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Description
Disclaimer: You know my views. You know I'll defend them. As such, don't be surprised that I write some characters who share them.

"If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever."
--The Crow (1994 film)

Previously On:

The first phone call came at 4:42 in the morning, shortly after Laurence had rolled out of bed and slunk into the bathroom to begin his morning ritual. In fact, it was a bit of a fluke that he heard the ring at all: he'd left his cell phone in the back pocket of the pair of jeans slung onto the surface beside the sink. It startled him, and his heart skipped a beat when he spotted the familiar number with its 450 area code.

Home.

He pressed the little green button and, a little hesitantly, brought the phone to his hear. "Allo?"

"Laurence!" Such a familiar voice, and so much more welcome than some of the others he might have heard calling from the same house. But, she sounded breathless. Anxious.

"Thérèse," he said. "Qu'est-ce qu'y a?"

"Laurence, c'est maman," his sister said, frantic. "Elle a eu une crise cardiaque. On vient juste de l'apporter à l'hôpital." It's mom. She had a heart attack. They just took her to the hospital.

Somehow, during Thérèse's revelation, he'd ended up sitting on the floor. "Câlisse," he muttered. "Quest-ce qu'on a dit? Les ambulanciers?" What did the paramedics say?

"Un gros tabarnac de rien," she said, and Laurence heard the hiccup of a sob. Fucking nothing. "Et puis Papa et Marie Anne ont sauté dans la voiture sans m'attendre." Dad and Marie Anne drove after them without me.

"Maudit crisses," Laurence swore at them. "Écoutes, Thérèse, je m'enviens. J'y serais cet après-midi. Et j'arrive avec mon char, alors toi et moi ne dépendons jamais sur eux." I'm coming. I'll be there this afternoon. And I'm bringing the truck, so we'll have our own way there.

A sigh, and another hiccup. "Dépêche-toi, Laurence," she said. Hurry.

The second call came just before six, as he was stuffing last-minute provisions into his suitcase. This time he didn't recognize the 450 number on his caller ID, but the voice that greeted him was the same... and so different.

At first, there was only sobbing; pitiful choking sounds as Thérèse tried to control her voice, tried not to wail into what had to be the hospital phone. Laurence knew right then. He tried not to, tried to suppress the knot in his gut. He welcomed denial like an old friend for the thirty seconds it took his sister to form the words that would break his heart.

"Maman," she choked, the word ending on a wrenching sob. "Maman est morte."

She's dead. Their mother was dead.

He didn't feel his knees hit the floor.

-----

For some reason, Thérèse was in the bathtub. The curtain was drawn, and she thought she could remember locking the door. When she tried very hard, she fuzzily recalled slipping in here to escape Marie Anne and her running commentary on how their mother had gone to meet St. Peter and was by now beginning to enjoy the immortal luxuries of Heaven.

If there was a Heaven, Thérèse knew, Marie Marguerite Leclerc was there. But though she'd gone to church for most of her life, listened to the Catholic priests give their sermons on the eternal consequences of all kinds of lifestyles and, for many years, believed them, she could not deny the visceral churning in her gut, the clenching of her heart and the wailing of whatever it was that people called the soul. These things insisted that her mother was dead, dead and gone, and pressed endless tears up behind her eyelids.

Gone.

Marie Anne could go on denying it all she liked, but Thérèse wished she would shut up, keep her tempting delusions to herself. Françoise might believe them, Françoise's daughter might be too young to understand them, and they might keep Marie Anne's children from breaking too sharply... well. Two out of three of them, anyway. Alexis and Julie seemed to accept their mother's preaching easily enough, but Thérèse had seen Benoit sitting in the back yard, his face pale and his eyes dead. Eleven years old, and far wiser than his mother. He felt, as Thérèse did, the emptiness of words like Heaven.

His father Jean Paul was at work, as usual: managing the Castonguay family business took no days off for dead mothers-in-law. And with Alexis and Julie clinging to Marie Anne's promises of eternal reward...

It was the thought of Benoit grieving alone that spurred Thérèse to get out of the bathtub, smooth out her sweater and wipe the tears from her eyes. She didn't have control of much, but at least she could provide company and comfort to an eleven-year-old who was too smart for his own good.

She found him where she'd seen him last, curled in on himself on a bench in the garden. Her mother's garden. Benoit Castonguay made for a sorry silhouette, hunched and shivering, against an ironic backdrop of cheerful colour, fully in bloom: hibiscus, clematis, cornflower, yellow alyssum, foxglove, iris, daylily... little pink and yellow columbines, Marguerite's favourite, danced in the gentle breeze as buzzing insects fluttered between them.

Benoit heard her footsteps in the grass and spun, his big blue eyes turned puffy and red. For a moment Thérèse thought he was going to flee, but he seemed to calm when he realized who it was who had come to him.

"Salut, Benoit," she greeted him softly, sitting close by. She gathered him up when he leaned on her, and absorbed his shuddering cries.

"Matante Thérèse," Benoit whimpered, sounding for all the world like an abandoned dog, "Est-ce que c'est vrai? Est-ce-que Grand-mère est au paradis?" Is it true? Is grandma in Heaven?

Thérèse sighed, her mouth twitching as she fought to keep her own grief at bay. She tried to hide it, but Benoit saw her expression, and she knew that he understood what it was that she couldn't say.

"Ta mère y croit," she told him honestly. Your mother believes it.

"Mais pas toi," he replied. But not you. It wasn't a question.

"Non, mon cher," Thérèse whispered.

Benoit's little arms tightened around her middle, and she stroked his auburn hair. "C'est pour ça qu'on pleure, toi et moi," he said quietly. That's why you and I are crying.

"Oui, mon cher."

"Pourquoi Maman pleure?"

The question took her by surprise. Why is my mother crying? Thérèse's heart shattered, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She held her nephew tighter. "G-Grandmère manquera à Maman," she said, her voice wavering. Your mother will miss Grandma. Thérèse hoped he understood what she meant. She thought he probably would.

No one bothered them, there in the garden, for the entirety of the morning. Somewhere on the highway between here and New York, Thérèse knew, her brother was speeding north. Soon he would be here, and then it would be a little easier. She and Benoit wouldn't feel quite so alone when there were three of them.

I'm so horrible. I kill off a character (that you didn't even know yet!) and then introduce a whole slew more. For the record, Laurence's family looks a bit like this:

Father: Michel Leclerc
Mother: Marie Marguerite Leclerc (née Therrien), deceased

Siblings (all older):

Marie Anne Castonguay (née Leclerc)
married to Jean Paul Castonguay
three children: Alexis (12), Benoit (11), Julie (8)

Françoise Boudreau (née Leclerc)
married to Pierre Boudreau
one child: Marguerite Boudreau (5)

Thérèse Leclerc (unmarried) - shown above

And thus, the emotional wreck that is this story gets EVEN WORSE.

Description
Disclaimer: You know my views. You know I'll defend them. As such, don't be surprised that I write some characters who share them.

"If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever."
--The Crow (1994 film)

Previously On:

The first phone call came at 4:42 in the morning, shortly after Laurence had rolled out of bed and slunk into the bathroom to begin his morning ritual. In fact, it was a bit of a fluke that he heard the ring at all: he'd left his cell phone in the back pocket of the pair of jeans slung onto the surface beside the sink. It startled him, and his heart skipped a beat when he spotted the familiar number with its 450 area code.

Home.

He pressed the little green button and, a little hesitantly, brought the phone to his hear. "Allo?"

"Laurence!" Such a familiar voice, and so much more welcome than some of the others he might have heard calling from the same house. But, she sounded breathless. Anxious.

"Thérèse," he said. "Qu'est-ce qu'y a?"

"Laurence, c'est maman," his sister said, frantic. "Elle a eu une crise cardiaque. On vient juste de l'apporter à l'hôpital." It's mom. She had a heart attack. They just took her to the hospital.

Somehow, during Thérèse's revelation, he'd ended up sitting on the floor. "Câlisse," he muttered. "Quest-ce qu'on a dit? Les ambulanciers?" What did the paramedics say?

"Un gros tabarnac de rien," she said, and Laurence heard the hiccup of a sob. Fucking nothing. "Et puis Papa et Marie Anne ont sauté dans la voiture sans m'attendre." Dad and Marie Anne drove after them without me.

"Maudit crisses," Laurence swore at them. "Écoutes, Thérèse, je m'enviens. J'y serais cet après-midi. Et j'arrive avec mon char, alors toi et moi ne dépendons jamais sur eux." I'm coming. I'll be there this afternoon. And I'm bringing the truck, so we'll have our own way there.

A sigh, and another hiccup. "Dépêche-toi, Laurence," she said. Hurry.

The second call came just before six, as he was stuffing last-minute provisions into his suitcase. This time he didn't recognize the 450 number on his caller ID, but the voice that greeted him was the same... and so different.

At first, there was only sobbing; pitiful choking sounds as Thérèse tried to control her voice, tried not to wail into what had to be the hospital phone. Laurence knew right then. He tried not to, tried to suppress the knot in his gut. He welcomed denial like an old friend for the thirty seconds it took his sister to form the words that would break his heart.

"Maman," she choked, the word ending on a wrenching sob. "Maman est morte."

She's dead. Their mother was dead.

He didn't feel his knees hit the floor.

-----

For some reason, Thérèse was in the bathtub. The curtain was drawn, and she thought she could remember locking the door. When she tried very hard, she fuzzily recalled slipping in here to escape Marie Anne and her running commentary on how their mother had gone to meet St. Peter and was by now beginning to enjoy the immortal luxuries of Heaven.

If there was a Heaven, Thérèse knew, Marie Marguerite Leclerc was there. But though she'd gone to church for most of her life, listened to the Catholic priests give their sermons on the eternal consequences of all kinds of lifestyles and, for many years, believed them, she could not deny the visceral churning in her gut, the clenching of her heart and the wailing of whatever it was that people called the soul. These things insisted that her mother was dead, dead and gone, and pressed endless tears up behind her eyelids.

Gone.

Marie Anne could go on denying it all she liked, but Thérèse wished she would shut up, keep her tempting delusions to herself. Françoise might believe them, Françoise's daughter might be too young to understand them, and they might keep Marie Anne's children from breaking too sharply... well. Two out of three of them, anyway. Alexis and Julie seemed to accept their mother's preaching easily enough, but Thérèse had seen Benoit sitting in the back yard, his face pale and his eyes dead. Eleven years old, and far wiser than his mother. He felt, as Thérèse did, the emptiness of words like Heaven.

His father Jean Paul was at work, as usual: managing the Castonguay family business took no days off for dead mothers-in-law. And with Alexis and Julie clinging to Marie Anne's promises of eternal reward...

It was the thought of Benoit grieving alone that spurred Thérèse to get out of the bathtub, smooth out her sweater and wipe the tears from her eyes. She didn't have control of much, but at least she could provide company and comfort to an eleven-year-old who was too smart for his own good.

She found him where she'd seen him last, curled in on himself on a bench in the garden. Her mother's garden. Benoit Castonguay made for a sorry silhouette, hunched and shivering, against an ironic backdrop of cheerful colour, fully in bloom: hibiscus, clematis, cornflower, yellow alyssum, foxglove, iris, daylily... little pink and yellow columbines, Marguerite's favourite, danced in the gentle breeze as buzzing insects fluttered between them.

Benoit heard her footsteps in the grass and spun, his big blue eyes turned puffy and red. For a moment Thérèse thought he was going to flee, but he seemed to calm when he realized who it was who had come to him.

"Salut, Benoit," she greeted him softly, sitting close by. She gathered him up when he leaned on her, and absorbed his shuddering cries.

"Matante Thérèse," Benoit whimpered, sounding for all the world like an abandoned dog, "Est-ce que c'est vrai? Est-ce-que Grand-mère est au paradis?" Is it true? Is grandma in Heaven?

Thérèse sighed, her mouth twitching as she fought to keep her own grief at bay. She tried to hide it, but Benoit saw her expression, and she knew that he understood what it was that she couldn't say.

"Ta mère y croit," she told him honestly. Your mother believes it.

"Mais pas toi," he replied. But not you. It wasn't a question.

"Non, mon cher," Thérèse whispered.

Benoit's little arms tightened around her middle, and she stroked his auburn hair. "C'est pour ça qu'on pleure, toi et moi," he said quietly. That's why you and I are crying.

"Oui, mon cher."

"Pourquoi Maman pleure?"

The question took her by surprise. Why is my mother crying? Thérèse's heart shattered, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She held her nephew tighter. "G-Grandmère manquera à Maman," she said, her voice wavering. Your mother will miss Grandma. Thérèse hoped he understood what she meant. She thought he probably would.

No one bothered them, there in the garden, for the entirety of the morning. Somewhere on the highway between here and New York, Thérèse knew, her brother was speeding north. Soon he would be here, and then it would be a little easier. She and Benoit wouldn't feel quite so alone when there were three of them.

I'm so horrible. I kill off a character (that you didn't even know yet!) and then introduce a whole slew more. For the record, Laurence's family looks a bit like this:

Father: Michel Leclerc
Mother: Marie Marguerite Leclerc (née Therrien), deceased

Siblings (all older):

Marie Anne Castonguay (née Leclerc)
married to Jean Paul Castonguay
three children: Alexis (12), Benoit (11), Julie (8)

Françoise Boudreau (née Leclerc)
married to Pierre Boudreau
one child: Marguerite Boudreau (5)

Thérèse Leclerc (unmarried) - shown above

And thus, the emotional wreck that is this story gets EVEN WORSE.