c is for catriona

Catriona Garcon was not one to play hooky. She'd never missed a day of school. She'd rarely missed a day of work. If her mother needed assistance and Cate was free to lend a hand, she lent it. If her friends were going through some rough stuff, Cate was there in hopes of making it easier.

She did not bail on people.

Of her friends, she was the shining example of reliability.

At seven fifty-seven a.m., she turned on her side and stared at the digital clock on the nightstand.

She'd never really grieved before, either.

Not like this.

Seven fifty-eight.

She stared at the blinking dots that divided the minutes from the hour. She knew if she called in, because she'd only done so twice in five years, her boss would accept her request without judgment. She didn't want to ask, though.

Today would've been his birthday. He would've been two.

Two. She wondered what he would've looked like. If he would've had his father's straight, pale, pale blond hair or his mother's strawberry-blonde curls. Would his eyes have been that shade of olive that appeared, at first glance, to be brown, like his father's, or would they have been the striking blue-gray of his mother's?

She'd already named him. She'd only been ten weeks along, but she'd named him.

She wasn't usually the type to contemplate the future, either. In addition to being the reliable one of the bunch, she was also the most practical.

But she'd envisioned all kinds of joys involving her son.

And yet there was only sorrow.

Seven fifty-nine.

She lay on the bed, her arms stretched out lazily before her, her left shoulder nearly jutting into her chin, her legs bent slightly, her back curled. If not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest from breathing, she would've appeared motionless.

Will would've been two today.

She flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Blinked once. Twice. Inhaled deeply, slowly and let it out just as slowly, then shoved the covers back, toward the foot of the bed.

She had places to be. People who needed her.

Eight.

She’d called in the day following her miscarriage so that she could take care of the exam … the aftermath. She’d called in on what would’ve been his first birthday.

She didn’t want staying home, though, on this particular day to become a regular occurrance.

She didn’t want the grief.

She didn’t want to wallow in it.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to rise, stumble into the bathroom to get the shower going, then the kitchen for the much needed coffee.

She'd woken up one morning nearly three years before to find her guy gone. She’d known the chance of this happening was good. She knew her guy. They’d been a couple for six years or so, since high school. He wasn’t the sort to handle tricky well. He wasn’t the sort to stay in a small town when the world was waiting.

He wasn’t the sort to be a father.

He hadn’t known she was pregnant when he left.

But then, Cate thought, neither had she known.

She’d found out in September, right around the time Reese and Isabel started wising up to each other, a few months before August had left on her European adventure. A few weeks before Halloween. Trick or treat.

More like trick.

Three minutes after eight.

Four.

Five.

She lay there, watching the blades of the ceiling fan circle.

Six.

Get up.

She wondered how much a girl had to grieve.

Her father? Gone. Died when she was three. She’d lived more than twenty years with that hurt. She’d gotten good at hiding it.

Her guy? Gone. She was getting better at hiding that one.

Her boy? Gone before she'd even had the chance to meet him.

All her men had left her. Oh, but she was grand at pretending that hurt was nonexistent.

In fact, none of her friends, none of them, not even August, knew of this last loss.

She created marketing campaigns – commercials and print ads and whatnot – for a living. She could sell anything to anyone.

Ten after.

Get the hell up, Catie. Get to work.

(c) twenty-ten. jennifer k. griffin, otherwise known as c.c. this publication is the exclusive property of c.c. and is protected under the united states copyright act of nineteen seventy-six and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. the contents of this post, and any other c.c.-crafted picky post for that matter, may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without c.c.'s consent. all rights reserved. in other words, steal this, and i will follow you to the depths of hell and the edge of forever and kick your puny, thieving ass. thanks. :]

read about the rest of the gang: august, isa, reese and seth.

this was a matlock project. learn about that here.