The Truth of Lilly Episode 3.23 Joseph

[michelle]

Disclaimer: The characters are (obviously) not mine. Quotes marked with an * are lifted directly from the episode and can not be credited to me.
My first attempt at fan fic. I hope you enjoy it. Comments welcome.

The Truth of Lilly

Episode 3.23 Joseph

Lilly thought she’d hidden it well, the depression that hung over her like a miasma ever since her mother’s visit. She couldn’t seem to shake it; it clung to her like the scent of death clings to hair after working a homicide. A two day old corpse, a hot, closed apartment sealed against winter weather. She sighed, rested her elbow on her desk and her head in her hand, pinching the skin over the bridge of the nose. A vain attempt to halt the storm of confusion and discontent in her mind. A two day old corpse? Not a very apt analogy. Her mother was more along the lines of an old victim, nearly forgotten but not quite, always ready to come to mind with the slightest reminder. Come to mind like a bloated, waterlogged corpse rising to the surface of a river, dragging decay from the depths with it. Morbid. She sighed again and shook her head, disgusted with herself. Self-pity was not something she indulged in. Not until recently anyway. Now she was rolling around in it, wallowing. Like quicksand, the more she struggled the more mired she became. Stuck in apathy and melodrama.

“Coffee, Lil?” Scotty placed the full mug on her desk. Freshly brewed from the smell of it. Scotty indulging in social niceties? Apparently her turmoil was not as hidden as she had hoped. Damn.

“Thanks.” She gave him a smile that was supposed to be bright, but it felt wan and tired on her lips. She sipped coffee that was too hot and reveled in the pain as it burned her tongue, bringing tears to her eyes that were, for a change, of something other than despair.

She still couldn’t determine what guilt had driven her to attend her mother’s wedding. It was not as if she were obligated to the woman. All things considered, it would have seemed more natural for her to cleanly cut her mother out of her life. But she never seemed able to do it. Always, she returned, olive branch extended, as if she had any reason to ask forgiveness. Who am I, she wondered, if my own mother can’t love me?

“I find happiness. That’s more than you can say. At least I’m not alone.”* Her mother’s contempt had been clear as she had casually thrown those heartbreaking words at her own daughter. Reminding Lilly, once again, of the failure she was. It was that sense of failure that drove her, every day, to be better, to be more, to be enough. Somehow she had never achieved that elusive success. She had failed at being Ellen Rush’s daughter, had failed as sister to Christina, had failed as fiancé, as girlfriend, as close confidant or friend to any one. And through her career ascension in a masculine field, all the way into homicide—dominated by men—it seemed she had failed in the most basic aspect of all, as a woman. For what type of woman, comfortable in her own femininity, would work so desperately to shed all the trappings of it through her job choice?

Logically she knew her concept of self was flawed. Seriously flawed. But the voice of logic only whispered to her during all the nights she spent alone while her insecurities shrieked tirelessly.

She’d not heard a word from Ellen since the wedding, and she supposed she was glad of that. That marriage, sham that it was, would sooner or later fail as had all the others before it. Begun with deception, it would inevitably end in anger and recrimination. Would her mother call her again then, Lilly wondered, cloaked in martyrdom and condemning all men until the next one came along?

I hate you, Mom! The thought came to her suddenly, with an anger so vituperative and hot her face burned. Hate you, and I’ll die before I become like you!

Her hand shook as she lunged across the desk and snatched up the newest file. Shaw, Joseph. She forced her thoughts to focus as she paged through and retrieved the snapshot of the victim. Kat had pointed it out to her earlier that day, had jokingly commented “Here’s a guy who wouldn’t look bad on the bedside table.”* No, not bad at all. She would certainly agree with that assessment. Joseph had been handsome in life, with a vitality that radiated even past the confines of the picture. His image would be relegated to her nightstand, propped against the base of her lamp where others had also leaned. Yes, better to keep only the dead in her bedroom. The dead were more dependable, less likely to disappoint. They made no demands beyond their mute pleas for resolution. In her current state of mind, it seemed the extinguished lives of the dead were the only things that gave the guttering flame of her own life any meaning.

Part two coming soon

[tiger_lilly]

This is really, really good michelle. You have a talent for writing for sure . Can't wait to see where this goes.

[michelle]

You just gave me my first big smile of the day Tiger Lilly!

[tiger_lilly]

Aww I'm glad

[LillyKat]

Great start, michelle ... keep it up!

[michelle]

I have named Lilly's white cat Jasper.Why?He looks like a Jasper to me.

2:34 A.M. It was not an unfamiliar hour to her. Lilly frequently found herself still awake at such a time, her mind turned outward, examining her cases, replaying her interviews, reliving the lives of her dead. What was unfamiliar to her was the way her thoughts had been turning inward of late when sleep was elusive. Unresolved issues demanding attention. Introspection was something she tried to avoid, but it seemed her brain, so keenly functioning and finely tuned and (usually) well-behaved, had decided it was time for investigation within. To Lilly’s dismay, it seemed her thoughts would not be denied.

Olivia slept quietly by her head and Jasper was a warm lump against her legs, but even focusing on these talismans of comfort and serenity did not quiet her. She felt, for the first time since she had been a child, that others could see through her, as if her shell had become transparent. First Scotty had brought her coffee, and later that day she had seen Stillman gazing at her contemplatively while she returned phone calls and jotted notes that might or might not be of help to the Shaw case. She had pretended not to notice him, doggedly dialing and notating and then doodling when there were no more notes to make and still his eyes rested on her. Finally, he had wandered off and never did corner her to ask what was wrong, although the question had been in his eyes and the opportunity had presented itself. He would know the futility of such a question. They all would.

Lilly Rush, the best the homicide department had to offer. Lilly Rush, with eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing. Lilly, who never cracked, never broke, never let anything slip beneath the slick polished surface she wrapped herself in. Lilly, who was never hurt, never uncertain. She had it all together. She could be depended on. She was the one they turned to when no one else could do the job. Lilly, whose tears were shed only in anger or frustration at a suspect walking when they all knew he shouldn’t walk. Yeah. Lilly Rush. Detective. Made of stone. Of steel. Oh, the things they didn’t know about her. She feared the day that her stone surface would shatter like an eggshell. It seemed lately that the day was drawing nearer and nearer. She feared she would lose not just their respect and her privacy when it happened. She feared she would lose her very soul.

Growing up, Christina had always been the “good” child. The one who was bright and friendly to Ellen’s men. She’d sit on their laps and drink sips of their beer and let herself be admired and kissed and petted while her mother, drunk to the point of obliviousness of what was happening right in front of her, smiled and nodded and called Christina “my darling” and made jokes that were spoken too bitterly to be anything but truth about her children, the Angel and the Demon.

Lilly had always been hard and distant, a constant scowling presence. Too smart for her own good, her mother always said. Scornful and standing firm against the world and against the tides of her own life, Lilly had been a slight child with stringy dishwater blonde hair, all bones and hard angles, hatred beaming from electric blue eyes. Christina had, of course, been soft and blonde, with curls and smiling hazel eyes that held nothing but a plea for attention; any kind of attention.

One of the men, his name had been Kent, had had a taste for a challenge and had forgone Christina’s cuddles and attempted to penetrate Lilly’s spines. Even with a child’s innocence, she had instinctively known that nothing good was behind his attentions and attempts to hug her, to touch her, to always be near her. She bristled whenever he came around, acted as caustically as she knew how, finally even hitting out at him or kicking his shins before fleeing. He had crept into her bedroom one night after her mother had passed out and was within inches of Lilly before she woke. She jolted up and scooted back as far and as fast as she could against the wall and, knowing the futility of screams, only watched silently and wide-eyed, separated from him by the meager distance of a child’s twin bed. She had pulled her white kitten, Snoball, tight against her chest and hugged him there for comfort and the illusion of protection. The kitten struggled and clawed, resenting the confinement and when he broke away skittered directly up Kent’s arm and launched himself into a corner, leaving welling scratches on Kent’s arm and neck. The man directed a look of pure fury at Lilly, made all the more terrifying because he spoke not one word and made no sound. He retrieved the kitten from the corner and dangled the tiny thing by its scruff in front of Lilly’s face for a moment before he dropped it to the floor and kicked it with a force born of rage. Lilly’s mouth formed an O of dismay as she watched Snoball sail into the wall, rebound, and scrabble from the room. Kent leaned down close to her until she could feel his breath on her face. It crossed her mind to spit or bite or do something, anything but fear held her in a paralytic grip.

“We aren’t done here, Lilly. You and I, we still got things that need taking care of.” His tread was heavy and measured as he left her room.

It took three days for Snoball to die. His pink ears and nose and the satiny rosy pads of his feet all turned yellow from liver failure. Lilly buried him behind the shed, wrapped in the pillowcase that was her favorite; a print of daffodils on a spring green background.

Ellen never noticed the cat’s absence or, if she did, she made no comment.

Lilly Rush, homicide detective, turned on her side, curled into a tight ball and cried the only way she knew how. Silently.

more coming soon

[longislanditalian2]

Michelle, this story is so awesome. You really are are a great storyteller.

[michelle]

LII !!

[tiger_lilly]

So sad . Not exactly how I pictured her childhood, but pretty close. Oh and Jaspar is a good name .

[frenchfan]

Michelle,

OK, I had decided not to intervene any more on the forum, but just some words because I am under the charm of your style and the way you perceive the childhood of Lilly. Really magnificent.
And simply a question, you know Doris lessing? you read to her books? This morning by reading you, I thought of her.
I wait for the continuation of your story with big impatience.

[michelle]

I can't tell you guys how much your sweet comments mean! I'm glad you are enjoying the story. Makes me want to write more, faster. (Too bad I've got to do that JOB thing all day long!) And feel free to post and suggestions or constructive criticisms as well. I can take it. I'm trying hard not to cross the line into too depressing--I tend to drive a point home with a slegehammer.
thank you all again so much!

[TVFan]

This is very good so far Michelle! I can't wait to read more. The cat part was sooooo sad, but I'm a HUGE cat lover. You write very well, and your story reads like a novel. Great work!

[michelle]

CONCLUSION

The dark circles that had appeared under her eyes were a bit darker the next day, a growing contrast against the pallor of her skin. A silent testament to the fact that all was not well.

Lilly yearned for action. Something large and dramatic and dangerous. Something that belonged in the real world, not in the dusty twilight world of files and reports, accountability and reason. She had spent far too long reacting to what life threw at her. She reacted to her mother’s disappointment, she reacted to Christina’s continuing irresponsibility, reacted to Kite’s departure, nursing his bruised male ego. She would take that foolhardy drunken phone call back if she could. Especially she resented taking responsibility for their break up. It had not been on her. That false statement on her part had also been only a reaction; her mother had determined that Lilly was a failure. Ergo, she would take responsibility for all that had failed in her life. She had to stop. This cycle was taking her down in a whirlpool of recriminations and uncertainties. She couldn’t afford to begin second-guessing her every move.

She longed to force the hand of life, to make something happen instead of this continual response mode she seemed to be locked into. God, sometimes she yearned to be back on the streets, in the real homicides, in the wet of it, close up and elbow deep in blood and danger. To carry the extra weight of Kevlar with her everywhere she went. To have the weight of her gun more often in her hand than on her hip. She could almost be nostalgic for the terror of George. The acrid smell of his sweat drifting to her across the still, musty air of the attic, how the scant light made its way through the murk to glint on his glasses, the magnification of all sounds—the rustle of the wind through the trees outside, the muted crunch of the tires on the police cruisers as they pulled up to the house, the moist, disgusting smack of George’s lips parting with each poisonous word he spoke. The jolt when her .45 bucked, recoiling, sending a shock through her wrists, elbows, all the way into her shoulders. The muzzle had remained rock steady as she absorbed the kick and—would she dare admit it, even to herself?—Yes, she had felt pride at her flawless form, even as a man fell dead in response to her actions. In that second before reality flooded over her she had known the primal triumph of victory over an opponent.

That, bad as it had been, had been action. Acting to save herself, or taking the wrong action and dying, like an animal, within the tree-muraled walls of that forsaken space. The nightmares, even, had been preferable to the lifeless, sodden span that passed for sleep now, for four or five hours each night.

She needed to do something with her life. Take herself in hand and make something happen. Get back in control and stop living as the failure her mother thought she was destined to be. How was it that her mother, someone who had provided Lilly with so little during the course of her life, could have given her such a weight of despondency?

She immersed herself in work all day, not allowing a single idle moment, always moving or doing, giving no one a chance to speak to her, to inquire about her, or to slow the pace of her activity. It was dark outside before she dared to decelerate. Kat and Vera had gone for the day, Jeffries was down the street at the courthouse, Scotty and Stillman were on the way out. Lilly leaned forward over her desk, still for the first time in a days’ worth of hours.

“Heading out, Lil?”* Stillman. Damn.

“I was thinking I’d go out to the Dautry’s farm now.”*

“Go in the morning. Two of you.”*

“’Kay. Goodnight, boss.”* Anything to get him out the door and away. She needed to sit quietly, to rest for just a moment after a day of frenetic activity.

It had truly been her intent to go home, but Stillman’s directive had been the impetus that started the domino-fall of rebellion. Action. Do something. Make something happen. Almost without conscious decision, she found herself driving through the darkened streets to the very place she had been told not to go. Just a look around. No one would ever know the difference. As appealing as home had seemed just moments ago, it now seemed it would be far too quiet and empty for her to bear.

The farmhouse was dark. Abandoned. She lit her way to the door with her flashlight, her weapon drawn, pointed directly out before her. Perfect technique. Lilly was nothing if not meticulous. She wouldn’t need the gun, but it made her feel better to go in as if there were a situation in progress. It made the night seem more meaningful.

A cat yowled and dove beneath a chair as she pushed open the door. She jumped and both gun and flashlight pointed harmlessly at the ceiling for a fraction of a second. An inexcusable mistake. She was slipping.

She moved silently through the rooms and had just entered the kitchen, light beaming over stove, counters, sink, when the slam of the front door froze her blood.

“Archer. Laura.”* A male voice, calling out to—whom? Was it possible someone was here? That she’d missed all the signs in her stupid quest to make something happen?

The man was in his mid to late 30’s, she could tell that from his voice, and he was from the Philly area. He wasn’t drunk, or high (a bit of strength returned to her watery legs with that thankful realization), and he was of moderate intelligence, at the minimum. She was able to get all of that from the two names he had uttered. His footsteps told her he was tall, and solidly built. And quickly approaching the kitchen.

She darted around the corner, gun and light pointed directly at his face. “Freeze!” Her hands and arms were steady, not the faintest waver of gun or light. Legs shoulder-width apart, feet solidly planted, slight tension through her torso, breath moving steadily in and out of her lungs. He was dead solid in front of her, nothing obstructed her view. Her eyes were trained on him, piercing him with the directness of a laser, alert to any move he might make, watching for the slightest shift of his eyes. Good. She was good. In control.

The man stared at her, mouth agape, frozen in mid-stride, clearly astonished. Better than good. She had the upper hand. One wrong move from him and she’d shoot the son of a b****. She could feel adrenalin humming through her body, ricocheting from nerve endings, making everything seem to slow down. Allowing her to see better, hear better. Suddenly it seemed she could even taste the air of this place, greasy burgers fried in the dusty kitchen.

“Who are you?” His question seemed supremely logical and ludicrous all at once. He stared at, his gaze steady on hers and the floor suddenly seemed to shift under Lilly, her vision tunneling and then broadening, the man coming into focus and then fuzzing along the edges. Impossible. It was impossible that one of her dead could betray her like this.

“You.” It was more an exhalation than a word. “You’re alive.”*

“Yes.”

“Who was murdered in your apartment?”*

“My foster brother, Wilder.”*

“Did you kill him?”*

“Of course not. The guy was a mess but I loved him like hell.”*

The gun was suddenly too heavy, unbearable heavy. She let her arm fall, knowing that she could be killed in the next second but unable to defend herself against it. One of her very own dead! The ones she could always rely on to be predictably, forever, dead. The ones that she was supposed to find resolution for. What kind of world was it, if even those dependably dead came back to haunt her? That he should be alive was a crushing betrayal.

They talked. Or rather, Joseph talked, responding with long explanations to her pointed questions. His version of what had happened, his foster brother’s murder, Joseph’s subsequent fugitive status, his disappearance from the world. She believed him because she could not muster the skepticism not to. Her world had been knocked right off its axis. She was reeling out of control along with it.

“Do you feel as if we’ve met before, or something?”* Joseph’s question caught her off-guard. Of course she felt as if she’d met him. She’d been studying the details of his life for days. She’d looked as his face the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. As a dead man, he had been very appealing. A hard worker, maybe too hard, he had been devoted to his job. He dealt with people, not paperwork. He was good and kind, a caregiver. And of course, there were the cats. Oh, but that was when he had been a dead man. As a living person, those qualities were little more than window dressing. How many men did she know that fit his same description? It told her nothing of the real man, the person beneath the surface. And, really, how kind and caring could he be to go underground, hide out, and let all those that loved him mourn his supposed death? What kind of man would do such a thing? Even with her tenuous family ties, and distant friendships, Lilly knew she would never, even at risk to her own life, let those in her daily functionings think her dead.

But what could he possibly think he knew of her?

She called in sick the next day. It was a lie, but the world was full of lies. She had been responsible to others for far too long. It was time for some self-accountability.

Joseph Shaw, in death, had been the type of man she wanted. In her own life, she desperately needed some change, some proof that she could change. She needed the idea that she could be head-over-heels, irrepressibly, uncontrollably, in love. She badly needed that. Wanted that. Lilly had always achieved what she wanted in life by sheer force of will and a tenacity that did not accept the word no. There was no reason she could not continue to force her fate into the mold she had picked for it.

It was Scotty, of course, who had the audacity to show up unannounced and unwelcome at her door. He walked in without being asked, talking—yammering—throwing his words at her and spun to confront her.

“What the hell is going on with you?”*

He had some nerve, to make his demands on her, whining and confrontational because she hadn’t lived up to his expectations of who she was. He didn’t know anything about her. Had never cared to know her, not really. When he invited her confidences, when he asked her to share her past and the truth of her life, hadn’t he always done it so he could contradict her? So he could tell her that her own version of life was wrong? Had he ever wanted to listen? All he ever wanted of her was that she fulfill his own arrogance and help him live up to his ridiculous macho vision of himself.

Fine. If he wanted to know, she’d put it to him as plainly as she could. And he wouldn’t get it. She’d tell him exactly what she felt and feared. Let him twist its meaning into whatever fit his preconceived ideas.

“I’ve gone off the deep end, right?”* It was the truest thing she could say to him. The bald, naked truth. Her rock-bottom, deepest fear. She intended to hurl the words at him, as he had thrown his at her, but she was dismayed to hear her voice waver, and nearly break.

He did as she expected of him. He assumed it was about the case. Lilly Rush would never think of anything other than work. Not the Lilly Rush Scotty knew. But then, hadn’t she already determined that he didn’t know her at all?

He talked back at her, words she didn’t care to decipher; about Stillman, about suspects, about interrogations. About what was expected of her tomorrow. Tomorrow. When she couldn’t even move from the clutching, dragging present moment. She had somehow fallen to the lowest level in her life. The lowest. And that was saying a lot. And she didn’t know why and she didn’t know how to climb out and at a time when she so desperately needed to talk to someone, needed help, she couldn’t make herself understood.

“But, it’s not just the case Scotty. It’s. . .”* It’s what? What could she say to him? How could he ever understand? No, the time was long past that simple understanding could help her. She had to take matters into her own hands. She was Lilly Rush, dammit! The untouchable ice princess. The hard ass. She’d survived her mother, her mother’s men, her sister’s treachery, her partner’s callousness and—God help her—the hardest of all, she’d survived love. And she would, she would survive this. And she would force the square peg of her life into the round hole that she desired it fit into.

She finished her sentence. Declared her future. Claimed what she would learn to want. “. . . it’s him. Joseph.”

Scotty nodded like he understood. She almost believed he did. Then he made a thinly veiled reference to his failed dalliance with Christina. She could have slapped him.

In the homicide pen, there are no secrets. All eyes were on Lilly the next morning as she moved from desk to coffee pot and back to desk. All eyes were on her when she answered Stillman’s summons and walked from desk to office, her back straight, her knees stiff and locked.

He was angry, but even in anger he spoke quietly. “I don’t understand what you did here.”*

It was with only the greatest effort that she did not bow her head and bury her face in her hands. “I don’t either.”*

Today, after work, she would do what she had to. She’d go to him, to Joseph, to the stranger who was supposed to be dead. She’d smile, and say all the right things, and push way to the back of her mind the knowledge that her own actions were no more of her own choosing than those of a marionette. A puppet whose motions are controlled by an unhappy past and a fear of never living up to a mother’s expectations.

Joseph opened the door to her and she froze for a moment before she was able to force a smile. A tight-lipped, determined, fake smile. He didn’t know her. He wouldn’t know that her real smile was broad and unrestrained, so wide it squinted her eyes to mere slits. She moved past him, brushing intimately against him, into his house.

You can’t do it, Mom. But I can. I can change.

Or I can pretend to.

THE END

Episode “Joseph” is repeating in the U.S. on 9/10/06

[LillyKat]

Awesome, michelle. You have a great narrative style - hard to believe you have never written any fan fic prior.

[eurache]

Wow, great story, Michelle It was awesome!! I read it last night!! Great Job!! keep it up

[longislanditalian2]

Michelle, I really loved this story a lot. The storyline was was excellent down and descripted. Very well done

[michelle]

Aww, thanks everyone. Glad you liked it. A great coincidence that "Joesph" reairs this weekend. All your kind comments are much appreciated. Now, what shall I work on next. . . ?

[longislanditalian2]

How about a Lilly/Joseph romance to follow up on this story

[tiger_lilly]

Good job michelle! Hurry up and write another . I don't particularly crave a romance though, but that's just me

[jambled]

Hiya Michelle! This is a great story... I really love the way you worked everyone into it, contributing to her feeling of dissatisfaction. Really nice.