Chapter Text
Emily Patterson did all her grieving a long time ago.
Of course, the pain of losing a child never really goes away… but after a while, it becomes bearable. All pain must fade, or else no one would be able to get out of bed in the morning. It takes time… but gradually, you adapt to every single agony, and re-learn how to live all over again. You survive.
(All pain is survivable — except acid burning through a young boy’s stomach, stealing his life faster than his star could blaze out.)
It took her too long to clear out his things, but that can be blamed on a mother’s grief. Pictures of Luke still hang on the walls; his baby book still sits on the living room bookshelf. Once a month, she visits the cemetery and clears his grave, leaving a fresh bouquet of flowers. She lights a candle for him in church every Sunday, and mentions him in her prayers each night.
Luke is with her constantly, like a shadow, like a ghost. That’s the part that never goes away. He’ll always be her little boy — and just as she’ll always love him, he will always haunt her.
She accepted that a long time ago. It softened the pain when the sound of his voice began to fade from her mind. As the years passed, details blurred. So many things get lost in the sands of time… from the shape of the birthmark on his shoulder, to the brazen cut of his smile, to the way he laughed with his entire body. The sparkle in his eyes… the constant restlessness, hands and feet and limbs always moving…
She forgets it all, even while remembering. The details slip through her fingers; photos and old home videos can only do so much to resurrect the memories. Her son has been dead for twenty-five years… and if grief has taught Emily anything, it’s that the smallest things are the first to go. Sometimes, the smallest things are most precious.
It’s a natural process. There’s no point feeling guilty about it… no way to remember everything, no way to bring it all back in vivid detail.
Unless, of course, you saw them again.
But that… could never happen.
Should never happen.
And yet, as Emily Patterson stands in the middle of her kitchen, facing her dead son… the details have suddenly become very, very vivid.
“Luke,” she breathes… and his eyes light up, like he’s a little boy all over again. She’d forgotten the way his brows always furrowed when he was thinking of an excuse — the way he froze up for half a second when he thought he was in trouble.
Instead of an excuse, he just smiles. Smiles like it’s just another early morning, another average day… and he’s as relieved to see her as she is stunned to see him.
Her dead son smiles at her, and Emily remembers everything.
He takes his tea with too much sugar, no milk, and a little bit of lemon. After all these years, she still remembers. She makes the drink like muscle memory.
(He used to chug energy drinks to keep him awake after a late night: hot chocolate was a must on chilly days; he gagged at the taste of orange juice. Emily remembers everything, down to the tiniest detail.)
When she turns, she half-expects to find him gone… but he’s sitting at the table, hands folded in front of him, fidgeting back and forth in his seat.
Nervous, her brain supplies, as she sets the drink down in front of her. Luke never could sit still — but he never had a good poker face, either. She could read his moods like the hours of the day, back when she knew him too well; a mother memorizes her son, and Luke was a lot to remember, her mercurial little boy.
He wraps his hands around the mug, and leans forward, soaking in the warmth. He takes a deep breath. A tiny smile flickers across his lips.
“Just like you always made it,” he murmurs.
Emily stares at him. Her heart pounds like a hammer in her chest; that’s the only thing that reassures her she’s still alive, that she hasn’t died in her sleep and entered some celestial in-between where her boy is waiting for her. It’s beating too hard, though. She feels dizzy. Delirious, even — with fear, hope, desperation.
Her son looks up. She must have been staring too long, because he ducks his head again, shoulders scrunching up.
“Ma, quit looking at me like that.”
“I’m not,” she answers automatically — then hastily averts her own gaze. “I’m not looking, I — I’m not. I’m just…” Terrified of chasing him away, but equally terrified that he won’t be there when she turns back. Her voice trails off; she stares into the shadows off to the side of the room, unable to bring herself to look.
She can feel him, though. Luke’s gaze lingers on her. The mug scrapes against the table when he moves it. He’s bouncing his leg, a dull tap-tap-tap on the tile floor.
“I’m right here, Ma,” he says softly.
She turns. There he is.
“And I’m here, too,” she says. “Right here with you.”
They smile at each other, like it’s a secret shared between them. Emily’s chest feels like it’s being crushed.
Luke sips his tea in silence, and doesn’t complain anymore about his mother’s staring. Emily tries to drink in every piece of him, every detail she can discern in the early-morning shadows. His hair is still a mess; he’s wearing an old flannel, which she hasn’t seen in years, but still looks brand new. He’s got ink stains on his hands (always) and callouses on his fingers (perpetually). He forgets to set the mug on a coaster, then hastily remembers, flashing her a sheepish smile.
Oh, dear god, it’s him.
“Luke —“ She starts, breathless — but Luke cuts her off.
“I have these dreams sometimes. When I can actually sleep.” He swallows, and shrugs, not looking at her. “I dream about… dark. The sort of dark where nothing else exists — not light, not life, not music. It’s this emptiness that feels endless, like the second you look into it, it’ll swallow you whole… and it’s hungry. I can feel it reaching for me whenever I close my eyes.” He grips his mug tighter. “And the worst part is, I don’t hate it. It feels like the quiet after a thunderstorm, when you can still feel it in the air and all around you, but you know all the bad stuff’s over… peaceful.” He swallows hard, not looking at her. “I think it’s death.”
Her hand twitches, desperate to reach for him. Luke sees the movement; he freezes up, for just a second, before inching away.
“I’m used to be scared to sleep… not anymore, though. It’s not so bad in the dark when you’ve got something to hold onto.”
Something. A lifeline for her boy, when he had none — when he had no one to cradle him when he was dying. Emily’s lights up with hope, too painful to bear; Luke meets her gaze dead-on. His eyes glisten like embers in the darkness.
“I got so much, Ma. So much to do… so much life to live. I can’t give up on it.”
She chokes on a sob, clamping a hand to her mouth. Somehow, Emily manages to keep it down, to keep herself quiet. She grips her tea mug with her free hand for dear life. After a few seconds, she composed herself enough to take a sip. The liquid sits on her tongue until it goes cool and stale; only once she forces herself to swallow does she finally look up again.
Luke’s still there — sitting across from her, his cup of tea empty, a tiny smile on his lips. The tension from a moment ago fades away, like it was never there at all. (Did she just imagine the desperation in his eyes?)
“You can’t babysit me forever, y’know. Gotta get ready for work soon.”
“You’re more important than work,” she answers automatically.
A tiny smile plays on Luke’s lips. “The library ain’t gonna open itself. If you don’t go in, the books’ll miss you.”
He used to tease her about being a librarian all the time; she’d tease him right back about the books he hid in his room, classics mixed with new releases, everything from King to Kerouac. Luke loved words; he could spin incredible poetry out of a few lines, bring images and metaphors to life with ease. If he ever applied himself academically… if he’d put any of his incredible mind and talent towards school, and education, instead of music…
The regrets sting her eyes, burning the back of her throat. Emily swallows them down and forces a smile.
“You’re right.” Her chest aches. “I have to go.”
“Check to see if I’ve got any outstanding fines. I don’t remember returning my last few books.”
She chokes on a laugh. “I’ll — I’ll take care of you.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice warm. “I know.”
Without her permission, a lone tear spills down her face — and that’s all it takes, the raindrop to break the floodgates. Emily sputters, and shudders, and clamps both hands over her mouth. The world blues around her into a watercolor canvas, rippling in a mocking echo of reality.
Like a memory — a ghost. She’s surrounded by ghosts.
“Hey, Ma, no —“ Luke is breathless with alarm, pitched with desperation. “C’mon, don’t. Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“You — you don’t —“ Emily shakes her head hard, and sobs harder.
“It’s okay…” He sounds far away — like pulling back is the only way to make her believe it. “It’s gonna be okay, Ma. I promise.” A pause, a pang, and then: “I’ll take care of you too.”
Emily catches her breath all at once. Her head snaps up. Forcing herself to see past the blur of tears, she looks across the table and finds —
Nothing.
Empty space, not even a shadow left behind. No hint that he was ever there at all.
Nothing, that is, except for an empty tea cup.
He wakes her with music, late into the night. When she opens her eyes, it takes a moment to register the shadow at the foot of her bed, bent over a guitar. The tune he strums is soft and even — not meant to wake anyone. He doesn’t notice her awareness, and doesn’t falter, even when she stirs. Luke’s head is bowed, and his eyes are shut, and he just… keeps playing.
She’s heard that tune before. Somewhere. She’s sure of it.
Sleep drags her back down before she can remember.
Tiny things fall out of place; books left where she never set them down, family albums pulled off the shelves, picture frames and figurines moving from table to table like musical chairs. Shadows flicker at the corner of her eye, vanished the instant she turns. Strains of melody drift through their air before evaporating. Luke’s bedroom door, some afternoons, is left wide open.
It’s not really his room now — hasn’t been for a long time. Not since the ten year mark, when Emily finally gave in, picked his odds-and-ends up, and donated them to Goodwill. She the bare essentials of a bed and dresser; but they never have any guests, so there’s no use for it. The keepsakes stayed, too. Luke’s old closet is stacked with boxes of memories she couldn’t bear to part with.
She never goes in there anymore. It’s where they keep her old sewing machine, Mitch’s dictionary collection, clothes they’ve outgrown and keep meaning to donate. It’s a junk room now — nothing more.
Seeing the door open when it shouldn’t be confuses her, at first sight. It takes a minute to remember. Then, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s sitting on the bed, his back to her, arms spread out on the bare mattress. Dusky twilight filters through the window, casting him in tones of gold and sepia. When she takes a step inside, the old floorboards creak. Luke doesn’t even flinch at her presence.
Silence stretches between them, for too long. Emily feels like she’s curdling.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I know it’s… not what you remember anymore.” Bare spaces on the walls where posters used to be; his clothes and CDs donated; his solar system bedspread long-tossed out. Even the toys he used to have when he was a little boy…
Luke shrugs, still not looking up. “Nothing stays the same, does it? You go to sleep at night, and wake up to a totally new day.” His voice is very quiet. “Something’s over, and you can’t get it back.”
“Something new is beginning,” Emily says softly.
Finally, Luke looks up at her. His face is solemn, utterly unreadable. He looks older than she remembers. “Nah. I passed history class, remember? It all repeats itself. Again and again. Maybe… maybe the new day’ll be just the same as the old one.”
Her entire chest aches. She longs to reach out, to lay a hand on his shoulder… but Emily holds still, and says the only thing she knows is true.
“Not if we don’t want it to be.”
A lot of reflection happens in twenty-five years of grief. You have to make your peace with things; you have to accept the pain. You can never change the past, but the past does change you. Nothing has to happen the same way twice.
She doesn’t dare call this a second chance with her son — what is it? is it even real? — but it must be something. It has to be something.
A tiny grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “Geez, Ma,” he huffs, glancing at her sideways. “When’d you turn into a gooey optimist?”
She sits down beside him, lowering herself slowly onto the mattress. The room smells of dust and starch, neglect heavy in the air. Once, it smelled like teenage boy. Luke never put away his dirty clothes; he left soda cans and chip bags everywhere; he crumpled paper and tossed them haphazard over his shoulder… his room was like a war zone. Now, it feels like a tomb. Emily settles down on the mattress, and tries to remember what it used to be, when she still had a son.
“I’ve always had faith,” she says softly. Her voice dips even lower. “I believed in you.”
“You —“ Luke’s voice shudders, on the verge of breaking. “You didn’t, though.”
Emily flinches. In the past. It’s in the past.
Are they living the past right now?
“I should have,” is all she says. “If I could take it back…”
A shudder runs through Luke’s entire body. He visibly regrets this conversation. He cringes, pulls away, shaking his head hard. For a second, he seems to flicker, vanishing into the shadows — and Emily’s heart leaps out of fear of losing him forever.
“Luke!” she says sharply, and he freezes up.
It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters, except how much we love you. I’d take back every harsh word, if it meant a lifetime with you… but we can’t do that, can we? We can never fix what’s broken.
Except you’re here.
Except you’re home.
He turns to her slowly; the light casts a harlequin mask upon his face, half in shadow. His eyes glitter like shards of glass. She meets his gaze dead-on, and tries to breathe.
“Have you —“ Her exhale shudders. “Have you done your homework?”
It’s a familiar script. Something in Luke relaxes; he nods, like muscle memory.
“I took care of it, don’t worry,”
“I’m sure,” she replies, with a tiny huff — and it’s memory, she doesn’t mean it, that’s what she always used to say, but she regrets it immediately. This is what he meant, isn’t it?
But Luke only smiles, a faint and tired thing, like this, too, is something familiar.
“Look, Ma,” he whispers. “I’m finally home.”
He comes most often when she’s home alone. Mitch still works his nine-to-five, but Emily’s schedule has gotten more relaxed with age. The library doesn’t need her to come in as often; some days, she can stay at home, reading and knitting, watching her daytime soaps. They’re quiet days. Lonely, in their own way.
At least, they used to be.
Now, the house is never empty. Shadows dance out of the corners of her eyes; chores are done before she thinks of doing them; and some afternoons, the calm and quiet is shattered by music.
“Luke?”
She approaches the door tentatively. Again, he hasn’t bothered to close it. Usually, when he was blaring his rock music hard enough to make the walls shake, he’d shut his room up tight, locking the door; Emily would have to pound and yell at the top of his voice to get him to turn it down. Now, it’s not half as loud, or as obnoxious. When she peeks into the room, he’s sitting on his bed with his blue guitar, hands flying over the strings.
She stands there, listening for a moment, before the song finally comes to an end. When Luke looks up, he seems — surprised to see her there. As though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Hey,” he says — then flashes that disarming, ‘everything is ordinary’ smile. “I got my homework done already, promise.”
“I wasn’t —“ Homework was always the first question she asked, when she found Luke playing music. Emily can recall the script by heart. What about chores? Can’t you join a club at school? The convenience store on Reseda is hiring… there’s so much you could be doing, Luke, instead of spending all your time with that instrument.
Something bitter surges up her throat. It takes a moment of fumbling, but Emily forces herself to change the script.
“Wh-what are you playing?” she asks instead.
Luke looks startled, for half a second, before he ducks his head, and she can’t read him at all. (She’s only three decades out of practice.) “I’m trying out a bit of Hendrix. You, uhh… ever heard ‘Little Wing’?”
“No.”
He chuckles. Dumb question. Emily and rock music get along like peanut butter and sauerkraut. “Well, it’s got a legendary guitar track. I’m trying to learn it, but…” He shrugs, shifting his guitar, and still doesn’t look at her. “I mean, it‘s coming along. Not fast, but I’m gettin’ there. The song, uhh… reminds me of someone I know. I kinda wanna play it for her.”
Emily blinks, tilting her head. This is a conversation they don’t have a script for. Luke never talked about girls, or dates, or any of the standard teenage-boy fare. In sixteen years, she can’t even remember him having a crush. His first love was only music. (And pizza. And dogs. And chocolate-covered pretzels. Also, possibly Alex, for a month or two? They never had time to unpack that.)
Clearly, Luke doesn’t know what to say, or even how to say it. That’s alright; Emily can read between the lines.
“Why don’t you write a little song just for her?” she asks, tilting her head. Wrong thing to say, apparently. Luke huffs, shaking his hair out like a shaggy golden retriever.
“I’ve written tons of songs for her, Mom. I’d write whole albums for her, if she’d let me get away with it.”
A smile flickers across her lips. How many times did she imagine her boy in love? Imagine all the things in between, prom nights and wedding days, anniversaries and grandchildren? Instead, all she has is this: a conversation they never truly got to have.
“She sounds like a nice girl,” is all she says, smiling. Hopefully, Luke can’t see the sadness in it.
He’s too restless to look for long, though. His hands are already twitching across his guitar. “Yeah. You, uhh… you wanna listen?”
Something painfully close to hope flashes across his face. Emily nods, and his eyes widen.
“Yeah, okay, uhh — here goes.”
She knows nothing about Hendrix, and nothing about rock music. All she knows is Luke: the passion in his eyes as he plays through the long solo, the fire in his fingers and the deftness in every note. He’s a natural — always has been. It’s clear, just watching him, how much he loves the music. It sparks something in his eyes, sets his body moving and chest heaving. It brings him to life.
When he finally stops playing, he hovers there for a second — then looks up at her, expression an open wound of hope.
Emily beams, blinking the sting out of her eyes. “You have so much talent, Luke,” she declares, and her voice doesn’t waver once.
Luke exhales, breathless. He almost smiles, but catches himself just in time. “Th-thanks,” he says instead — and turns to his guitar, his safest place. “Can I play you something else?”
Emily nods; to her surprise, she’s eager to hear him. It’s been far too long since she sat and listened to her son play — too long, even before he left. After a point, as the band grew more serious and Luke began obsessing over it more and more… Emily didn’t want to hear him anymore. She looked at his guitar like an enemy, and wouldn’t give his music the time of day.
Her mistake — and her loss. Now, there’s nothing to do but listen.
Luke plays through a handful of songs. Some of them sound distantly familiar; others sound contemporary, in a way that surprises her. One sounds like a memory, sad and sweet, and it wrings something in her chest so tight, she can’t keep the tears from coming.
That’s where Mitch finds her; sitting on Luke’s bed in the half-darkness, tears in her eyes, listening to him play.
“Em?”
Except the moment his voice rings out, the music cuts off. Emily blinks, and suddenly, he’s gone. There’s nothing but silence, and her husband’s concerned face, peering at her from the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” he asks softly.
“I was — Luke was just —“ She fumbles, gesturing to nothingness. He was right there. He’s still here, somewhere. “Luke,” she insists, as if this explains everything. “He was playing for me. It was Luke, Mitch, he’s…”
Somehow, she finds her feet. When she turns to her husband, the tears are hot on her cheeks, and her heart feels close to bursting.
“He’s home.”
Mitch takes her to a doctor, of course. Multiple doctors. Experts. Emily married nothing, if not a practical man — and when Mitch gets worried, he gets very, very thorough.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you might have missed?” he asks the neurologist, after the second scan.
“If they haven’t found anything in blood tests, urine tests, cognitive tests, vision tests, math tests —“ That one was just annoying. “And the multiple MRIs, Mitch, whatever it is must be invisible.”
(She hasn’t ruled that out, actually. Some days, she can feel Luke, even if she can’t see them. Now that she knows what to look for, the sensation of a chill, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up… she’s been feeling him for a very long time.)
Mitch looks troubled on the car ride home. Emily wants to speak… but lord help her if she knows what to say. They’ve reached an impasse here. He won’t believe her, and she has no way of convincing him. Whenever he appears, Luke is gone — and whenever he doubts her, Emily sees her son’s smile in her mind, and she becomes that much more certain.
If Mitch doesn’t believe in ghosts, that’s his problem. She knows better.
“We have more options,” he declares, as they’re turning onto their street. “Now that anything medical’s been ruled out, we’ll find a psychiatrist —“
“I’m not going to a shrink, Mitch,” she says, a little sharper than necessary.
“You need to try, at least.”
“I’ve played along, but now the game’s over. You’ve dragged me to enough head doctors —“
“Em.” There’s real pain in his voice; it cuts her like a shard of glass. “This isn’t normal. I’m worried.”
“Miracles aren’t normal, Mitch!” Try as she does to control her temper, it still flares up, even at her age. “They don’t happen every day! But when they do, who are we to question them? Who are we to look in the face of God and say, ‘no thank you, this is too strange for me!’”
“Is that what you think?” He hits the brakes a little too hard to let another car pass. His hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel. “Our dead son has come back, as — what? A personal favor from God to us?” He chuckles low. “Sure, fine! Twenty-five years too late, but who’s counting? I’m sure he’s been busy up there, time must’ve gotten away from him.”
“Don’t you mock —“
“I’m not mocking, I’m worried.”
“Well, stop worrying! Frankly, it’s none of your business!”
“None of my —“ He leans forward, nearly bearing down on the car horn in outrage. “None of my business?”
As far as Emily is concerned… no, it isn’t. Luke has yet to appear to his father. In fact, he seems to be taking pains to avoid him — and, though Emily has mentioned offhand how this arrangement has complicated things for her, if that’s what Luke’s comfortable with, she won’t test her luck. A part of her is afraid that ordering him, or even asking him to do something, will break whatever tenuous peace they’ve found in memories — recreating the bad, instead of the good. Another, more selfish part of her, just wants to live in her fantasy world for a little while longer. She likes having Luke all to herself.
“Em, have you lost your mind?”
A real possibility.
“We’ve been married nearly fifty years! I don’t know what you think a partnership’s supposed to be, but if I started seeing… fairies in the garden, I like to think you’d be a little concerned!”
“Very,” she replies, gripping her purse tightly. “We’d have to make them pay rent.”
Mitch pulls into the driveway with more passive-aggressiveness than is really required. Emily slams the car door just as hard. They march up to the house in silence, and somehow, turn unlocking the front door into a Cold War exercise.
When Mitch steps inside, Luke is sitting on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table.
“Hey, Dad,” he says with a casual wave.
Mitch drops his keys.
“I didn’t know when you guys would be home.” Luke sits up, arching his back like a lazy cat. He’s messed up Emily’s favorite embroidered pillow; the TV is blaring some superhero cartoon, loud enough to be obnoxious. Luke’s eyes flicker between his parents for a moment, before he sheepishly fluffs the pillow and mutes the television. “I, uhh… started dinner? Just to take it off your plate.”
Mitch is still frozen in the doorway. He might be paralyzed. Emily tiptoes around him. “You cook?” she asks, curious. That’s not out of any memory.
Luke grins crooked, and shrugs. “I do my best.”
Luke’s best is slightly charred garlic bread, pasta with too little sauce and too much cheese. It’s the best meal Emily has ever eaten. Mitch looks like he’s about to keel over, right there at the dinner table.
“If Dad’s being quiet, something’s really up,” Luke observes — he and Mitch once rivaled each other for the position of family chatterbox. When his parents don’t rise to the bait, though, his brows crease, genuine worry darkening his face. “You were at the doctor, right? Is — is something wrong?”
“No,” Emily says quickly. “Everything’s fine, Luke. Perfectly normal.”
His shoulders slump in relief… but he’s too smart for his own good. “Why’d you need to go, then?”
“Just to be sure,” she says, gaze darting to Mitch. “Just a check-up, sweetie. But everything’s alright…” Her gaze bores into her husband, daring him to argue. “Right?”
Mitch clears his throat, clutches his fork until his knuckles turn white, and finally lifts his head. His gaze settles on his son; for the first time all night, he really sees him.
“Right,” he says, voice hollow. “Everything’s fine.”
Luke smiles, and goes back to eating his pasta.
Sometime between the end of dinner and the clearing of plates, he slips out of existence again, like he was never there at all.