Disclaimer: I do not own Scandal or any of its characters.
A lady stands at a podium, smiling crocodile-wide, shifting her weight from heel-to-heel, effusing ostentatious patriotism in a long exordium to the last speech my husband will ever give as sitting President of the United States. She knows this. The whole auditorium knows this. This is just a kindliness, a final favor to the Grant administration. I am grateful for the diversion. I—we—need time to collect, to compose. Next to me, Fitz grimaces. His tawny eyebrows are knit in consternation. His posture is as slumped as I've ever seen it, and I've been married to this goof for some twenty-odd years. I glance, look away, look down. I don't want to see his expression; I know what it contains. This failure is monumental to him. He thinks he's a loser.
"Do you ever get nervous?" Fitz and I turn to face Karen. She looks tall and like her father, pretty in a striped, blue dress. Jerry stands next to her in a sharp waistcoat; he looks like Fitz, too. I've never noticed it until now; I've never had the liberty before. It's a good feeling.
"Hm?" All traces of the grimace are gone now. Fitz reserves genuine smiles for his children.
"When I was doing "Our Town," waiting in the wings for my cue, I was about to throw up." Looks aside though, Karen sounds more like me—pithy and unrelenting, no words barred; she had a hard time respecting her elders growing up, much like I did. I was infamous for throwing temper tantrums, kicking and screaming when things didn't go my way. Fitz gently pats his daughter on the arm, rubs it comfortingly.
"Get used to it," he says kindly.
"Dad," Jerry looks his father straight in the eye, "I'm sorry you're about to lose."
"Jerry!" I'm quick to scold the fifteen-year old; I eye him with my most maternal stare—wide-eyed and sort of clueless, not catering to the stereotypes I was raised around all my cotton-raising, corn-picking, Southern life. I'm not all that motherly; I'm still learning.
"Really?" But Fitz is only amused. "This from a Reston supporter?" He wraps his arm around Jerry's shoulder, pulls his son close. Jerry gives a crooked smile, hugs Fitz back in that awkward, teenage, hugs-aren't-really-my-thing-anymore kind of way. It's a tender moment though, a happy moment, and then the lady on the podium comes back to focus; we resume our best attention-giving forms. She has finished bestowing her gift. It's time for the First Family to perform.
"And now, please give a warm Springfield welcome to the President of the United States, Fitzgerald Grant the Third." Fitzgerald Grant the Third grabs my hand, pulls me behind him to center stage. The auditorium is a sea of standing, clapping, hollering people. I can hardly hear myself breathe, the roar is so deafening; it intensifies as we wave to them. Enthusiasts would probably faint if we blew kisses. I'm tempted. This finale should be grand.
There are also lights, blazing in every corner, spotlighting the four of us—Karen and Jerry close at our heels—as we make our way to the podium. Yellow and orange trails us to the "this is it" moment of the Grant Political Dynasty, the culmination of four years in the hot seat. A final speech, Fitz charming the crowd, but not winning their votes; he doesn't exude that Republican gravitas synonymous with George Bush's furrowed brows. I take a deep breath. Fitz takes his position at the microphone, lets go of my hand so I can join the kids. I clench my teeth, masking it with a thin, media-loved smile. This is it.
"We all know we're on the cusp of another election—and it's an important one—and I hope you all vote, ideally for me." The crowd laughs. Fitz flashes some teeth. All charm, no eyebrows. "I am proud of the work..."
He rambles on. I listen attentively until I hear a sneeze; it sounds like Jerry, but it would be rude for me to look his way. There is shuffling next to me. Peripheral vision makes me privy to Karen's polished flats scrambling, looking antsy. I continue to watch Fitz, but my attentions are varied now. Karen remains agitated.
"First and foremost of which..." Fitz is talking about the bomb at Senator Hightower's funeral now, about apprehending the lunatics responsible for it, but I am listening no longer. There is another sneeze—it is loud and attention-grabbing—and crimson meets my vision in flecks. The flecks splatter my blazer and neck in unholy conflation. My head cocks; I hear myself inhale. My son is covered in blood. The bright red of his mortality gushes from his nose. I feel sick. I am scared. I grab my little boy, pull him to my chest as he slackens; his weight grows in my arms.
"Fitz," I say, and I'm saying it to Jerry because I can't turn away, even to scream for help. I can't leave my little boy. Fitz can't hear me—me and my hushed, shocked tones—and I feel alone as Jerry's eyes roll back in his head, and I can only see the whites before his pale eyelids shutter to a close. He's getting heavier; my knees are growing weak. Tears spring to my eyes, but I can't utter a word because bile is rising in my throat, eager to spill. We are dropping to the ground now. "Fitz..."
We've fallen. "Fitz!"
—
Despite the exhaustive efforts of a world class medical team, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Fourth passed away at 8:46 p.m. from bacterial meningitis. He was surrounded by President Grant, the First Lady, his sister Karen...my little boy is dead. He died in my arms, a bald spot on his head where the doctors had tried to operate. Too much swelling, his cranium bursting with fluid; they couldn't work around it; it was an impossible cause. They sewed him up, wheeled him to a room, let him die in my arms. I held his hand. I didn't want him to be alone. His pale arm was livid with dead veins. My little boy is dead. They covered him up with a long, white sheet and removed him from my hold; nurses helped me to a wheelchair—couldn't walk, couldn't breathe—so orderlies could clean the blood, so doctors could examine me—make sure I hadn't been infected.
I am numb. White coats and colorful scrubs swarm around me in varying states of urgency; some are frenetic, others slow, more considerate. Jerry's blood is taken from my neck, sterilized away with soft, gentle pats. Antibiotics are administered via IV; Karen, one bed down, receives the same preventative measures. Meningitis is dreadfully contagious, you know.
I am numb. I allow my blood pressure and oxygen stats to be checked with little fuss; I just stare straight ahead at nothingness; I sit still; I refuse to blink. I don't respond to any stimuli which worries the white coats and colorful scrubs. They recline me on the bed, put a mask to my face as though I've forgotten how to breathe. I probably have. I don't remember.
"Mom." Someone is screaming for their mother. How nice.
"Mellie." Lovely name. Mellie is.
"Sir, she's hyperventilating. This is just shock. Mr. President, I'm going to have to ask you to stay put until we have her sedated." It takes me a moment to realize that I'm being difficult. I'm shying away from touch; I just want to be left alone.
"And I'm going to have to ask you to move out of the way. That's my wife."
"MOM."
The scene passes. I'm sitting up again. The mask has been cast aside. Fitz has gone to check on other matters. I'm calmer now. I've been sedated. Karen stands next to me; every so often she whispers my name, checks to see if I'm still listening, still living. On my other side, a nurse instructs me to breathe. I hear them both only dimly. It's like there's water in my ears. It's like I'm drowning. My hands cross my chest; I keep them there so I don't have to swim. Drowning is an attractive option.
Jerry Grant is dead. My little boy is dead. I want to feel nothing, but I'm numb. Numb and fine are not the same thing. Nothing and numb aren't either. One constitutes an end, a sense of finality to a world otherwise populated by grief. The other gives way to injury; people numb things they don't want to feel. I'm numb, but tomorrow I might wake to find myself bleeding.
Karen joins me on the bed. She rests her head on my shoulder. We sit here for awhile.
A/N: Howdy, Gladiators. c: I hoped you enjoyed this first chapter; I had fun writing it. Though, of course, I do have my concerns. This is my first Scandal fanfiction, and I want to get as close to the characters as I can. Criticisms or comments are truly appreciated. Also, I took a lot of dialogue from the episode, thusly most of the creativity in this chapter comes from trying to piece together Mellie's thoughts.