Disclaimer: This is an original story based upon the characters of Gilmore Girls. No profit will be made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This story is something different that I have never attempted before and I hope I can pull it off with out it being too cliché. I am going to give you readers some say here. If the story isn't working, let me know and I'll do something different. Give me a couple of chapters to see how it is working out. This first one might seem a little confusing. It starts in the spring of this year. Nothing spoilerish—trust me. Thank you all for the reviews that you have left me on stories in the past. They are always helpful and mean a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this next story.
The old man was far away from home. He was not used to the cold and he was certainly not used to the rain. As he walked out to the car, holding his cat over his head, he said to himself for the fortieth time that day, "I'm getting too old for this." He was going to be seventy on his next birthday. Most men his age were drinking something cold somewhere warm. He closed his eyes and tried to think of sitting on a cruise ship, sipping a pina colada with a tiny umbrella sticking out of the cup.
As he came to his sleek black rental car, reality kicked in and he hurried into the car, and started the heater. He would be going home to California tomorrow, and then he would tell his boss, Joe, that this was his last business trip. The sooner he was out of Connecticut the better. He started the car, and the CD player made a little clicking sound as it started up again. He sighed as he listened to her voice. This was his most prized possession—the CD his beautiful Marjorie had made him for his sixtieth birthday, five years before she died.
"Happy Birthday Daddy," the voice said, "I love you forever," and then the angel voice came on and began to sing all of his classic favorites.
Marjorie's mother had died when Marjorie was twelve years old. He had been devastated by her death, but had carried on as father and mother to his girl. It was three weeks before Marjorie's forty-third birthday when the dreaded words, "family history," finally had come to haunt them—the dreaded cancer had returned to claim his baby girl. She hadn't lasted a year.
Suddenly he found himself brushing away tears as he continued to drive—he had to keep focused on the road. The rain was coming harder now and he couldn't see very well.
A few miles away a mother and daughter were driving through the storm. The daughter was slouching in her seat and flipping the radio stations, and the mother as usual was criticizing.
"Why can't you just choose one?" the mother cried.
The daughter chuckled and settled on a station that caused the mother to slap her on the shoulder.
"For Heaven's sake not that one!" she yelled through the din. Careful to keep her eyes on the road, she reached down and pushed the seek button until she found a station that was playing Vivaldi's Spring.
"Mother!" the daughter whined.
"My car, my music," the mother said smiling.
"Thanks for coming and picking me up," the daughter said. "It's a long walk from Boston to Stars Hollow. I can't believe that transmission is dead again!"
"My pleasure," the mother said, secretly delighting in the fact that Luke and Rory couldn't get away to come to get her daughter. She had called her mother for help!
They drove along in silence, not talking—talking was not their thing. The relationship between them had been so fragile lately, but it was growing stronger and the mother didn't want to do anything to jeopardize it—anything at all.
"The storm is getting worse Mom," her daughter said. "Maybe I should drive,"
"Do I seem completely incompetent to you?" she asked.
"Yes you do Mother, pull over and let me drive," the daughter replied.
"I am perfectly capable of driving through a storm, leave me alone," the mother replied, taking the offensive. Her daughter didn't think she could do anything.
"Mom, this isn't some attack on you. Let me drive, I'm serious."
"So am I," the mother replied, "Sit up and be quiet,"
And that was where the conversation ended—posture.
It happened so fast. They were driving over a bridge. She lost control of the car and her daughter was yelling at her, telling her what to do. Time seemed to stop as with a sickening thud the car crashed through the siding and headed over into the black churning water. With out hesitation, the mother yanked herself free from the confines of her seatbelt and threw herself over her daughter to shield her from the impact.
The next thing she knew she exploding out of the water, gasping for air. The black churning waters were pulling at her, extending their icy black fingers and threatening to pull her under to her death. She swam towards shore with all her might, she was freezing and every movement sent a roar of pain through her body. All she cared about was getting out of that water. She focused on the shore—almost there…almost there. Finally, she stood up and walked the few short steps and then collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily, coughing up what the river had forced down her lungs. She laid there for a few minutes, and then began to shake uncontrollably with cold. She had to find help, she had to get out of those clothes. She sat up and started to crawl to the road, when suddenly—as if a nightmare had taken human form and was strangling her, she remembered—her daughter was in that black churning river.
She plunged back into the water, screaming out her daughter's name over the roar of the river and the downpour of rain. She took a breath of air, and plunged down again into the churning water, frantically searching for her daughter. When her lungs could stand it no longer, she exploded back up to the surface, screaming her daughter's name over and over again. She felt herself growing colder and weaker and she knew she was loosing consciousness quickly. She plunged into the frigid water again, willing her eyes to stay open, searching for her daughter. She came back up to the surface and felt herself being pulled back under again. She was tired and she was cold—but her love for her daughter willed her to fight for consciousness. She searched around the shore, looking for any sign of her girl, crying out prayers to a God she had paid substantial donations to but had rarely communicated with. "If you want one of us," she screamed, "Take me!"
It was only a few moments later, that the vehicle that had caused this nightmare, sailed past and smacked the woman's head, making her fight against unconsciousness a futile one. She was not afraid when the blackness overtook her, only glad that her prayer had been answered and that somewhere in that black river of death, angels were saving her baby and she would be well.
The old man was afraid of the storm, several times he thought about pulling over and waiting it out, but he kept pushing onward. In all actuality, he had no fear of death, he was more afraid of life. Death was where Marjorie and Anna were. He had no wish for it to come sooner than God intended, but he had no reason to resist it when it was time. He drove past a river, and glanced down at the churning madness. He had never seen a storm like this. He was almost across the bridge when his headlights came across something—it was a person, lying on the shore. He pulled over to the side and hurried down towards the bank. It was a woman—her clothes torn and stained with mud, blood caked on her hair from a head wound. The man placed shaking fingers to her neck to feel her pulse—she was alive, barely. He took her head in his hands and looked at her—perhaps it was because he saw Marjorie's features in every woman's face, but there was something about this woman that reminded him so much of his little girl.
The woman moaned and coughed, "Lore…"she whispered, "Lore…"
"I'm going to take care of you," he said, taking off his suit coat and over her. He gently lifted her in his arms, smoothing the reddish brown hair out of her face and carried her to his car where he called 911.
A few miles down the road, one of the search and rescue men approached the daughter on the shore. She was wrapped in blankets, and was shaking from the cold and fear. The man told her that they had found the car washed up on the shore, and there was blood smeared on the top. Her mother was dead—they had not found the body, but there was no chance she could have survived.
The daughter started to scream—she couldn't stop screaming for two hours after that.