March 9th, 2009
He groans and pulls the sheet over his head when he hears the piercing call of his wife echo through their far too thin-walled apartment. With reluctance, he re-lifts a corner and sneaks a peek at his bedside table. To his nearly blind eyes, the alarm clock looks like a post-impressionistic red blur, but a lethargic squint allows him to make out a time of 8:02 AM.
A whine slips from his lips as he re-nestles himself underneath the covers. Last night, a substantial—though hardly unusual—marital fight had led to a late night on the town and a near 3:00 AM return home. So, right now, he is desperate for even five more minutes of rest, and he is unwilling to heed his wife's demands just yet.
When no further sounds seep through the French doors of the master bedroom, he's hopeful his lack of response has, at least temporarily, subdued his wife's urgency. A moment later, though, he hears the clack of her stilettos marching across the hardwood floors, and he suddenly finds himself whipping onto his side and shielding his eyes with his right forearm. Somehow, his wife has managed to simultaneously release the blinds and rip the sheet from over his head. After three years, he's still stunned by her seemingly otherworldly abilities.
Hardly a second has passed before he hears her footfall returning to the living area as she dictatorially calls back over her shoulder, "Will, let's go. We need to be out of here in thirty minutes." Her aggravation is unmistakable even though her initially crisp command quiets as she retreats from the room.
Soon after, Will has retrieved his glasses, tossed on his robe and slippers, and shuffled into the neighboring kitchen. Hair still mussed, he makes his way to his wife. She is bent over the stove, preparing an excessive portion of buckwheat pancakes and turkey bacon—more than likely in an attempt to calm her nerves.
"Kate, honey, you're over-reacting," Will groans as he reaches to grab one of the sizzling bacon strips from the stovetop. Failing to elicit any sort of response, Will tries to reassure his wife by placing a delicate hand on her shoulder, but she immediately shrugs it off and pivots toward the center island to distribute the freshly finished breakfast between the dishware she had laid out earlier.
"I am not over-reacting Will," she asserts unsteadily as she wipes a stray tear with her sleeve and continues to serve the food. "She's sick…and I'm scared…and somehow you just don't seem to care…and-"
Will steps toward Kate and interrupts, his hands rising to cradle her frighteningly pale cheeks. "I care, Kate. I care about your daughter so much."
"But that's just it, Will," Kate exclaims as she exasperatedly removes each of her husband's hands and walks to angrily drop the empty skillet into the kitchen sink. The clatter is deafening.
"After three years, you still see her as my daughter. That kid loves you so much, and yet…"
Her thoughts briefly stall as she strives to catch her shaky breath. Diverting her eyes downward, she takes a few more unsettled steps away from her husband and leans over the granite countertop, the tips of her fingers clutching harshly its edge. Then she finishes, "…and yet, you still don't see her as your own."
Hearing no immediate defense from her husband, Kate angles her head upward to re-meet his gaze. In doing so, she finds him slack-jawed. When his shock fades, Will begins to respond, but Kate is quick to stop him with a shake of her head and a palm in the air.
"I can't have this argument right now, Will."
They briefly share a blank stare until Kate abandons it to roll up her sleeves and wash her hands. She dries them on a clean dishtowel before tossing the towel onto the counter, releasing her brunette curls from their constricting ponytail holder, and turning to make her way toward her daughter's bedroom.
"I need to go get our daughter ready so we can take her to the hospital and figure out what's wrong with her." She takes a couple of steps before swiveling back to face her husband. "There's leftover coffee if you want it. It should still be warm." And with one last distraught look, Kate walks away for good.
As she trudges up the steep staircase of the apartment, Kate can't help but wonder if her relationship with Will would survive this. Maddy used to say their love was hypnotic and contagious. But, Maddy was always melodramatic, and Kate had been blinded by love—or, reflecting back, maybe contentment? Security? Now, she's caught contemplating whether Lanie was right to have advised against accepting Will's proposal eighteen months ago.
Standing at the threshold of her daughter's bedroom, she glances down at her wedding band with remorse. She'd always thought she was a one-and-done kind of girl. But, she has yet to celebrate her first wedding anniversary, and her marriage is already crumbling—void of passion and intimacy. With a pained sigh, she lifts her head.
A mild smile tugs at her lips when she's confronted with the handcrafted "welcome" sign messily taped to her daughter's door—the spirited assortment of pipe cleaners and felt letters reminding her she can't worry about the future of her marriage today. Today is about her daughter—about making sure her little girl lives to see her 9th birthday. So, without a second thought, Kate twists the brass doorknob by her waist, softly pushes forward, and pokes her head into the gap between the door's edge and the left-hand side of the frame. She's very thankful to see that her daughter had not been startled awake by her and her husband's heated argument.
Relishing in that relief, Kate quietly approaches her daughter's bedside and crouches down. She's quite slow to wake her, knowing the upcoming day's events would more than likely shatter her child's joyfully naïve vision of the world.
But, she knows she has to. So, with more than a little regret, she brushes aside her daughter's auburn hair and rubs her back soothingly. "Hey, baby girl. It's time to wake up." And she finds herself struggling to hold back tears when she is met with her daughter's captivating blue eyes, beaming smile, and the most angelic "Morning, momma" she thinks she's ever heard.
The drive to the hospital is excruciating for Kate, but Will is stoic, and the soon-to-be patient is as bubbly as ever. While Kate is trying hard to conceal her fear, little Celie Beckett is enthusiastically belting the radio's latest hits, completely oblivious to how drastically her life could change over the course of the next few hours. Though she had days ago been informed of her hospital visit, it was immediately and perpetually evident that she did not fully understand its significance. Hence, the cheery backseat solos.
All too quickly, the trio find themselves pulling up to the hospital's porte-cochere and unloading their bags from the hatchback trunk. As Kate hands Celie her backpack and drapes the navy messenger bag over her own shoulder, she finds herself feeling ashamed.
Ashamed that her pessimism led her to pack spare clothes, loads of snacks, and the stuffed bunny her daughter just can't sleep without.
Ashamed that she had preemptively called Captain Montgomery to request a leave of absence, even though Celie had not yet received a diagnosis.
Ashamed that she is so broken, while her daughter is so carefree.
But, Celie's pediatrician had left her with little room for hope. Three months ago, when Kate had informed Dr. Schaeffer of Celie's hearing difficulties, he had expressed minimal concern and had speculated that Celie had a lingering ear infection. However, when Kate called back a week ago to report that the hearing loss had not subsided, and more symptoms were emerging, his concern skyrocketed. In fact, he offered up the name of a specialist and recommended that Celie see her as soon as possible.
So, here Kate is—pausing before entering New York Presbyterian, preparing to soak up medical jargon she did not begin to understand, and readying herself to comfort her inevitably wailing daughter through a battery of tests.
She looks to Will, hoping to find him radiating affection and empathy. But all she sees is indifference, and, even worse, pity.
As Will crouches down to give Celie a hug, Kate readies her practiced goodbye. When he stands, she resignedly bids him well. "Have a good day, Will. Call when you can," she murmurs, tacking on a hasty kiss to the cheek for the sake of her onlooking daughter.
She's grateful the rehearsed maneuver required minimal intimacy. She hates Will for refusing to take even one day off of work, but even more so, she hates that she can't say she's surprised. So, she dispiritedly watches Will return to the car, re-fasten himself into the driver's seat and pull away from the hospital with a casual wave. Then, she takes Celie's hand in hers, and the duo makes their way to the sliding doors with the bright red cross. And as the glass clicks shut behind them, Kate finds herself holding her breath, and she instinctively glances back, realizing she truly doesn't know when she would be coming back up for air.