Sol 12
Darcy wasn’t driving to the Watney’s house.
No. She had a car. With a driver.
Stark. At this point, it wasn’t even an expletive any more. She was too tired for that. Not that she could sleep. Not that she had been able to slept since her alarm had gone off at 5:30 that morning. Nerves scrambled with the tiredness in her gut, making her reconsider, again, the doubleshot latte she had in her hand.
The car turned into a familiar driveway, and Darcy’s stomach finally stopped roiling and instead congealed into a solid mass just below her ribcage.
“We’re here, Miss,” the driver - his name was something beginning with an E, something old fashioned - Edgar, Edmund, no, Emmanuel - said.
“Thanks,” Darcy said, realising as she heard the gravel in her voice that she hadn't said much of anything since she’d arrived at O’Hare.
“No problem,” Emmanuel said, getting out of the car and coming around to open Darcy’s door. “Call me anytime - Mr. Stark has me booked for the remainder of your stay.”
“But I don't know how long I’ll be staying,” Darcy protested.
Emmanuel just looked at her. “As long as you’re in Chicago,” he repeated.
Darcy looked at his expression, thought back to Tony's intransigence when she'd tried to insist on paying for the flight, then sighed.
"Thank you," she said, climbing out of the car. What else was there to say?
"No need to thank me, ma’am,” he said, closing the door smoothly behind her. "Is there anything else you need?"
Day tugged on her scarf absently, adjusting it upwards for the Chicago chill, attention suddenly fixed on the house just steps away.
“No, thank you.”
She was only tangentially aware of Emmanuel getting her suitcase out of the trunk of the car as she stared. Bert must have repainted the shutters, she thought absently. I don’t remember them being grey. Then the sound of the car pulling away made her turn and give Emmanuel one last wave before she started trudging towards the front door.
She’d barely alighted on the porch when the door opened and Caroline Watney flew out of it.
“Darcy!”
Before Darcy could let go of her suitcase, let alone say hello, she was enveloped in a Caroline Watney-Special. Even though she’s all of five foot nothing, Darcy could practically hear Mark saying in her ear, she hugs like a mama bear.
“It is so good to see you, sweetie,” Caroline was saying as Darcy tried to tactfully get air back into her lungs. “It was so nice of your friend Anthony to send you over - you know he called us?”
“Tony called you?” Darcy asked, shocked into sudden speech.
“Of course he did.” Caroline patted Darcy on the shoulder and shepherded her into the house. “They were worried about you, dear.” Caroline kept talking, but Darcy, try as she might, couldn’t pay attention.
Instead, her attention was tugged in fifty different directions at once. The smell of the house, equal parts Pine Sol and wood smoke from their fireplace - remembering Mark, dressed in only a t-shirt in the dead of winter, chopping up more firewood on a trip home - seeing familiar pictures lining the walls. Mark at the graduation for his doctorate - she was the one taking that picture, the one where he had his arms around his parents. Mark and Bert, when Mark was still in high school, off camping somewhere. Mark as a cute-as-a-button five year old, staring up at the camera with a wide grin.
Her gaze lingered on an image she didn’t recognise. It was Mark - of course - but it was her too, draped across the sofa that was probably still sitting in the living room, right next to the fireplace. She was asleep in his arms, head pillowed on his shoulder, hair everywhere.
And Mark? Was awake. Unaware or uncaring of the photographer’s presence, he was staring at her in the picture, in that way Darcy still couldn’t believe had ever happened to her. Smiling that same small smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle and just the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. The one that said he was looking at his entire world, and was pretty well satisfied with life, the universe, and everything.
Darcy stared.
And then her arm was tugged, and reality re-inserted itself.
Mark’s dead. He’s dead. The man that looked at me like that. He’s gone.
Darcy’s vision swam with tears which she blinked away as quickly as she could.
“Oh.” She felt Caroline step next to her. “I put that one up since the last time you were here.” Darcy just kept staring, tracing Mark’s face with invisible fingers. “Bert took that one - it was the night before Mark proposed.”
Darcy let out a sound - she wasn’t sure whether it was a sob, or an aborted laugh. “I like it,” she said softly. Any louder, and she was certain her voice would break. And she was tired of crying.
Caroline was still talking. “I can get you a copy, if you want.” Caroline’s voice was softer than usual, too. Sad. Darcy curled into the older woman, wrapping one arm around her shoulders.
“I’d like that,” she said. “Thanks, Caroline.”
Caroline sniffed, then straightened. “Now I know I’ve told you to call me Mom before,” she said firmly. “No matter - I mean… in spite of…” she trailed off. “You’re still our girl, ok?” she said, looking up at Darcy. “No matter what. Don’t you forget it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Darcy said, giving Caroline a hug of her own.
Caroline chuckled. “Now get in here,” she said, moving towards the kitchen. “Bert’s here - he wants to see his daughter in law too.”
Darcy was ready to protest. That she wasn’t their daughter in law yet - that she’d never be their daughter in law. But then she looked at Caroline, at the picture of her and Mark on the couch, and back at her almost-future mother in law.
“Ok,” she said at last. “Let’s go see Bert.”