Cracked Eggs - an Utena story, sort of
by Kim Smuga-Otto
authors notes:
Hi, hope you enjoy the following work. Utena is one of my all time favorite series, and I'm going to do my best to write a story worthy of it. (Spoiler alert!! If you haven't seen all 39 episodes and movie, and you want the ending to be a surprise, do not read this fic (or any other "sequels") Trust me, its worth being surprised by the ending.)
Cracked Eggs takes place after the series and (most of) the movie ends and it's set in our world. This means no student council members running around with swords, no shadow girls, no Chu-Chu, no Utena. Well actually there is an Utena, and all the major charecters make appearances, just under different names. I know this is a bit non standard for fanfiction, but then I tend towards non standard stuff (see "Faster Kasumi! Cook! Clean!) Hope you enjoy.
And if you have comments or guesses for what's going on, I'd love to hear from you.
Chapter 1
It was the scent of roses that triggered his memory. A pink and white bouquet complete with babies breath was sitting on the receptionist's desk, obviously destined for some patient. Within the day, they'd acquire the sterile aseptic smell of everything else that came in contact with hospital's formidable cleaning staff, just another casualty in the never ending battle against the forces of bodily fluids and germs.
"I dreamt of roses." Miguel said, almost to himself.
"Really?" asked Caroline, the chief pharmacist who, like him, had just arrived at work, "And here I was ready to believe the rumors that you never sleep."
"I sleep." Miguel said, his voice soft-spoken but serious. "Just not much. And my dream . . . I had forgotten it until this moment. There was a garden beyond a gate, and I was waiting for someone to come out of it. My watch had stopped and I kept looking at it, trying to figure out what time it was. The smell," he indicated the bouquet, "it brought the dream back."
"Vat do you think it means, Doctor?" Caroline asked, her accent comic Viennese.
"I think it means I'm anxious for spring."
"Aren't we all? Bad news is, it's still January. Winter lasts a lot longer here in Michigan than it does in Southern California."
"I found that out last year."
Caroline rolled her eyes. "Last year hardly counts; you arrived in March. Oh," she said suddenly, "Miguel, did you hear? Sleeping Beauty woke up."
"Sleeping Beauty?"
"You know, in ward four. The LaCiel girl. She woke up last night."
"LaCiel." realization dawned, "She's Jordan's patient, isn't she? Did he change her medication?"
"No, she's not on any drugs. What I heard from the on-duty attendant is that she just sat up and asked where she was. Nearly gave him a heart attack. Got to love working in a mental hospital - always something happening."
"She's been classified as a vegetable for what, five years?" Miguel shook his head in wonder.
"Must be more like ten. She predates me. They used to keep her in the children's wing then. She was so tiny, couldn't have been over ten back then. Just lying there all the time . Made me appreciate my own hyperactive kids, let me tell you."
Miguel thought back to his most recent visit to ward four several months ago. LaCiel had been arranged in a wheelchair by the window giving the impression that she was looking out on the autumn colors. Everything about her, from her almost atrophied legs to the drool that ran down her slack jaw spoke to the failure of his profession. A poster child for those who no miracle drug or treatment would reach.
And that was all the thought he had given her. She was not his patient. Not his responsibility. Professional detachment kept him sane, and it kept his energies focused on the ones that stood a chance. To devote himself to ones like LaCiel, the living shells, could only end in failure, draining him in the process. It was a mistake he couldn't afford to make again.
Except now that shell was awake. As a scientist, he wondered how this happened. As a human, he wondered, why? A child in a woman's body, what would she make of this world, what would the world make of her? And her past, what demons might it contain? To the psychiatrist who attended her she would pose a plethora frustration and rewards.
"I know that look." said Caroline, the wicked smile dancing once more upon her lips.
"What?" replied Miguel, his eyes admitting nothing.
"You want her, and you're planning how to get her. How to convince Jordan, and, if that doesn't work, the board, that you're this girl's best hope for recovery and a normal life. And you'll do it too." She shook her head.
"I-"
"Don't apologize. You'd be the egomaniac doctor in every administrator's worst nightmares, except that you really are gifted. Go talk to Jordan, his caseload's too full to give her the time she needs. I'm sure he's looking for a way to offload her. Sooner better that later, in case anyone else is looking to get her. And, Miguel," she said as she turned to leave, "do good by her. From what I remember of her story, it isn't pretty."
Dr. Jordan Bank's office was on the second floor of the only original wing of the state hospital. It overlooked the now frozen creek, had real plaster moldings around the windows, fine oak floors, ten foot-high ceilings and, hanging above the polished cherry desk, an almost antique fan that hummed gently as it circulated the air. There was much speculations over who the office would go to when the good doctor retired, most bets being placed on various administrators.
That Jordan was able to secure this office in the first place was due to the anti-psychotic drugs which revolutionized psychiatry in the late sixties. In a fit of administrative optimism, most of the grand old state mental hospital was demolished. All but the most catatonic patients were given over to the care of halfway houses scattered around Michigan proper and its upper peninsula. The remaining wing, devoted almost entirely to administration, was quiet, sedate, and unimportant enough to give a doctor such as Jordan a very choice office.
As the hospital's wards filled, as additional wings of the low ceiling, small window, and wood paneling were hastily built, as more ambitious and modern doctors entered the system, Jordan managed to hang onto his office only because of his good nature. He was a sweet man, conscientious to a fault, always willing to concede to newer and better-trained doctors.
Everyone in the hospital was fond of the old fellow, even Miguel.
Which still didn't make the geezer any less irritating, thought Miguel, as he listened to the man rattle on about the case.
"Actually, I only took it over about five, six years back. I was present, of course, when she was first admitted. Quite a big fuss, police and press everywhere. I even met a few FBI agents. It's all there in the file."
He gave the two large boxes next to him a friendly pat, raising a small dust cloud.
"Naturally," he continued, his voice rising and falling in a singsong manner, "the case was first given to Dr. Aston, who, much like you are now, was the young genius upstart. Bit of a fuss was made about it at the time, and still more when it came out how hopeless the whole thing was, but I think he gave it his all. I don't think any of us could have done better, and there were a few who might have done worse. You know, odd ideas about certain procedures . . ."
His voice trailed off and a slightly distressed look came over his face. Professional manner, Miguel noted grimly, it covers our faux-pas so conveniently. He felt no need to relieve Jordan's discomfort by rushing in with stories of his personal experiences with "certain procedures." After a moment, Jordan composed himself anew and continued with his reminiscence.
"That was about ten years ago. Still, I'm sure you must have heard something about it. I remember my sister calling me up about it. She was living in California at the time and said it was on all the news shows."
"I wasn't paying much attention to television back then." Miguel said. He let his statement hang in the air, savoring the paled look of Jordan's face.
"I'm sorry, was that when - ?"
"-I was in medical school," Miguel finished for him. "First year. World war could have broken out and I wouldn't have noticed. But you were saying . . ."
"Oh, yes. Well, the press had a heyday. It's all here, every major story." Back on more comfortable territory, Jordan regained his former rhythm. "Dr. Aston was very precise with his record keeping. I read it all when he turned the case over. His wife was offered a position at the NIH headquarters and he transferred away to Virginia.
"I called him about the case first thing this morning. But he agreed it would be better if someone else took it; it's been so long, and now most of his work is with rhesus monkeys, purely basic research. I was going to approach either you, or Dr. Ito, to see if you'd be interested. I was very impressed with your work on the Matheson case . . ."
"I am interested," Miguel said quickly, hoping to keep him from wandering onto another subject. "I find the whole situation fascinating and quite challenging. There are so many aspects to Tamara LaCiel's case, so many things to be considered."
Dr. Jordan nodded, as if in agreement. "Tamara LaCiel. You know, we don't even know if that's her real name."
It was past noon when Dr. Jordan finally finished his reminiscences of the case, just past seven when Miguel wrapped up his own daily commitments, and well past three in the morning as he finished reading the LaCiel file.
He'd barely noticed the time. The instant soup he'd made for himself was untouched and stone cold in the office's small microwave. The cleaning staff must have emptied his wastepaper basket, but he didn't recall seeing them.
His mind was swimming with the details of the case: the news reports, FBI files, interview transcripts, and medical records. It surprised him that he hadn't heard anything about it at the time, but that was before he had met Theresa. Back when he hadn't yet woken up to a world outside of classes and learning. Seventeen year-olds could be so oblivious.
And the case had faded fast in the public's mind, once it turned out there was no happy ending to the fairy tale the press had made out of it. He really didn't blame them. Tamara was a modern version of sleeping beauty, if you were to substitute a snow-covered car wreck for a castle encircled with thorns, a weekend-long blizzard for a hundred years of isolation, and the fading warmth of her dead parents' bodies for a fairy's prophecy , it seemed only right that the prince of modern medicine should be able to awaken her. Besides, she'd been discovered two days before Christmas Eve, a season ripe for miracles.
He wondered what her life would have been if she had awoken back then. A minor celebrity, adoption into a kind and loving family, college funded by selling her story to a made-for-TV movie. And now? Would anyone care? Probably not. And that was for the best.
She'd appreciate the quiet. He knew he had. The thought stopped his musings temporarily. For an instant the old fear was back, overwhelming his thoughts. Miguel felt his chest tighten, his hear race, felt sweat on his brows as he gasped for air. He should give up the case, give up his position, get far away, now! And then the panic was gone, only uneasiness remained.
"I think I need some sleep," he said aloud. Three hours should be enough.
He kept some hospital-issue bed sheets in his desk drawer, along with a sleeping shirt and a change of clothes. It came in handy when he worked late. The patients' couch doubled nicely as a bed and there were plenty of showers. If rent in Ann Arbor weren't so cheap, he'd almost consider camping out in his office permanently.
It was just tiredness, nothing else. The case would work out fine. He'd had such anxiety attacks before, and they'd always passed. This thought didn't really relieve him but he must have been tired, because he fell asleep as soon as he lay down.
He dreamed he was riding in a car in a snowstorm. Neither the man driving nor his female companion would turn around or speak to him so he could only stare at their light and dark hair, respectively. In the seat next to him sat Manuel, who kept demanding a Happy Meal so he could collect the complete set of magical swords. When Miguel awoke at half past six, he remembered none of this. A press reporter charged with finding "Sleeping Beauty" would walk right by Tamara, Miguel mused. That was because people expected coma victims to be untouched and eternal, despite the long years of immobility and getting only the minimum exercise time from the overworked staff. They viewed comas as everlasting sleep, and sleeping people, with their muscles relaxed, the the stresses and pettiness of their expressions absent, could be so beautiful. Most never considered how daily exercising of muscles, even the act of talking, shaped and toned the individual, and how, in the absence of such daily movements, the patient's form contracted and tightened.
That being said, Tamara LaCiel looked to be in remarkably good condition. Her dark skin was splotchy, her black hair dull, her fragile limbs unnaturally curved, her weight badly distributed and her jaw stuck out at an odd angle, but Miguel had seen much worse.
It was her eyes that gave him hope. They had a sharpness to them that seemed out of place with her situation. She looked at him with a measured curiosity that seemed to belong more to a person of her biological age than the child she actually was.
"There's more to her than you'd think." The chief nurse told him. "She hasn't asked too many questions, or said much for that matter. You get the feeling she's waiting for something."
The girl had just been fed breakfast and was propped up on pillows. Miguel sat down on a chair opposite her and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
She smiled back. You couldn't call it beautiful, the unpracticed muscles of her face didn't have enough control, but it looked looked genuine and familiar. He found himself wondering if he'd ever given his caretakers such a smile, and felt his heart race.
Contrary to the opinions of those who knew his history, he had not changed his profession to psychiatrist out of some new found sympathy for the mentally afflicted. Emergency trauma provided more than enough of those. And while he felt a certain amount of empathy for his patients, he never felt the urge to compare their experiences to his own.
But now, looking into Tamara's eyes, he couldn't keep from making comparisons. But there weren't any really. They had been expecting him to regain consciousness. His mother had been practically camped in his room. Several of his former classmates were working at the hospital. And Theresa, Theresa had barely left his side that first day he awoke. As a doctor he understood all the terms that were used, took for granted all the explanations for events he could no longer remember. Why then, did this girl's plight resonate so strongly?
The memory surged up without warning, commanding his full attention, immersing him in the experience.
He was still confined to bed, but they had left the window open and he had been absently staring into the courtyard. There was a gently breeze playing though lush trees, their canopy almost completely obscuring the walking path beneath. Still, he could catch glimpses of young people, students most likely, walking this way and that. He was watching for one student in particular.
The door opened and a woman he recognized walked in. Miguel felt shame welling up inside, mixed with regret. He had deceived her, used her. And there were others, so many others twisted to his will.
"I'm sorry," he had cried out, the horror of it becoming more and more clear, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-"
"No," she had rushed to his side, "No, Miguel, it's all going to all right now."
Miguel. It was his name. And standing before him, holding his arms tightly in case he might hurt himself was Theresa. Her face, lit by the cold November sunlight, was real and concrete, driving away whatever dream state he'd been in.
He was Miguel Sanchez and she was Theresa Sanchez-Phillips, and his window, four stories up, looked out onto the main parking lot. This was reality.
But for a moment, before Theresa had spoken his name, he had been somewhere else, had been someone else. Now this other person was gone, vanished from his mind, disappeared into oblivion because Theresa had not acknowledged him.
He grasped Theresa tightly, pulling her close. Grateful with all his being that she had chosen him, not the other, and frightened beyond measure that someone could wield such power over him.
He'd often wonder how much of that terrifying delusion was due to messed up brain chemistry or lingering hallucinations from his sickness. After they adjusted his medication, it all seemed quite silly. His personality, developed over the twenty-three years of his existence, couldn't be erased as easily as that. No matter what creations his addled mind might have invented, it couldn't override who he really was.
Tamara was still smiling at him, or perhaps smiling at an imaginary person in an imaginary world made real over these last ten years. And if he spoke her name now, crumbling that other reality, would she return to being a frightened orphan child?
What if instead of Tamara he spoke her other name, her true name?
"My name's Dr. Miguel Sanchez." He said, sidestepping the imaginary conundrum he'd created, "You can just call me Miguel."
"Miguel." She repeated. Her voice was weak, even raspy.
"I'm going to be one of the people helping you. Like the nurses, and attendants but different. We're going to meet every day, and you can ask me questions, and I'll probably ask you questions in return. But you don't have to answer anything you don't want to."
Tamara nodded. Miguel knew the nurses had already explained this to her. She was really a child, he reminded himself. He had never trained as a pediatrist, and all his psychiatric patients had been adults. His experiences with children were more personal; he'd have to brush up on the literature tonight.
"Why?" she asked, a picture of Manuel when he hit his inquisitive stage
"It's my job, to help people with their problems. To talk and work things out."
"I don't have any problems." Tamara held his gaze. Curiosity had turned to defiance, but that was typical with new clients.
"Well, then maybe I can ask you some questions."
"Okay." She said, her guard firmly up.
"Remember, you don't have to answer if you don't want."
It seemed to relax her, slightly, "Okay."
"What's your name?"
She paused for a moment and then said, a bit doubtfully:
"Tamara."
The nurses had been told to avoid calling her by name, but there might have been slips, especially when she first woke up.
"Do people always call you Tamara, or do they have other names for you?" He asked, trying not to lead.
"I think," she said slowly, "people used to call me something else, before."
The muscles of her face tensed as she spoke the last word, giving Miguel a glimpse of the woman she could become given proper exercise and therapy. High cheek bones, large eyes, heart shaped face, the girl would be quite the looker.
"Do you remember anything from before?" It wasn't the question he had been planning on asking.
"Do you mean last night? Or . . ." Her voice trailed off and she got a distant look in her eyes. "I remember dying. And there was white, everywhere."
