Word Count: 66,103
Summary of Events:
Sheldon and Emil cleaned all the engine parts that could hold liquid and tested them for leaks, deliberately soaking themselves and each other in the process to beat the heat. Later on they went through another photo album, one which contained photos from Emil's wife's funeral, and didn't prompt quite as strong a reaction as the photos of his brother's funeral, which puzzled Sheldon; Emil explained how his brother had been killed, and told Sheldon a little bit more about his brother's family . . .
Excerpt of the Day:
""Your brother had kids?" Sheldon asked.
"Five," Emil replied.
"Oh wow," Sheldon said.
"Joseph was twenty two," Emil said quietly. "He was almost a grandpa when he got killed."
"Oh," Sheldon said. "At least he saw one of his kids get married?"
"But not the rest of them," Emil replied, tears blurring his vision.
"No," Sheldon agreed.
"Theresa was ten," Emil whispered.
Sheldon nodded.
The tears that had flooded along the edge of Emil's eyelids breached the precipice and slid through his lashes down his cheeks. Shaky breaths shook him.
"I'm sorry Grandpa," Sheldon said quietly.
Emil put his face in his hands. Still, deep within, that painful ache clawed at him, that pit of loneliness and despair threatened to leap up and swallow him. Surely if he could have at least said goodbye he wouldn't suffer like this.
Just a goodbye, an actual goodbye, like he'd done with Roseanne, where she'd smiled and held his hand before her lids had fallen closed and he'd watched the silent rise and fall of her chest until it'd stopped, the smile remaining etched on her face even as her soul departed the earth.
The shock. He still remembered feeling numb, like he'd died inside but his body had kept on living, Helen's voice ringing hollow, ricocheting off of the empty walls his inside had become when those three words had been uttered.
He'd felt like a shell, and at times like these the feeling came back to him; he felt like a hollow chocolate, except worse, because the chocolate had sat for years and years and was now stale and disgusting.
If not for Roseanne he would still feel like that all the time. She'd resuscitated his insides and kept him alive, and given him the tools he needed to keep on living without her, but still, on occasion, he'd relapse.
"Do you want to talk about something else?" Sheldon asked, sounding almost distressed.
Emil took several deep breaths before dabbing at his eyes with the cuffs of his shirt, he shook his head, not trusting his voice to even utter such a short word as 'no.'
He took several more deep breaths before finally he gave up. His voice was just going to crack whether he liked it or not.
"I don't know why it provokes this response to think about him," Emil whispered, looking Sheldon in the eye. "I know where he is, but still I can't have peace."
"Do you think something would help?" Sheldon asked.
"That's what I'm trying," Emil replied.
"By doing what?" Sheldon asked.
"Fixing the car," Emil replied.
"Haven't you fixed other cars though?" Sheldon asked.
"Yes," Emil replied.
"So then it hasn't worked," Sheldon said.
"Sheldon," Emil said, looking him in the eye. "I didn't expect those cars to give me peace."
"Why not?" Sheldon asked.
"Because they're somebody else's car," Emil replied. "The Pontiac was Charlie's car."
"Uncle Charlie's?" Sheldon asked hesitantly.
"No," Emil replied, somewhat harsher than he meant to. "My brother Charlie.""
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