I Never Knew by nerac.pdf

I Never Knew by nerac

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6465577/1/

I don't like the unknown.

I don't care for what I can't control.

My life up until this point has been orderly and controlled. There have been little

to no surprises. Mom still goes shopping with me to offer her opinion, and I spend

my weekdays working in Dad's office as a receptionist. I live an easy (if not

boring) life with my best friend, Rosalie in a condo that used to belong to my

parents.

Nothing much ever changes, and I like it that way.

When things do change and I'm not prepared for it, I tend to freak out. And right

now, I'm kind of freaking out. Everything and everyone has a place. Boots go on

the top shelf, jeans go on the right side of the closet and dress shirts belong on

the left.

And me? I belong in California.

Right now, I'm not where I belong, and I feel like someone has moved my jeans

to the left side of the closet without my permission.

I have this compulsive need to fix what I can't fix, even though I know it's not

really that far out of place. It's just… different. Still, it bugs me.

Rain is falling softly on my newly styled hair as I exit my car and look around.

The fall breeze blows around me, raising goosebumps on my exposed limbs. I'm

already frustrated and the rain is making me even more uncomfortable. This

weather is so different from what I'm used to.

I don't really know what I'm doing here. Acting this rashly is really out of

character for me; I know the consequences of careless actions. Something could

change or break; falling out of reach of my control.

It's easier to keep things the same if you just go with the flow. Rocking the boat

just isn't my style.

To my surprise, I was forced to park almost a block away. The cold wind slices

through me, lifting the hem of my dress. I begin to shiver. Wishing I had thought

to bring my dress coat, I take the first step, alone, like a lost fish in a sea of

people. The strangers walking in the dreary weather alongside me offer soft

smiles and looks of pity. There are hundreds of them—men, women and children,

something I definitely didn't expect to see. I'm thankful for it, though. More

people make it easier to blend in.

As subtly as possible, I peer around at their faces, wishing. Neither the things,

nor the people I see are familiar. I'd hoped for some kind of spark, some whisper

of recognition.

Anything. Something.

But I've got nothing.

There's a low murmur of sound in the crowd – a hum – as people take their spots

and wait for the start of the ceremony. If I were smarter, or if I'd thought ahead,

I would have chosen to hide beneath a tree and watch from a distance. Instead, I

am swept into the cloud of sadness that lingers above us all. I keep my head

down; both to keep the rain out of my eyes and to gather my thoughts. I don't

truly belong here, and the feeling of helplessness spirals inside me.

I wonder if they can tell that I don't fit. I glance around, curious if my outfit tells

them something about me. My dark blue dress feels like it may as well be a red

flag; they're dressed in blacks, charcoals and browns. Some are wearing guns on

their hips, complimenting the shiny badges on their chests. A few even have tear

stains on their cheeks. I don't match, and to me I feel as if I'm sticking out like a

sore thumb. I look for a place to stand.

Despite the throngs of people that surround me, my eyes are drawn to one.

Standing in front of the casket draped in red, white and blue, there is a woman

with dark skin and short black hair. Her eyes are rimmed in red, and the Kleenex

she's holding in her hand looks like it should have been replaced several sniffles

ago. Still, she's clutching it as if it's the last one she may ever have.

My hand twitches in a comfortable, practiced motion. Suddenly I'm desperate for

a pen or a pencil. Her expression, so grave and desolate, is somehow beautiful to

me, and I wish I had anything that would enable me to detail her pain on paper.

It makes me wish I'd thought to bring my sketch book.

To her right, a large boy clutches an umbrella over their heads. On her left, a

sour faced girl holds the sad woman's arm. Her face is fierce and determined, as

if she's trying to keep the broken woman from falling.

I can't help but wonder who she was to him – who they were to him.

Even more, I can't help but wonder who I was to him.

When my phone rang two days ago, I'd answered it expecting James. My last

date with him had been a complete failure. Our normally fun exchanges were off,

and I had no explanation for why. I grabbed the phone eagerly to let him know I

was running a few minutes behind for our date, instead, someone unfamiliar had

been on the line.

"Hi, J," I answered, grabbing my bag from the table. "I'm on my way out the door

now."

"Miss Dwyer?" It was an unfamiliar voice, and I paused, trying to place it.

"Shit," I murmured. "Sorry, I thought you were someone else. Yes, this is

Isabella Dwyer."

"Miss Dwyer, my name is Jacob Black. I'm calling regarding one of my clients. I'm

very sorry for your loss ma'am; I know how difficult this all must be for you. I

was hoping you were planning to be in town to attend the reading of the will."

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, confused. My heart picked up speed and worry crept

into my chest. My parents... They were away on a trip. Images of terrible

accidents flew through my mind, and I prayed that nothing had happened.

"The reading of the will," he replied. I stood there, puzzled. On the other end of

the line I could hear papers shuffling, and then he said a name I didn't recognize.

"I'm sorry Mr. Black; I don't know anyone by that name. Are you sure you have

the right person?" I asked, even more confused.

"This is Isabella Dwyer, Correct? You were born September thirteenth, nineteen

eighty-seven in Seattle, Washington?"

"Uh, yeah… that's my— uh, that's me. Listen, I don't want to be rude, but how

did you get this number?"

"It's listed in the paperwork my client left with me," Mr. Black replied, sounding a

bit confused.

"I'm sorry Mr. Black, but I think you've got the wrong person."

I'd hung up before he could say anything else.

My date with James was another failure. Though I'd been committed to giving

him one more chance, for some reason, I couldn't seem to get the phone call out

of my mind, and I couldn't stop running the dead man's name over and over in

my head, trying desperately to place it.

I'd been distracted the entire night, and when James dropped me off at home,

with a vague promise to call me the next day, I nodded noncommittally. The

earlier phone call was still ringing in my ears, a puzzle I couldn't find the missing

piece to. I checked my machine again, finding that there had been more

messages left by Mr. Black. The second one included details for not only the

reading of this mystery man's will, but for his funeral as well.

I tried shrugging it off, pushing it to the side; tried to laugh at the fact that of all

the wrong numbers I'd ever received, this one took the cake. I was sure that the

man had me confused for someone else, or that perhaps Renee might have

known the poor gentleman who had died. I reasoned with myself that maybe

somehow their information was old, or incorrect.

Still though, I really disliked not knowing. In order to make sense of it all, I tried

to contact my mother. I knew it wasn't going to be easy – the last number I had

for her and my dad was a hotel in Prague, and their itinerary taped to the fridge

clearly showed that they should be in France by then. On a whim, they'd decided

to spend time backpacking through Europe like a couple of teenagers.

I always wondered why I never possessed their sense of casualness about

everything. This trip was closest I'd ever come to emulating their carefree

behavior.

Days later, after several attempts to reach her and my dad, I still hadn't heard

from them. I'd left message after message at the last place I knew they'd stayed,

hoping that soon enough, they'd return my calls. For my sanity, I needed to find

out what was going on and put this whole mix-up to rest.

For two days, the whole thing just gnawed at me: the man's name, and the fact

that my name had somehow been listed, not to mention the lawyer having my

birth date. I tried telling myself it was just a coincidence, but after losing sleep to

the questions in my head for those two nights in a row, and not receiving any

kind of reply from my parents, I decided to take action. I impulsively found

myself on the phone to the airlines.

The next morning, without telling anyone what I was doing, I was at SFO

boarding a flight to Washington State.

It wasn't like anyone was going to miss the boss' daughter if she didn't show up

for a few days of work. And the only way I could get answers – get some kind of

control – was to be here.

Walking softly to keep my heels from sinking into the wet earth, I find a

comfortable spot behind two taller men where I can peer through the gap in their

arms. Somewhere in the distance, I hear music start. The high pitched notes of a

bagpipe begin to carry on the breeze, weaving through the bodies and the air

around me. The song is familiar and haunting, and I look to my left and into the

crowd. The music makes the murmurs of the gathered mourners immediately

disappear. I watch, taking a mental picture, as everyone closes their eyes and

listens to each note and absorbs the meaning behind it.

As detached as I may feel, even I find that my chest is tight with emotion as I

listen to the notes.

Soft voices whisper around me as the song concludes, until two men covered in

neatly-pressed dress blues step toward the casket.

It's difficult to see their faces from my vantage point, but I can see their hands.

One man in particular, the one who is turned opposite to me, catches my

attention. I find my eyes glued to him. I'm mesmerized by the way his long

fingers and strong arms move. His motions are precise, meticulous, as he and the

other man fold the flag that adorned the top of the granite colored casket into

careful triangles.

My hand twitches again, my fingers tracing the ghostly figure into the air as I

commit each detail to memory; such beauty deserves to be on paper.

As they work, a new song begins, even sadder than the last. Everyone around me

bows their heads, but I keep my gaze on the folding of the flag, and the precise

movements of the beautiful hands.

...Through many dangers, toils and snares... I have already come; 'tis Grace that

brought me safe thus far...

Impulsively, I count; when they've finished, there are thirteen folds. Both men

move with military precision and care, each movement clearly practiced to make

this perfect. As they finish, each takes a turn, offering a final salute to their fallen

comrade. It's a gesture that not only says goodbye, but speaks volumes of how

much respect they held for the deceased. Absently, I wonder how missed he will

be.

...Yeah, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease, I shall

possess within the veil, A life of joy and peace...

It's the man with the fingers my eyes are still drawn to; I can almost feel the

respect he held for the man inside the coffin in the way his shoulders remain so

straight. When the flag is placed in his hands, he's careful – keeping it level with

his waist with his head held high.

He walks to the woman with the Kleenex, replacing the old tissue in her hands

with the neatly folded flag.

...Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...

With a final salute and a kiss to her cheek, he moves to stand at her side. And for

some reason, I want to see him, to offer my sympathy with a simple look. But I

can't. His face is shadowed by the brim of his hat, eyes cast down to his white

gloved hands clasped in front of him. Murmurs pick up once more, and then the

shots begin and everyone's eyes point to the sky.

I zone out then, biting my lip in thought. There's something about all of this:

hearing Taps, seeing those thirteen folds, and the ringing that's left behind in my

ears from the twenty-one shots made into the air. The imagery of it all, the

careful ceremony so layered with respect and grief, makes my insides clench.

Everything is traditional and holds so much symbolism. All signs of respect for

someone who has died the way this man did.

The rest of the funeral goes by in what feels like a blur, and I'm startled when the

crowd around me starts to move. As we all stand poised to exit the cemetery,

person after person speak around me in hushed whispers about honor and

nobility, offering their quiet praise to a fallen hero. Their words are heartfelt, and

they help me realize and understand that every bit of what's happening today is a

well-deserved tribute to someone who left this world too soon.

His accolades are passed from person to person, kind remembrances of the man

he was lingering like their own entity amongst the crowd. Expressions of grief

layered with stories of what a great person he was surround me on all sides,

making me yearn in an odd way. I can't help myself from wishing that I had

known him.

Because this man, the reason I'm here – Charles Swan – gave his life to protect

another.

~*~

"Come on," I growl to no one. I exhale sharply, blowing my once-smooth bangs

out of my eyes.

I'm already cranky and tired by the time I make it back to my hotel, and this

stupid lock (which, coincidentally, looks like it should have been replaced before I

was born) is pissing me off. Wriggling the key, I jiggle the knob and push as hard

as I can. Finally the lock gives, and I lean down to grab the fresh copy of the

Peninsula Daily News that's been left on my 'doorstep' to bring it inside.

I toss the paper across the bed and lean down to pull my heels off, dropping

them to the floor with two careless thunks. I fight the urge to bend over and

straighten them as I reach for the back of my dress. I just want to put something

more comfortable on. I stare down at the shoes as my dress falls into a puddle on

the floor and laugh to myself. After a weeks' worth of sleepless nights, I simply

don't have the energy for anything right now, not even my own compulsive

tendencies.

After the crowd dispersed from the funeral, I chose not to linger. I wasn't

prepared to speak to anyone; really, what could I say? I can only imagine the

awkwardness of someone casually asking who I am and how I knew him. I've

really got no way to answer that other than to shrug. Besides, I want answers,

and the last thing I need is to look like one of those creepers who only goes to

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