Chapter Seven: Faithless

January 30, 2012: Craig is 25, Ellie is 23

The apartment had been very quiet since the fight. Ellie spent most of her time writing and editing, secluded in the dining room, surrounded by piles of paper, her laptop a permanent presence in her lap. He could go an entire day without seeing her, only glimpsing her as she crawled out of her cave, cheeks smudged with news ink and face sunken from staring down a computer screen all day.

They mostly avoided each other, though, which was both of their faults. Craig worked late at the studio, mixing extra tracks he didn’t need to and spending extra time working with the artists, helping them go from good to great. His work as a producer was strangely fulfilling – not quite what he’d had in mind for a musical career, but rewarding all the same. He still wrote, and he still had notebooks full of songs just waiting to be recorded – his recent “adventures” being pretty good inspiration, to say the least – but he never thought he’d be able to take the kind of pleasure out of helping someone else reach fame and fortune as he did.

One of his artists, a young acoustic musician named Marie Grove, had even won a Grammy the year before, and had thanked him especially in her acceptance speech. It gave him a sneaking feeling of pleasure that seemed strange and out of place, but welcome all the same.

But fighting with Ellie, it seemed, had put a damper even on his work. While he was spending more time than ever in the sound booth, mixing and remixing, tweaking and changing over and over, he didn’t get the same feeling as accomplishment that he had before. He felt almost ashamed, each time he stayed hours later than he had to, as if he were deliberately avoiding something he should be doing. Which, well, he was.

The visit to Julia, though, changed everything.

Craig awoke from that particular encounter feeling absolutely drained. His alarm was beeping earlier than it usually did – he remembered suddenly that he’d planned on getting to the studio early to have breakfast with his sound tech, John, and then work on some of Marie’s new songs…but as he lay there, his mother’s face flashing in his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Ellie was asleep beside him, breathing slow and deeply. He tried to keep himself as still as humanly possible, watching her sleep. Her hair was tangled and unbrushed, laying in disarray around her head like a crimson halo. Her face wasn’t nearly as smooth or unmarred as it had once been – if it ever had been completely free of lines of worry or pain – but now he reached out a hand, tracing the small wrinkles by her mouth, the smile lines.

The lines around her eyes, where her eyes crinkled. The bags beneath her eyes, the skin that sank in on itself, the creases in her forehead from all her frowns. He wondered how many of those frowns were for or about him? How many smiles had he given her in comparison to the frowns and the tears? Would they even out? Had he made her laugh enough to make up for every time he’d made her cry? He didn’t think so. Somehow, in his mind, tears counted for so much more than laughter.

He let his hand fall back to the blankets, turning away to look at the ceiling. Suddenly he felt all the weight of everything he’d done weigh down on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He gasped suddenly, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. The world spun on its edge, and he closed his eyes against the dizziness, his stomach lurching. His hands came up to cover his face, and he rolled over, away from Ellie, curling into himself on his side, giving into his misery.

That was how Ellie found him an hour later, when she awoke for work. He usually slept later than her anyway, his job being less strict about work hours than hers, so she went about her morning routine without incident. It wasn’t until she returned from work that afternoon and found him in the same exact spot that she started to become worried.

“Craig?” Ellie frowned, dropping her briefcase and immediately moving to the bed, perching herself on the mattress and attempting to look at his face, which were still hidden by his hands. “Craig, are you all right?”

He moved slightly – at least he wasn’t dead – and grunted. Other than that, he gave no answer.

“Craig, have you been here all day?” Nothing. “Are you sick? Do you feel okay?”

She smoothed her palm down the back of his neck, moving the shaggy hair aside to see the cut on the back of his neck, still unhealed, red and angry looking. Her brow creased in concern. The cut should be healed by now – in fact, it should be nothing but a small, barely existent scar. But the gash was still open, and the flesh around it a furious red. She clicked her tongue. “This doesn’t look good.”

She went on autopilot into the bathroom, taking down the first-aid kit from behind the mirror. She went back to Craig, who hadn’t moved, and climbed up onto the bed behind him, kneeling by his head so she could smooth ointment over the wound and place a white, gauze bandage over the wounded skin.

“There.” She threw the kit aside, stretching out so that her body was aligned with his, almost laying on him. “Craig,” she whispered, mouth pressed to his cheek. “Craig, talk to me. Talk.”

Ellie’s voice permeated the fog, a clean and bright beacon in a river of smoke. He moved slightly, slowly coming back to his senses and registering the feel of her body, stretched out against his back. A memory of her face flashed in his mind – oval eyes, blunt nose, sharp chin, wide mouth. Dusty red hair that shone brilliantly in the sunshine and fell through his fingers like silk. Her hands, long and slender fingers that grasped at his arms, his neck, stroking his face.

“What happened? Where did you go?”

He sighed, moving his arms to rest at his side with effort. He shook his head, trying and failing to conjure words adequate enough to describe much of anything.

“Craig?” She sounded worried, scared.

“H-help,” he managed. His voice was rough and scratchy. “Help me stay awake tonight. Please.”

The tone of his voice was pleading enough to make her nod and agree without question. “Okay.”

“Okay…what was the last movie you saw in theaters?”

“Lame,” Craig said on a sigh.

Ellie lifted her head from his lap, shooting him a glare. “Yeah, and your question about my favorite color was so original. Like you didn’t already know.”

“We’re running out of questions,” he said needlessly.

She sighed. “There’s one.”

“Hmm.”

“Where did you go last night?”

Craig sighed, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a thunk. “I don’t know, Ellie. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“It might help,” she said.

“It might now.” He huffed. “When was the last time you saw me? Future me, anyway.”

“Present you, technically.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

She blew out a breath. “It was…right before we left for California. Right after the gigantic fight with Marco and Dylan.”

Craig’s breath caught slightly, the memory of the one time when his former friends’ disapproval really had hurt. The day Ellie had announced her plan to take the job with Turntable Books in LA – and her decision to move in with Craig – she had finally thrown down with Marco and Dylan about her relationship with Craig, something that had been a source of tension between the three roommates ever since Craig had first left for rehab. They’d had a huge fight – or rather, Marco and Ellie had had a huge fight, with Dylan, Paige and Alex all trying to chime in at various intervals – and Ellie had stormed out, returning only to pack her things for the move. Marco, Paige and the others certainly hadn’t hid their less-than-enthusiastic opinions of him after that day. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Ellie pursed her lips, a slight smile tugging at the corners. “You told me that nothing worth getting ever comes easy, and that he would see me soon.”

He smiled slightly, running a hand through her hair. “I sound kinda gay.”

She slapped at him, unable to stop the spurt of laughter that erupted from her lips. “You are such an idiot.”

He laughed, moving out of the way of her hands. “Sorry, sorry.”

“What’s your favorite visit been so far?”

He gave a half smirk, thinking back. “Well…Pretty Pretty Princess, obviously.”

Ellie blushed hotly, turning her face into his leg. “I…didn’t know you’d gone back to that yet.”

He laughed at his embarrassment, recalling an interesting visit with an eight-year-old Ellie, who’d insisted on playing Pretty Pretty Princess with him for hours. “Yeah, well, I always thought you were secretly girly, underneath all this bravado,” he said, running a hand down her back. “That just proved it. Next thing you’ll be telling me you want me to get you a pony for your birthday.”

She snorted. “Dream on.”

He grew quiet, moving his hands to her hair, long and luxurious, twining it around his fingers. “What was your favorite visit?”

She sighed. “There was one,” she said slowly.

“Yeah?”

“After you…went to rehab,” she said with difficulty.

He stopped his motions, becoming very still. “What?”

“Don’t get mad,” she said quickly. “I just saw you after…after I found out about the cocaine.”

“Oh.” Well, he knew that. The list, he remembered suddenly, knowing she was referring to the date he’d seen written at the top of the lyric notebook cover. Why was that her favorite, though?

“You just…helped me,” she said, and he jerked, not realizing that he’d spoken aloud. “You…made things better for me. It’s a good memory.”

He didn’t even want to touch that. He didn’t even want to think about it. “I saw my mother,” he blurted.

She froze, rolling over so she could see his face. “Oh, Craig.” To her credit, there was no pity, only kindness in her voice.

He sighed, patting her shoulder gently. She sat up and he scooted downwards on the bed, rearranging his position so that he was lying down. She lay down next to him, her chin moving automatically to his chest.

“Did you talk to her?” she asked softly.

He brought his hand up to her face, ghosting a hand down the back of her neck, her back, her spine. “Yes. She didn’t recognize me, she thought I was just a fan.”

Ellie nodded. She was one of the few people in his life who knew he was the daughter of Julia Jeremiah – yes, that Julia Jeremiah, the jazz singer from Toronto. Craig shuddered to think what John or Marie – or even Micah, the studio’s CEO – would do if they found out who his mother was. Probably tie him to a sound booth and force him to record an album. Craig wasn’t completely sure he wanted that to happen.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer, trying to think of what to say. “I don’t know,” he said at length.

They lay there in silence for a long time, the lights of the city reaching in through the window and lighting up the wall with an eerie glow.

“Don’t let me sleep,” he murmured.

“I won’t,” Ellie whispered back, half-asleep.

He squeezed her shoulder. “No sleeping.”

“No.”

“I mean it, Elle.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Ellie.”

“Mmm.”

He shook his head, smiling. She was already asleep, not bothering to fight off the hands of slumber any longer. He sighed, too weary to fight off sleep any longer. If a visit came, it came. After a night of quiet talking with Ellie, he couldn’t bring himself to care about avoiding anything anymore.

He felt Ellie nudge into his side, her hair brushing the bottom of his chin. He swallowed the lump in his throat, moving so his mouth was resting on her temple. “I love you,” he murmured, the most beautiful words he’d ever spoken.

“Love you,” she whispered back, and Craig felt something slide into place.

Now he could sleep.

November 21, 1994: Craig is 25, Ellie is 4

Thank God for department stores, that’s all he could say.

Craig had awoken this time in an alley, an experience he really was loathe to repeat. After brushing the grime and stink from his hair, he’d managed to procure a jacket, sunglasses and hat from a nearby Target (rock star fodder, but a disguise all the same) before walking around aimlessly.

He was in Toronto, early winter of 1994, he’d discovered from the marquee on a bank display. He’d wandered around aimlessly, knowing that his first visit to Ellie wasn’t until 95, not completely sure why he was there.

That was, until he found the church.

It was a small chapel on the edge of downtown, a rather unassuming little building with antique stained glass in the windows and flowers in the stone vases on the steps. He wouldn’t have taken a second look if he hadn’t seen the white, plastic lettering in the church’s announcement sign, the knobby letters proclaiming something that’d made Craig stop short.

Nash Baptism – 9 AM

So 9:15 AM, 21st of November, 1994, found Craig sitting in the very back pew of the small church, hoping he didn’t seem out of place among Ellie’s family members. He shouldn’t have worried – Ellie’s father’s side of the church didn’t have a decent-looking citizen among them, leather jackets and tattoos being the prominent fashion statement. Craig smirked slightly, remembering Ellie’s stories of this uncle’s tattoo parlor, or this second-cousin’s assault charges. Her father’s family was definitely interesting, to say the least.

Compared to her mother’s family however, she’d always maintained, they looked like the Future Leaders of America. Judy’s side of the family consisted of high, high society types whose dirty laundry was just better hidden than that of Greg’s family. Craig believed it, casting sidelong looks at the other side of the church where groups of tittering, tight-lipped women sat, their spines threatening to leap from their backs.

But it was the group at the front of the church that Craig was really paying attention to. Greg and Judy Nash stood at the altar, a four-year-old Ellie between them, one hand encased in each parent’s grasp. She looked bored and unaffected as the priest led the crowd in prayer, looking up curiously at her parents’ bowed heads and the solemn tones of the minister, wrapped in white and gold robes.

He smiled, watching her blow at her bangs playfully in her boredom. Ellie was an amazingly sweet child, he’d learned, reminding him of Angie at times with her insightful calm.

The low tones of the organ and the intoxicating sound of the minister’s prayers weaved together in the air, causing Craig’s eyelids to droop and his muscles to relax. He watched, partly mesmerized, as the minister took them through the baptism rituals, ending with him pulling Ellie forward by her small waist, taking a goblet of water and pouring it slowly over her forehead, keeping one palm cupped like a visor over her eyes, and the other smoothing over her hair, making sure that the water ran down the long, red strands. Craig watched Ellie’s face as he performed this, her small features scrunching up in confusion. He bit back a laugh, imagining 24-year-old-Ellie’s response: yeah okay, whatever, freak. Thanks for groping my head and all, but I’m really more into the whole ‘not being manhandled by old men’ side of my religion.

He sighed, slumping into his seat as the organ started up again, and Judy, wiping away tears, picked Ellie up and turned towards the congregation. The audience clapped loudly, and the parents smiled proudly, leading Ellie down the aisle.

Craig kept his eyes on Ellie, who hung out in her mother’s arms, looking cool and unaffected. He smiled fondly at her. No matter what year, Ellie would always be cool. He watched her Judy retreat with her, wishing he could get a chance to talk to four-year-old Ellie.

He stayed in his seat in the back of the pew, not knowing what else to do, really. He felt slightly uncomfortable, sitting in the Nash family’s church. He’d never really been one for religion – his mother had been a devout Catholic, but she hadn’t had enough time with him to instill any real values in him about faith. His dad couldn’t have been bothered with religion – and Joey was too busy to even think about taking Craig and Angie to church every Sunday.

He’d always viewed God as an incoherent figure that seemed too silly to get that upset over, like a rock star he’d never particularly liked, yet seemed to inspire millions of fans to flock to concerts, throwing anything of value up on stage. He’d never been one to blame God for anything that’d happened to him, certainly, he’d never believed in it much anyway.

This church was small and modest, though, and obviously very well taken care of. Craig sat in the back quietly, watching the groups of people milling about, talking quietly. His eyes focused on one woman, her hair dark red and pulled back into a ponytail. She was kneeling at the altar in the front her the church, her hands clasped and eyes tightly shut, whispering – praying – beneath her breath.

Something about the sight gave Craig a strange pang, something that was unsettling enough to prompt him into standing, an itchy unsettled feeling bringing him to his feet. He frowned, turning his back on the woman’s devotion and left the church, giving up the relative shelter of the church in favor of wandering aimlessly around Toronto.

It wasn’t until hours later, right before he disappeared once more, that he realized the cause of his discomfort. It wasn’t disdain, really, or scorn or pity. It was something deeper, something deep and much more painful, something he couldn’t shake nearly as easily.

Longing hits you at strange times, and Craig had never been a stranger to the feeling. Longing for faith, however, was new and decidedly uncomfortable. Was it just this time traveling thing that brought it out? He’d definitely been thinking about it more, the existence of powers that were bigger than he – how could it now, what with the whole bending the fabric of space and time thing. But was it really want that he felt welling in his chest, as he watched the woman give all her energy to pleading with a force she could not, and would never, see? Was it a yearning for something to put his faith in, some kind of strange, burning desire for the comfort that came with putting one’s belief in the hands of a seemingly unstoppable being?

“No.” Why was it that every visit, even the pleasant ones, unsettled him in some way? He shook his head, huffing in frustration and sticking his hands in his pockets. He’d retreated to the back streets, knowing he’d be leaving soon – he’d start to recognize the strange pulling sensation that would build up over time until he seemed to snap into nonexistence. It was strong now, spreading from the tips of his fingers and over every inch of his skin, a buzzing warning.

He sighed, trying to push the strange feeling away as he wandered, not particularly wanting to think about it. “Nothing. It was nothing.” The soft burn in his abdomen persisted, however, and he winced.

He couldn’t bring himself to believe it, no matter how many times he’d said it to himself. He’d just had way too much experience in lying to himself.