Chapter One: All Fall Down
I’m in a state of confusion
I hope things aren’t what they seem
If this is really happening
Just let me go back to dream
You’re home
Tell me I was dreaming
Tell me that you didn’t say goodbye
~Travis Tritt
For the rest of her life, she would remember that day. The details of it were burned into her brain, succeeding in a steady, clear recollection of everything that happened.
She burned the chicken. Having spent various amounts of time in the bathroom that afternoon, praying to the porcelain gods, she let her attention on dinner waver. Her boys made unholy amounts of noise from the back yard, the sound of childish arguments drifting into the sunny kitchen.
Through the small, curtained window leading to that lawn, she could see those two young boys rolling in the mid-autumn leaves. They laughed, their beloved Beagle puppy barking and diving into the piles with youthful exuberance. The three musketeers, that’s what their father called them.
“Shit.” She swore as the smoke detector screeched.
Taking the burned chicken from the stove, Ororo Summers dumped the blackened food from the pan. A flick of a switch churned the garbage disposal, taking the ruined meal down the drain. She placed a hand to her dark forehead, trying to calculate how long it would take for her husband to return home. If she started right now, she could whip up an Alfredo sauce and some angel hair pasta. That might appease her picky sons.
She used a towel to air out the space in front of the detector, ceasing the irritating chirp that might alert her children. Once the mess was cleaned and the room aired out, Ororo checked on her boys again. Assured that they were out of trouble, she immediately set to work.
With determination borne of a dedicated mother, she gathered ingredients and pots from her cupboards, tossing everything together. She had a flair for cooking, much to her husband’s dismay. His slender build packed on ten pounds over the years, even with an intensive exercise program. He once joked to his best friend that the happier he was, the more weight he put on.
Smiling at the thought of her husband, Ororo washed her hands in the sink quickly, letting the heavy fragrance of her beloved cream sauce hang on the air. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly, a reminder of the surprise she and Scott discovered just three weeks ago.
They hoped for a girl this round, but both could be content with a healthy child. Thinking of health, Ororo dove back into the refrigerator for makings of a salad, knowing full well what a battle that would be with her seven and four year old sons. Still, if she promised them ice cream sundaes for dessert, they would dutifully eat every bite in hopes of that sweet treat.
The news came on; local Chicago anchors greeting her brightly from the tiny television set Scott bought her last year for Christmas. Because she spent so much time in her kitchen, whether moonlighting as a caterer with her former boss or creating something for her own family, he decided she need not miss a moment of her favorite news programs.
Humming a little while chopping carrots with the ease of a chef, Ororo scarcely heard the top story. But something, she might never know what, filled her belly with a hard lump of fear. She turned to the small screen, eyes intent when she read the ticker revealing the headline.
“We go to our reporter in the field, Kim Vatis.”
Setting the knife down, Ororo let one hand fall to her gently rounded abdomen, as though to draw strength or comfort from her unborn child.
“Thank you, Zoraida.” Kim’s compassionate face filled the screen, wreckage of a recent car accident framed behind her. “We’re here on the inbound 355 just before the Ogden exit, where we’re told at least one fatality was pronounced here on the scene just moments ago.”
“Oh, God.” Ororo’s hands flew to her face when the footage changed. Clips of a decimated white Dodge Ram filled her with a fear she might never explain. “Oh, God. Scott. No.”
Beyond that awful pile of twisted metal laid a body, covered with a dark blue medical examiner’s blanket. She did not need to see his face nor the blurred license plate to know the truth. Looking to the clock confirmed her fears. Scott always called before the news started, no matter what happened to be going on. She turned to stare at the phone, willing it to ring so they might discuss the car accident as they always did, laugh at how she was turning into a worrywart.
She yearned to hear his voice, even when her heart knew the truth. Ororo still heard her children playing in the yard, the plop of water boiling on the stove, but her life was torn upside down.
~**~
Someone came to tell her that Scott was dead. But that couldn’t be. He was still young, still healthy. They were expecting another baby. She was making his favorite pasta for dinner. Why? Oh, she’d burned the chicken.
The solemn faced Sheriff stood in her living room to explain what happened. She sent her children to the neighbors’ home, where their freshman college daughter could take care of her angels. She sent the checkbook so the children could order pizza while the Sheriff told her how her husband died.
It was an accident. A semi-truck driver, pulling in from a long double-shift fell asleep at the wheel. He tried to brake, but not before slamming Scott’s brand new truck into the guardrail. The driver was in critical condition. Scott died on the scene.
How could it be? For years she and Scott threw themselves into danger in the name of mutant rights. But they left that life behind to start their family, to grow old together. Scott couldn’t be dead. It was a mistake, please let it be a mistake.
Is there anyone you’d like us to call?
Who? She and Scott were all they had. Sure, their friends and family still lived in Westchester, but the only one she ever called for help was Scott. His best friend…but they had no idea where he was. He’d gone on a mission, Ororo recalled clearly. He’d gone off to do what he had to do while Scott died on that busy freeway.
The deputy talked of details she couldn’t comprehend. Of arrangements. Of counseling. They were so sorry for her loss.
At last, when they were gone, she was left alone in her pretty little house. This house they bought with wedding money saved for two years. Charles helped them with the down payment, but Ororo and Scott did everything else. They painted every room, refinished the floors, and bolted down cabinets.
They’d fought over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Ororo won. Scott still hated them. This house is where they brought Chris home from the hospital when labor pains began, comically, on Labor Day. They gave him a tour at just two days old, Ororo giggling when Scott promised to build that swing set.
She’d sewn the drapes in the sitting room herself, while heavily pregnant with little Evan. Chris got the sticky orange flavoring of Cheetoes all over them. Ororo thought she’d cry forever, letting the hormones get the better of her.
Her trip down memory lane had somehow taken her to the neighbors’ house. What was the girl’s name? She’d known her for seven years, but at the moment her name escaped.
Lydia. Right. Little Lydia who Evan loved to distraction and swore he’d marry someday. She was in college now, studying to be a teacher. Ororo knocked upon the door, still lost in a tide of disjointed thoughts and unsteady memories.
“Mrs. Summers,” Lydia said upon answering the door. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Summers.”
Her face was red and blotchy, as though she’d been holding back the urge to cry. The girl had not broken down in front of Ororo’s innocent boys and for that, she felt a warm surge of gratitude for the younger woman.
“I need the boys,” Ororo replied with a hoarse voice. Stay strong, she told herself, have to think of the children. All of them.
“Want me to come stay the night?” Lydia questioned, her gaze flickering to the young life still nestled inside Ororo’s belly. “I can give you a hand. I don’t have classes tomorrow.”
“I just need my boys.” Ororo insisted. As though the girl knew she hung on by a thread, she turned to gather up the Summers boys.
Heedless to their whining that they wanted to stay with Lydia, Ororo led them both across the side lawn and into the house. Chris fell quiet, as though he knew something terrible had happened. She did not look at them until Evan closed the front door.
Her boys. The light of her life. Christopher with his serious blue eyes, light caramel skin and the distinct chin of his father. Evan with his mother’s coloring, his father’s eyes, and a sunny disposition that nothing could dampen.
Scott adored them. He told her, so often, that he once thought living as a mutant rights champion was his calling. Instead, he found as the years went by, he loved nothing more than to roll around in the back yard with his kids. That, Ororo always thought, meant the world to her.
Forcing herself to concentrate, Ororo stared at her boys, memorizing them before she stole their innocence away.
“Where’s Daddy?” Evan asked, peeking through the room. “Is he hiding? Did he bring us presents?”
But Chris stared directly at his mother. He knows, she thought sadly, Goddess help me. Ororo swallowed thickly as Evan continued to search for his father.
“Where’s Daddy?” He questioned again, a slightly hysterical pitch to his four-year-old voice. “I want Daddy.”
“I do, too,” Ororo whispered.
Both boys crowded closer as she sat. She took a hand from each of them in hers, praying to anyone that might answer for guidance.
“Boys, there was an accident,” was all she could say without bursting into tears.
“Is Daddy at the hop-it-all?” Evan questioned curiously. “Can we go see him?”
Chris had already begun to cry. “Mommy?”
Ororo drew in whatever strength she had left. “No, honey. Daddy’s not at the hospital. Daddy…Daddy had to go to heaven.”
Both hands squeezed hers, the tiny fingers digging into her palms. “I want Daddy.” Evan demanded.
“I’m so sorry,” Ororo cut in, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Baby, Daddy isn’t coming home.”
“Yes he is!” Chris shouted, startling both his mother and bother. “He’s coming home! He told me we were going to see the Bears play on Sunday! He’s coming home!”
“No, baby, he’s not.”
“Liar!” Chris screamed, tears running down his cherubic cheeks. “No! Mommy! Don’t say Daddy’s gone!”
Ororo leaned up, capturing each boy into the crook of her arm. The fight left Chris almost immediately and he burrowed into the safety net of his mother’s embrace. Evan cried with them, even when the thunder crashed and rain pelted the windows of their pretty little house.
~**~
They buried Scott on a bright, but chilled Sunday afternoon. An old friend gave the service, the blue-furred priest Kurt Wagner. The X-Men had all come from Westchester, filling her pretty house with memories and sorrow.
Charles Xavier, the wheelchair-bound benefactor, spoke of his sorrow, eulogizing Scott in a poetic and beautiful way. He spoke of Scott’s accomplishments, conceding they were nothing compared to the joy he found in his family.
Ororo stayed strong, leaning heavily on her friend Rogue during the memorial ceremony. Her heart broke when Chris walked first to his father’s coffin, touching the polished mahogany with his tiny hand.
“Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m the man of the house. I’ll take care of Evan and Mommy and the baby. We’ll be ok.” He kissed the coffin then, even as his mother fought with tears. “I love you, Daddy.”
Evan, his little face wet with tears, followed his brother, kissing the white rose in his hands before laying it on the coffin. “Bears won,” he whispered. “Hester ran in two.”
Her sons held hands, gripping one another for support while their mother came forward to speak to their father. She laid her hands on the cold, shiny wood, eyes darting over the beautiful spray of autumn flowers decorating his casket.
“I miss you,” she whispered simply. “I love you. Goodbye, sweetheart.”
Rogue came forward in a flash, taking Ororo’s arm as they both closed their eyes in prayer, kissed their roses and laid them on the casket.
After the service, close friends came back to the Summers’ home. Ororo changed out of her funeral attire, allowing her boys the same comfort. They darted into the backyard, to the play set their father built. Ororo could see their hearts were not in play, but they needed to get away from the stifling sadness.
She curled up on the cushioned window seat, a blanket covering her legs and pillow pressed against her belly. They would insist she eat soon, every mind wondering how the baby she was carrying might fare when his or her mother seemed so lost. Ororo stared out the window, trying to ignore the dull murmur of voices all around her, each discussing Scott’s prematurely ended life.
Charles came to her, his benevolent smile slightly sad. Ororo offered him a forced smile, which did not seem to deter him.
“How are you holding up?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. It doesn’t seem real.”
“I understand.” Charles reached for her hand. “I have never met a woman so strong as you, my dear Storm.”
At the sound of her abandoned codename, Ororo closed her eyes. She could see her husband there, dressed in his X-Men uniform. Though he wore the ruby-quartz glasses until his death, she remembered clearly the design of his visor and smiled at the image. They missed that life, from time to time, though every day as parents proved adventurous.
“Have you heard from him?” She questioned to halt the memories. “I noticed he isn’t here.”
Charles’ gaze saddened further. “No. I cannot reach him at the moment, though I tried.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“I am afraid not.”
Ororo turned her gaze back to the front lawn, her mind’s eye placing Scott out there, mowing the lawn as he did every Sunday until the first snow.
“He’ll come here first,” she replied quietly. “He always does.”
~**~
He knew something was amiss the moment the motorcycle’s engine cut off. Glancing about at the quiet, peaceful home he knew well, Logan immediately felt the foreboding chill of impending doom. He remained on the seat, legs propping the heavy Harley Davidson to prevent a fall.
The quaint little house looked as he remembered it nearly six months ago. The waist-high fence to keep Buster inside needed a new coat of paint, but then, it always did. There were two child-size bikes hanging from hooks beneath the carport, though Logan usually found them dumped on the lawn. The garage door was closed, which in itself was odd. They left it open during the day, so neighbors could borrow tools and the boys had access to their scooters, skateboards, and bikes.
He noted that the drapes were closed tightly, another oddity. She liked the light, he remembered. Every morning at dawn, she threw those drapes open to allow the sun to shine inside, waking the men of the house with irritating groans.
Green grass was in desperate need of a cut. Logan frowned. He never let the grass go uncut, fearful that the boys might trip on a hidden sinkhole or rock. The soft blue minivan was nowhere in sight, but that could mean she was running errands. On a Saturday. At five in the afternoon.
Perhaps the boys had soccer or hockey or something.
Deciding to try his luck at the door, Logan pulled out the kickstand with one foot and slid easily from the bike seat. He stretched his arms above his head, succeeding in cracking every vertebra from neck to tailbone. It had been a long drive and the comforts of his friend’s home seemed somehow cold.
He sniffed the air, an instinctive habit he couldn’t quite shake. For some reason, he scented the boys and their mother as strongly as ever. His friend’s signature aroma, however, was conspicuously missing. This might have nothing to do with anything. Perhaps he went back to New York for a few weeks. If Xavier needed him, very little could keep that boy strapped down.
Deciding to find out what was happening, Logan marched up the walk careful to avoid disturbing her pretty flowerbeds lining it. Lord help him if he stepped in her marigolds or whatever the hell they were.
Just as he reached the steps, he heard a soft footfall. The handle jiggled before the inner door opened, revealing a familiar face.
“Ororo,” he grinned, yanking the screen open. “What’s goin’ on, gorgeous?”
Almost before the words left his lips, he knew something terrible had happened. Those bright sapphire-hued eyes were dull, rimmed with red. Her cheeks bore tearstains and that cap of snow-white tresses hung limply at her shoulders.
Shocked at her haggard appearance, he stepped back, allowing her to open the front door further. He noted the sagging sweat pants and plain white t-shirt, startled that he dressed so casually in the middle of the day. Ororo Summers was not a woman that let herself go.
One of her delicate hands rested on the door handle, the other on her swelling belly. Logan tried to smile.
“He go an’ knock you up again?” He attempted to joke. “You two ever sleep?”
She did not bother to crack a smile. Her arms wove over her distended middle as though to protect herself from him. Having known this woman for twenty years, Logan felt ice slip through his veins. He could not hear “ even with his enhanced senses “ the sound of her sons playing anywhere in the house. Ororo’s boys were always on the move, usually tearing up the front or back lawn with wild games that consisted of boyish fantasy and dopey giggles.
“Logan.” Even her voice sounded wan, thin. “You haven’t heard.”
At this statement, Logan braced himself. “What the hell happened?”
She looked away, her eyes welling with tears. Logan reached forward, grasping the hand of his best friend’s wife.
“Its Scott,” she whispered. “Scott’s dead.”
~**~
Their house had not changed in décor or size. Logan still found it huge and empty. Whenever he arrived in suburban Chicago to see his friend, there was a cheerful greeting. Perhaps Cyke would sneak in a quick and manly hug. They would laugh, Scott would offer him a beer, and they’d vanish into the garage for a while.
If they boys were awake, they came running down the stairs or inside from the yard, laughing hysterically and begging for attention. He always brought his honorary nephews gifts, usually tucked away somewhere in his jacket. They might beg and plead for their presents, showing him those dorky little toothless smiles.
He might be considered the most dangerous man on the planet, but Chris and Evan turned his insides into water.
Following Ororo into the kitchen, he noted that her grief had not let the housework slide. In fact, everything seemed twice as spotless as he remembered it being. He sized Ororo up, wondering if she dealt with this loss by throwing herself into the life she and Scott built.
“The boys are with Lydia,” she explained without him asking. “They’ll be happy to see you.”
She set about making coffee, gesturing for Logan to sit at the breakfast bar. After shrugging out of his battered leather jacket “ which he remembered with a pang of grief that Scott bought him ten years ago “ he took a seat to watch her. The barstool was comfortable, much like the rest of the Summers’ home. Everything chosen for comfort and simplicity.
Logan used to tell Scott that the suburban life seemed boring, but his friend thrived in it. Becoming a husband didn’t change him much until the move. Fatherhood sat on Scott well, bringing out the inner child in a once deadly serious man. Whenever Logan made the trip to Chicago, he found Scott so drenched in happiness Logan could almost smell it.
Fighting back memories of his friend hoisting the boys over his shoulders or enlisting Logan to help finish the basement, he concentrated on the young widow.
Ororo looked like she’d been to hell and back. Her shoulders drooped and her expanding waistline did not give her skin that rosy flush he had seen through the other pregnancies. She turned to him, handing a cup of coffee across the bar without so much as an attempted smile.
“Its decaf,” she explained, indicating to the baby. “Its all we have.”
“When did it happen?” He asked, taking the cup and setting it on the granite countertops. He had helped Scott install those five years ago.
He couldn’t really be gone.
“About a month,” she replied quietly. The guilt melded with grief in his heart. “Charles couldn’t find you.”
“I was in Australia,” he explained through the pain. “I’m sorry.”
At this, she did crack a smile, though the gesture was wan. “Wow. I believe that is the first time I’ve ever heard you say those words.”
Appreciating the dig and the inside joke, Logan nodded.
“A car accident,” she continued as though the words were tired and worn. “Coming home from work. He had to stop to pick up my prenatal vitamins.”
Stunned by the cruel turn of fate, Logan stared at his coffee cup.
“Where’s he buried?”
“Resurrection Cemetery,” Ororo replied. “Kurt did the ceremony and Charles the eulogy.”
Logan nodded. That was the best plan. He should have been here to say goodbye, to see his friend buried. Did he still have things to say to the man that once saved his life, forging a friendship even infidelity could not shatter? Of course he did. Everything he left for “someday” should have been said when he had the chance.
Deciding to chance the subject before he lost his cool, Logan looked back up at the woman who completed Scott’s life. “When’s the baby due?”
“January.” Ororo answered, touching her belly. “I suspect you’ll be on another mission by then.”
Slightly offended, Logan glared at her. “Did I miss the other two?”
“You were here for Scott,” Ororo explained gently, as though he were one of her sons. “There’s little reason to be here now.”
“They’re my godsons,” he insisted. “I should be here.”
Ororo closed herself off, reminding Logan of the ice queen he’d thought her before she married Scott. He drew himself up as she did, squaring off to fight yet again. They were ever at odds, usually placing Scott right between them. She often called Logan unreliable and dangerous, though she did give in to Cyke’s request that Logan be their children’s godfather.
“You should stay long enough to say goodbye to your friend,” Ororo told him coldly, setting her cup on the counter. “But we’re fine. I can take care of my children.”
“Yeah?” Logan asked, meeting that icy blue gaze. “But you done lost the one that took care of you.”
To his horror, her eyes filled with tears. Ororo turned away, her shoulders shaking. Normally, Logan only witnessed the rare crying jag when she happened to be burdened by pregnancy. But this time, his crass words caused the tears. That for some reason, made him want to claw his own face off.
“Hold up,” he interrupted, coming around the breakfast bar to face her. “Time out. Foul. Shit. Don’t cry. Scott’ll come back from the dead to kick my ass.”
That, for some reason, made her giggle weakly. Feeling an odd kinship with her, Logan rubbed her biceps in a way he thought was comforting, trying to not envision Scott in ghostly form giving him a swift kick in the ass.
“I wanna see the boys.” He insisted when her tears began to dry.
Ororo nodded immediately. “Go ahead.”
