Disclaimers: S.E. Hinton owns. I borrow.
Might be a touchy subject for some. Rated just to be safe.
Not sure how frequently this will be updated, just a sudden idea I had.
Sweet Sillage
- Chapter one -
Thantophobia
Thantophobia: The fear of losing someone you love
February 5th, 1975
2:03 AM
The white clock ticks. On the pasty white wall, above the white chairs on the grimy white tiled floor, the white clock ticks it's constant beat. The white coated doctors pay no attention to the moving of the dark white hands of the shiny white clock, whilst the man sitting in one of the white cushioned chairs refuses to remove his gaze from the slow moving pieces.
Ponyboy's borrowed hospital scrubs are blue.
He watches the clock. Focuses, focuses hard on those grey hands and that soft tick as a second passes.
Focus, focus, focus
For most of his life, it's been an easy task. Focus. Focus on this, focus on that - all it took was a deep breath and a surge of concentration and snap, he'd be focused on that calculus problem, or that essay, or that track meet. He was good. So good it landed him in fourth grade when his age said third. So good it handed him a full ride scholarship to the University of Oklahoma. So good it made him pass with honours and a smile.
He just had to focus.
The clock. The white rimmed clock.
Focus on the clock Ponyboy tells himself.
But all of a sudden the clock becomes red, and the hands that tick becomes red, and the pasty walls and the cushioned chairs and the grimy floor and the white coats - they're all red. Dripping with the fiery color.
Focus on the clock, the white rimmed clock
The clock is white
White
White
White.
It's still red. Soaked in red like the colour of the blood. The red blood, creating a pool in the sheets of their bed as her panicked voice had screamed an emergency.
Red
The red blood spattered on the doctor's scrubs in the OR. The red blood caked on their latex gloves.
Red
The red blood held in a bag marked with the same blood type of his wife's.
Red.
Pony rubs his jaw, takes a shaky breath. Focus, he tells himself. Focus on the clock. The white clock.
Focus.
Not on the blood. Not on the doctors. Not on the endangered lives of his family. The clock. The white clock, sitting on the pasty white wall above the cushioned white chairs on the grimy white tiled floor surrounded by the doctors' white coats.
The clock.
The clo-
"family of Mrs. Katie Curtis?"
His head jerks up, wincing at her name. He takes a breath, clears his throat, stands on shaky legs. He can't tell if the doctor was one of the ones that were in the OR, covered in the red blood. He assumes he was, but with the white paper masks and the pale blue scrub caps and the blood covered latex gloves, it was hard to recognize the staff in the room. As expected, they were the lowest on the list of his current worries.
He walks across the room, focusing on the clicking of the shiny white clock behind him, trying in every possible way to just rid his mind of the worst possible outcomes of the situation.
The mere ten steps between himself and the white-coated man feels like hundreds, no - thousands more.
He stops, manages to look the man in the blue eyes he owns, but has to look away as quick as he started; Katie's are the same. Hers are more blue, the bluest blue Ponyboy could ever imagine seeing, but even the colour blue could send him into a coma at this state. Even another blonde, or another bearer of freckles, another large smile, hell, a red sweater like the one she just loves to wear. Everything screams her.
"You are the father I presume?" The doctor asks.
Ponyboy opens his mouth, fighting for words to escape, but his voice seems lost. He's lost. So he manages a subtle nod, his head feeling ten times heavier on his shoulders.
God, it's that word. The F-word. The father word. It has rang through his own head and ears many more times than once over the past seven months, but not once has it held so much pain. So much worry.
"You're gonna be a daddy!" A phrase heard so often, he hadn't ever doubted it or been even slightly unsure. Why would he? It was true, wasn't it?
He ain't ever imagined this would happen. That he'd be sitting in the white chair listening to the ticking white clock on the pasty white walls or standing next to the white-coated doctor listening to the word father as it held so much doubt and pain. 'Cause what if it ain't true? What if that heard-so-often phrase that he couldn't get enough of ended up wrong? What if the next word out the blue-eyed doctor's mouth proved it so? What if he wasn't gonna be a daddy? A father?
Ponyboy thinks of the not-quite-finished nursery back home. Thinks of the yellow and purple and green walls and the light-wooded crib. Thinks of how empty the crib would look, thinks of how much hurt it would cause without a small figure lying inside it.
"Would you like to go somewhere more private? My office perhaps?"
Pony's breath hitches. His throat runs even more dry.
Private room. Private room. Alarms sound in his head and his heartbeat throbs in his ears. Private room means private news. Private news means tragic news. He's never been one to handle well with tragic news and he knows this. Is aware of this. He exhales quickly, shutting his eyes, trying clearing his head that is plagued with painful thoughts.
They're okay.
They're fine.
They're alive.
They're okay.
They're okay.
They're okay, he tells himself. Lets it run over and over again in his mind like a broken record.
But god, there's that whispering voice behind the mantra in his head that cannot be shut off, nor tuned out. It's there, quiet but screaming. Screaming at him louder and louder each time he repeats that desired phrase. They're okay.
They're not.
They are.
They aren't.
Ponyboy puts force into his shut eyes, attempting to push away the painful headache generated as both voices inside grapple for dominance. As his green orbs reopen, and the doctor stares back at him, an unreadable expression on his face and familiar looking blue eyes, Pony realizes he isn't any more stabilized than he was before he took a breath and shut them first. It's no use. He feels as if he would break apart like a glass porcelain doll if someone as little as pokes him. Let alone leads him into the doctor's office.
Jesus. His office. A private room. Private news. Tragic news.
No, he says, or rather expresses, shaking his head, words unable to escape his throat. No private room. No tragic news. The thought is suffocating, knowing that if he walks into the guy's office he probably won't be able to carry himself out. Knowing he'd be trapped there. In that private room, with that private news floating in his ears. He doesn't want that. No.
Maybe if he doesn't go, he won't have to listen to tragic news. Maybe he can avoid it all together. Take a bypass off the frightening highway he can barely drive upon.
The doctor eyes him warily, wondering if he needs to call for a stretcher. Wondering if this man can physically handle what's about to be revealed.
"Very well," He says slightly gently. "Let's get to it then."
Ponyboy takes another breath, steps a little closer to the wall next to him, knowing he'll probably need something for support. He tries his hardest to keep his eyes on the doctor's, but the particular colour makes it painful, makes it difficult.
"We had to perform emergency surgery on Katie immediately after she was brought in, as the risk was very high for both her and the baby. It was touch and go, but despite the preterm birth, baby looks okay. She's being closely monitored by doctors and nurses in neonatal intensive care."
Ponyboy blinks, runs a shaky hand through his hair. Replays the doctor's words inside his brain.
Did he just say...
The doctor gives a small smile, noticing the surprise. "Congratulations Mr. Curtis. You have a daughter."
Pony lets himself smile, a small one. Rests his hand on the back of his head and glances up at the white ceiling, his green eyes glistening with unshed tears.
He has a daughter.
A daughter.
Daughter.
A daddy.
He's a daddy.
After several hours of painful apprehensiveness and doubt, it's true. Ponyboy Curtis is officially a father, to a brand new baby girl. His body rushes with many emotions and feelings, staggering him on his feet, the provisional wall becoming suddenly useful.
He looks at the doctor, at his shiny bald head, at his salt and pepper scruff along his jaw and mouth, which curves into a frown. He looks at his large, silver rimmed glasses and the familiar coloured blue eyes beneath them. Pony has to take a second glance, because they too are frowning. Dripping with regret of words left unsaid from his lips.
Ponyboy's confused. He's confused, so confused, because aren't doctors supposed to be happy too? To take gratification in their own achievement of successfully bringing a brand new life into the world? To be pleased to inform the loved ones of their new family member or friend? Pony's confused, cause the doctor standing in front of him ain't happy, ain't gratified, ain't pleased. No, he ain't. Why? Why not?
And Ponyboy don't want to ask. Knows the unsaid words hanging from the lips of the doctor standing in front of him won't be happy either.
He knows.
He takes a shaky breath and covers his mouth with a shaky hand. Before he can stop it one of the unshed tears from his glistening green eyes runs down his pale face and he's shaking his head. silently pleading, begging for the inevitable truth to be false. Only it's not. He knows it's not. The painful, silent voice in his head has reached dominance, it's quietness reaching unbearable noisiness. Near completely deafening the hopeful mantra Ponyboy had been playing all night.
He continues shaking his head, both shaky hands covering his face, concealing the trembling frown on his lips.
No.
No
No
No.
"Your wife - Katie, went into circulatory shock from the large amount of blood she had lost. We administered a blood transfusion during surgery, but she was loosing it faster than we could replace it. The baby was successfully delivered and brought to NICU, but-"
No.
No.
Ponyboy thinks he says it out loud because the doctor's frown deepens and his blue eyes drip with even more condolence. With pity.
No. Just no.
He shakes his head, imploringly willing for the next words from the doctor's mouth to be anything other than the ones he expects. 'Cause no, no, he ain't sure he can handle it if it ain't.
"But we were unable to revive her, due to-"
And he stumbles. Lets out a unrecognizable sound from his lips and falls, knees buckling. The doctor's words go blind on his ears as he lets himself break.
Shatter.
"She lost too much blood."
No.
No.
No no no no no
God, no.
Loud, sharp sobs sound through the hallways of the hospital. Sound from Ponyboy Curtis, unable to keep himself together on the grimy white tiled floor, near the pasty white walls. Deep, agonizing, guttural sobs wreck and break his body. The body of a newly widower. The body of a man breaking apart from the unbearable torture and grief laid upon him.
"I'm incredibly sorry for your loss, Mr. Curtis."
Ponyboy's clammy forehead rests on the grimy tiled floor, both hands on the back of his head. Violent shakes pulse through him and his sobs become so intense they grow quiet, an occasional hiccup escaping as he attempts to breathe.
His heartbeat thumps through his ears and head, fast and loud.
No.
No.
Damn it, no. Anything but this.
Not this.
No.
A moment passes and the voice of his brother, his middle brother sound through the room, through his ears. He wonders when he called him. If it was back at the house when everything started.
He's saw him, noticed the crumbled heap of his baby brother on the floor. The oldest, he's there too. Their two friends. They're all there. Excited to meet the new addition to the family, wives and children of their own at home, waiting for the morning to visit.
They all stop in their tracks, knowing something's wrong. Feeling it's heaviness in the air. Seeing their youngest member dressed in blue scrubs and on the floor. On the grimy floor.
Ponyboy barely acknowledges them, drowning in his own sea of grief and despair.
The doctor tells them, informs them of the loss. The death of their brother's wife. The death of their sister-in-law. He tells them about the baby, too. The baby girl, the miracle child.
Less than a second passes and Sodapop's already got his arms around his little brother. Already whispering words of comfort to the twenty-three year-old. Darry rushes over too, rests a steady hand on his quivering back, lets his own head hang low. Their friends keep their distance, but stay close enough to ensure they're present.
Two-Bit makes a silent reminder to hug and kiss Kathy and his boys extra hard went he heads home.
Ponyboy leans into the embrace of his brothers, unable to keep his body up, exhausted. His eyes droop as tears flood from them and the guttural sobs continue. His head rests on Soda's lap, letting himself be treated fourteen again. Letting himself be taken care of.
Sodapop gently shushes him, running a hand through his sweaty hair as Darry rubs circles on his back.
"She's gone, Soda." He says, sniffing, his face swelled and puffy.
"I know, kiddo."
And he does. He knows.
"She's really gone. Really dead."
"Oh honey, I know."
He knows.
He really does.
XXX