A/N: I'm sorry I lied in the last chapter—I said that it would not take me two months to update, and alas, it has taken me five exactly. So, I truly apologize for that unofficial hiatus, and for those of you that are still here reading … I commend you. If you are new to this story and are just getting caught up, then welcome. Appreciate that there tend to be major gaps in my updates sometimes. Why, I don't know. Usually lack of motivation, writer's block … you name it.

Between the last time that I updated and now, I have lived through many things, including Beatlefest, a tornado, and another birthday. My goal was to update this story before New Year's, and would you look at that, I did it—and with nearly twenty-four hours to spare!

Before I posted this chapter, I edited just about every other chapter in the story, though I've taken the link to the entry about what I've edited in my writing journal out of my profile. However, if you would still like to know, feel free to message me and I can give you the link.

And, without further ado, I give you, at long last … Chapter Twenty-Six. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders or "Undun," written by Randy Bachman and performed by The Guess Who.

Chapter Twenty-Six:

" … she's come undun, she found a mountain that was far too high / and when she found out she couldn't fly, it was too late … "

For a long time following the funeral, nobody was themselves. Everything was different, changed, altered—whatever. And apparently I couldn't handle it as well as I'd assumed I could. God knows something like that isn't easy, but I kind of let myself go. I quit my job at the salon because I just couldn't concentrate on my work anymore. School just didn't hold the same importance to me as it once had, and going to the VA seemed more like a chore than something I liked to do. Trevor now struck me as obnoxious and clingy and Jack was too cool, too confident, too smart, and too serious, and I hated being around him more than a few minutes at a time.

I didn't know what was wrong with me. And surely, it wasn't me. I wasn't the same calm, easygoing Eleanor that most everybody knew. Oh, no, I was somebody completely different—moody, emotional, surly, and brooding, periodically lapsing back and forth, in and out of some low-key depression.

Only it wasn't really depression. I didn't know what it was. Grief? Regret? Some type of weird recovery process they'd never covered during the mental health unit in school?

As a result, though, I took to drinking—only a little bit, a glass of aged vodka from the liquor cabinet every couple of days when nobody was home, just enough to make me feel light-headed and floaty. And that was it. It wasn't something I wanted to do. It was almost impulsive, because I knew it would make me feel better. Released me. But at the same time it scared me, because I'd never had a drop of alcohol before in all my seventeen years of living.

Well, no, that's a lie. Once, when I was twelve, we'd gone out to dinner—nothing real fancy, but it was a nice treat—and my dad let me have a little sip of his chardonnay, just a little one, because I was curious to know what it tasted like. And needless to say, I didn't like it, and vowed never to touch alcohol again.

And now here I was, downing a glass of vodka once every few days as if it were my saving grace. Some days two glasses, if my mood was exceptionally low. But I really only got to the point where it gave me a buzz, and nothing more. Drunk was certainly not something I was aiming for.

But there was one day weeks later when I had a little more than I think I needed—I was just very slightly past being tipsy—and I took a seat at our piano bench, touching the keys gingerly. Because of the alcohol, I felt warm and floaty, but at the same time I was overcome by a reminiscent, sentimental emotion that I couldn't explain. My eyes were moist enough to make my vision blurry, but I'd been doing this for years, and even though I hadn't touched the thing in almost three, I knew I could play it upside-down in my sleep, if I wanted to. I didn't need to see.

I reached forward and pressed down on the 'C' key, and pulled my hand back the minute it made a sound. Even after it faded off, it still left a light ringing in my head. What was I doing? I wouldn't even have toyed with this if I hadn't been drinking. But I tried again, despite my apprehensions. Mama taught me to play "Greensleeves" when I was young, and I always used to play it around Christmastime. So did the radio, only I don't think it was really a Christmas song. It just sounded like one.

My hands found the song's beginning position and what followed was a rather choppy and very butchered rendition of the original piece. I couldn't play properly while under the influence, and I surely knew it, but it didn't stop me. It felt weird, however, because the only thing in the past two and a half years that I'd done involving this piano was dust it when I cleaned. Because of me, it was absolutely dust-free … but it needed to be tuned.

I ended the song on an atrocious-sounding note that made even borderline-drunk me cringe, but when I sat back I realized how suddenly complete I felt. And I was almost glad I'd done it this way; if I had attempted this sober, I could have put myself in danger of some kind of meltdown. It sounds dramatic, but I really didn't want that to happen.

I wanted to play again, but I had an idea and got up to do that instead. I ambled over to the armchair and sat down everything but gracefully, and set the rotary telephone in my lap. I was home alone and I was going to call Jack. So I dialed the VA's number and some lady whose voice I didn't recognize answered.

"Hello?" She didn't sound cheerful.

"Maureen?"

"There's no Maureen here," the voice snapped. "You obviously have the wrong number."

Click.

"You have a nice day, too, lady!" I exclaimed, and slammed the receiver down as if I'd been the one hanging up on her. And then I picked it right back up again and dialed what I thought—and hoped—was the correct number. A softer voice answered, and I knew I was right this time.

"Veterans Administrations Hospital, this is Maureen speaking. How may I help you?"

"M-Maureen?"

"Eleanor?"

"Mm-hmm," I all but giggled. "I got a question for you."

"Are you all right? You sound a little … inebriated," she said bluntly.

"It's okay," I replied, though my words were slurred, so it came out sounding more like, "Iz okay." "I wanted to know if it would be possible for me to speak to Jack?"

"Jack Pace?"

"Yes." Though I lingered on the 'S,' so it sounded like, "Yessss."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Never better. Everything is good. I am happy. May I speak to Jack?"

"Well, I'm sorry, Eleanor, but they sent him home. They decided he'd recovered well enough. He's in Chicago now."

Immediately the ringing in my head stopped. I felt instantly sober. "Oh."

"If you want, though, I can give you his telephone number. He left it with me in case you ever called or came by again."

I grinned dumbly. "Did he, really?"

"He really liked you, Eleanor." She hesitated, letting that sink it. "Would you like it? The number?"

"Umm … yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Okay. Give me one second." There was muffled shuffling on the other end for a moment. "Do you have anything to write on?"

I found a pen buried under a stack of papers on the table next to the chair, and mumbled, "Something to write with …," before cradling the phone with my shoulder in order to use my hand as a makeshift writing surface. "Something to write on. Okay. There. Yes, I have it."

And after she read it off to me, I stared at my palm blankly for a long time, and she said, "Will you be coming back?"

"Um … I don't know," I replied slowly, making it sound as if I really didn't know. I hated to say it, but without Jack, the VA seemed to lose some of its appeal to me. I still considered it important, but like a lot of things, it wouldn't be nearly the same without him—I guess it would lose some of its significance in my life. "Is Trevor still there?"

"He's being discharged in about a week and a half. His physical therapy has gone very well, and he's healing up quite nicely."

"Oh." Things were changing so fast. "Well, will you call me sometime before he leaves? I want to say goodbye."

"Of course." She paused. "You know he and Jack have made plans to keep in touch, don't you?"

"No, I didn't know that. I'm glad—they're such good friends." They always did remind me a little of Soda and Steve, in some strange way, but I didn't say that. "Is he going back to Cleveland?"

"Yes."

This conversation was becoming trite and awkward. "I'll have to get his address from him. Christmas cards, you know."

"Eleanor, I meant to ask before—how are you doing? I mean, how are you holding up?"

"I'm … I don't know. Or, I do know. I feel like I'm trapped in molasses—I can't do anything. I try, and try, and I … just can't."

"I know the feeling. I haven't lost anybody like you have, but I can relate. I felt that way all the time Frank was in Vietnam."

I smiled gently, forgetting my troubles for a moment. "I almost forgot about your husband. Did he make it home safe? And I assume you've had your baby by now, yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. We had a little girl. Her name's Anita." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Anita Weller."

"I really like that name," I told her, and waved as the door opened and Ponyboy came inside. "And I'm glad everything's worked in your favor, Maureen."

"I am, too."

"Who are you talking to?" Pony asked. He dropped his things haphazardly onto the couch and stopped next to my chair on his way into the kitchen.

"Hang on a sec." I covered the phone briefly with my hand. "A friend from the VA. Could you grab me my drink from the kitchen, please? I think I left it on the table."

"Yeah, sure." He walked away and it was only then that I realized the drink I'd asked him to get was the vodka bottle that, in my previously impaired state, I'd forgotten to put back in the cabinet. I cursed myself silently.

"Uh, Maureen, I've got to go," I said quickly. "I'll talk to you later. Sorry." I set the phone back on the base and jumped up from the chair, meeting Ponyboy halfway between the living room and the kitchen.

"Uh, Eleanor?" He was holding the vodka bottle in one hand, a quarter of it gone already, and my empty glass in the other. "I hope this wasn't the drink you were talking about."

"No, of course not!" I pretended to be horrified, but I know he saw right through that façade. "I was making tea. Green tea, actually." Good lies are all in the—

"I didn't see any in there."

Damn.

"Okay, fine, I wasn't making tea. I was—"

"Tryin' to get drunk." It was a blunt statement, not an inquiry.

"Sort of."

"Eleanor, I hate you when you do stuff like this. Here." He shoved the bottle and the glass into my arms, and some splashed onto my shirt.

"What are you talking about?"

He switched on the television and flipped back and forth between channels absently. "You're just being dumb, Eleanor. You've been doin' it ever since"—he hesitated briefly—"ever since we got that telegram."

"Well, how are you keeping yourself together? I would have expected more of a reaction from you now that it's all over."

"Because—You remember that thing Darry told us a while ago, or told me? About how you can't stop living just 'cause you lose somebody else? Now's about the time you should take that advice."

"It's not that easy," I said. "It's different for me."

"It's always different for you."

"No, that's not what I … Oh, forget it." I shook my head, deciding it was senseless to argue. He was right, anyway. "Nevermind. I have to make a phone call." I looked at my palm, Jack's number imprinted in my skin, and then over at the line next to the chair. "I'll use the extension in Darry's room."

I started to walk away but Pony's voice stopped me again. "Hey, Eleanor?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, you know. I just worry sometimes, 'cause you do weird things."

"I know. I love you, too. But please don't worry about me, all right? Everyone worries about me. I'm sick of it."

"They probably have good reason to," he said earnestly, but I didn't answer. I stuck the vodka bottle back into the liquor cabinet, the glass into the sink, and walked off down the hall.

I hoped that Darry wouldn't mind if I used his phone but I didn't have a line in my room, and I wanted the privacy now. That's exactly why I didn't have my own phone, never mind that we couldn't afford it—in past years, I wouldn't ever have had a moment of peace if I'd wanted to use it.

I almost backed out of calling him. I had the phone in one hand and I was staring at the other as if waiting for a sixth finger to emerge. I had to do this, though, if I ever wanted to speak to him again.

So I dialed the number. Slowly, but I did it. It rang and rang and rang, and I was just about to hang up, until—"Hello?"

"J-Jack?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"It's Eleanor. You didn't recognize my voice?"

"You stuttered one word."

I laughed gently. "Well, I called the VA today, and Maureen Weller gave me your number. She said you left it with her."

"That I did."

"I didn't know you'd been discharged."

"You hadn't been by in a while."

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I understand."

I sighed, twisting the phone cord around my index finger absent-mindedly. "You know, I did something different today."

"Yeah? What?"

"I played the piano."

"I didn't know you ever did that."

"I didn't. I mean, I did all the time before my parents died. And then I just … stopped playing. It was too hard for me. But today I picked it up again. Isn't that weird?"

"Maybe you're finally starting to heal."

"Well, I don't know," I admitted. "I was a little intoxicated at the time."

"Oh." He sounded a bit flustered. I could almost see him scratching his head in confusion. "Wait a second. Eleanor, you've been drinking?"

"Only a little bit."

"A likely story."

"Just a glass or two every couple of days. Nothing more."

"You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

Instinctively, I stamped my foot on the floor, even though I was sitting. "Stop that. You sound like my dad."

He laughed quietly. "I miss you, Eleanor."

I nodded, though I knew he couldn't see that. "I miss you, too, Jack."

"How's everything going? Are you doing okay?"

"I don't know. I guess so. I really don't know anything anymore. Everything's real strange now, and nothing's right. You know?"

"Yeah. I know. I came home and nothing was how it was when I left. I lost my apartment and everything I owned there was back with my folks. Now I'm living with them, too, until I can find my own place again. And a job."

"I'm really sorry about all of that, Jack."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. Couldn't you go back to school for a while?"

"What's the point at this stage? I'm twenty-two years old. Aren't most people my age graduating by now?"

"You could still enroll again." I thought for a moment—I can't say I was shocked by his age. Yes, he was quite a few years older than I was, but at the same time he wasn't twenty-five as I'd thought. I knew that would have been a bit of a stretch.

"Yeah. Whatever. I have a better idea, anyway."

"What's that?"

"Eleanor, let's change our names and run away to France."

I laughed. "I really like that idea."

"I'm serious. We should do it. You speak French, right? I know you told me that once."

"Oui, je parle français. Et tu parles anglais, n'est-ce pas?"

"See? I didn't understand a word of that. We'll get by just fine."

"Merci beaucoup," I giggled. "J'aimerais voyager à France avec toi."

"You can speak English now."

"D'accord. Je regrette."

"No, I'm serious," he laughed. "Speak English."

"Okay." I grinned. "Sorry. It's habitual sometimes, really—we're only allowed to speak French in class. I get kinda used to it."

"No English whatsoever? How do you do that?"

"Jack, I've been taking French for the last five years," I told him. "I may butcher the accent like you've never heard, but I have a decent grasp on the language."

"Hmm. Well, how do you say, 'I love you'?"

I stopped breathing for a moment, and all of the blood rushed to my head. I thought I might pass out. "Excuse me?"

"'I love you, Eleanor.' How do you say that in French?"

I couldn't stop the grin that crept slowly across my face. I wasn't near a mirror, but I knew that if I could see myself in one, I would be completely glowing. "'Je t'aime, Eleanor,'" I said. "That's how you say it. And je t'aime, aussi, Jack."

"What's that mean?"

"I said, I love you, too, Jack."

"See, now?" he said quietly. "We'd do perfectly fine in France."

I giggled happily, about to say something else, but just at that moment the door opened and Darry came in. "There's a phone in the living room, you know," he said.

"Hang on a second." I covered up the speaker and moved the receiver away from my mouth. "I know," I assured him. "You remember my friend Jack from the VA, right? I'm speaking to him right now. That's why I came in here. I was hoping you wouldn't mind."

"Oh. No, that's all right." I was happy that it wasn't a big deal. I thought he'd make more of a fuss about it. "Well, wrap it up pretty soon, okay?"

"Okay. I thought I'd make dinner tonight, anyway."

"Yeah, that's fine. Hey, you know, it's Friday. You and Steve goin' to the movies tonight?"

"Oh." I shook my head. "No. We don't really do that anymore."

"Oh." He looked a bit surprised, but I think he understood. "All right, well, see ya in a bit."

I nodded and he shut the door a crack, and I settled back against the headboard and set the base in my lap. "Okay," I said. "Sorry about that. You still there?"

"No. This is a recording."

I laughed. "So I've been talking to a tape this whole time."

"I guess so."

"Some smart tape, you are."

"I must be, yeah." He laughed gently, and then I heard an older woman's voice on another line: "Jack, dear, I need to use the telephone now, please." It was followed by a click as she hung up again.

"Was that your mom?"

"Yep. Guess I gotta get off now. But it was nice to talk to you again, Eleanor."

"You, too." I smiled. "You should call me sometime."

"I would, if I had your number."

"You don't have my—Oh, I guess you wouldn't. I don't think I ever gave it to you. Do you have anything to write it on?"

"I do now." He laughed. "This is great. Not only do I get a phone call from a pretty girl, but I get her number, too. All in one day."

I laughed, too. "Well, you're quite lucky, then. I'm never that fortunate with boys."

"Probably 'cause they all know you're with me."

"Probably." Although I wasn't aware that I was with him. But I wasn't about to argue. He had asked me how to say, 'I love you,' in French, after all. That had to mean something.

"Eleanor, do you mind if I call you tomorrow?"

"Sure, if you want to run up our phone bill."

"All right. I'll wait a few days, then."

"Okay. I do need to get off though, now, too. I have to start dinner."

"Yeah, and my mom's dying to use the phone. I'll talk to you later, Eleanor."

"I hope so," I replied quietly. "Bye, Jack."

I hung up, then, and that was that. I made dinner and ate with my brothers and attempted to participate in conversation … but all I could fully concentrate on was Jack. He said 'I love you,' but then he didn't mention it again so I didn't know if he really meant it. It was absolutely perplexing to me, and the confusion that came along with trying to figure it out was giving me a migraine.

I remembered unexpectedly that there was some old cheap wine in the liquor cabinet too, because Darry was having a rare glass with his dinner, and he must have noted my frustration because he asked me if I wanted a sip. Ponyboy glanced at me tersely and knowingly, and I burst into peals of laughter and couldn't stop.

And the wine was bitter and it burned going down. But it tasted rather okay.

xxx

A/N: Sorry the ending was a little … suckish, but this chapter was already going on ten pages on Word and I started to feel like I was rambling, and I had to stop somewhere. I guess it's an all right ending, just not the best.

So that nobody is confused, the French translations are as follows. I did not use an online translator for any of these, as I am taking French this year and, aside from a couple of verb conjugations, these were a few basic phrases that we learned. I love French and wanted to include it somewhere in the story; I could always see Eleanor learning to speak it, too:
"Oui, je parle français. Et tu parles anglais, n'est-ce pas?" – "Yes, I speak French. And you speak English, right?"
"Merci beaucoup. J'aimerais voyager à France avec toi." – "Thank you very much. I would love to travel to France with you."
"D'accord. Je regrette." – "Okay. I'm sorry."

Also, I noticed something else about this story recently—I remember in Chapter One, Eleanor mentions picking up guitar instead of piano after her parents died. I realized that I never mentioned that anywhere else in the story. It was supposed to be kind of significant, but I think I either forgot about it or didn't know where to include it. While I was editing, I mentioned it briefly in one of the earlier chapters—can't remember which—but I didn't include it anywhere else. I want to include it somehow in a future chapter, but I'm not quite sure how I'll do that yet—I might just do a branching-off oneshot again like I did with Up from the Skies. We'll see. But I just wanted to mention that, because it's been bothering me.

I also don't condone underage drinking, so please don't take that seriously. There was something else I wanted to mention too but this author's note is already becoming longer than the chapter, so I'll save it for next time. Happy New Year!

Reviews and concrit are appreciated!