Alicia drives her car aimlessly, talking to herself about what the house means to her, but the problem is that it's two houses: The house where Grace and Zach were born, the house where she became a Good Wife, the house where she knew the greatest love and purpose imaginable, the house where her dreams were fulfilled... And the house where her life was systematically destroyed, where fifteen years of joy were tossed on the fire, and they took away one by one all the things that made up Alicia Florrick, until there was nothing left but silence and pain and keeping her family together, at any cost to her own spirit. What does the house mean to her? Everything, and nothing. Happiness, and sorrow. Light and dark.
It's still about Alicia, but it's an entirely separate narrative thread, because this isn't about finding her voice but about finding her breath: Marina is like a priest here, asking Alicia to put the broken halves of her life together in a new formation, to rise above light and darkness into something that transcends both. Most of the big things in our lives, of course, are about this, and it's the people who force us into these choices that hurt us and help us the most, but in this case it's marvelous how the two stories reflect on each other: The IPRA is about speaking truth to power, but this letter is about speaking truth to herself.
Alicia's got this thing where she can do hyperverbal legal stuff all day -- those aren't real words, not like these words, just codes and statutes and precedent -- and she's usually fearless when it comes down to feeling what she's feeling, as long as nobody finds out. But what Marina is doing -- what only Owen, it's worth noting, has ever forced her do; the only thing that will ever heal the wound with Kalinda -- is help her putting those two things together. She doesn't have enough money for the house, so now the price is much higher: Put into words the history and meaning of a painful and wonderful life.
And having come to an understanding of what she's meant to do, it's not very surprising -- for her or for us -- that her car, almost of its own accord, has driven her to the Addison Station of the elevated train. I've filled an entire internet up, writing about grace, about the coincidental rewards of introspective bravery, but when it happens in real life, this is what it looks like. Searching to give voice to a discordant harmony within herself proves out, so the world delivers her the scene of the crime: All these voices are hers. The rest is silence.