Welcome Back.
Shall we pick up with Nick and Brena?
Thank you to the world's best tree/brick shithouse full of Tylenol for RP'ing this out with me. ;)
For the umpteenth time that week – no, that month – Brena lay curled in one of Hazel's quilts on the floor of the parlor, wishing she'd draft-proofed a bit better as the cold was making her shoulders ache. She didn't know how late it was; she honestly wasn't sure she knew what day it was. All notion of self-care had gone out the window; she rarely showered and changed clothes, ate infrequently – and generally unhealthily binged when she did – and refused to interact with the outside world unless her hand was forced. Slowly, she turned enough to look out the window; she never bothered closing the curtains in the parlor. The windows overlooked the intersection outside the brownstone, and the passing cars and people usually offered her a tolerable distraction. Snow had begun to pile up on the balconies, and icicles dangled like claws from the eaves and railings outside. The sky looked lonely; none of the stars were visible, and the snowflakes that swarmed the windows seemed angry more than festive. Brena was relatively sure Christmas had passed, and she hadn't bothered to do a single thing to celebrate it. 'What was it Alison said? Too old? Or was it dirty? It's not, though. And I'm fine. Chilly, here – but fine.'
Baked goods and casseroles continued to pile up at Brena's door even though her uncle had been dead over a month, and once every few days she'd force herself out to the vestibule to collect the various dishes and pans that kept appearing. Most of the food went straight down the garbage disposal; while she appreciated everyone's gestures, she had no appetite and it was far too much food for one person to eat. Instead, she found herself on a first-name basis with Zhang Wei, the driver for the Chinese restaurant four blocks over from her brownstone, and near-enough to Magee to have become a favorite. Brena never ordered much, but it only took a few calls before he was answering the phone by saying her name and what she assumed was a greeting – caller ID having gotten the best of her – and without her ever asking for a specific meal, he'd show up about a half-hour later, an order of honey chicken with tangerine peel and ginger shoots in tow. Eventually, soup started making an appearance, and then steamed rolls of some sort, and though the total never changed, Brena made a best-guess at the amount and tipped generously. The food he brought was also too much for her, and she found herself idly wondering, more than once, whether Nick ever thought of the crispy duck they'd had for lunch months ago.
Alison should have been the last person on Brena's mind. She basically was, too, until Brena got it in her head that it had been far too long between trips to the front door to check for food from her friends and neighbors. She knew she ought to ask people to stop sending so much, but didn't want to be tacky in the face of generosity. 'Eventually, this will peter out. People will move on. Have moved on.' She sighed and set to work bundling bowls and trays into the brownstone, and it was only a few minutes later before a chill shot through the vestibule, followed by Alison's ridiculously toned, gazelle-long long legs breezing past Brena's face as she stooped again to clear the floor of pies and entrees. Alison, of course, didn't stop to help her friend pick up plates and dishes; instead she simply let herself inside the brownstone, stepping over Brena and then spinning to face her, arms crossed, the toe of her shoe already tapping against the floor.
"You know what? I'm just gonna be the one to say it. You need to sell this place, Bren. You're just so...dead. You need a new place to live. Look at you! You're a disaster. Do you, like, shower, or did the water get shut off?" She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, looking around the living room as she did. "I mean...Brena...this place is just...old. It's dated. You can do so much better than this. It's not quaint, it's trashy." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
Brena managed to pull most of the food inside the door while Alison spoke, but it was the way she spat out the word 'trashy' that caused Brena's fingers to lock around the cold, thick glass of a Pyrex baking dish, loaded down with tuna noodle casserole. Slowly, she rose to vertical and walked around Alison, knuckles turning white from the force with which she gripped the dish.
"Hello, Alison. I'm not sure why you didn't call first?"
"Because I was in the neighborhood. Besides, I didn't think you'd answer your phone, what with your uncle being dead and all," Shrugging, Alison began to walk around the living room, shuffling framed photos back and forth, pulling books from their shelves, and scoffing at the dust on the furniture. "Bren, this is pathetic. I know a realtor, let her come in here and stage the place. Get rid of it."
Having banged the casserole down on the kitchen counter, Brena spun it, corner-for-corner, the glass scraping harshly along the stone countertop. "When are you gonna update the kitchen, Bren? Stainless is the thing right now," Alison, now buried in the parlor, had to shout to be heard. "I mean, that stove's a disaster – not even the kind of antique people pay money for. Speaking of – money isn't, like, an issue for you, is it? You got something when he died, right?" She snorted as she lifted the lid on the phonograph, then dropped it back down roughly. "You sell this place, you'd for sure end up with enough cash to move outside the city. Something a little less urban, a little more your speed."
Faster and faster, Brena whirled the casserole around on the counter. She'd uncovered it at some point, wadding up the plastic wrap and throwing it in the sink, and watched as loose breadcrumbs flew onto the counter as she spun the dish around.
Unfazed, Alison continued down the hall, toward the bedrooms. Brena felt her shoulders tighten, but couldn't bring her feet to carry her after Alison. Her voice fared no better; she found herself without the words she needed to make Alison be quiet and leave.
"Like, this shit. Brena, you understand they're gone, right?" Alison emerged from the hallway clutching a large, framed photograph of Deaglan, Hazel, and Brena, her fingers smearing the glass and the wire anchor-line dangling off the back of the frame, as though it'd been torn down from the wall. Dangling over her other arm was a quilt from Hazel and Deaglan's bed. Where it had once been folded neatly, it was now a mash of fabric, and Alison trailed it across the fireplace hearth as she walked past, collecting soot and grit, before tossing the photo and quilt down on the coffee table. Most of the quilt dangled onto the floor; the photograph's frame landed with an audible crack. Alison simply continued moving and talking, as though she could force the brownstone to bend to her will.
"And these birds, Brena. God, Hazel really just...had a thing...for birds...didn't she?" While Hazel always had loved her birds, she'd never been excessive with her fondness. Alison was gesturing dismissively at a photograph of two cardinals, one male and one female, in the local square – it clearly wasn't professional, but it was absolutely sentimental and was one of Hazel's favorites. She took the picture herself; Deaglan bought the camera for her as an anniversary gift. "I swear to God, there's a fucking bird on every wall. You know that's not décor, right? I mean, I guess you could sell some of this shit. Kitsch is very 'in' right now. You remember that Pinterest website I told you about? Why don't you do some of the things on there? It's not like you're doing anything else all day, you've got the time."
Faster and faster, Brena spun the casserole dish, the edges starting to lift and rattle as she moved it, whole loose peas and chunks of celery flying out of the dish and scattering on the counter. 'There is nothing wrong with my house. There is nothing wrong with my family. My house is empty. My family is dead. What am I doing? Am I doing this the wrong way? Should I be more...less...something?'
"Brena? Brena! Are you even listening?" Alison had thrown the photo of the cardinals on top of the now-sooty blanket and broken family photo in order to free up her hands and snap her fingers at Brena. "I'm going to call my realtor friend and we're going to get this place listed. It's just not working for you," She turned her back to Brena and started tapping away on her phone, pushing books and photos around on the fireplace mantel with her unoccupied hand, oblivious to the rage building on her friend's face.
Rage. It was unfamiliar to Brena, something hot and rasping and metallic-tasting, though she hadn't realized til that moment that feelings could have a taste. Sorrow, loss, disappointment, regret, those were all things Brena knew, could dance along the edges of, could even dive into, but rage was something more wicked and beguiling. She hadn't known feelings could change her physically, though she found her hearing growing cottony and her vision becoming sharply, painfully clear. Oddly, briefly, for a moment she felt pressure against the backs of her legs, hot breath in her hair, then a cold explosion that reminded her of ice water, before her mind blanked itself. Snatching up the casserole and whirling around, she let go of it just as she came to face Alison, the dish flying from her hands in a nearly perfect discus shot. It exploded against the fireplace, barely missing Alison's head, but coating her back and side in a shower of creamed tuna and noodles, the chunks of glass scattering across the hearth around her.
"Jesus Christ, Brena, what the fuck?" Alison was trying to wipe tuna from her phone, her hair, her clothing, but was only succeeding in smearing it around and making the problem worse. She flicked chunks of the casserole on the hearth, then into the carpet, then scraped her palm clean on the edge of the fireplace. "I mean, really, what the fuck? You're acting like that guy. Throwing things. I thought stupid and crazy wasn't contagious. I mean, he could've had me, and he passed on that. You're not still hanging around him, are you?"
"Don't you dare bring up Nick! Don't you dare!" Brena was screaming now, rushing toward Alison and snatching up the photographs from the coffee table as she went. "You have no idea what it's been like for me! None! I am not leaving this place! Do you hear me?" She flailed the photos at Alison, having no idea what she was doing, but knowing that whatever the feeling was, it had to come out of her. Alison dodged out of Brena's way, shoving her as she went past, sending Brena down into the scattered casserole on the floor. Brena, tangled in her own feet, dropped the photos and lunged toward Alison, nearly taking her down to the floor when she finally connected, and further scattering the spilled meal. Alison, using her feet to push Brena's hands off her ankles, looked down with equal parts annoyance and amusement.
"You lost your fucking mind, Brena," Alison pulled more chunks of noodle and sauce from her hair, throwing them down on Brena, who lay sniveling on the floor. "Seriously. Call me when you get your shit together, and I'm gonna try real hard to forget about this stunt you just pulled."
"Stunt? Stunt?" Brena was screaming again, trying to get back to her feet, but her arms didn't want to push her up the right way. "This is no stunt! He was right, Alison, where were you? You...you were gone! And now, you can leave! Leave right now and don't you dare come back here! Don't call, don't visit, don't write, nothing!"
"Whatever. I'll send you the bill for dry cleaning, not that you're gonna be able to pay for anything. That's why you need to sell the place." Nonplussed, and thinking she'd just witnessed a fairly hilarious breakdown, Alison let herself out the door, shutting it firmly behind her. Shaking, covered in tuna casserole, Brena awkwardly reached up and managed to flick the lock on the front door, earning a crack from her shoulder in the process. Curling herself around her more-bothersome arm, she rolled bits of noodle and pea between her fingers until they turned to a gluey mass and stuck under her nails, feeling the sauce crusting in her hair and watching the tuna dry into the carpet. The whole scene, pitiful as it was, made her wish she hadn't given away her cat, Jameson, and she followed that by briefly wishing she had Nick's phone number, then by wishing she could forget Nick entirely. Tears were slow in coming, and Brena was frustrated with herself for crying at all.
'Done enough of that for a lifetime. What's there left to cry over, anyway? The cat is gone, the brownstone is empty, you've chased away your friends, and Nick was never yours to begin with.' Brena sighed, full of remorse for things she had and hadn't done, and rolled further onto her hip, trying to block out the draft from the door.
All that, and yet Brena was oblivious to the fact she'd managed to fall on her phone as she raged and ranted with Alison, accidentally dialing Meredith in the process. Meredith was only privy to the end of the conversation, in which Alison said Brena lost her mind, and that was enough to send her over the edge. Dr. Morgan wouldn't let Meredith leave early, so it was several hours later before she was able to make her way over to Brena's brownstone, parking on the street and banging on the door til she heard a tiny, metallic click.
It took Brena a few minutes to move herself away from the door; she was stiff from the cold. Meredith banged into her twice, trying to get inside. Once inside, she wrinkled her nose and moved to sit next to Brena, not caring at all that she'd planted her ass firmly in a pile of tuna and noodles.
"Had a moment, eh?"
"Meredith, please, tonight I just can't dea-"
"You dialed my phone when Miss Asshole was here. From the looks of things, you probably – let me guess – fell on it?" Brena cringed, and tried to shift away from Meredith, embarrassed that her meltdown had been heard. "It's okay, Bren. I'll help you clean it up. Let's get you in a shower, too, before this shit turns into concrete. Mrs. MacAlaistair always did make a solid tuna noodle casserole."
Lifting Brena up from the floor, which didn't take much effort – she'd become more gaunt since Deaglan died, and she wasn't anywhere near a healthy weight before his passing – Meredith walked her toward the bathroom, setting the water for a shower and telling Brena to undress. She decided to take her clothing down to the laundry room before the stains set, knowing that Brena would be upset if she ruined her hoodie. The few times Meredith had managed to weasel her way into the brownstone since Deaglan passed, Brena was almost always in her collegiate hoodie – the one she wore when she fell asleep over Nick, at Magee.
The water ran long and hot, and Meredith toyed with her phone while she waited for Brena to dislodge herself form the steam and ginger of the bathroom. More than once, she brought up Claudio's phone number, debating whether she should call right away and keep the conversation short, or wait til Brena fell asleep and she could spend more time explaining. Brena's crying suddenly became audible over the water, and Meredith decided her call could wait; she had a bathroom door to knock on now.
"What's up, Bren? You okay in there?"
"Meredith, I'm so stupid. Think of what I did!"
"Almost took the bitch's head off? I mean, we should work on your aim, but all considered it wasn't bad."
Brena went from crying to sniffling, shut the water off, and cracked the door open. She was buried in a fluffy towel, and her hair striped dark and wet around her face. "No, Meredith, that's not the thing. I mean, yes, I could have hurt her. Alison was horrible, and Nick was right about her, but that's not the thing."
'Well, Nick is part of this "thing" you have going on, but we'll get to that.' "Okay, then what's the thing?"
"I owe Mrs. MacAlaistair a new casserole pan." Brena sounded embarrassed, and nearly mumbled her words.
Laughing raucously, Meredith guided Brena to what she remembered as her bedroom, though both women hesitated at the door. "Nope. Don't think I didn't see that heap of a quilt on the floor. You're sleeping proper tonight, and yes I will be here to make sure."
Sighing, Brena climbed up into the bed, cringing as she slid under the covers and sheets – in part because they were cold and in part because getting into any bed, alone, in her home, set her skin to crawling. None of them held good memories for her. Hazel had died in one, she'd not-so-politely told a man to leave another – an ill-fated and poorly considered attempt at going on a date – and now here she was in a third, trying to will herself to ignore Alison having called her out about Nick. Brena waited for the door to close, waited for the hands on the clock to shift enough that she knew Meredith would figure she was asleep, and stood cautiously, avoiding the floorboard that she knew squeaked. Pulling the quilt off the bed, she wrapped it over her shoulders and laid down on the floor between the bed and the windows.
Meredith went back down the hall, briefly considered going up to the second floor – but didn't know how booming the echo would be during her call – and surveyed her handiwork in the living room. The stains on the carpet were soaking, the fireplace had been cleaned of its tuna palm-print, all of Brena's quilts were folded and stacked, and the chunks of broken glass were all neatly swept up and put into a paper bag. Now, all Meredith had to do was talk to Claudio and catch a few hours of shut-eye. She'd heard the mattress creak down the hall and knew Brena had moved herself to the floor; she also knew there was no point in arguing. Queuing up Claudio's number on her phone, Meredith poured herself a glass of wine and settled in to the sofa.
"Here's hoping your idiot is doing better than my idiot," Meredith whispered. The phone didn't have long to ring before Claudio picked up.
"Meredith? Thank God, kostbarkeit, it is you." Claudio sounded drained, and Meredith wondered what Nick had put him through on that particular night.
