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BEFORE - OCT 28TH 1977
It was raining. It hadn’t rained in a long time. Hell the last time he remembered it was - it was the last time he was here. He was wearing a black suit and clutching onto Holly's hand like a lifeline. Today there was a noticeable absence at his side. His hand opened and closed. Aching for some pressure on his palm. Instead he leaned down and grabbed the companionable silence of the neck of a bottle and swung it back. He wasn’t sure if the blurring was due to the scotch, the rain, or the heat of tears on his face. Maybe it was a mix of all three.
Emily Murphy-March
June 30 1942 - November 27 1974
Beloved Wife, Mother and Friend.
Stars have never shined brighter.
He stifled a laugh at the last line. It was something she would have wanted. Not the word actress, not the wish for fame - just that she was special. A star. Shining more than anyone ever had. Hollywood be damned. Emily meant more than all of it. He poured part of his bottle out on the soaked grass below and tipped the bottle back for himself once more. “I don’t know - Murph.” Holland shook his head, sodden hair shaking with the movement. It reminded him a little too much of all those mornings. The mornings he woke up fully clothed in a bathtub with a long empty glass and a sinking cigarette by his feet. That was what he was now. “I uhm - wow its been a long fucking day”
It was an understatement of course. It felt like a week ago he was at the bowling alley with his daughter for a birthday party - it was actually this morning. This morning he teamed up with the bruiser. This morning he got back on the case. This afternoon he saw the burnt remains of a house. This evening he rolled up to a party offering vices and virtues. This evening he fell on a dead body. This evening his daughter was nearly kidnapped. This evening they were hired by the department of justice, got a massive check and then …
He was asleep for a little. Woke up nearly falling off the diving board into an empty pool of used cigarettes. Realized how much shit he had caused for one day and ended up here. His feet took him here before he thought too much about it. After today he knew his brain couldn’t be trusted. The cycle of drunk to sober over three times in 24 hours. It messed with a man. Enough to lead him to his wife’s grave with another bottle in hand.
“Holly uhm … Holly is fine. You should know that. First. She’s clever. She’s wow .. but god damn. She's so much like me I -” Holland wiped his sleeve across his nose. Which did nothing given the rain. “She got taken. I mean I told her to go home, She didn't. I could of made sure. But they told me she was in that car and I - I sobered up in about 2 seconds. I swear to fucking god. I never prayed so hard in my life. But for our little girl.” He paused. Watching the rain fall over the lettering of her name before sitting across from the stone.
“She’s stronger than she should be. At this age. My fault I think -” Another sniffle. A sigh. A sip. “Today was ridiculous. I mean it was supposed to be her birthday party” A bunch of rowdy girls screaming about knocking down pins. Not burnt houses. Not parties filled with debauchery and alcohol. And dead men. And the department of justice. “Got out of hand.”
Holland glanced at his watch. It was nearly 5 am. The sun would be coming up. Might as well. The darkness didn’t scare him though. Even when you are sitting in a graveyard with your ghosts. It wasn't the darkness that did it for Holland March. No it was those hours earlier. When they looked over at a lot of blackened wood. It would actually be easier if it had been empty. Little to no reminders of what had happened, of a life that had been taken. Sure this was some idiot kid making a porno but - the feel. The sound of the boards creaking and breaking underfoot. Splintered with damage and char. He ran a finger over one of them that afternoon. The black stained his finger. He looked at it now. Swallowed down bile and fear.
Emily insisted on a big Thanksgiving spread every year since Holly was born. It was only the three of them but Em and Hol spent the entire day in the kitchen prepping food enough for a family of 8. He used to help. A part of him knew he should still try but since his accident being in the kitchen just gave him anxiety more than anything else. Plus Emily loved cooking. Always had. How a brit knew the perfect thanksgiving Holland would never know. Nor ask. That's just not something you asked a lady. Especially one with a mean right hook.
The private investigator of it all took up more time than he originally planned for. There were so many years where he needed to be there for every first. Every time Holly did something for the first time, every time Emily laughed at her or with her. As if his subconscious knew that one day he would be missing these moments. He had already begun missing them. Sitting downstairs nursing a glass and a mess of scattered papers. He shouldn’t be working. It was a holiday. Yet - if he couldn't be useful upstairs he forced himself to be useful somehow. Bring in some amount of cash for his family. His girls. Who he could hear laughing upstairs. He smiled to himself, a hand running over the stubble he had let go a little too long. When had he decided not to be a part of it all?
Realistically he knew the answer lay somewhere in the grief ladened habits he had picked up as of late. What kind of man loses a well respected job and leaves his family grasping for straws. Leaves his wife to pick up the bills. The house. The car. It was the damn 70’s for gods sake (they weren't there yet. You know historically). Still, when the laughter floated back down the stairs paired with the eager footsteps of his daughter he sighed, sweeping the papers haphazardly into a folder and made a move to meet her halfway down the steps. Maybe getting a good scare out of her. The way he used to. This was a phase. That was all, he would get back on his feet. But today was a day to forget all of that. Not by ways of liquid courage but - family.
A younger Holland March smirked as he moved in front of the stairs catching the smaller form of his 10 year old daughter as she flew down the steps to alert him dinner was almost ready. The moment she collided with his arms, time seemed to slow. They laughed. He heard a click. The familiar sound of the new oven coming on. Then Holly seemed to fall against the backdrop of something red. Orange. Billowing.
He caught her weight as they both landed on grass littered with glass and debris. His ears rang, the air was hot. Not warm. Hot.
Wrapping his arms around the body of his daughter Holland March watched the cause of the sudden change of scenery, an inferno in the place where they were meant to be enjoying thanksgiving.
There's not much to remember after that. He didn’t get up. He didn't run in. Something in him knew there was no use. No. No he cradled the smaller form of his kid and forced her head to his chest, not letting her see the totality of what had happened. Someone told him he was calling for Emily then. Once they had Holly with the medics he was making a sprint for the remaining structure. Honestly he couldn't tell you if that was true. The only thing he remembered from that day for damn sure was that morning - when Emily had turned over in their bed. Brushed his hair back and explained that she was still worried about the gas smell after their renovations.
“I just don’t know what to do without you sometimes you know? Holly needs - I .. I need -” Holland reached out a hand, setting it on the slick and cold stone, his mouth screwing into a sideways frown. The kind you put on to keep emotions inside. Because what was the point of showing them to an empty grave. He stood then, lifting his hand. Read the words one more time. Finished the bottle. Stumbled back home.
He didn’t go right to sleep. A miracle really. Instead he stood in the doorframe of his daughter's room. Sometimes, well … actually quite often, he would do this. She looked so much like a child when she was sleeping. Her shoulders weren’t heavy with responsibility, her face wasn’t tense with the constant disappointment. She was just - innocent. He could go in and pull her blankets up, kiss her head and pretend that they were a really normal father and daughter. Tonight he just needed to know she was there. And she was. Despite the night, the unwelcome memories and the mess he had made - he only really had one person to apologize to and he did then. Pulling the blanket up to her chin he brushed a strand from her face and whispered an apology. He really meant to leave after that. To wake up in bed and prevent her from seeing him this way but fear had a way of digging down and rooting you to a spot. As did dizziness. And everything else that came crashing down all at once. So Holland March was slightly bruised, belligerent, and broken … and also passed out on the floor of his daughter's bedroom.