hold her and she interchangeably held him. It was frightening to think that they'd never be able to talk about it, but it was too fresh. It was too soon to discuss the idea of Kurt not being there.
Dave deftly buckled the clasps on Reagan's shoes, gently placing her left foot back to the floor. He gave both her ankles a single squeeze.
"We've got to go now," he murmured.
Reagan turned Kurt's guitar pick over in her hand. She imagined that if he were there, even in the form of a spirit, he would be encouraging her to bundle up in bed and forget the whole day.
Don't go crying over my dead body, Reags. It's weird, he would say, shaking his head and pressing his mouth together in a tight, uncomfortable line.
Reagan heard his voice in her head. The echo of it was met with a pang of agony as she questioned how long she would memorize the sound of it, the way she remembered it on her own without the aid of taped interviews.
"I don't think I can do this," she whispered.
She thought that Dave would protest, insisting that they had to simply because it was his way. He was bound to get things done, to show up and be respectable even if he remained a mess on the inside. Maybe that was why she was so surprised when he leaned his head forward against her knees.
"I'm not sure I can either," came his muffled voice.
That small of admittance of fear gave Reagan the strength to lay her hand on his head. He'd trimmed up his hair again and when she ran her fingers through it, it didn't take long until she was brushing the nape of his neck.
"I keep waiting," she croaked, "to wake up."
Dave raised his eyes to her, balancing his chin on her lap. He looked younger than Reagan had ever seen him appear, his gaze so hollow that she could see straight through it. Behind his outward strength, Reagan saw every facet of his despair and fright. All the hope and excitement, ravished into something else that was looked out of place in Dave's stare.
"I'm right here," he said quietly, grabbing the hand that Reagan had knotted into his hair.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled as her throat closed. "It's still so hard to take in."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I . . . I don't know."
There was a quiet shuffling in the doorway that forced Reagan to tear her eyes away from Dave. She saw Gracie, standing halfway in the bedroom with her pudgy hands gripping the doorframe, her eyes round and curious.
Reagan immediately forced a smile that she was sure had no life behind it. Dave turned his head when he noticed her abrupt change in expression.
"Hi baby," Reagan said, mustering a sense of warmth in her tone.
Gracie broke out into a shy grin. She was blissfully unaware of her parents' heartache, something that brought Reagan a great sense of relief. So far, she and Dave had done their job. They had protected Gracie from the hardships.
"Grace," Sarah cooed with gentle reprimand, coming up behind Gracie and sweeping her into her arms. "Mommy and Daddy are getting ready."
"For what?" Gracie chirped, though in her little voice the words sounded closer to 'fo wha.'
"It's okay, Sarah," Reagan said.
"I'll bring her into the living room to see you guys off," Sarah promised.
Reagan summoned another smile, this one shallower than the last. She planned on properly thanking Sarah one day for all that she'd done, especially in the wake of losing Kurt. There had been one other bright light orbiting within their home outside of Gracie, and that had been Sarah. She had done her best to protect Gracie, too.
"She's getting so big," Reagan said under her breath, hanging her head again as she tried to gulp back some oxygen.
"You're thinking about Frances," Dave suggested softly.
It was easier for him to say her name. Or perhaps, he was just stronger than Reagan was. She'd tried so hard not to torment herself with thoughts of Kurt's baby girl, wondering endlessly how Frances would ever properly understand how exactly wonderful her father had been.
Reagan raised her hand to her face and covered her eyes, pushing her fingers into her eyebrows until they smarted under the pressure.
"It's not right. She'll never know how much he loved her," Reagan whispered.
Tears that she hadn't known she had left began to bloom in her eyes.
"She'll know," Dave said. "No one will ever let her go a day without making sure that she knows."
He clutched Reagan's free hand, the one that was balled up into a fist in her lap, and pried her fingers open tenderly. Kurt's guitar pick was revealed in Reagan's grip.
Before Dave could ask, Reagan explained through her tears, sniffing back the congestion that had built up in her throat and nose.
"He gave it to me," she said. "The last time I ever saw him. I didn't ask why. I thought he was just being himself, being strange. Now . . . I think I know why he did it."
Dave studied the guitar pick in Reagan's palm quietly. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as he swallowed, his Adam's apple quivering as his eyes took on a rare sheen. He thumbed away some of the tears rolling down Reagan's face and then took his hands, folding them over hers so that together, they shared a grasp on the pick.
And then very deliberately, Dave raised Reagan's hands, still tucked into his, and kissed them.
______________
It was quiet when Reagan and Dave returned home from the funeral. When they walked through their front door, they found Sarah curled up on the couch with a book in her lap. Gracie was down for a nap.
For some reason, Reagan had taken the walk up to their house with a dreaded anticipation. She had done her duty of getting through the funeral, as excruciating as it had been, but she knew that there were now questions to face. More calls to answer. She prayed that Sarah wouldn't ask how it went -- ignorantly diligent as ever, Sarah did not inquire.
With Reagan and Dave home, she offered them both hugs, packed up her things and left. Reagan retreated into Gracie's room to check on her. It was the one place in the house where she couldn't be reached, where all that mattered was her daughter.
Gracie's room was dark when Reagan pushed the door open quietly, peeking her head in. The small radio that she and Dave had set on Gracie's dresser was on, playing a soft lullaby that just barely substituted for Dave's singing. Sure enough, Gracie was fast asleep in her toddler sized bed, looking like the sort of peaceful that Reagan longed for.
Reagan had never bargained on one day becoming a good mother. No amount of practice with her siblings had truly prepared her for it, but what she hadn't expected was the immeasurable amount of guilt that she felt now in being a parent.
It was odd. Being guilty for loving your child was ridiculous, but in Reagan's case, she was thinking of Frances.
As she stood fiddling with the door knob in her hand, Reagan tried to surmise how unfair it was that an equally deserving child would grow up without a parent. It had been hard enough to say a final goodbye to Kurt that day, but the residual pain of thinking of Frances was salt to the wound.
Reagan reminded herself that Frances still had Courtney, though that reassurance was plagued by a concern over Courtney's capability to fully process Kurt's death. It was hard for Reagan to say how Courtney was doing since she had made it her prerogative to pretend Reagan did not exist.
There had been some trepidation about how Courtney would react to Reagan's presence at the funeral, but Reagan had nearly shot through the roof when Dave had remarked on it. Nothing, nothing would have kept her from honoring Kurt one last time. She hadn't wanted a brawl to break out, but she'd also made it clear that she would handle Courtney as necessary if it turned ugly.
Thankfully, it hadn't. Courtney had merely glazed over Reagan as if she'd been air, entirely invisible inside the Seattle Unity Church. Reagan hadn't cared. The only passing thought she'd had concerning Courtney had been in regards to Frances, hoping that Kurt's baby would remain well cared for with her mother.
"Is she still asleep?" Dave whispered. He appeared behind Reagan, craning his neck forward to catch a glimpse of Gracie.
"Yes. I'm jealous of her," Reagan said. She spared one final look at Gracie's still figure and shut the door, ushering herself and Dave into the hallway.
There was a moment of silence while Dave appraised her.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice low.
Reagan was far past the point of bluffing.
"No," she answered. "I never want to do that again."
She moved past Dave and went back into the living room, bending down to fumble her shoes off her feet. They were aching despite the fact that she hadn't done much walking that day. Just sitting and crying, crying and sitting.
"Ditto," Dave muttered. He raked his hand back through his hair, following Reagan and watching as she sat on the couch and tucked her legs beneath her.
Some time during the day, she'd developed a run in her pantyhose. She stared at the split material with a look of defiance. Good. That gave her an excuse to throw them into the trash. The whole outfit might as well be disposed of.
"Should we order food?" Dave asked. Reagan was not speaking, which prompted him to slowly initiate conversation.
Reagan gave a tight head shake, an indication of 'no.'
"Watch t.v.? A movie?" Dave pressed, sliding out of the suit jacket that he'd donned.
"Why would you even suggest that?" Reagan shot back. She'd said it before thinking twice, speaking without trying to edit her irritation.
Dave blinked in confusion. "Because I want to make you feel better?"
"That's not going to happen. Not right now."
"I can't sit here and be depressed, Reagan."
Reagan snapped her attention directly onto him. "Why not? Kurt is dead. We just went to his funeral. What is there to be happy about?"
"I don't know," Dave stuttered out in disbelief. "I do know that I don't want to see you like this."
"Are you kidding?" Reagan said, laughing humorlessly. "The last thing I want to think about is watching a movie or camping out on the couch with Chinese food like it's just some fun, Saturday night."
"I'm trying to make this work," Dave replied with a heavy sigh.
"What are you trying to make work?" Reagan demanded. "Your friend is gone. Your band is gone. How are you even functioning?"
Dave took a deep inhale and pushed both of his hands back through his hair, letting the pieces flop back into place. His face crumpled and he held out his arms, dropping them down to his side in defeat.
"I'm barely functioning, Reagan," he said bluntly. "What do you want from me? You want me to curl up in a ball on the floor? There's no fucking playbook for this shit."
"I know, but-,"
"You think I'm not all screwed up on the inside? I just had to say goodbye to one of the best friends I've ever had. I just watched my whole life change and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."
"But if you think-,"
Dave threw his suit jacket to the floor and returned his hands to his head as he started to pace in a tight circle. His words spilled freely now, rushed together with every octave that he raised his voice.
"I've spent the last two years hoping every day that this wouldn't happen to him. And not for sake of the band, not for the money, but because he was my fucking brother. He still is. And I won't ever get to talk to him again. I won't ever get to share a stage with him again. You think I don't realize that?"
Reagan zippered her mouth shut, sensing that she'd struck something deep within him. Regret pooled inside of her automatically as she recoiled into the couch.
Dave stopped his pacing to face her. "I already told you, I didn't sign up for this part. And I sure as hell didn't sign up to attend a funeral for my friend. All I'm trying to do is make shit better because right now, I don't know what to feel. Guilty? Pissed off? Depressed as shit?"
"Dave . . . I'm sorry," Reagan whispered.
He shook his head. "You don't know what it's like. I know he was your friend too, but for me, he was a part of the thing I've always wanted, my whole life. Without him, it would have never happened. And now that he's gone, I can't even remember why I wanted this shit."
"Don't say that," Reagan whispered.
"It's true."
"Do you . . . regret it?"
Dave slipped his hands into his pockets and lowered his head. He faltered to answer the question, but when he did, Reagan knew he was crying.
"No," he said. "I don't regret any of it. I don't know what kind of person that makes me."
"It doesn't make you anything less than what you are," Reagan whispered fiercely, leaving the couch to stand in front of him. "A wonderful person. A loving person."
"I'm sorry that you're hurting so badly," Dave mumbled. "I know you loved him."
"You loved him too."
"But I promised you that the band, that part of my life, would never affect us and-,"
"Kurt wasn't the band, Dave. He was family."
Dave let out a stifled sob that he'd been attempting to hold back. Reagan felt herself begin to cry when she saw his face, heard the pain in his voice. She had never thought it possible to see him look so broken and so unlike his usual self, as if the real Dave had been eclipsed by a permanent shadow of sadness.
The Dave she knew best was the person with a firm sense of direction in spite of his age. The Dave in front of her only looked lost, swallowed into a sadness that had never once triumphed over his infectious happiness before. It scared Reagan to see him appear so much unlike himself.
"I don't know if I can ever play again," he sobbed. "I don't think I can. I can't pick up an instrument and not think of him and not remember that he should be here. I don't want to play. That part of me feels like it died with him."
As he hunched forward, Reagan caught him in her arms and pulled him into her chest, burying her face into his hair as he cried into her shoulder. She silenced her own cries and let Dave weep, feeling as if the earth had disappeared from under her feet.