chapter eight / season four.

MARTHA LEVINE, loving, mother and wife. That was what the officiant was going to say at her funeral, it was the phrase that was going to be inscribed onto her tombstone and it would be the phrase printed out onto the front page of the order of service booklet placed on all the pews in the church.

Martha Levine, loving mother. She'd wished all her life for a child of her own to love. Martha had been an only child, all her parent's love and devotion poured out onto her and she never took a second of it for granted. The childhood she'd had herself was filled with joy, attention and comfort. Some of Martha's fondest memories came from her childhood. The happiness and security her parents had granted her allowed for her to believe she could provide the same thing to her own child one day.

She'd been desperate for a child of her own. She didn't care whether it was a boy or a girl, Martha just wanted a baby. She wanted to hold her own bundle of joy, coo at them, whisper sweet nothings as she rocked the baby back to sleep. Martha wanted to watch her own child grow happy and healthily, with fond memories to look back onto their childhood. In a happy home. A bright home; where you could always find love.

That's what Martha had wanted. What she'd gotten was completely different now, wasn't it?

Being a mother was something she'd desired... all her life. Martha thought she could be good at it, her own mother had been so good at it, so why couldn't she?

Why had it been so difficult? To be a mother... it was all she had asked. Martha hadn't asked for infertility issues, and all this false hope with false positive tests. She'd just wanted a baby. She wanted someone to love. Not in the same way that you love your husband, or love your friends. Someone who was part of you, who would make mistakes but you loved them anyway, a miniature version of yourself which you spent hours trying to find any minor resemblance between the two of you.

When it had finally happened and Martha was granted a daughter, by almost what seemed like a miracle, she found no resemblance between herself and Amelia. She'd spent hours with Amelia nestled in the crook of her arm, Martha's finger trailing down the bridge of the small baby's nose, trying to find anything that made her heart jump out and find any resemblance. Yet, there was none.

And the houses Amelia had grown up had never been filled with laughter, or joy, or any sense of security. And, by God, all those houses had lacked any real sense of love. Hadn't they? They were cold, empty of everything a child needed— no; these houses were void everything a child deserved.

Martha had never known where she'd gone wrong, but she knew she had. She knew there was always something wrong with the Levines and the façade of the family they played. It was like there was something always missing between the three of them.

Martha didn't want to admit what it was.

Maybe, Martha Josie Levine wasn't mean to be a mother. Maybe, Amelia Daisy Levine wasn't meant to be her daughter.

Martha Levine, loving mother. Far from the truth. Far from reality. But, those who came to her funeral would never know. They'd never know how distant Martha had always been to her daughter, they'd never know how Martha had failed to love the one person she swore she'd love more than anything else in this world.

Martha Levine, loving mother. A woman not deserving of such a title.

Martha Levine, a loving wife. The woman who had managed to 'tame' Thomas Levine and tempt him into the quiet life, a family life— a life so far from the one he'd been living before he'd met Martha when she'd been on a trip to New York. It hadn't taken her long to fall in love with him, and maybe she should've realized that was a point of concern before it was too late. Martha had never felt such love for someone like she had for Thomas, not as quick either. She'd fallen so hard. And so quickly, that she hadn't even realized she'd fallen too hard.

It was only when they started to get... into trouble... did Martha realize the man she loved was not all that he seemed. Regrettably, that had excited her. She'd lived the quiet life in Virginia, sheltered by her parents for most of it and worked as a teacher. Thomas was that thrill she'd never thought of before. The one thing she'd thought she'd been missing all these years.

Upon asking her now, chasing that thrill would be the biggest regret of her life.

Thomas fed her desires for a child. He'd echoed the same. Martha had always viewed him as needing to have a child to have someone to control, not to love, but to mold into another version of himself. A literal mini-Thomas.

Martha didn't ask any questions. Thomas had never liked when she spoke too much, or posed any threat to the control he had over her. It was why she'd moved to New York without so much as a question just because he'd asked. He wanted her to live with him, how could she say no?

That would make him angry. Martha had learnt very quickly that it is easier to give into what an angry man wants than fight against him.

Martha had stopped fighting a long time ago. Thomas did what he wanted without so much as a second thought for the consequences of his actions. He kept taking, and taking from people and he didn't care what that did to them, because he saw it as they deserved it. 'Bad people get what's coming to them.' He'd said once.

Martha had stared at herself in the mirror that day and realized they were bad people too.

That was the same day she'd realized she didn't love him anymore. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she tried to love Thomas, and love the thrill he brought into her life, she couldn't anymore. That was years ago. Martha had realized that just months before they had Amelia, and yet she'd done nothing about it.

She stayed. Martha stayed when she shouldn't have, but she knew there would be no escaping Thomas Levine.

Martha didn't love Thomas. And Thomas hadn't loved their daughter.

Maybe it was karma.

Martha Levine, loving wife. Love wasn't something she'd shared with Thomas in years, neither was it something she'd received. If anything, Martha felt like she was apart of a marriage that existed purely in fear of what the other could say if they dared to run. But, those who attended her funeral would never know what goes on behind closed doors. They'll see a grieving husband and assume that their love was real, that it was burning love with an undying flame. It was just a secret of that flame had dwindled down into nothing many years ago.

Martha Levine, loving wife. Perhaps the least loved woman on the planet.

(Was it a competition? I'd like to enter Amelia Levine into that competition instead.)

Martha Levine, dedicated teacher and dedicated friend, the officiant might also say at her funeral. The officiant would definitely spend less time on this portion of her life. Martha knew that. Her funeral wasn't going to be planned by herself in advance, or planned by Amelia. It was going to be planned by Thomas. He would hand select the officiant, and pinpoint which were truly the important aspects of Martha's life.

Family. Being a wife, being a mother. In Thomas' eyes that bested anything as insufficient as her career and friends.

Thomas wouldn't expect any friends to even turn up.

Martha hoped they would. Surely some co-workers would turn up and pay their respects, maybe even some old friends from old states they used to live in would hear the news. Maybe they'd send a bunch of flowers.

Martha wouldn't know. She wouldn't be around to see her funeral.

She hoped a few friends would turn up. There would be some she'd be devastated to find out they hadn't turned up like; Joanne McKellan from down the road, who had welcomed Martha with open arms into Washington, offered her a spot on the book club every Friday at seven and offered Saturday morning tea talks. Martha hoped Joanne would be there. She hoped Katrina Adler would be there too. She'd been a good friend when they'd lived in New York. They'd lost contact when the Levines had abruptly left the state, but Martha would never forget those years of friendship. She hoped the principal of the elementary school she'd worked at for a short period of time before the cancer had returned would attend. They'd always gotten along. They'd have laughs in the staff room and frequent gossips in the far right corner where no-one else could hear.

Her career had been important to her. So much more important than Thomas had ever realized. Being a teacher— shaping young minds and influencing their lives in the way she did... Martha loved it. She loved every Christmas card the kids made for her, every laugh she managed to get out of them with a joke that wasn't really funny, or the gifts at the end of the year that clearly the kids had thought long hard over the 'Best teacher ever' mug, or the 'Thank you' mousepad.

She'd kept them all. Martha kept them all in boxes in the attic. Thomas would say they were rubbish, extra clutter she didn't need to keep. But, every present to her, every card, every drawing felt like she was doing something right for once.

Her daughter... she couldn't love.

Her husband... she couldn't stand.

But, her job... the one thing she could do right, yeah, Martha loved her job. Sometimes she'd cared for the kids she taught more than her own actual kid.

Martha Levine, dedicated teacher and dedicated friend. If the officiant was to reference this aspect of her life it would actually be truth. Of all the things said at her funeral, being a dedicated teacher and dedicated friend... it would be the only truth.

Martha Levine, dedicated teacher and dedicated friend. The only truth you'd ever hear about her.

Martha had spent a long time thinking about her funeral, she supposed she'd been dying for a long time. When was the last time she'd really been living? Sure, her chest had been rising and falling at a steady rate, and the blood was being pumped around her body and getting to where it needed to be. But, when was the last time Martha had lived?

She didn't know.

Maybe, she didn't want to know anymore as she stood in front of a mirror and pulled the thick fabric of her turtleneck away from her skin and sighed. Maybe, Martha was coming to accept that she was going to die and there was no point dwelling on when the last time she'd felt alive.

After tonight she'd never breathe again.

What was the point in worrying?

Her trembling fingers ran delicately along a vicious, angry, purple bruise that she adorned on her usually flawless skin. She deserved it, she supposed. Martha had deserved those strong hands wrapping around her windpipe and threatening to end her life there and then (yesterday morning) for even daring to threaten Thomas Levine with something so... treacherous.

Martha's hand slid up her neck and along one of her hollowed cheeks, she'd certainly lost weight in recent weeks and she felt like a skeleton of the person she once was. Or, the skeleton of the person she pretended to be.

Her hand followed the path along her face and tangled itself in her thin, light brown locks. The weight on her head used to be so much thicker. Her hair had always been thick, luscious and frankly... beautiful. Now, as Martha pulled her hand away from her head she had to use her other hand to pull the stray hair off.

She can hear her daughter and husband arguing downstairs as she washes the stray strands of hair down the sink. She doesn't pay much attention, because what difference was this to any other of Amelia's home visits?

Martha stared at herself in the mirror. She hoped they dressed her in something nice for her funeral.

She was dying.

Cancer was a bitch. It ruined lives and kept taking from people across the world. There was no cure. There was all different sorts of therapy, or surgery or maybe even a transplant of some sort but that was temporary. It could come back. It could feast on your livelihood again and again until you finally died one day. Cancer clung onto you with all its parasites and never really leaves you.

It always there.

Martha had been diagnosed with cancer twice in her life. The first time her daughter had sat there with a strong grip on her mother's hand, almost as if to say she was a lifeline, a beacon of strength. Martha had felt the strength from her girl that day. The second time... she'd never quite felt loneliness like it. Her husband was no beacon of strength or support. His hand was cold, and only wrapped loosely around his wife's.

Thomas was not the same comfort that Amelia was.

No doubt her battles with cancer would be mention in her the officiant's eulogy read on behalf of her family. How she stayed strong through not one but two battles against the vicious beast, but sadly could not beat it a second time around.

It was funny, really, because it wouldn't be the cancer that killed her.

Oh, no.

The disease that had made her life a living hell wouldn't be the thing to kill her. The 'C-word' which practically took on the form of the Grim Reaper would not be Martha Levine's killer.

She'd known that all along.

Cancer would never kill her.

He would.

She should've ran a long time ago. She knew that.

But, Martha had never left.

Martha couldn't imagine the life she might've had if she'd ever left, because then she would hate herself more than she already did. And she wasn't all too sure she could hate herself anymore than she already did.

She shakes her head, still staring at herself in the mirror. There was no point in dwelling. It was already in motion.

What's done is done.

Martha tore her eyes away from the mirror and managed to force her legs to move and exit out the bathroom, moving themselves into Amelia's room and sitting at the edge of her bed.

The room was so ugly. Not just the ugly yellow that the walls were, or the stupid tassel pillows that Martha had seen more mascara stains on from daughter's crying than she would ever admit out loud, or the horse poster on the wall even when Amelia had never given a damn about horses. It was horrible. Everything about it.

Martha picked up one of the pillows and clutched it, tightly, against her chest as she stared out the window directly opposite Amelia's bed. It must've been nearing on midnight with how dark the sky was, with a small number of stars now decorating that darkness and the moon hanging low, practically lighting the streets up without any need for streetlights.

Martha felt like whimpering and clutching at her chest like a wounded dog. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream about the pain she was going to endure tonight. (It would probably be painless and over within a second, but the fear beforehand was always so scary.) (It was not the first time Martha had nearly died.) She wanted someone to know, other than Amelia, that she was going to die.

She wanted someone to know that it wasn't going to be from cancer.

Martha wondered how many times Amelia had sat perched on the edge of her bed and whimpered, clutching at her chest like a wounded dog.

She imagined a lot.

Amelia had every reason to.

Did Martha? Or, was she finally just getting what she deserved?

Sitting and staring at the night sky, Martha can't help but hope she'll make a nice, bright star in the sky, that maybe one night Amelia will stand at her window and point out the brightest star and think that it was her mother. Martha hoped so. But, she doubted she was worthy of being a bright star in the night sky.

If Martha believed in heaven and hell she knew where she'd be going.

She hears the rapid footsteps up the stairs. And she knows it's Amelia. She always ran up the stairs after a bad fight with Thomas, she always ran with such furry that Martha wondered how she didn't trip and hurt herself.

No parent liked to see their child hurt. No matter how old they got.

Martha didn't know if Thomas thought the same, but there had always been something wretched about him.

Amelia's steps paused, and stood in the doorway to her room as if her feet had suddenly been glued there or they just didn't know how to move anymore. Her eyes trained on her mother. "You can't— you can't be..." The word wouldn't come out of her mouth, because it simply couldn't be true. How could her mom be dying? "Tell me he's lying."

He is.

But, Martha can't tell her that. He'll kill Martha, and then he'll kill Amelia too.

Martha slowly shook her head, as if the weight of dying made it harder for her to move.

Amelia didn't understand. It didn't seem real. She thought parents were invincible. How could her mom... how could she be dying? Parents aren't supposed to die, are they? Why can parents die?

Why does anyone die?

How could Amelia have been stood in a hospital room less than 3 hours ago celebrating a new life, when another was losing their's so slowly in another state.

(It wasn't slow. Martha knew it would be over by the end of the night.)

"'S not true." Amelia protested. She wanted so badly to rip at the strands of hair on her scalp and scream. Scream so loudly that the whole neighborhood heard. She wouldn't care. It might make her feel better. It make might her understand because no explanation from anyone could piece this together.

It is. Martha thought. It was so very true. And it was all so real. This was real life. Where death loomed in the Levine's house, just waiting for the right moment to strike so that he could blame the cancer.

Martha had nearly died before. In this exact house. She'd gotten so close she could practically smell death. She felt the tingles up her arms and thought this was it. Her misery coming to an end. Her lies. Her deceit. All of it. It had nearly ended one fateful night in Washington nearly ten years ago now.

Death had been waiting ever since.

Now it was time.

Martha should be ready. But, she is not. When you've been waiting for your death all of ten years you should be ready, shouldn't you? You know it is coming, you know there is an end waiting for you.

Yet, Martha is not ready.

Maybe, because she knows she still has secrets to tell.

At her mother's silence, Amelia shakes her head. "No— it's not true. Tell me it's not true." Amelia nearly begged. She nearly begged her mother to tell her she wasn't dying. That this wasn't it.

That the end of Martha Levine was not just a cold, weekday night in Washington.

Amelia had told people in confidence that her mother could beat cancer. 'She's done it once before, I don't doubt she can't do it again." Was what Amelia had said. And Amelia had been wrong.

Nobody liked being wrong. Nobody enjoyed being wrong.

But, being wrong about this felt like the worst possible thing to be wrong about.

"Tell me you're not dying, mom." Amelia begged.

Then came a sniffle, and all resolve that Amelia had been holding during the argument with her father seemed to come crumbling down. And quickly at that. "Mom— please. I don't— I don't understand. You were fine— and now you're not? I don't— please, mom."

'You were fine— and now you're not?' If Martha was feeling like it she might've remarked that's how the world was. One moment things are going great, the next they're all going wrong.

There was no balance.

And it wasn't fair.

But, Martha deserved it.

She'd been lucky to make it this long.

Martha patted the space beside her on the bed, she hadn't looked at her daughter once she'd stormed up the stairs. "Sit." She said, calmly and plainly. Almost like she wasn't dying.

Yet, she was. And maybe Martha didn't want to think about it for a split second.

Amelia's eyes narrowed, "Sit?! That's all you've got to say to me— is sit? You won't tell me whether you're dying but you want me to sit—"

Amelia's bottom lip was trembling.

Martha didn't have to glance over her shoulder to know. She might not have been the greatest mother of all time, but she knew when her kid was going to start crying. Amelia had cried so much it was hard not to know the signs.

"We should be doing something!" Amelia's voice rose. In that moment she didn't care that her mom was dying and that she'd never dared to raise her voice at her own parents. She just wanted some sense of the situation. Because, none of it made sense. (Maybe, a parent dying wasn't supposed to.) "Why are you just sitting there—? We need to call the doctor and get him over here and get you the Goddamn help—!"

"There's nothing you can do." Martha said.

Amelia had never been spoken to with a motherly tone, all throughout her life. (Which is why she was so angry at all the kids taught by her mother, because they got to experience the side of Martha Amelia never saw.) Even now. As her mother sat dying, Martha could not speak to her with the love a mother should.

"Nothing you can do?" Amelia echoed, her voice cracking as she asked the question, "That's bullshit and you know it. I know it too, mom. So just, please—"

"Amelia." Martha warned, her eyes not daring to tear away from the night sky out the window, "There is nothing you can do." She repeated.

"There is always something you can do." She hissed in response.

Martha might've smiled at the backbone her daughter had grew if she wasn't dying.

"Not when you have cancer, Amelia."

Amelia stood silently, her chest rising and falling at a rate she didn't even know was possible. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her side. Her mother had a point. And that annoyed Amelia. It annoyed her to no end that cancer could just kill you. That it got to the point when your body was riddled with cancerous cells and there was no coming back from that.

Amelia thought her mother could've come back from it.

(She could've. If she wasn't going to be killed first.)

"You were fine, mom." Amelia sniffled, her eyes welling with tears. "The doctor said everything was working. Everything. The chemo was going as well as it could—"

"It stopped working."

"And now you're dying?!"

"Yes."

Amelia wanted to scoff, she wanted to shout 'liar!' over and over again because this didn't seem real.

But, maybe this was just how death made you feel, especially when you'd spent all this time convincing yourself this wasn't going to happen. When you'd manipulated yourself into believing everything was going to be 'okay', that was she going to survive.

She had to survive because she was 'mom'.

Amelia had never imagined that her mom wouldn't survive.

That seemed completely ridiculous.

And now it was happening right before her eyes.

"Y'know, you used to be obsessed with stars." Martha stated. "Like how you used to love butterflies. You were obsessed with them. You could've spent all night just staring out your window, counting them, making shapes out of them and trying to name them correctly."

Amelia scoffed, biting her teeth into her lip as she willed herself not to cry.

"You'd sit in the back of the car, on the way to school, telling me all about the stars you'd seen last night. And when you'd claim you saw 'Sirius', the brightest one, you'd get all excited. This massive smile on your face— practically bursting with joy in the backseats."

Martha's lips twitched, forcing back a smile at the memory, "It didn't matter how many hours sleep you'd lost trying to spot it, you were as happy as a kid with a full nights sleep."

She finally looked away from the window, patting the spot next to her on the bed, "Please, 'Melia, sit."

Amelia wanted to scream. At God. At the neighbors. At her dad. At everyone and anyone who passed by.

But, she couldn't. Screaming would be rude. Even if her mom was dying it still wasn't acceptable to scream.

"You're such a good kid, y'know that?" Martha said, as Amelia finally moved from her glued spot in the doorway and sat next to her mother on the edge of the bed. "You're not a kid anymore, you're a grown woman— but you're such a good kid."

My good girl. That wouldn't be correct to say.

"I wouldn't want any other kid."

Amelia teeth dug harder in her lip as her head turned away from her mother.

"You're the most perfect girl a mother could ever ask for." Martha's hand reach out, gently reaching and gripping onto Amelia's chin to force her to look at her mother. "I was so proud to be your mother."

Was. We were talking about Martha as if she was already dead.

Amelia could barely see her mother behind the unshed tears in her eyes.

And that annoyed her to no end. She wanted to see her mother if this was going to be the last time seeing her.

Who knows how quickly Amelia would forget her face?

"Please— mom, stop—" Amelia pleaded, the words so hard to get out and so quiet.

Martha's hand moved from gripping Amelia's chin, and before the girl could process it; her face was being cradled in Martha's hands. "My girl." She whispered affectionately, "My beautiful girl. Have I ever told you I'm proud of you?"

No. No, you haven't.

If her mother wasn't dying Amelia might've had that soul crushing revelation that neither her mother or father had ever said such words to her. An encouragement she'd needed all her life to know she was doing something right.

"'Cause I am." Martha whispered, smiling softly as tears began to well in her own eyes, "Of everything you've done; from the rocks you used to paint in the backyard, to joining the FBI. My smart girl. I'm so proud of you."

She wasn't just proud. She was so proud. Amelia did wonder why her mother had to wait till she was dying to tell her so.

Wouldn't it have been more useful twenty years ago?

"You've done so well. No matter— no matter who's tried to knock you down." Thomas Levine. James Conrad. "You always get back up. You're so strong. So much stronger than I ever was."

Was.

She was already dead.

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, a quiet sob escaping her lips as she pressed the back of her hand against them. The tears now free to roll down her cheeks.

"I know, I know, honey." Martha cooed at Amelia as if she were a child. Amelia couldn't tell you how comforting that was as Martha tugged her closer, pressing the girl's head against her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around her daughter. A tentative kiss pressed to Amelia's temple.

Amelia had felt more comfort in the last five seconds than she had all her life.

"'S gonna be okay," Martha sounded like she was promising such, but it was easy for her to say when she was going to be dead. "I know it is. You're so strong. I know you'll be okay."

Another gentle kiss pressed against the skin of her temple, "My strong, smart, sweet girl."

"You're gonna be okay." She whispered, clutching Amelia tighter against her chest, reveling in the warmth of her daughter against her skin.

Martha realized she should've hugged Amelia more. Should've kissed her gently more. Should've held her more.

All those missed chances.

And now Martha would never get them again.

"I love you so much."

Amelia sobbed harder into the material of her mother's turtleneck. She's too upset to even ask her mom why she was wearing one when she swore they were the worst article of clothing in the world.

"So much." Martha repeated, her lips pressing against Amelia's skin as she spoke, "I love you so much. And I should've told you more. 'Cause I love you. I love you so much, 'Melia."

Amelia wanted to beg her to stop. Her words were making this so much worse. But, Amelia couldn't form a single word. She just kept her eyes squeezed closed as she latched onto her mom.

"No matter what happens, no matter what—" Martha sniffled herself, closing her eyes, "No matter what comes to light, I love you so much."

"I always loved you."

Amelia didn't have the courage to say it back. (She didn't think she'd ever told anyone she loved them.)

"No matter what." Martha repeated with a quiet whisper, holding her sobbing daughter so tightly it nearly hurt. But, perhaps the pain of losing her mom was so much stronger that Amelia didn't even realize how tightly she was being held.

And Amelia never thought to question what could come to light.

Her mother pressed more kisses against her temple, and against her forehead.

Amelia couldn't stop crying.

And Martha didn't move from this spot for a long time, not until Amelia's sobs died down into hiccups and that soon turned into the girl having cried herself to sleep. She then very gently settled the girl on her bed, peeling off her heeled boots and leaving them at her bedside with a throw tucked around Amelia.

Then Martha was walking out the bedroom, with the door closing behind her as she walked slowly down the corridor to her own bedroom.

Martha Levine, loving mother and wife. Martha Levine dedicated teacher and friend. The officiant would never tell how she walked straight into her bedroom, and straight to her death.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
every time i wrote clutching in this chapter it genuinely kept correcting to clit itch im so sick of my keyboard

ANYWAY! rip 😝😝 uh! did we have fun? i had fun listening to half return over and over again with this chapter and thinking wow! i need help! i don't regret anything i did here today 🫡🫡

just a still of ladybird to reiterate my point from the last author's note xo

hope you enjoyed xxxxx AND MERRY CHRISTMAS for yesterday for those who celebrate!! i am absolutely riddled with cold and so tired but i hope we all had a good day 💞💓