Summary: A glimpse into the car ride home from the hospital in S6E7: Listen With Mother. Louisa is exhausted, bruised, and unhappy. She needs a break, but how can she make Martin understand?
Disclaimer: Doc Martin and all characters are owned by Buffalo Pictures.
Author's Note: This is my first foray into writing fanfic for Doc Martin. I have thoroughly enjoyed so many of the other stories published here, and wanted to offer my small contribution to our beloved Portwenn world, as I am so very fond of the characters.
I would be remiss to exclude a shout-out to DianeB for her willingness to return to Portwenn to beta this story. It never would have taken flight if she hadn't taken the jumbled mess of a first draft and coaxed it into a cohesive, one-shot story. Many thanks.
Louisa
"Let's just ... Let's just go."
She stands, and moves past him, his face frozen in bewilderment. She reaches to grasp the handles of the stroller, grimacing at the pain shooting up her arm. Fighting back tears, and moving slowly, she manages a small wave at Mary Jean, the woman in the bed beside her, and steers the stroller through the door into the hallway.
"Louisa. Louisa, wait." She pauses, but does not look up. He has gone back to fetch her overnight bag and purse from her bedside, nearly forgotten in her haste to leave.
"Let me push him. You should not be exerting yourself."
She doesn't protest. Taking a step aside, she allows Martin to take her place. Shouldering her bags, he steers the stroller back into the traffic of the hallway and resumes his brisk pace. It is impossible to match his strides, and within moments he is ahead of her.
Annoyed that he is oblivious to her reduced pace, Louisa carefully maneuvers through the hallway. He's already at the lift by the time he looks up and discovers that he is a few metres ahead of her.
She's caught up by the time the lift arrives, and he holds the doors open for her. Neither one speaks as they descend. She picks at a hangnail, her skin dry from the hospital air. Louisa can feel him glancing furtively at her, but he doesn't say anything. Typical Martin, she thinks to herself.
The ding of the lift indicates they have arrived at the ground floor, and she follows Martin and the stroller around the queue waiting to board.
He slows his pace this time, by necessity of the many people in the foyer, and they pass through the main entrance doors together.
"Erm, the car is that way," he stammers, gesturing to the car park to his right.
"All right."
Louisa is thankful to be outside of the stuffy hospital, with it's crowded hallways and antiseptic odours. The stale heat of the parking lot is not much better, she realizes, but it's one step closer to the familiar ocean breezes of home.
They reach the car. Martin settles the baby into his seat, James Henry protesting at the interruption of his nap. Louisa gingerly eases herself into the back seat, wincing at the effort to fasten her seatbelt. With the stroller and Louisa's bags secured in the boot, Martin slides into the driver's seat.
She knows he is looking at her in the rearview mirror; she can feel it.
He clears his throat. "Ready?"
She nods, but doesn't meet his gaze.
It's only a matter of minutes, and they are out on the main road. The hum of the car and the warmth of the afternoon sun soon lull James back to sleep, and they pass the edge of the city limits in silence.
He clears his throat again, and speaks, "Is the temperature all right? I can adjust the fan if you'd like."
"I'm not bothered," she replies.
A few more minutes pass, the silence hanging uncomfortably. She will have to say something, to start the conversation, because heaven knows Martin won't do it.
"My flight leaves at one tomorrow. I'll have a taxi pick me up in the morning."
His response is immediate and terse. "Really, Louisa. This is all so ridiculous. What about James? How will you manage the stroller and all your bags? You could barely push him down the hall just now."
She bristles at the reproof. "I'll be fine. The taxi driver can help me with my bags and my mum will meet us at the airport in Spain."
"What about your end-of-term duties? Won't you have report cards to finish? Budgeting expenses to submit?"
"I can take most of that with me. It all has to be submitted online anyways. Pippa can handle anything urgent, and the rest can wait." She can see that he is getting frustrated.
"I don't understand why you have to go at all. You could rest perfectly well at home", he blurts.
Tears prick at her eyes and burn at the back of her throat. "I told you, Martin. I need a break."
He is right, of course, but she is loathe to admit it. The thought of travelling alone exhausts her, and she and her mum hadn't even parted on good terms. Eleanor had been surprised when Louisa called, and had fussed over the inconvenience of picking them up at the airport and having to clear out the guest room. When she asked if Martin would be coming as well, Louisa's voice had cracked. Eleanor had hushed her, saying, "Don't you worry, LuLu. We'll get you sorted."
It's a small comfort that Mum knows how to smooth the rough edges of a break-up, Louisa thinks ruefully. If that's what this is. Louisa isn't sure.
She looks down to find she's twisting her wedding ring.
Martin's voice interrupts her thoughts. "Delay your flight a week. Maybe two. It will give you time to recuperate."
A sigh of frustration. "No, Martin. The tickets are booked."
"Louisa, this is absurd. You've just been in a serious automobile accident, suffered a fractured clavicle, and you need to be monitored. Not traipsing halfway across Europe on some sort of ridiculous holiday."
He looks back at her, and this time she meets his gaze. She's angry, and her eyes narrow as she retorts.
"You think I want to do this? Drag myself and James Henry and all our stuff to Spain, with my mum complaining the whole time about how put out she is by us being there?" She huffs.
"What other choice do I have? I can't take it any more, Martin. All I wanted was a weekend away! But you won't leave your bloody patients for one minute to pay attention to your own family. "
He is indignant. "You know that I have a responsibility to my patients! I have duties and obligations. You say you want to spend time together, but now you're leaving. You're being completely unreasonable. "
"But that's just it! You're the one who's being unreasonable. You're barking orders at everyone, me included. You've been so edgy and irritable and pre-occupied, and I never know what's going to set you off. The harder I try, the more you avoid me, and I can't seem to do anything right. Nothing! I just cannot face the entire school holidays walking on eggshells around you. This is not how it's supposed to be!"
Her face crumples, her anger retreating in a wave of rising grief. "Listen to us - we can't even get through a single car ride without a row."
She takes a steadying breath to stave the sobs, and accepts the handkerchief Martin is passing to her.
"Is this because of what happened at Sports Day?", he asks. She hears the confusion in his voice.
"This isn't about Sports Day, Martin. Well, maybe it was, at the beginning, but it's not anymore. It's bigger than that. It's just... I don't know. I don't know anymore. I need some time to sort this all out, I think, to figure out what I need. 'Cause this...," gesturing to him and back to herself, "it's not working.
"Maybe I was naive. I thought if I tried hard enough, we could be happy, all of us, together. But you're miserable, and I don't know how to fix it. It seems like everything I do bothers you, and you're always avoiding me.
"I tried, Martin. I tried getting you to open up about your Dad, tried bringing you breakfast yesterday so we could have a few minutes together. God, I even tried the other night with the new lingerie, and you didn't even give me a second glance. I thought we could make this work, I really did. I thought that being married would be enough."
He attempts to interject, but she continues.
"I love you, Martin. God knows I'm a fool for saying so, but I do. I just … I'm a disappointment to you, I know. No, don't argue with me, I know you'd never say so, but you can't hide it anymore. We're an inconvenience to you, a disruption in your otherwise controlled life, and it's only getting worse. I don't want that. It's just … I'm not happy, Martin. I don't know how else to put it. You've made so many promises, and I keep thinking it will be enough, and that it will get better, but it always comes back to ... this. I'm not making you happy. And I think … I think it'll be easier if I'm gone for a bit."
"Louisa ..." The anger in his voice is gone.
"No, Martin. We need some space. I need some space. I'm tired of trying to get through to you. I'm tired of chasing you."
"But why Spain? Why your mother?"
She sighs, her stamina fading.
"Martin, please, I've made up my mind and I don't really want to talk about it anymore. Anyways, I think the painkillers are making me sleepy, and I just want to close my eyes for a bit until we get home. Just ... let me rest."
She pulls her cardigan around herself and turns her head to lean against the headrest. She blinks away the wetness that betrays her resolve. Shuddering slightly, not from the cold, but from the effort of crying, Louisa listens to the hum of the engine and the cars passing on the highway. She closes her eyes, and within minutes, she feels herself drifting off as sleep claims her.
The next things she hears is Martin's voice. He is trying to be quiet, probably to avoid waking the baby, she guesses.
"Louisa..."
James stirs at the sound of his father's voice. The baby squirms, unhappy to find himself still strapped in the car. Louisa hears Martin hush him, though not unkindly.
She yawns, blinking against the glare of the afternoon sun. She can see the ocean ahead. They must be just through Trewartha, she realizes.
"We're almost home. I'll get the baby and your bags. You can go through to the house."
"Yes, thank you."
She is glad to have slept, although she still feels knackered. She presses her fingers against her temples, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache. As they drive through the village and across the Platt, she busies herself with her purse, pretending to search for lip balm or a tissue. She knows she looks a mess, what with her eyes reddened from crying and the scrape on her cheek, and her arm all wrapped up in the sling. She doesn't want to meet anyone's eyes.
He parks in the laneway. The silence that falls once the engine stops is quickly filled with James's crying. He is ready to get out, and at once. He's likely hungry, and in need of a new nappy.
Martin reaches over and unbuckles the baby, who is temporarily soothed by his father's arms.
"I… uh… I …."
She lifts her head to find her husband scrutinizing her face. She meets his gaze, hoping he doesn't want to argue any more - she just doesn't have the energy. All she really wants is to take a hot bath and crawl into bed.
"Erm… nothing." He exhales as James resumes his wailing.
Martin
"Let's just ... Let's just go."
Louisa is almost past him before Martin registers that she is on the move. He is flustered, having been caught off guard by her announcement just moments ago. She can't be serious, he thinks. Spain? Tomorrow? But there is no time for reflection now; she is already in the hallway.
He spots her overnight bag and purse on the bed. Muttering at her forgetfulness, he retrieves them and hurries to catch up with her, only to find that she is struggling with the stroller; the sling is impeding her ability to steer.
Martin calls to her, and she pauses. He shifts the bags onto his shoulder and takes the the handles of the stroller, his focus now solely on maneuvering around the patients, linen carts and mobile iv drip stands on the way to the lift. He reaches his destination and looks up to see that Louisa is still a few metres behind him. No matter, as they must wait for the lift to arrive anyways.
It arrives, predictably, and they board. In the quiet of the lift he discreetly glances at his wife standing beside him, automatically performing a visual assessment. Her ponytail is coming loose, he notes. The elastic must not have been tight enough after all. And she's picking at a hangnail, a nervous habit, for which he has chastised her many times before, but to no avail. With some concern, he observes that she looks a bit pale, and he mentally reprimands himself for not stopping to check her chart before they left her room. He will have to call the hospital once they've arrived home and have them fax a copy of her last haematocrit to the surgery. Perhaps her iron is low again. Bloody fools, he thinks. Releasing a patient without ensuring that her blood counts are adequate.
The ding of the lift interrupts his thoughts, and his attention is once again required to steer the stroller as he maneuvers around the queue waiting to board.
They reach the car without trouble. Martin eases a sleeping James Henry into his car seat, then loads the bags and the stroller into the boot. He brushes a bit of unidentifiable grime off his trousers, and in one movement he eases into his seat and glances back at his wife in the rearview mirror. She is looking out the window, her gaze unfocused. He notices that her eyes are watering; she brushes it away with the heel of her hand. He asks if she is ready to go, and she nods in reply.
Signalling, he eases the car through the maze of the parking lot and out onto the main road.
He calculates that they will arrive home by dinner. He will have to make a stop at the fishmonger's, he realizes, as there is not enough in the fridge to scrounge a full meal. It will be important for Louisa to eat meals with optimal nutrition, in order to facilitate a full recovery. She's eaten nothing but hospital food for the last twenty-four hours, and from his many years spent working in hospitals Martin knows full well the limited options available for healthy meals offered there. Perhaps he can entice her with some fresh sole, paired with green beans and a lentil rice pilaf. With a start, Martin realizes that Louisa's imminent departure will prevent him from ensuring that her dietary intake is adequate. Once she is in Spain, it will be Eleanor who will be preparing the meals, at least until Louisa has full use of her arm again. Remembering his mother-in-law's penchant for adding butter or alcohol (or both!) to every meal, Martin scowls.
Louisa's voice interrupts his thoughts. She is announcing the details of her flight tomorrow, and he replies, hoping to convince her of the foolishness of her plans. But she has an immediate, though feeble, rebuttal to every one of his concerns.
Martin can feel his frustration rising, but the final straw is when she insists that he should have shirked his responsibilities to his patients for the sake of a weekend holiday. She is being unreasonable, he thinks. Unreasonable, and emotional, and ridiculous.
He replies with indignation. Louisa's retort is angry, but as it so often happens, her anger quickly dissolves into tears. Passing his handkerchief back to her, more out of habit than of tenderness, he attempts to make sense of her outburst.
"Is this because of what happened at Sports Day?", he asks.
There is dejected resolve in her voice, and she is talking in circles of half-completed sentences. It is nearly impossible to follow her logic when she is this emotional.
He attempts to interject, to dispute her interpretation of recent events, but she continues until she seems to have exhausted her stamina. Even still, he questions her choice of Spain, and her mother, but she terminates the conversation, claiming fatigue.
He is distracted by the need to merge with the traffic. The overpass is busy here; once they're past the next exit it will clear up. By the time he is able to glance at her again, her eyes are closed, her lashes darkened with the remnants of tears. He listens to her breathing, steady and slow, as sleep claims her.
Martin returns his gaze on the road ahead and considers the predicament he now faces. He does not want Louisa to leave, of that he is certain. But how to convince her of this? His attempts so far have been ineffective. All he has done is further aggravate her; everything he says she takes as criticism.
She's not thinking logically, that much is clear. If she was, she'd realize that the most reasonable option would be for her to return home until she has recuperated from her injuries. Besides which, Martin is certain that travelling such a distance would be incredibly disruptive to James Henry's routine. A child of his age thrives on a predictable and consistent routine, something that will be in jeopardy with Louisa's plans to traipse across the continent.
Louisa is correct on one point, Martin admits to himself. Things are getting worse. He has been trying to keep it quiet, not wanting to say anything until he has a diagnosis, but his symptoms are increasing in frequency and severity, and yet he still cannot come to a conclusive diagnosis. He notes his current agitated state, and makes a mental note to run another battery of tests once they have arrived back at the surgery.
His passengers sleep until they reach Trewetha. As they round the second corner, the ocean comes into view, stretching out in unbroken blue. Martin cannot help but acknowledge the expanse of it. When he first moved to the village, he found the constant presence of the ocean to be irritating. The relentless noise of the waves as he tried to sleep, the constant screeching of the gulls, the ever present odour of the fishermens' hauls, all of it was an affront to the measured and civilized life of London to which he was accustomed. He had adjusted, of course, begrudgingly, and he now took little notice of the ocean's presence on a daily basis. But this view? It refuses to be ignored. No matter how many times he drives this road, even when he is dreading the imminent arrival back in Portwenn, as he is now, he takes a moment to acknowledge its ubiquity.
Martin looks over at his sleeping son, the corner of his favourite blanket clutched in his dimpled hand. In his customary manner, he gently places two fingers on the boy's forehead - a quick assessment of his well-being. Despite Louisa's accurate assessment that co-habitating with the baby is indeed disruptive for Martin, he is reluctant to visualize his daily life without his wife or his son. He has become accustomed to their daily routines, to their presence in his home. Their absence is a possibility he does not want to entertain. He will make one more attempt to convince Louisa to stay.
Martin glances back at Louisa, still sleeping. I should wake her, he thinks. Let her know that we are almost home. He calls her name, quietly, so as not to disturb James Henry, but the baby stirs regardless. Martin shushes him, hoping he will settle again. No luck. He sees Louisa rousing from the corner of his eye.
He clears his throat and mentions that they are almost home. He will carry in her bags, and James, of course, not wanting Louisa to aggravate her injury.
James begins to cry in earnest as soon as they pull into the laneway to park. Martin reaches over to unbuckle his son, and release him from the confinement of the infant seat. James is temporarily soothed in his father's arms, but Martin knows the calm won't last long. With Margaret likely waiting inside, and the villagers soon to congregate on his doorstep in order to ogle them as they return from the hospital, Martin knows this might be his last chance for a private moment with his wife.
He twists in his seat to face her.
"I... uh... I...", he stammers.
She lifts her head to meet his gaze, and he sees the redness of her eyes, the abrasion on her cheek, the weariness of her expression. Louisa frowns and his resolve evaporates.
"Erm… nothing." He lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding as James resumes his wailing.
"Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world,
do we begin to find ourselves…" ~ Henry David Thoreau