Author's Note: Okay so I didn't want to try (and fail) writing the tragic details of the course of Michael's sickness, so I skipped a year like they did in season 1. The dates kind of jump around a bit from here on out so bear with me please.
And also if you haven't noticed, I added on to the prologue so go back and read that if you haven't already :))
-C.
Tom POV Over One Year Later . . . Present Day
"Christina you know he signed a DNR."
"And I told Dr. Spitzer that, but I couldn't get his file, and he was hell bent on saving David's life; not that I mind," she explained.
"You should mind. I don't want my patients to die, but I can't go against their wishes," I told her.
"He's not just any patient. He's our friend. He was Michael's friend," she said as I sighed.
"Explain something to me then. What the hell were you thinking up there?" I asked, livid. What'd she'd done was brash, crazy, and dangerous.
"Tom, not now," she warned.
"You should have called me."
"Should that have been while I was trying to talk David out of throwing himself off the ledge, or while I was getting arrested for 'breaching hospital security'?" she hissed.
I suppressed a smirk recalling the sound of her voice when she had called me from the police station earlier this morning, bringing back memories of me bailing her out of detention. It didn't change the fact that she had let him jump.
"It wouldn't have made a difference," she added.
"Wouldn't have made a difference?" I sputtered. "I can tell you one thing, if I had been there he wouldn't have jumped," I yelled, regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth.
"Well forgive me for wanting to help my husband's friend on the anniversary of his death."
"I forgot," I sighed. How could I forget that a year ago I helped my best friend bury her husband? "Maybe you should go - "
"I am home," she cut me off. "Besides, Bobby already tried. You're both stuck with me," she smirked, reaching into the front pocket of my scrubs to grab a green lollipop.
I silently prayed that she couldn't feel the effect that her mere smile had on me as my heart hammered in my chest.
Her phone beeped, tearing her eyes away from me. "I'll be there in a second."
I watched Christina tear through the hallway, not even pausing to say hello to everyone like she always did. She was always great with all of the personnel, and had most everybody eating out of the palm of her hand – except for some of the doctors – but deep down they knew there was a method to her madness. My long strides caught up with her quickly, and we rounded the corner into her office. She huffed into her chair noisily.
"Okay, so you came in this morning all smiles and sunshine, then you leave in a storm without explanation," I commented sarcastically.
"Would you like me to divulge my exact whereabouts at every second of the day?" she retorted.
"While I'm sure that'd be interesting," I said, meaning it; there was no telling what that woman was up to and how she managed to end up in certain situations. "I'd much rather you tell me what's really bugging you."
"Camille," she answered monosyllabically. As if that was the answer to everything.
"You say that just about every day, and I still can never anticipate the stories that follow," I teased.
"She hasn't been in school two hours, two hoursTom, and already I get a call from the principal's office," she groaned, running her hands over her face like she always does when she's frustrated.
"It can't be that bad," I baited.
"Oh it gets worse," she chuckled. "She managed to handcuff herself to a vending machine. And when they asked her to unlock herself and get back to class she went on a rant about how schools shouldn't be selling overpriced, processed garbage to its students. She held up the poor delivery man for an hour."
I laughed. "Don't be too hard on her," I advised as Christina quirked a brow up at me. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," I added, thinking back to when I had met Christina for the first time. Well, maybe met wasn't the appropriate term. I had mostly just stood there and watched her . . .
Tom POV August 1989
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. "Thomas! Thomas! Lèves-toi chérie! "
I groaned as I turned over in my bed. "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a maman?"
"Chou Chou you need to wake up if you're ever going to get used to the time difference," my mom cooed in her accented English. "Besides, I need you to run to the market for me while I continue unpacking. There's nothing to eat here," she continued, her voice muted by the door.
Maybe if I just ignore her she'll go away. I love my mother dearly, but couldn't I at least try to enjoy the last Sunday of summer before I have to face Monday at a foreign school in a foreign country?
"Come on Tom, I'm not ordering take-out again and surely you do not want to starve. Dépêches-toi."
"J'arrive," I say walking to my bathroom to brush my teeth.
I bound down the stairs a little while later, showered and awake as I kissed my mom good morning. "Bonjour maman."
"Bonjour chérie. The keys are on the table by the door. Be careful!"
Well at least there was one upside about moving to the States: I can drive now, whereas in France I'd have to wait another two years before I could get my license. I started the car ready to exercise my new-found 16-year-old freedom when I heard the God-awful beep. I checked the dashboard and sure enough, it was the gas gauge. Great. Mom must've forgotten to fill it up. I still didn't know where anything was, but I followed the main road looking for the nearest gas station. I pulled up to a Texaco, oblivious to a small crowd that was beginning to form around one of the pumps.
"Ten dollars on number 7 please," I ask the cashier, but his attention is elsewhere. Americans.
"What in the world is that girl up to now?" he muttered, shaking his head.
I looked up at the monitor behind him, determined to find what riveted him so when I saw it. One of the black and white panels showed footage of a girl about my age with wildly curly dark hair chained to pump number 9. My initial instinct was that she must be hurt. I run back outside thinking that I'd soon be witness to some oddly terrible American crime that would somehow make its way into French news. I stopped just shy of the group surrounding her, which had nearly double in size since I'd been inside. Why wasn't anybody doing anything?
"STOP THE CRUDE OIL SPILL IN THE AMAZON!" the tiny being yelled.
What on Earth is she going on about?
"MAKE TEXACO CLEAN UP ECUADOR!"
And that was when I noticed the signs.
"MAKE THEM PAY REPARATIONS TO THE CAFÁN!"
By now the news cameras had arrived, and the employees were filing out of the store. The one in the stuffy suit didn't look particularly happy.
"Are you insane?" the man screamed. She stared at him defiantly, her light brown eyes fiery and mischievous. "You get down here this instant! "
"No," she said coolly with a quirk of her eyebrow as she went back to repeating her mantra. "END THE CRUDE OIL SPILL IN THE AMAZON!"
"Either you end all this…this madness, or I'll have you escorted off the premises by security!"
"On what grounds?" she challenged.
"You are hindering business!"
"I am exercising my first amendment right to free speech. Ever heard of it? I'm not leaving here until you admit to dumping toxic waste into the rainforest!"
"As owner of this gas station, I am telling you to go practice your 'first amendment rights' elsewhere!" he hollered, a vein in his neck throbbing uncontrollably.
The girl ignored him and went right back to her shouting, further infuriating the man. He began shouting at one of the employees and she ran back into the store. "I thought the hippie movement ended two decades ago," he muttered to himself.
"Come on guys," she pleaded. "This fight has been going on for almost ten years. Innocent people are dying of cancer and unknown diseases. Babies are born and stop developing after six months. The soil is no longer arable because of the levels of petroleum in the soil. People can't raise animals because they die from the toxicity of the water from the river. They have no livelihood. No means to treat themselves because they cannot afford it. The Cafàn were a people who lived in peace before the arrival of Texaco and their drilling stations. They depend on the ecosystem for their survival. Make Texaco clean it up!"
The crowd began to cheer and police sirens wailed in proximity. The man in the suit approached one of the officers, talking excitedly. He pointed to the girl chained to the pump.
"Listen lady, I need you to get down from there so I can go back to doing real police work," the officer told her.
"No, I'm not leaving." She answered.
"Wait a minute Christina? I thought you promised me you'd stay out of trouble. Your mother's gonna have a heart attack if she has to pick you up at the station one more time."
So everyone knew this girl. And from what I observed, she was a regular. At the police station.
"I'm not in trouble per se," she argued.
"Come on, you know the drill," he said as he approached her with a pair of handcuffs.
"You still haven't read me my rights yet," she said pointedly.
"I would think that by now you'd have it memorized."
She opened her mouth, probably to say "I do", but was interrupted by a woman, who looked very much like her, pushing through the crowd.
"Christina, honey. I think you've made your point. Unchain yourself," she said.
"But mom," she pleaded.
"No buts. Come on honey let's go home," she said as she helped her daughter free herself.
The police officer disbanded the crowd, and I walked back to my car thinking what an odd display. I thought about what she said. I mean I'd never heard about the spill in Ecuador. I suddenly felt guilty putting gas into my car, but I had to get around somehow. I left Texaco that morning thinking two things:
This Christina girl was dangerous. And crazy.
Tom POV Present Day
"Yeah, yeah. Don't you go telling her that now. I don't need her finding any way to justify her actions, much less ways that include me," she warned.
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "My lips are sealed . . . for now," I joked.
A few moments of comfortable silence passed before she finally spoke again. "She still blames me you know. Not to mention Amanda."
"Well, you and I both know we did all that we could. And at the end of the day that's all that matters," I assured her.
"I should get back to work," she said. "And I'm sure the Chief of Surgery has something he needs to be doing other than talking to me," she teased.
"I'll always have time for you," I said honestly, right before my pager beeped. "Until one of my patients are about to go into surgery," I laughed. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah, later," she said.
"Oh, and don't forget we have a budget meeting later," I reminded her before dashing up to the OR.
So the budget meeting hadn't gone as planned. But with Christina nothing ever did. After she had chewed out Marshall for the incident involving Stein and the corporal, I ended the meeting once she randomly requested changing to a better smelling disinfectant for the janitors and enlisting every board member present into making origami centerpieces. She left my office with a shrug and I headed for the locker room, calling it a day. I hung my lab coat, changing into my civilian clothes when I heard the door open. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. "Are you heading out too?"
"I don't know if I should be alarmed, flattered, or just plain creeped out at the fact that you can sense my presence," she teased. "And yes, I'm going home."
"I'll wait for you," I said. "Listen, do you want me to stop by later? I'd hate for you to be alone."
"Well Camille is going to be with Amanda tonight, so the house will be pretty quiet. But I'll be fine. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company," she chuckled.
"Are you sure?" I asked as I tried futilely to not watch her change out of her scrubs.
"Yes," she drawled. "You and Bobby are ridiculous. Did you know she tried to cancel her date with Nick the paramedic so that she could spend the night with me?" she added, slamming her locker door shut.
She proceeded to tell me about the nutcase that had stabbed Bobby's prosthetic while trying to kill his wife, and rambled on about her day as we walked to the parking lot. Of course I had already heard most of this from the other doctors, but somehow it sounded more interesting coming from her.
"Goodnight, Christina," I said when we stopped at her car.
"Goodnight Tom."
Author's Note: A couple of the lines in the flashback are in French, but it's pretty easy to follow. And yes I am fluent in French, so I do realize when I read other stories and the French that they put in (I'm assuming from a translator) makes little sense.
And also as you'll notice, there are several issues that I am very passionate about that will be included in this story, the situation in the Amazon being one of them. This disaster doesn't get much attention in the news, and it's been going on for several decades now; it was an issue back in the 80s, and unfortunately is still an issue now. There's not much we personally can do; I've written letters to Chevron/Texaco (they've merged now), with little success, but I try to raise awareness whenever I can.
Here's the rest of the flashback if you'd like to read it.
Christina POV Summer 1989
I fumed for the entire ride home, and my mom just let me stew. I hated how nobody took me seriously. I hated that there was so much bad shit in the world that everybody just ignored. How could people just look away when there was so much suffering taking place? Unnecessary suffering. Suffering that could be easily ended if the right people decided to do something. Why wasn't I getting through to people?
"Christina, honey, I swear if you don't stop thinking so much those wrinkles will become permanent," my mom said.
Sighing, I continued staring aimlessly out the passenger window. I knew I was being immature and that my attitude was unwarranted – my mom could probably pop me upside the head any minute now – but I was feeling frustrated insignificant, and ineffective.
"Sweetie, you may have lost the battle, but you haven't lost the war," she quoted, trying to make me feel better.
"Mom, you say that every time you have to cart me home from one of my protests," I reminded her.
"And it's still true every single time," she said confidently.
"I'm a failure," I groaned dramatically.
"Now you know that's not true," she scolded, looking over at me. "You've had your fair share of successful demonstrations. And even then, it isn't always about winning; you have to pick your battles. Not everyone is always going to see eye to eye with you. You'll encounter people who are indifferent, and not every rally will be as effective as you hope. But at the end of the day, you will have done the right thing. You can't change people, Christina. But you can make them think. You can make them scratch their heads and say 'hold on a second, something's not right with this picture'. Even if that's all they do, it's a start. And that my dear is the seed for change."
I thought about what she said, and to my horror, my mom was making sense. By now we had pulled into our driveway, and I noticed the pile of boxes at the edge.
"I hope that's corrugated," I said as my mom chuckled.
"The new neighbors moved in recently," she told me. "And I hope you don't mind that I invited them over for dinner while you were out causing trouble."
"No, no problem at all," I shrugged as I headed up the steps to my room.
"Then it also won't be a problem if I ask you to help me clean up before they get here?" my mom shouted after me.
Tom POV Summer 1989
"Mom, I thought the objective was to unpack and put things in their place," I commented as I stood in her doorway. Her closet, which up until now had been almost completely organized unlike the rest of the house, was in complete disarray. Most of its contents were scattered on the bed and floor.
"Oh good you're back," my mom said. "What do you think?" she asked holding up two dresses that looked confusingly similar in each hand. Before I could answer she threw both of them on the floor saying "I know, they're too . . .tapageur."
I laughed at her tendency to resort to inserting random French words when she couldn't find their English equivalents fast enough. "Why are you so worried about what's too flashy or not?"
"The neighbors invited us for dinner later," she cooed, digging through a pile of shoe boxes. "Isn't that nice?"
"Yeah, I guess," I shrugged.
"I spent almost an hour on the phone with Charlotte even though I've never met her before. She was just lovely!" my mom praised. "Oh chérie, I'm sorry. I made you go to the market for no reason," she apologized.
"No worries, I'll just put the groceries in the fridge. We'll have it to cook with tomorrow," I said.
"Now go take a shower and put on something nice. We'll be expected before you know it."
"Isn't it a bit early for dinner?" I asked.
"Chérie, have you forgotten where we are?"
"Right," I answered.
"Dinner will be served around 6:30, but we need to get there earlier so we can talk. And help if need be."
We walked over next door at about 5:15, me feeling particularly dweebie in my button-down and slacks as my mom rang the doorbell.
I instantly recognized the woman who answered the door as the girl from the gas station's mother. "I'm so happy you could make it," she gushed as she ushered us inside. "Oh and you must be Tom. I'm Charlotte."
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs.-" I started, not realizing I didn't know her last name.
"Please call me Charlotte. Mrs. Stevens is my mother," she chuckled.
"Charlotte," I finished, shaking her hand as I leaned in to kiss her cheek. My mom did the same before handing her one of the bottles of wine my mom had shipped over from home.
"Amélie, you shouldn't have," Charlotte said.
"What kind of Frenchwoman would I be if I didn't bring any Sémillon to dinner," my mom joked. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?"
"You insult me," Charlotte clucked. "You're my guest."
"Nonsense," my mom said, following her.
My mom and Charlotte were engrossed in a conversation that I didn't even try to follow. Instead, I found myself wondering if her daughter was here. It'd be nice to know at least one person, even if said person was possibly a psychopath, before starting school tomorrow. Assuming we'd be attending the same school that is.
"Where's Christina?" my mom asked. My ears perked, suddenly taking interest in what they were saying.
"Oh, she's in the garage working on her latest . . . project," Charlotte hesitated.
"But school hasn't started yet," my mom pointed out.
"Oh it's not for school," Charlotte laughed. "Summer doesn't register the same way for her as it does the rest of the teenaged population. She's always up to something. I'll go get her. She'll never hear me over whatever she has playing on the turntable…"
"Let Tom go get her," my mom said. "They need to meet anyhow."
"Okay," Charlotte shrugged. "It's the door to your left at the end of the hall."
Stepping into the garage, I was surprised to hear Edith Piaf's "Padam" warbling through the air. While she was considered a timeless classic in France, most people my age didn't even know who she was. I probably wouldn't have if it weren't for the fact that my mother owned all of her records and still like to play them around the house. I glanced around the space searching for Christina and was about ready to go back inside and say she wasn't there when I noticed a small foot poking out from under one of the cars. I called out her name, but as predicted, she couldn't hear me. So I slid in under the car beside her.
"Oh my God!" she screamed, obviously startled. "Who are you and how the hell did you get into my house?" she demanded, scrambling to a stand.
"I'm sorry," I said excusing myself. "We just moved in next door, and your mom invited us for dinner. I'm Tom," I explained as I leaned in to kiss her cheek that was covered in car grease.
"Whoah there hot lips," she said pulling back from me. "I don't even know you."
"I was just saying hello," I said, confused. "Your mom sent me to get you. Dinner's gonna be ready soon."
"Crap," she muttered. "I lost track of the time. She's going to be pissed at me later," she said as she went inside. I watched in amusement as she tried to tiptoe past the kitchen unnoticed.
"For heaven's sake Christina," her mother exclaimed, "go put something presentable on."
"Sorry, got really busy, forgot we were having company," she called as she dashed up the stairs.
Moments later she came back down showered, and looking really pretty in a yellow sundress. She took the only empty seat beside me at the table.
"She's beautiful," my mom cried as she leaned over the table to kiss her. Christina stiffened, but she must've realized by now that this was customary for our family.
"Thank you," she said bashfully.
"And look at her hair! What do you use?" my mom asked.
"Oh I don't use hairspray," Christina quipped. "CFCs are bad for the environment."
"Of course," my mom agreed. "Aerosols were banned in my country years ago."
"Same here! But you'd be surprised at how many people still use them," Christina added, shaking her head.
"She looks like a regular gitain, right Tom?" my mom asked me. With her wildly curly, dark hair, and her armful of colorful, braided leather bracelets, she did kind of look like a gypsy. So I nodded my head yes.
"So what were you working on in the garage?" I asked.
"I'm trying to convert my car into a biodiesel," she said as her mom shook her head. "That way I won't be polluting the atmosphere, or our drinking water for that matter, and Texaco will never see a red dime from me again."
So for the rest of dinner we listened to Christina explain to my mother what happened at her demonstration earlier today, and how she was planning on making her car work on vegetable oil.
Yup, she's still crazy, I thought. And dangerous, I added as I pictured her blowing up her garage.
Author's Note: Please tell me I'm not the only one that thinkstonight's episode was ah-mazing!
