TITLE: Yizkor

AUTHOR: Demon Faith

CATEGORY: J/D, post-administration, Donna POV

SPOILERS: General season 1 and 2

RATING: PG-13

WARNINGS: Severe angst, character death (tissues may be required)

SUMMARY: ‘Damnit, Josh, you made me light a candle for you.’

DISCLAIMER: They are not mine. Looking at this, it’s probably safer that way.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Yet again, I have been paying too much attention in RE. Apologies if I’ve got the ritual wrong, I wasn’t really sure. It was early in the morning when I was struck by this storyline. In my half-sleeping state, I managed to soak my pillow in tears. Sorry I had to share.

No one knew about this side of your life. You seemed indifferent – your religion was just a label they used against you. You would surprise people at times, knowing something obscure and recalling dim ideas. They were always surprised.

They never knew you like I did.

You taught me all about this ritual. It was something I caught you doing one year. It was quiet for once, and I remember Toby telling me it was Yom Kippur. I didn’t think that much about it, didn’t bring the Yiddish.

It was quite late when I found you. You had three candles on your desk, and you carefully lit each one. I remember your face in the flickering lights, lost in your own thoughts. Then, you whispered, a beautiful yet guttural sound, a language I did not know.

You didn’t know I was there, invading your rituals, staring into your soul. When you had finished speaking, you looked up at me. I expected you to shut yourself away, harshly demanding that I leave. But you beckoned to me, and slowly I came to kneel beside you. You laid your arm across my back, and leant close to me. Carefully, you pointed to each of the candles.

“This one’s for my father and this one is for Joanie. And this,” your voice caught, “is for Mrs Landingham,” you finished in a whisper, unshed tears shading your voice.

“Why are you doing this today, Josh?” I probed gently, wanting to understand, desperate to understand this new man I was seeing.

“It’s a Yom Kippur thing. We light candles for people who have died and say Kaddish for them.”

You tightened your hold on me, and I was reminded of how I had nearly lost you. How Toby would’ve been lighting a candle for you that day, how my world would’ve ended. Now, it seems so hollow to say those things, even though they were the reason we watched the candles until midnight, that they were the reason we went home together. Grief is a powerful bond, and it releases all your hidden emotions, spilling them out of your eyes, your mouth, your heart.

You held me that night, and told me you’d stay forever. That we would be forever. They were nice promises, weren’t they? They led to places we had never even considered. You proposed over the yarzheit candles, do you remember that? We always lit them together, it became our own ritual. And one Yom Kippur you just passed me a ring and said ‘I meant it, you know.’ I knew what you were talking about, we’d always been like that. And I took it, because I believed you.

I believed you.

We changed our wedding vows – no ‘til death do us part’. No, not us, because death was so much a part of our life, and yet it wasn’t there at all. We wouldn’t be parted by death, we were indestructible. How could we be so stupid, Josh? How could you lie to me like that, how could I believe you? I love you and I trust you – I’m answering my own questions here, you should be proud of me. I hope you’re proud of me.

Because I’m standing here, and I’m lining up our candles. We’ve collected a couple more over the years, and as I carefully set down each one, I think about each person.

Your father and your sister – people I never had the chance to meet, yet I know them intimately. I always listened to your stories, especially on this day. They were good and kind, just like you. They deserve to be remembered. Their candlelight winks at me.

Mrs Landingham – like a grandmother to us all (though we would never tell her), she was always there with cookies and simple advice. I miss her so much, even after all this time, and I know you always did. I light her candle with a shaking hand, and Sam reaches out to steady my hand, his small chubby fingers clutching at my arm, guiding me. He’s been guiding me a lot recently, so much older than his eight years. Look what we made, Josh. He’s going to be a great man someday, just like his father.

Leo – I couldn’t believe it. His death, almost four years ago now, seemed so senseless. He was coming to see us, to see Sam, from his new Parisian home. He liked it out there, it suited him, he said. He never should’ve left. Some terrorist stabbed him in the airport, with so many people around him, none who could save him. We identified the body, almost unable to associate the cold sleeping form with our vibrant friend. Tears are falling now, and I can hear Sam reaching for a handkerchief. The salt water falls around the candles, somehow missing the dancing flames.

President Bartlet – how could we think of him as anything else? This great man always inspired us with his presence and his way with words. He was your surrogate father, a grandfather to Sam. When we heard he had passed away in sleep, it was like our collective heart was breaking. We all cried at the funeral, Sam laying a rose on his Grandpa’s coffin. Sam’s hand falls away as I light this candle, and he clutched at my dress. I lay my free hand on his head, pulling him to me. I need him, because I have one more.

It stands there, taunting me. It sits slightly apart from the rest, mocking me with its cold waxy pallor and I can’t do this. This candle, this is beyond anything, beyond promises, beyond death. This is the reality I’ve been unwilling to face for five months, this is why I can’t possibly put the light to this candle. This candle means you’re really gone. Forever gone.

Carefully, my hand suddenly steady, I lower the taper to the candle, and it catches quickly. I pull the taper away and blow it out. The candle does not flicker, just shines steadily at me. Its unfaltering light crumbles me, and I kneel on the floor, burying my head in my hands. Sam sits beside me and I pull him into my embrace. We cry together, in this place where you died, because this was never meant to happen. You promised it wouldn’t happen.

Damnit, Josh, you made me light a candle for you. After everything we promised each other, after all the other deaths. It was never supposed to be you. We were immortal, we’d proven that. There was never meant to be a candle lit for you.

I remember that day with piercing detail. I walked in the door, to find you and Sam running around the sitting room, laughing together. You stopped and looked up at me. Sam ran to me and I pulled him into a hug. I let go of him, and everything began to change. I realised your breath wasn’t even, that your skin shouldn’t be that pale. You clutched at your chest, panic lines forming around your eyes. I stood still, as Sam began to scream. You reached out your hand for me and rasped out my name.

I told Sam to call 911, my voice holding no fear. There was no fear – we were unbreakable. You started to fall, and I held on to you, telling you it was fine, that you’d be alright. It was that moment. I looked into your eyes, and I realised we weren’t going to be forever. Your fingers trailed my face, and you told me you loved me. I told you the same, and as Sam sat beside me, and placed a kiss on your cheek, you smiled. Quietly, you slipped away from us. The ambulance was too late, I knew that it would be when you looked at me, when your resigned eyes shattered your promises.

I didn’t cry that day. I didn’t cry at your funeral, though I was the only one. Now, it’s our destroyed ritual and our ruined family, and that damn candle is mocking me. It’s refusing to flicker, just a solid beacon of white light. It reminds me of you – it has a steadfast presence, and it isn’t leaving me. Eventually, though, it will burn out and I’ll be without light.

I have no light, Josh. We have no light.

I stand now, and take the book we shared. I say the words slowly, carefully, and Sam says them too, his voice just like yours, like the first time I heard you on Yom Kippur. I feel our baby kick inside me, joining in our ritual, a new ‘voice’ in our family. I place my hand over her kicking feet, and Sam puts his hand over mine as our words drift away.

“Is Joanie saying goodbye to Daddy too?”

I smile at his simple words, because he realises what this is for us. Our final goodbye to you, and your steadfast light. The candle burns away through the evening, and we stay in the same place as it fades away. Sam turns to me, wiping away my tears with his child’s fingers.

“Is he gone forever now, Mommy?”

“No, Sam,” I say, because I realise what your eyes meant now. What they’ll always mean, “He’s with us forever.”