Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, Bombay Sapphire, New Jersey, 'Amazing Grace' or anything else.

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It was a small area in the park, near a wall so heavily covered with vines it hardly appeared a wall at all. There were bamboo trees nearby, a weeping willow and a few tiny passion flowers blooming in sheer defiance of the cold. Folding chairs had been arranged, a headstone erected for Grace Stroud, beloved daughter, mother. The grave was already filled.

Nana sat in a chair in the front row, her back straight, legs crossed at the ankle. She wore black and a hat with a veil, in solemn, untouchable mourning.

Roger stood awkwardly before a tall, green-eyed man who otherwise did not resemble him. He had never been certain what to say to his father since the day Roger and Grace moved back into the house, and Andrew wasn't there. At last he settled on, "Dad," and a solemn handshake.

"I'm… uh… sorry about this," Andrew said. He continued the handshake slightly too long and ended it too swiftly. "Your mother… she was doing well," he said. "For a long time. Real well."

"Oh." Was he supposed to agree to that? How well could she have been doing? Roger knew, now, that he should have heard the weariness in her voice, the fragility: Roger. This is your mother… Roger, where are you?

He should have been there. The ache was back, a punch to the gut. He had always been there. "Mommy?" Roger is eleven years old. He hasn't been long back in the room with the bunkbeds and the picture of a sailboat. "How many pills do you need?"

She stands at the bathroom sink, the most beautiful woman he will ever say, blond curls just like his and he wishes his could be long like his mother's, which she will sometimes let him touch now that he's getting to be a young man, not a boy anymore. "Just two, sweetheart."

"You took three," he says.

"Did? Whoops. Must have forgotten. Well, that's all right. You'll remember for me, won't you, honey?"

He nods solemnly. He will remember.

Roger had made a promise. She drew it out of him during their first week back in the house. She wanted him excited to be coming home, and bought him new pajamas, a pair from the department store. They were the first fitting clothes he had worn in years, and the idea of wearing the sky on flannel jammies thrilled him to no end.

"Mom, Mommy, are you awake?"

She sits in her bed, a book closed on her lap, long white fingers folded neatly. She stares straight ahead with an open smile, watching something he can not see and unable to see him at all. "Mommy!" he insists, grabbing her hand.

"What?" She looks around, startled, and laughs when her eyes light on him. "Oh, Roger. It's you."

Roger is not amused. He doesn't like it here anymore. It's too big and Ralph, his teddy, is afraid of falling down the stairs. And they shouldn't live here without Daddy. He tells her all of this and, in childish oblivion, does not see the look of pain on her face.

"It's not too big in here," she says, and lifts him into her bed. He snuggles against her. It's definitely not. "Roger, honey, you can't always do this," she says, tugging gently at his hair. "This is just for tonight, okay? Then you need to sleep in your own bed like a big boy."

"Don't wanna be a big boy," he complains. "I don't like it here. There's monsters in the closet and on the top bunk and under the bottom bunk and there's bad stuff under the sink. Ralph isn't happy. He's scared all the time. Why can't we live with Nana?" Roger doesn't behave like a ten-year-old, not when he's frightened, and he doesn't care. Grace is worried, but then she supposes her worry is natural. What mother doesn't worry?

"Because…" Grace hugs her son. "Because we live here."

Roger knows that. "But why?" he whines. "I liked Nana's place."

"We can still visit Nana," Grace promises, "but you have to behave."

Roger protests, "I am behaving. Behaving just means acting. I'm acting."

"You, Roger Michael Davis, are acting like a baby," Grace retorts. Her son is suddenly aware of the thumb in his mouth, which he gives a stubborn suck. "Now listen to me. We can visit Nana, but we live here now, just like we used to--except without Daddy," she adds quickly. "And because Daddy isn't here, you're the only man in the house. So you need to be a big boy for me and not a baby, okay?"

Roger still wants to be a baby.

"This is a big responsibility, Roger, but I think you can handle it. This is a big, special task, a quest." She knows her son is reading The Lord of the Rings and, because he struggles with it, believes it to be the greatest work of literature in the history of writing. "It means always being there for your mother and behaving like an adult whenever you can. Will you do that, Roger? Will you promise to always be there?"

"I promise."

"Good boy." She cuddles him a little. "Now, come on, we could both do with cheering up. Why don't you sing us something, Roger?"

"No," he says, shaking his head and laughing. He's being a lovable rogue now, and knows it. "I don't want to," he giggles.

"Yes, you do. You always do. Come on, Roger, you know you love showing off your pretty little voice," she teases. "You'll always sing for me."

And, as always, she was right.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

He had not sung a hymn in a long time. His mother only took him to church sporadically, usually at strange hours, and then she sat him in the pews and went to confession. The song was one Roger knew simply for its tune, and he almost enjoyed singing. The long, low vowels filled his lungs, raising his chest.

For the first time since learning about his mother's suicide, Roger did not feel totally miserable. He did not feel helpless or responsible. He felt a surge of power.

He ended the song with "I shall possess, within the veil/A life of joy and peace." He wanted to leave her something, but the coffin was buried already, deep in the ground, and Roger had nothing to leave. He had only his voice, which could not be given but only shared a little, for a time. His lungs and throat ached beautifully.

"'Night, Mom," he whispered, then turned and carried himself to the back row, where he sat between Collins and Mark.

Roger did not realize he was crying until Collins wrapped him in half a hug and Mark took his hand.

Concluding remarks were given over the lonely grave. The boys left before anyone could try to console Roger. They walked to the car Joanne had been nervous to lend and drove back towards the loft, back home.

"Thank you," Roger choked. His throat was shredded.

Collins and Mark exchanged a glance, and Collins shrugged.

"Well, that explained more than it didn't."

THE END!