The Tempest

the sequel to the Love's Labours Trilogy

A Daria fanfic by E. A. Smith

I walked through the front door of my former home for the first time in months, my bag of clothes and necessities slung over my shoulder, and sighed in relief. My first semester at Raft was behind me, and I was glad of it; it had taken more of a toll than I had expected, for both personal reasons and academic ones, and having survived it relatively intact felt like a rite of passage. Finals had been grueling - for the first time in my life I had actually had to study, in order to ensure I made it through the freshman weed-out classes with flying colors - and I felt drained from the experience, even with the weight now off of my back. I had never thought to be so relieved to see the inside of these familiar walls.

There was no one waiting to greet me, which I was a little surprised at; I had not been home since the beginning of the semester, having stayed in Boston over Thanksgiving to catch up on all my assignments before beginning finals, and was I no more missed than this? I couldn't believe I was actually wishing to hear Quinn's prattling or my father's ranting, but four months away from everything familiar will induce some strange cravings. The person I missed the most was Jane, of course, but I didn't think I could expect her home quite yet; her trip with her father would probably last until she absolutely had to be back, if not a little bit longer. Not from any parental bond reluctant to let her go, but simply because her father probably would not bother to make his way back to Lawndale until necessity demanded it. Even then, I was half-expecting Jane to show up right before classes with a tale of skipping out on her father and hitching rides on rail and road night and day to get to Boston in time. Either way, I doubted I would see her until January. Until then, it was just my family and myself, with no distractions. God help me, what have I gotten myself into?

From where I stood, the house looked unchanged. There was no reason it should not be, but so much had happened to me in the past few months, so many little and not-so-little ways in which my outlook had changed, that it seemed the surroundings I had so closely associated with my old life should have changed to reflect it. My view had broadened, my horizons had expanded, or I was at least working to make it so; shouldn't I be seeing everything with new eyes, finding new details in what had once been old? But everything looked as bland and suburban as ever. No new eyes here, it would appear.

I started to take my bag upstairs to my room, but then Quinn emerged from her own domain and walked down, conversation into the cell phone pressed to her ear never missing a beat as she made her way into the den.

". . . well of course Sandi looked great in those shoes I mean she's got great ankles even though her legs are a bit too thin to pull of some of the heels she wears and oh hi Daria and I really think that some of those would look much cuter on someone with better calves well thank you Tiffany I've always thought that I had good calves . . ."

A wave and a perfunctory greeting was all that I got out of Quinn as she breezed past me towards the kitchen, no doubt going to check on some low-fat chips or maybe carrot sticks. My own stomach rumbled, and shrugging my bag off onto the couch, I followed her in. I placed a couple of sugar tarts into the toaster as she rummaged around the veggie bin of the refrigerator. Seeing the paper lying on the table, evidence of my father's former presence, I picked up the arts section and, retrieving my snack, settled in for a quiet read.

I was lost in reading about the new Gary's Gallery location opening in one of the ritzier sections of Lawndale, so as to make it easier for the rich and tasteless to purchase artistic credibility, and being inevitably reminded of Jane, when Quinn finally switched off the phone and joined me with a plate of celery stalks and low-fat dressing.

"I'm sorry, Daria," she said, and she sounded as if she actually meant it, "I didn't mean to ignore you like that. I wanted to say hi and talk and everything, but I couldn't get rid of Tiffany."

"Because we all know what a chatterbox Tiffany Blum-Deckler can be." I had actually been looking forward to seeing her, and was a bit annoyed at having to play second fiddle to her sluggish friend.

"I really do want to talk, Daria," she continued. "I mean, it's been months since I've even seen you. Mom and Dad weren't very happy when you decided to skip out on Thanksgiving." I glared at Quinn, letting her know that the guilt trip was not welcome. I had heard enough when I had told Mom about my decision. The truth was, I had needed time for my schoolwork, but I had also just wanted to be alone, to sort out some questions about my life, and I didn't feel like subjecting myself to family at the time. But the time away had worn more heavily on me than I had imagined, and now I found myself welcoming my sister's company.

"So, how was college, Daria?"

"Just like school," I replied, "but with less Kevin. I'd say that alone made it a positive experience. Plus, some of the professors actually know what they are talking about." A slight understatement, that; Raft was one of the finest non-Ivy League schools on the East Coast, and any comparison to the teachers I had at Lawndale High was laughable. The sensation of actually being challenged at school was new to me, and a pleasant one, though I was still adjusting to it.

"Did you meet any cute guys?" Quinn asked, inevitably. "I know it's a brain school and all, but they can't all be that bad, and you've got to have met someone who works for you by now." Quinn was eager to hear my response, but I definitely did not want to discuss this particular topic, not with her, not yet. James was still a sore spot on my conscience, and while I was sure that Quinn would be sympathetic, I didn't want to dredge it all up for her enthusiastic scrutiny.

"Actually, I'm already married," I replied. "I was going to save the news for a Christmas surprise, but my enthusiasm is running over and I can no longer contain my happiness." I kept my voice as flat as possible, and Quinn got the message.

"Okay, no boys then. Do you do anything outside of classes?" Quinn was starting to sound desperate. I guessed that she had been waiting for this conversation, a chance to catch up with her sister and get a glimpse into the world she would be entering next year, and thanks to her unwitting blunders, I was giving her very little to work with. I sighed internally, and resolved to try to be a bit more open, within reason that is.

"Yes, I do things outside of class. I read and listen to music. I watch TV. I surf the web. I think about things. I lead a very rich and fulfilling life." It sounded like sarcasm, and in a way it was, but it was also true, a very good summation of my life beyond school.

"Daria! You know what I meant. Do you do anything with people? You haven't made any friends there at all?" Quinn sounded surprised, and I was surprised myself at the apparent confidence she had in me. Had she assumed that making new friends would be that easy for me once I hit college?

"No, Quinn," I replied, and was dismayed to have to say it, the only answer I felt I honestly could. "I haven't really made any friends yet." True, in a way, but very far from the whole truth; I had done things, once. "I've been rather busy, with schoolwork."

"Gah, Daria, is that all college is, just studying?" Quinn was horrified. No doubt she was starting to rethink her own application to Pepperhill in the light of this dreadful new information.

"No, it's not," I reassured her. "There are lots of other things that students do, just not me. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time for fun at Pepperhill. You can even skip the boring parties if you want. There's even parties as Raft; I just haven't felt like going."

"You should try," she urged. "This is your chance to have fun, Daria. If all of those other smart people there can find things to do, can't you do it with them? See, brains can have fun too." I knew that she was trying to be sisterly and nice, but this conversation had reached the limit of what I could take in this particular direction. I would enjoy myself plenty in Boston once Jane was there with me, and until then, I had devoted myself to more private pursuits; well-meaning as it was, I didn't feel like listening to a lecture from Quinn. She had obviously been spending too much time alone with Mom; they were starting to sound alike. At least there was still one person in this household on whom I could depend for a lecture-free conversation.

"Is Dad anywhere around, Quinn?"

"I'm not sure," she replied, looking disappointed in the sudden change in topic. "He was around when Mom was on the phone with Aunt Rita earlier, then he disappeared. I thought he said something about birds sleeping or something like that. It was weird, but then Tiffany called and I forgot all about it." I knew where Dad had gone, and was tempted to join him.

* * * * *

As I had deduced, I found Dad in the garage, preparing it to be his hideout away from the coming apocalypse. He had cleared out a spot for a bed, and was dragging heavy blankets out of the boxes in the corner. When I walked in, he looked up and ran over to give me a hug; I was uncomfortable for a second, but I quickly returned it. I had missed him more than I had realized.

"Hiya, kiddo," he said enthusiastically, and the endearment did not sound as odious as it once had. "So you're back from college now?"

"No, Dad, this is just a holographic projection. Help me, Obi Jake-enobi, you're my only hope." He blinked, but laughed after a moment.

"That was a joke, wasn't it," he said, proud of his achievement. "That was really funny."

"Thanks," I replied, and disengaged myself from his arms. I walked around, surveying the cluttered garage. There were actually a lot of memories here, boxes filled with old books and games and toys; I was tempted to start digging through to see what forgotten articles I could find, maybe something to take back with me to Raft, but that was something for later. "So I presume the Joseph of the Barksdale family is coming for a visit? Is she bringing her Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat with her? I don't think we have the right kind of laundry detergent for it."

"Who's Joseph? Is that Rita's new boyfriend or something?" Dad was confused, but he had learned long ago to put such statements behind him quickly enough and go on with whatever he was saying. "Since the last time they got together ended so well, your mother thought it would be a good idea to ask Rita over for the holidays, to see if they could keep things going." I was shocked. I had assumed that Rita was involved somehow, but had thought that she had invited herself over, like last time. Mom was certainly being optimistic about the situation if she had initiated the whole thing. What could have possibly given her that idea? Apparently, Dad concurred with my opinion. "It's crazy, I tell you, crazy! There's no way they can stay happy with each other for that long! I didn't want to wait around until the shit really hit the fan. That shrink at the spa your mother took us to that one time told me I should be more proactive, so here I am, taking control of my life before Helen and Rita send it all to hell. You can be my contact, Daria. You can smuggle me food and Christmas cookies, and let me know when it has all blown over, just like last time."

A part of me was tempted to consent to his plan, and even to join him, but I knew that I couldn't do that, especially not now. I am supposed to be working on being more open to people now, I thought. Admittedly, I hadn't thought that would include people like Rita, at least not yet, but it looks like it's going to be trial by fire for me. At least once you've made it through the inferno, everything else seems easy in comparison. And it might not be all bad.

"Did she ask Aunt Amy too?" I asked hopefully.

"She did, but I don't think she's coming. Your aunt's a smart woman."

So I guess it's up to me to supply the color commentary. Am I still allowed to do that? Just because I'm trying to be less judgmental, does that mean I can't point out obvious idiocy when I find it? I have a feeling this holiday is going to be very character building, and I mean that in the worst way.

"So, whaddya say, kiddo?" Dad asked. "Keep your old dad stocked and informed during Rita's visit?" He looked so hopeful, I hated to burst his bubble, but I had no choice.

"Sorry, Dad, you can't stay in here all Christmas. Where am I supposed to store all the crappy presents I get from Rita and Quinn if you're taking up all the space?"

"Oh, come on, Daria," he pleaded. "I can't take your mother and Rita fighting right now. I've been really stressed at work and I'm not feeling all that great and I'm just not up to it. I promise I'll make it up to you next year; I'll get you twice as many presents."

"I'm not going to help you," I replied with growing frustration. "I've missed you, and I want to see you around during my break. I promise, you can have all the martinis you want, and if the fighting gets really bad, we'll go out for pizza or something." He didn't look convinced. I was going to have to pull out the big guns. I steeled myself for what was sure to follow. "Don't you remember the year your father spent Christmas with his poker-playing army buddies instead of at home? Wasn't he supposed to see you in that Christmas pageant that year?"

"Yeah, that's right!" Goal accomplished. "I was playing a shepherd, and the whole time we were supposed to be tending sheep I was searching the audience for him, but he never showed up! 'Men don't act in Christmas pageants' he said. 'Men don't wear towels on their heads and play make-believe'. Maybe if I had gotten a little encouragement, I could have been a great actor, but did I ever get any? Did he show up for any of my performances? No! Don't worry, Daria; your dad won't let you down. I won't be like he was. I won't let Rita drive me away from being a great dad!" He jumped up from his pallet and ran out the garage door, while I watched, feeling very satisfied. Dad could handle it, I was certain.

* * * * *

". . . so Rita will be coming in tomorrow and staying until New Year's. Erin can't make it; she and Brian are in Vienna for the holidays. On Mother's bill, no doubt."

Mom's voice lost the forced cheer it had held while discussing her plans, and regained the irritation that had usually tinged it in previous occasions when she was recounting her niece's activities. Then she stopped cold and looked disgusted at her own lapse.

The four of us were sitting at the kitchen table, talking over dinner - Dad's newest culinary experiment, some unholy combination of stir fry and pasta that Dad was insisting we try eating with chopsticks - and Mom was filling us in on the plans she and her sister had made for the holidays. The rest of us just sat in horror, and it was an even toss whether the horror was greater over the news or the meal. Tomorrow was the day before Christmas Eve, which meant that Mom and Rita would be trapped in the same house for over a week; and if Mom couldn't even keep the bitterness out of her voice for more than a few sentences . . . I was beginning to find some wisdom in Dad's earlier plan.

"Vienna? That sounds great," Dad exclaimed. "Maybe they can bring back some of those little sausages."

"At least they would be something I could eat with these things," I muttered as I made another unsuccessful attempt to clamp down on a sliver of beef with the oversized toothpicks.

"Ewww, Daria." Quinn screwed up her face in disgust. "Don't you know what's in those things?"

"Pig snouts and cow hooves?"

"No," she replied. "Fat. And grease. God, Daria, your skin could use some moisturizing but that's not the way to go about it." She slipped another pea pod into her mouth; annoyingly, Quinn seemed to have no problem using the chopsticks. One too many dates taking her out for Chinese, I presumed.

"Girls, please," Mom broke in. "And, Jake, Erin and Brian aren't going to bring us back any Vienna sausages; if you want them so much, get them at the store yourself. Anyway, as I was saying, Erin and Brian are in Vienna through the New Year, so they can't make it. Amy outright told me that she didn't want to come, the stuck-up . . ." Once again, she cut herself off, and had to pause momentarily to get the positive tone back into her voice. "Anyway, it's just going to be Rita and the four of us. I think we can really make this a great holiday."

"Honey, I don't know about this," Jake said. "I know that the two of you made up the last time she was here, but don't you think this is pushing it a bit? Maybe you could start with something smaller, like lunch."

"Dammit, Jake," Mom replied. "I'm trying to heal the wounds of this family, and your doubts aren't going to make it any easier. I need everyone to pull together on this."

"Sorry, Mom," I said. "I might hang together with you, but I draw the line at pulling. Too much physical exertion."

"And you, young lady," she said, turning her evil eye on me, "I want you to be positive this week. No snide remarks, no insulting comments. I don't want you making things harder."

Which, of course, was the heart of my own dilemma. The problem was, Mom laying it down as law was just going to make it all the harder to resist my instincts and actually hold to my own resolutions. If I could figure out exactly what those resolutions were.

"Mom, I think it's great and all that you're trying to renew the bonds of sisterhood, but shouldn't you wait until Amy and Erin can come?" I could tell Quinn was trying to ride that fine line between challenge and placation. "Then you could do it all at once. Like, the Fashion Club would have never held an important meeting when only two people could have come."

"Family isn't like the Fashion Club, Quinn. We can't just break up whenever we get tired of each other." Mom sighed in exasperation.

"Why not?" I asked. "It's worked pretty well so far."

"Yeah, Daria's right," Dad jumped in. "I haven't seen my brother in ages, and we get along great!"

"Jake, never talking is not getting along great. I refuse to set that kind of example for our girls. Daria's already off to college, and soon Quinn will be gone as well. What happens when we're gone and there's no more reason for them to get together on holidays? I don't want the last time they see each other to be at our funerals."

"That wouldn't be the last time, Mom. We'd still have to meet at probate hearings." Actually, Quinn and I had gone a long way already towards avoiding the fate both Mom and Dad had suffered with their siblings. We still sniped, but it was more old habit and mutual amusement than true hostility. I was willing to believe that there might come a time when we went out of our ways to get together of our own free wills.

"Mom, don't say things like that!" Quinn protested. "I don't want to think about it."

"Don't worry, honey," Dad said. "That won't be for a long time yet; we're both doing just fine."

"You want your stethoscope back?" I asked. "I think we might still have the Operation game stored away in a closet somewhere."

"No, Daria, chrome wouldn't go with this top at all. And Grandma said that it would be fine as long as I married a doctor. Are you asking Grandma too?"

"No," Mom said, a little too emphatically. "I thought we should concentrate on just one side of the family at a time. Maybe next year." Dad looked ready to say something, but Mom stared him down, and he went back to poking at his food with his chopsticks. "No more discussion. Rita's arriving tomorrow and we will all be civil and hospitable. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, Mom," Quinn said. "You know, wouldn't it be nice if Rita was to show up and see me in a new outfit I bought just for the special occasion?" I rolled my eyes, and Mom seemed to share my opinion. Quinn wasn't getting the credit card today. All of us silently returned to our efforts with the chopsticks.

* * * * *

The next afternoon, I was sitting on the couch, working through a volume of Tolstoy's short stories, when the doorbell rang. Mom had been in a frenzy of holiday preparation all day, determined to transform the Morgendorffer household into a Christmas wonderland suitable for Rockwell-esque family gatherings and Christmas card photos. Holly lined the walls, there were wreathes on every door, and even mistletoe hanging from the ceiling in the opening between the family room and the kitchen. I had already pledged to myself to find another doorway into supper, a window if necessary. Fortunately, she had wanted everything so perfect for Rita's visit that she had not trusted me with anything, leaving my time free for more enjoyable pursuits. Now, zero hour had arrived.

"I've got it," Mom called out from the kitchen, where she had been baking cookies - slicing roughly even pieces from the tube of dough, that is - and ran up to the door to pull it open.

"And here I was looking forward to resuming my doorman duties," I muttered as Rita and Mom embraced, accompanied by a torrent of endearments and well-wishing. "I need the tips for pizza money."

"Daria, put down that book and say hello to your aunt," Mom ordered. "Jake! Quinn! Rita's here!"

"Coming," I heard Dad say from upstairs, his voice strangely muffled, as though heard through liquid. Quinn bounced down into the family room, and I slowly laid my book down on the couch beside me and went to greet the incoming disaster.

"Hi, Daria, Quinn," Rita said. "I'm so sorry Erin and Brian couldn't come, Helen, but they've still got several days left in Austria and getting an early flight back would be so expensive . . ."

"Oh, no, I completely understand," Mom replied. "After all, I know they don't have much money and who knows when they might be able to afford it again. I wouldn't ask them to waste so much of their hard-earned cash just to make a Christmas visit to their relatives." Mom bit down on her bottom lip after that last line; the butter knife in her hands, with which she had no doubt been slicing the dough, was spinning through her fingers. Just then, Dad entered the room; his face paled as he sensed the already tightening atmosphere.

"Oh, hi, Rita," he said nervously. "Merry Christmas." He seemed at a loss for what to say after that, so he just sat down on the couch and fiddled with the TV remote. Mom looked more relieved than anything.

"Rita, Daria's in college now," Mom said. Let the kid competition begin, I thought. "She just finished her first semester at Raft, with honors. We're so proud of her."

"That's great, Daria," Rita said, though she never once looked at me. "Brian just got a new job, too, with one of the biggest real estate agencies in Charleston."

And how's that raging case of herpes going? But Mom was having a hard enough time of it already, and I felt enough sympathy for her not to say anything.

"I love what you've done with the place," Rita was saying. "But where do you have your tree?"

"That's the big surprise," Mom said. Everyone turned to look at her in confusion. We had always used the same tree, an artificial one we had bought shortly after I was born, and had always assembled and decorated it on Christmas Eve night. Rita had never been here on Christmas before, so she couldn't have known, but what made it such a surprise?

"I want us all," she continued, "to go out and chop down a tree together, as a family activity. A new Morgendorffer-Barksdale tradition." A collective gasp of trepidation filled the air.

"Ewww; a real, live tree?" Quinn wailed. "The sap will get all over my clothes and in my hair and it won't wash out!"

"Mom," I said, "do you really want to hand an axe to any member of this family? All work and no play makes Daria a dull boy."

"My father used to make me chop wood," Dad raved. "'It builds muscles', he said. 'It'll turn you into a man, instead of some pansy-ass nancy boy'. Well, you know what, Dad? I've got a real job now! I don't need to chop wood to survive! I swore I would never hold an axe again!" I took the remote and switched the TV to the Pigskin Channel, and the screen filled with a picture of a bunch of tiny men wearing plastic slamming into each other. "Hey, cool. The game's on!" He settled in to watch.

"Um, Helen, are you sure that's a good idea?" Rita asked. "We've never done anything like that before."

"A little bit of togetherness is what this family needs," Mom declared confidently. "Getting our own tree will get us all in the holiday family spirit. It's not like I'm asking you to go camping or anything."

"Some of those berries might make the holidays go by easier," I said. The only response I got was the stare of death from Mom.

* * * * *

The wind was icy, and the few pitiful trees remaining at the Christmas tree farm did little to block its onslaught; my heavy jacket provided a little protection, but my face still quickly became numb, even with my hood up. There was no snow yet, but the recent rains had left the ground muddy and half-frozen, and the effort it took to trudge up and down hills with the earth underneath partially giving way with every step soon left all of us short of breath and testy of mood. It seemed an inordinate amount of work to put in for the privilege of cutting down a stunted, warped evergreen that had never done any harm to us, and then carting it back home to be grotesquely festooned with garish decorations. And it wasn't making it any easier that Mom and Rita found it impossible to agree on a single tree.

"And what's wrong with this one?" Mom was asking, while standing over a specimen of flora that would have looked sickly next to Charlie Brown's tree. It was one of the better choices on the lot.

"It's too short, for one," Rita replied, "half its leaves are gone, and its tip leans to the left."

"And you think the one you picked out was better? Its base was all out of proportion to its tip, and half of the needles were brown!"

"Well, maybe we would be able to find a tree we both like if you were willing to pay for a better selection than this place has. Last year, Mother bought us a gorgeous tree; it was perfectly symmetrical and had a base big enough for all our presents to fit under."

"That's easy for her to do; she no longer has a family to support with all that money, and it's not like she ever gives us any of it." She paused. "Look, Rita, I don't want to argue with you about this. It's Christmas, and what's important is that we are together, not how perfect the tree is." I think I counted three different shades of purple pass over Mom's face as she said this. "If that last tree is the one you really want, we'll get it."

As we turned around to head towards Rita's choice, Mom and Rita plunged on ahead, and Dad fell into step beside me, while Quinn lagged behind, muttering about the cold and chapped skin and freakin' mud on her shoes or something, I wasn't really listening.

"How ya holding up there, kiddo?" Dad asked with artificial cheer. I was sure he was as miserable as I felt, though I didn't look directly at him to see.

"I'll be fine, as soon as Mom gives up on her Paul Bunyan fantasy and lets us all celebrate the plastic, artificial Christmas we've always had." I looked at the large saw Dad was carrying; actually, more like dragging with one end riding along the ground. "You aren't actually planning on using that thing, are you?"

"You bet I am! I'll chop that thing down in no time, you'll see. I'll prove my father wrong! I can chop wood as good as any man!" He would have gone on, but his words were lost in heavy breathing. I turned to get my first good look at him since we arrived, and I was taken aback by what I saw. We were all a bit strained by the walking, but he looked as though he had just hiked ten miles; his breath was coming in gasps, his face was more pale than it should have been in the cold, and he looked as though he was having to force each step. He was dragging the saw half the time, and the rest of the time using it as a cane. I almost tripped over my own feet in shock.

"Dad! Are you feeling alright?"

"Sure, kiddo, never better. I'm just a bit out of shape, that's all. Nothing to worry about." He grinned widely, too widely to be genuine.

Methinks he doth protest too much. But what do I know? I'm not a doctor, and maybe he's always been this way, but I was just too accustomed to him to notice. He took us out camping just two years ago; was he struggling this much then? It's probably just stress. With Aunt Rita around, he's probably had adrenaline pumping through him for hours, if not days, not to mention all the martinis. Anyone would be feeling drained. But I could not shake the feeling of unease the image had given me.

If anything was sick around here, it was the tree Rita had chosen, though to be fair there were few better choices around. Not all of us were so understanding, however.

"That tree's not cute at all," Quinn protested. "It's short, and not very pointy. Aren't real Christmas trees supposed to be pointy?"

"I would think you would be used to being around dull things by now," I said. "She has a point, though. It looks pretty lopsided. I'm not sure being crushed by a toppling holiday decoration is the way I want to go."

"Helen, if you really don't want this tree," Rita snipped, "then just say so. Don't use your kids to do your dirty work for you."

"Not at all," Mom reassured her. "I'm sure the tree is fine. Daria, Quinn, leave your aunt alone. Hold the trunk while your father cuts it down."

"Why not? If I lose my legs, at least I won't have to walk back." I reached through the branches and grabbed the trunk. Quinn did the same, but screwed up her face as though her hand had landed on something truly grotesque, like a slug or out-of-season shoes.

"It's sticky," she whined. "Ewww."

"Watch out for the bugs, Quinn. They love sap."

"Ahhhhhhh!" Quinn shrieked and yanked her hand out of the branches; she jumped at least a couple of feet back from the tree and slapped at her hand in a panic. I smirked; at least I had managed to get a little bit of entertainment out of this outing.

"Fine, Daria," Mom retaliated. "You'll have to hold the tree by yourself as your father cuts. Use both hands; you don't want to let it fall on him." Wordlessly, I placed my other hand on the trunk and held it steady as Dad sawed through the wood. Since it was a small tree, he only took a couple of minutes, and it was light enough for the two of us to carry it together. I did my best to watch him for signs of strain, but since he was ahead of me, there wasn't much I could tell just by looking at his back; at least he wasn't staggering or giving any obvious signs of wearing out. He's probably feeling pretty triumphant right now, cutting down a tree without any help or ridicule from his father. Maybe that helped.

* * * * *

Late that afternoon, I lay on my bed facing the ceiling, trying to distance myself from the dysfunction below. Mom was trying, I had to give her that, trying to be forgiving and tolerant, trying not to dredge up the bitterness of the past at every reminder, but she was failing. She would hold her tongue as long as she could, bite down on her lip and smile, but eventually Rita would say one thing too many about Erin and Brian or their mother, and Mom would lose control and take a verbal swing back, and they would be off. And, eventually, since Mom was determined to make this holiday a time for family healing, she would retreat again and return to her forced hospitality. She was attempting to deal with the past by ignoring it, pretending it didn't matter, and it wasn't working. And, in the meantime, Dad's martinis were becoming a fixture in his hand, and Quinn simply watched in silent horror. And I had retreated to the solace of my padded walls, my own private decorator's nightmare, which were feeling more fitting with every passing moment.

Mom's efforts were uncomfortably reminiscent of my own recent struggles. I had spent the last few months in near-solitude while reevaluating my view of the world, the walls I had erected between myself and the rest of humanity, in the wake of the destruction those walls had wreaked on my first new friend since Tom. I had considered the problem from all angles, trying to ascertain how to maintain my principles without using them an excuse to lock away the world. I had evaluated my past relationships - familial, friendly, and romantic - to break down what had made the difference between my acceptance and my rejection, to spin my theories as to how to change my approach to make myself more accessible, less rigidly isolationist, for my own sake as well as for the sake of others. But what if those theories didn't fit the facts? What if I couldn't just accept, merely by willing myself to do so? Mom was trying something similar, forcing herself to associate amicably with her sister, and what was it getting her? Repressed bitterness leading to even greater outbursts, sabotaging whatever bridges she had built and traumatizing her family in the process. And, being a lawyer, where knowledge of how to manipulate people was more a requirement than just an asset, Mom was far more inherently diplomatic than I. If she couldn't bring herself to handle basic sibling rivalry, what chance did I have of completely changing a lifetime's worth of behavior? But what choice did I have? I had realized what my thorns would eventually cost me - every relationship I would ever have - and I could not live with that high a price for their protection.

The only relationship I had that gave me hope that matters could improve was Quinn. Over the past few years, we had moved from bitter rivals, viewing each other with genuine suspicion and resentment, to more friendly opponents whose bickering was more habit and mutual amusement than real conflict. But how had that happened? Did it start two summers ago, when Quinn had finally realized that she could actually be comfortable with her own brain, and so did not necessarily have to be ashamed of having a sister with one? Had it started with my own act of mercy, holding back my most damaging piece of footage from that film project for O'Neill? Or was it something more gradual, a slowly-increasing détente between us? And if that was it, what could I learn from it, if it was so gradual and natural that I hadn't even been conscious of it as it was happening, wasn't even certain of what had happened? I wish Jane were here. I always think better when I can talk it through with her, and I'm certain she would have a few insights to offer on the issue. That, or an offer to immortalize my torment in art, probably something welded and particularly dense. Rather like I feel at the moment.

There was a knock on my door, and Quinn's voice called in, wondering if I were here.

Think of the devil and you see her T-shirt. "I'm sorry, but the door you have called is not in service at this time. Please shut up and try again later." As I knew she would, she opened the door and entered at the sound of my voice, long inured to the actual contents of my speech.

"Daria," she said hesitantly, "I was wondering if maybe you would want to go see a movie or something tonight?"

"Are there none of the former Fashionistas around for you to hang out with?" Despite the question, I wasn't all that surprised by the request; in fact, I should have been expecting it.

"No; Sandi's spending the holidays abroad, Stacy is visiting relatives, and Tiffany . . . well, Tiffany just isn't worth hanging out with by herself." She looked embarrassed at the confession. "C'mon, Daria, you aren't even reading or anything. Even you can't think that just sitting in here by yourself is fun." She had that right; staying in here alone had not been at all fun, but I had thought that it was necessary. And I needed to stay here a little longer, to work out these new pieces of information, before I could subject myself to the outside world yet again.

"Quinn, if this is about Mom and Rita's fighting, we've gone through this before. You don't have to worry about us . . ."

"I know that," she interrupted. "I mean, I was thinking about that, a little bit, but that wasn't all. I've missed you, Daria, really I have, and I haven't had the chance to even talk to you since you first got home. And I don't want us to end up like Dad and Uncle Esau, never talking to each other except when we have to. I know that when I go off to Pepperhill, I probably won't see anyone from high school much anymore, but you'll still be my sister, and I don't want that to just mean that we have the same eye color and slim calves. Once you left, I felt like I had wasted seventeen years of getting to know you, and just when I was starting to maybe understand you a little bit, you were gone."

I stared at her; she appeared to be completely serious. I had realized these things myself, but I had not expected her to see them so clearly. I felt as though I were looking at a different Quinn than the one I had left just four months before. Had one little change in her life made such a big difference? Or had I just not noticed it until now? Sure, I had seen improvement even before I had left, but this was like a quantum leap forward from how my memory painted her; she was still Quinn, but a more mature version of the child I had thought that I had left behind. Maybe spending some time with her would not be quite so strenuous after all. So long as such time did not involve burning Georgian cities and lovable rogues sweeping Southern Belles off their feet.

"Please, Daria. It's horrible down there. Mom and Aunt Rita are acting like two supermodels having to share the same runway, and Dad is drinking and yelling at the TV or his father. I really want to get away, but I don't feel like going alone."

That sparked a concern.

"Quinn," I asked her, interrupting as soon as she took a breath, "have you noticed Dad acting sick lately? Tired, out of breath, that sort of thing?" She went a little pale.

"You saw it too? I tried to talk to him about it, but he said that he was fine. Mom was too wrapped up in her plans for Rita to even listen to me. What do you think it is, Daria? Is Dad really sick? Do you think he might . . . ?" She cut off in mid-sentence with a choked sob, but I had a good idea of what she was going to say. I wanted to tell her that he was going to be alright, to console both of us with meaningless platitudes and reassurances. But that was not my way; I had learned a long time ago that, in the long run. it was better to face reality. So I answered honestly, as was my wont.

"I don't know, Quinn." The fear shone from her eyes. "It might be nothing important, just a touch of the flu or something similar. Or it might be stress; Dad's on the edge of breakdown at the best of times, and this business with Rita isn't helping. But it might also be something serious. Dad hasn't really done much to improve his diet or his habits since his heart attack, after all."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Not much that I can see." Again, I wanted to paint a more positive picture, but I was too familiar with our parents to believe in it. "Mom's too determined for this to work out to get rid of Rita, and she's already making her best effort not to fight. We can't force Dad to change his attitude. That has to come from within." And I'm not even sure how to change it from there. "The best we can do is run interference between Dad and the Hatfield and McCoy sisters." Maybe I should have left him in the garage after all. It couldn't have been a permanent solution, but it might have kept him out of immediate danger. Too late for that now, though. Mom would search him out if he disappeared now; it would be just a little too obvious.

"What does this have to do with that doctor from Star Trek?"

"Never mind, Quinn. Anyway, it doesn't sound like there is very much that we can do for them right now. If Dad's yelling at the TV, at least he's not concentrating too much on Mom and Rita, and that's the best that we can hope for. Maybe it would be best for everyone if we did go out for that movie, on one condition: I get to pick the film."

"Fine, Daria," Quinn replied eagerly. "But can you at least pick one where the people have some fashion sense and talk in English? Reading is not what I go to the movies for."

* * * * *

Quinn and I spent most of the next day doing our best to keep the tension level in the house, and especially in Dad, as low as possible. Quinn, being the one with more experience in dealing with competitive women, was working as a buffer between Mom and Rita; reinterpreting their words to defuse the hidden barbs and steering the conversation towards calming topics, along with interjecting some suitably ingratiating comments to soothe egos and just generally keep them both in a good mood. From what I saw of it, it was a performance that could have kept the Beatles together, and I stood in grudging awe of her abilities; Mom and Rita were not eating out of her hand, but neither were they at each other's throats, and that was all that we required. And even that was a miracle; since we were not planning on decorating the tree until that night, there was little to occupy their time, and the idleness weighed heavily on their heads. Bickering was the only amusement easily available.

In the meantime, I had to deal with Dad, keep him calm and away from the Barksdale sisters, preferably with a low blood alcohol level. This was not a simple task, since he had two pitchers of martinis prepared, and never wanted his glass any less than full. My Dad with a drink in his hand was hardly an uncommon sight, and in all my life I had never seen him more than tipsy; his resistance was uncanny. But now he seemed determined to achieve that elusive state wherein all rational thought was buried under a fuzzy carpet of alcohol. And all he wanted to talk about was Mom and her ill-advised attempt at family unity, despite my ever-more-desperate attempts to turn the conversation to any other topic, so long as the subjects were not just a single room away.

"Dad, why don't you find a game on the television?"

"I was watching the game when your mother told me that she was inviting Rita and Amy for Christmas. I should have put my foot down right then . . ."

"Dad, did you get any new clients recently?"

"If I had clients, I could spend all my time on the phone with them, instead of listening to your mother and Rita. Yesterday, I even faked a phone call, but she ordered me to hang it up and 'participate in the family discussion'. . ."

"Dad, why don't you cook us supper tonight?"

"Noooo, your mother wants her and Rita to work on something together. They can't even bake cookies together . . ."

"Dad, what did your father think about Christmas?"

"He didn't like your mom, let me tell you. Called her a hippie communist slut. God only knows what he would have said about Rita . . ."

"Dad, look at how the light comes through your drink glass. Isn't it pretty with all the colors?"

"Daria, I don't know how much longer I can take your aunt being here. Christmas is supposed to be my time to relax, but your mother and Rita . . ."

Eventually, I felt like yanking that glass out of his hand and downing its contents myself. My limited experience with alcohol suggested that it would just come right back up again, but maybe that would be enough to distract my Dad. Until Mom found the mess, that is. No, better to just endure; that which does not kill you may make you stronger, but until it did, it just made you sick, or bored. This was definitely bordering on the tedious side, but as long as I resisted the urge to imbibe, I think I could avoid the sick part.

After several hours, Quinn walked in from the kitchen, from which I could hear voices disputing over the proper way to mix eggnog; she looked haggard and on-edge, and her voice betrayed her weariness.

"Daria, I don't know how much longer I can take this." She was whining, but since I shared the sentiment, it didn't bother me all that much. "I'm exhausted. I'm getting freakin' bags under my eyes, and I have to look cute for the Christmas pictures tomorrow. I've done everything that I can, and they're just getting worse."

I pulled Quinn aside so Dad couldn't hear us.

"If we're lucky, Mom won't be able to take it much longer either, and she'll send Rita away. I doubt we can expect Rita to leave herself; without a boyfriend, she has no one else to spend the holidays with, and I think she'll take this hell over being alone. Of course, I don't believe in luck, so we'll probably have to keep this up through New Year's, but we can't give up. Dad needs us." He wasn't pale anymore; his face was florid, with both liquor and rage, and I didn't consider this an improvement. He didn't have a bulging eye, but there were tells nonetheless, and every sign I could read - his compulsive drinking, his obsessive raving - told me that he was reaching his limit. I didn't want to see what would happen once he reached it; somehow, I felt that a hallucinogenic camping trip would seem like a real vacation in contrast.

"Well, it's your turn to deal with Mom and Aunt Rita," Quinn said, with a note of vengeance. "It's time to decorate the tree, so you can see what I've been dealing with for hours now."

Decorating the tree. A time for memories, nostalgia, and family communion. Memories of childhood and giving and mothers. This wasn't a path to disaster. It was the highway to it.

"Quinn, do you know how to gird your loins?"

"Ew, Daria, I don't need a girdle!"

* * * * *

Boxes covered the floor, boxes filled with ornaments and lights and tinsel, all acquired with the expectation that they would give joy and peace and hope to those who would view them. All symbolic of a holiday imbued by our culture with the power to bring together distant friends and even warring enemies; one Christmas in World War I, English and German soldiers called a cease-fire, playing games and exchanging gifts during the day, before trying to kill each other on the morrow. If the holiday could bring peace, even brief peace, to a war-torn continent, why could it not soothe the grievances of a regular, if slightly neurotic, American family?

"Rita, you have to distribute the ornaments evenly," Mom said. "You have them all bunched together at the center of the tree."

"So sorry if I'm messing up your perfectly planned tree, Helen," Rita responded. "You could just do all this yourself, then you could put everything exactly where you want it. I'm sure all the rest of us can do is mess it up."

"Oh, no, Rita, it wouldn't be Christmas without everyone participating. Put the ornaments wherever you want and I'll balance everything out."

"Helen," Rita said later, "where did you get these lights? They're kind of small, and won't this brand all go out if one blows? Last year, Mother bought us some nice big lights to decorate the house with; you could see us for miles. You should get some like that."

"Well, not all of us can have Mother looking out for us like that; of course, not all of us need it." Mom didn't look away from the lights she was carefully laying on the branches. "We get by on our own, without Mother's help."

"And just what are you trying to imply? Mother likes to buy me things; I don't ask her for them, and I don't need them to get by. You can't say anything. Did you even call her to wish her a merry Christmas?"

"Mom, Aunt Rita, please," Quinn interjected. "Does it really matter what Grandma does? Why do you have to fight over who gets what?"

"Let's not bicker about who killed who," I said in a mock-English accent. Isn't Quinn's argument a bit of the pot accusing the kettle of being a little too dark? But it seemed to work; Mom and Rita bit their tongues and went back to decorating. I joined in sporadically, every now and then hanging a glass ball from a branch, while Quinn tried to color-coordinate the ornament arrangement. Dad hovered on the edge of the group, trying to maintain enough of a presence to keep Mom satisfied while avoiding her active notice. His face was a study in apprehension.

For a while, we actually worked in harmony, or at least in quiet; but soon I noticed that Mom was subtly rearranging the tinsel Rita was hanging, while Rita was making faces at the older, shabbier ornaments. They gradually became more and more obvious in their efforts, until not even Tiffany could have missed their battle. Finally, the dam broke.

"Dammit, Rita, I can see what you're doing! You know that you would be living in a slum if Mother weren't looking out for you. You can't look down your nose at us!"

"Oh, Helen's so superior! You always thought that you could take care of everything, that you always knew the best thing to do. Well, some of the rest of us can actually live without your advice!"

"My advice?! All I ever wanted to do was help you to see the error of your ways, and all you ever did was ignore me. I was your sister, I just wanted to help you, and you just resented me for it! You even turned Mother against me!"

"You did that yourself, always wanting to be the best, the brightest, the most accomplished! Always hogging the spotlight! None of us could stand you, not me, not Amy, not even Father and Mother!"

"Mom, please . . ." "Mom, you're not helping . . ." Quinn and I tried to break in, tried to calm things down, but they didn't even notice; all we could do was stand by helplessly and watch the carnage unfold. There was a time I would have enjoyed it. Not anymore.

"How dare you say that, you bitch! All I wanted was for Mother to treat me the way she treated you. You were the one who took all of her attention, not me!"

"I was the firstborn! I should have been the one everyone thought was mature and special and the leader, but as soon as you showed up, no one paid me any more attention! You stole it! All I had left was Mother, and you wanted her too?"

"All I wanted was to be treated the way Mother treated you. She bought you everything you wanted, bailed you out of every trouble you ever got in, and never once said anything about your irresponsibility! She never once helped me out at all! I had to excel; it was the only way I could get by without any help at all!"

"BE QUIET!!!"

We all turned in shock as Dad exploded; he threw down the glass he was holding and stomped around the tree, waving his hands in the air as he ranted and raved.

"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet! All you ever do is fight and I've had it! 'My mommy loved you better than me'. 'You got all the attention'. 'You got all the money'. At least neither of you had a father who sent you off to military school just because you couldn't run a mile every morning in sub-zero weather! Or who locked you out of the house because your shoes weren't shiny enough, or who called you a girl any time you wanted anything that didn't fit his testosterone-crazed standards! Gahdammit, Helen, at least you can talk to your sister! Our girls have never even met my brother! Gah gah dammit - ow, my arm! It hurts!"

He clutched his left arm and his face screwed up in pain; before any of us could react, his breath caught and his eyes bulged, and his hand was clutching again, this time at his chest. He collapsed to his knees, and then to the floor, unconscious. After another second of shock, all of us rushed to his side. My heart pounded and the blood thundered through my ears, along with my mother's voice.

"Jake? JAKEY!!!"

* * * * *

The emergency room at Cedars of Lawndale was chaotic as they wheeled Dad away, surrounded by a cluster of doctors and nurses starting IV's and injections. Mom was sitting in a chair, working her way through a stack of admission forms, her only sign of stress a vertical line between her brows. Rita was next to her, a bored expression on her face, probably wondering if this inconvenient little incident was going to take too big a bite out of her holiday. Quinn and I were sitting together a few seats away; she was crying into her hands, her sobs interrupted only by the huge gasps of air she would suck in periodically. I was doing my best to console her, patting her back in what I hoped was a sisterly fashion, all too aware of how stiff my motions were, my thoughts divided between wondering if there was anything I could tell Quinn honestly that might make her feel better and worry for Dad's wellbeing. When this had happened before, we had been quickly reassured that the attack had been minor, with little damage; there was no such comfort offered to us this time.

All that effort, all that worry, and we didn't change a thing. Here we are, right where I feared we would be if I didn't act to stop it, but here we are anyway. Damn you, Dad, Mom, Rita. And damn me, for interfering in the first place; maybe if I had let Dad hide away, at least for a little while, he might have been spared just enough of the stress and tension to avoid this. All my actions were futile; would inaction have made a difference? And now it falls to me to comfort my partner in futility, but no Jane is here to comfort me. I can't do it myself; I can tell myself that everything is going to be okay, that Dad will be home by the strike of Christmas midnight, but I won't wholeheartedly believe it. Since when does life work out that easily?

The cries of sick children and the wails of the wounded filled the waiting room, the hurts of others intruding on my private pain. Almost all the rest of Lawndale was shut down for the holiday, but this place never slowed down. The only concession made to the season was a small Christmas tree in the corner, but even it looked cowed by what surrounded it. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men were distant concepts in this place of perpetual suffering. Not that I had been getting a lot of it before.

"Thanks, Daria," Quinn said as the wave of sobs receded. "I'm sorry that I couldn't keep Mom and Aunt Rita from fighting. It's my fault Dad is in here." I was surprised and rather ashamed to hear what I had thought were my own personal recriminations coming from her mouth. How selfish could I be, thinking that I was the only one feeling guilty?

"It wasn't you, Quinn," I said. "You did everything you could, more than I could have. I don't think anything could have stopped this; it was going to happen eventually, and there's more than enough blame to go around. At least you tried to do something about it."

"Do you think he's going to be okay?"

I sighed, as much to buy time as from despair, though that was certainly there as well. That was the question I had been dreading. The only honest answer I could give was the "I don't know" I had told her before, and now I had even fewer reasons to give for hoping for the best. I tried as well as I could.

"He's made it through before. This one looked worse, but it may end up being not that different. Maybe this time he'll actually take the doctor's advice seriously and start to really change his lifestyle. We might start having meatless frozen lasagna for supper." That actually got a small smile from her, which made me feel a bit less useless.

"I'll make sure he does." Quinn's statement had the gravity of a vow. "I'll learn how to make healthy meals for him, and Mom will be glad to let me do the cooking." She paused, and the tears started to run again. "But, Daria, what if he doesn't get better?"

This time, I had nothing to say. Fortunately, I was saved the uncomfortable silence I could feel coming; a chime sounded from Quinn's pocket.

"I'm sorry, Daria," she said, sounding truly contrite. "I'd forgotten I still had it." Her gaze swiveled from my face to her pocket; her hand moved towards the sound, then jerked back.

"Answer it, Quinn," I said. "It might help you feel better." To tell the truth, I was jealous; I wanted the distraction of a friendly conversation. Apparently, so did she, for she quickly yanked the cell phone from her pocket and flipped it open.

"Hello?" she said uncertainly. "Hi, Stacy . . . that sounds fun . . . um, well, I'm not really happy right now . . ."

As Quinn filled Stacy in on what was going on, I returned my attention to the room surrounding me. Mom was standing at the admissions desk, and her conversation with the nurse receptionist was becoming audible even from the other side of the room.

"How long do you intend to keep us waiting here? You've had my husband in there for over half an hour, and we haven't heard a thing! We have a right to know what's going on!" There was a pause as the receptionist answered at a much more civilized level, making it impossible for me to overhear. "Don't try to give me the runaround. I'm a lawyer, and I can make things very hot for this hospital if I think you're snowing us . . . Do you honestly expect me to believe that you don't have a single person available who can at least let us know how he's doing?! . . ."

If I couldn't stop Dad from having a heart attack, at least I can try to stop Mom from having one too, I thought as I walked over to where she was berating the receptionist, whose near-infinite patience looked to be wearing thin. If this keeps up much longer, she's going to call security and Mom will really flip out. I reached out and touched my mother on the arm.

"Mom," I said firmly, "there's nothing you can do. They'll let us know as soon as they have any real news." I knew from personal experience that, completely against the Lawndale code, the Cedars actually housed some competent professionals.

"Not now, Daria," Mom said, trying to brush me off. "Trust me, I know how to handle hospitals. You can't get anything out of them unless you hound them for it."

"Mom, if you don't calm down, the only thing you are going to be getting out of them is a nice trip out the door, guided by big burly men angry at being called away from their doughnuts." I gave a slight tug on her arm, and tried another tactic. "Mom, your family needs you. Quinn's crying over the phone to Stacy right now because you aren't around to comfort her." Okay, maybe not strictly true, but she was talking to Stacy, and she had been crying, so it was close enough to be useful for my purposes. And it accomplished my purpose.

"Oh, my baby," she exclaimed, and ran over to interrupt Quinn's conversation. I sent a mental apology to my sister for the annoyance my necessary manipulation would no doubt cause her, then put it out of my mind. Maybe I'd get her something disgustingly cute from the gift shop later.

"Do you have any idea how long it might be until we know something?" I asked the longsuffering woman behind the desk.

"I'm really sorry," she said, "but the doctors are very busy with your father, and there's no way of knowing how long it will be until he stabilizes. If you keep your crazy mother away from me, though, you'll be the first to know when there's any news."

I thanked her, and returned to our little group of worriers. Quinn was doing her best to wave Mom away and keep up her conversation with Stacy at the same time; I thought I heard loud sobs and a few hysterical shrieks emanating from the phone speaker. She was able to convince Mom that she wasn't on the immediate verge of tears by the time I rejoined them, but the distraction was enough; Mom didn't return to the desk to harry the staff anymore.

"I can't believe your husband had to go and ruin Christmas like this," Rita was telling Mom. "I always knew this was going to happen. Jake's way too high strung, but he would have lasted the holiday if he had just kept his nose out of our business." For Mom, this was the last straw.

"Don't you ever talk about Jake like that," she ordered Rita, her voice dangerously low and grim. "Whatever may be wrong with him, he's ten times the man any of your husbands or boyfriends have ever been! It's our fault that he's in here, because we couldn't behave ourselves and act civilized for even a few days! I at least was trying, but all you did was bait me since the moment you walked through the door!"

"Bait you?" Rita replied, feigning wounded rage. "The first thing you did when I walked through the door was brag about Daria, because you knew that Erin dropped out of school to get married. You know, Daria may be a genius, but good luck ever getting her married off!"

"Like you got Erin married off, to some bum who can't keep a job and who gave her herpes?"

"Helen!" Rita exclaimed with an indrawn breath. "How dare you bring that up, and in public!"

"Mom," I hissed, trying to get her attention, but the security guard got it before I could.

"Ladies," he said in a calm voice that nonetheless made it very clear who was in charge, "you're disturbing the patients. If you don't quiet down now, I will remove you from the premises. Do you understand?" He was a large man and quite imposing, and I didn't think a lot of the weight had been put on by doughnuts. Mom and Rita both nodded their heads and mumbled apologies, and he left.

"Rita," Mom said at a normal volume but in a steel tone, "I want you to leave."

"Fine," Rita responded, the picture of offended dignity. "I'll be waiting for you back at the house." She stood up, but Mom wasn't finished with her yet.

"No, Rita," she said. "I want you to go home; your home, not ours. I don't want to see you, and I certainly don't want you around when Jake gets out of here. And if you say one more word against my husband, I don't want to see you ever again. You can keep Mom's money, she can buy you anything your heart desires for all I care; I'll still take my life, and my family, over yours any day."

It's a bit late to do Dad much good, but at least she finally did it. She'll regret her words later, of course, and she and Rita will go back to how they have always been, but she did what she needed to do for right now. I guess there are some people that you really don't need to tolerate, people it is better to reject. Letting some people in doesn't mean letting them all in. I met Quinn's gaze; even in the middle of her talk with Stacy, she had kept up with what was going on, and a smile of relief had broken through her worried mien. Now that she felt certain that she and I would not end up like Mom and her sisters, she was glad to see Rita go. I returned her smile with my own version; less evident, but still very much there. It was a small improvement to our otherwise grim circumstances, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

After calling a cab, Rita stormed out in a huff, leaving the three of us in relative silence, except for the commotion all around us, from which I at least felt disconnected. Unlike my norm, though, I could not wholeheartedly welcome the silence; the fighting, as unpleasant as it had been, had at least been a distraction for all of us. Now both Mom and I had to face our own thoughts, and there was only one possible subject for them.

"Daria," Mom said, her voice subdued. "Is this all my fault?"

I was startled, even though I had heard her say something similar to Rita. Had Rita been the only one of us who hadn't felt some measure of guilt for the event that had put us here?

"No, Mom," I said, absolving both her and myself with the thought. "This wasn't your fault. No more than anyone else. You were doing what you thought was best for all of us; you might have carried it a bit too far, but there was no way you could have foreseen this result. I think Dad was probably doing his best to hide his illness, maybe even from himself." How many times in the past few days has he said he was doing fine? Was he in denial the whole time? "Dad could have chosen a long time ago to handle these things differently from how he did. He could have chosen to live more healthily than he did. It wasn't you who put him in here."

"Daria, are you saying that it is your father's fault that he is here?" She did not looked pleased, and I feared that in my desire to help her to see the issue in a larger context, that I might have tread perilously close to the territory Rita had been covering just a few minutes ago.

"It's no one's fault. We've all contributed to it, not just in the past few days but over years and years, but none of us hit the button that said 'heart attack' and dropped him. You can't just blame yourself; if you have to blame someone, spread it around. And you've taken steps to keep it from getting worse; you sent your sister away. You've done all you can do for right now."

She didn't look particularly convinced, but she didn't press the issue either; she did, however, start taking glances at the front desk, and I wondered what I was going to have to do to keep my end of the bargain with the receptionist. I was spared that particular conundrum, however, when a man in a white coat began walking towards us.

"Are you the Morgendorffers?" he asked. Mom gave no verbal response, but the intent gaze she immediately fixed on him was all the answer he needed. I heard Quinn give Stacy a rapid farewell and close up her phone, and all three of us focused on what he had to say.

"I'm afraid the situation is not good," he started, with the kind of practiced sympathy doctors cultivate to the point that it is impossible to determine if it is professional or genuine. "We've stabilized him right now, but just barely. There's been a lot of damage to the heart; we're hoping to avoid a transplant, but he might need a new valve. The muscle has been overexerted, and it looks as though it has been under a considerable amount of stress for some time now. That's the most immediate danger. If we can keep it from just giving out over the next day or so, we'll be out of the worst of it. I would say that the next twenty-four hours are critical. If you want, you can stay here, but I would suggest at least taking the children home and letting them get a good night's rest. There's nothing any of you can do here."

"If it's all the same to you, we'll stay," Mom replied, after fielding glances from both myself and Quinn that made our desires clear. "We want whatever news you can give us, as soon as you know anything."

"We'll keep you informed," the doctor said, and walked back through the doors leading into the heart of the building.

Twenty-four hours, I thought, and checked my watch. It was past midnight. Merry Christmas.

* * * * *

I awoke to a blurry shape filling my field of vision; fumbling for my glasses and settling them on the bridge of my nose, it resolved itself into a visage. Straight, jet-black hair framing a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, and a mischievous smile delineated in bright red lipstick.

"Jane! You're . . . you're here!" The smile stretched into a larger curve.

"Spending all that time with your family has done wonders for your keen observational wit, Morgendorffer." She settled herself into the seat next to me as I took inventory of the various aches in my joints and muscles, brought on by spending the night sitting up in an ill-padded waiting room chair. My mind was foggy; my sleep had been haunted