His mother looked so small in that small bed. He sat, feeling numb. He was unable to say any of the words he had murmured, as a priest, to sorrowful families seeking hope, or any of those she had said, as a shrink. Her face had changed. She looked so happy to see him. He felt the guilt for the first time. He had fled one woman but had left another.
- Hi, mom.
- Hi, Eric, honey, I'm so glad to see you.
- Is there any news? Do they know what you have?"
She shook her head feebly and it broke his heart.
- They've done so many tests. It's a good think I don't do drugs, I wouldn't find any available vein, now."
She shouldn't have said that. Laughing broke his last restraints. He didn't want her to see his tears, she needed him to be strong, not worry about him, but even sick, she was still his mother, and she leaned and brushed them away.
- I'll stay, mom, as long as possible.
- You know you don't have to?
He nodded
- I want to.
So, here he was, asking for a job. He wanted to be able to sustain himself here as long as his she needed him. Maybe he could make up for lost time. Besides, he needed to find a place, because staying with Sami wasn't possible, not for more than a few nights. Even though she offered, he knew it wouldn't work. He had a good resume, now. There was no prestigious newspaper in Salem, but the one there was would do. He wasn't writing, just taking pictures, so he would earn his living, quietly, keeping his heart focus on his mother's recovery. The word was dancing in everyone's head. Cancer. The doctors really didn't know.
He didn't have to talk much and it was a relief. He had been honest about his reasons for the job and the woman interviewing him had betrayed a touch of compassion, in the depth of her eyes.
- I know who you are, of course. The… scandal is only a year-old. But I don't see why you wouldn't be an adequate replacement. Our main photographer is getting married and left for Detroit. Your work speaks for itself. I'm not sure you'll be satisfied by the mundane nature of the assignments...
- I'll take it. I'm a professional. And it will be agreeable to do light work for a while.
He followed the assistant along the hallways, being told names he would have to remember, when his head was filled with sorrow and his body was strung. As he turned to the hallway, his camera fell. He bent down to grab it and check it wasn't damaged and that's when he heard a definitely urban-toned whisper behind him, a little too loud.
- Oh, that's the new hire? He looks hot as hell. I seem to remember I need photos for my next article..."
The voice was followed by a musical laugh.
He closed his eyes and tried walking away as if he hadn't heard, hoping she wouldn't realize, but the assistant stopped him.
- Oh, you must meet Ms. Walker! She's one of our star journalists. You'll be sure to work with her at some point."
He met her eyes. It was funny, after all this time, he still remembered them perfectly and yet, it was a shock. A blue so pale and yet so bright, an arctic light, that had warmed him. Now, he was paralyzed. The smile that he loved so much had turned into an embarrassed smirk. She was gracefully poised, her hand on a desk, her elbow gracefully bent, her body almost lax. Still the model, somehow.
- We've already met, Gabriel, thanks.
She spoke slowly, with a cool that was hard to bear. He didn't answer. He didn't even know if he could ever talk again. His muscles were failing him, breaking down one by one.
She did, though and it was less passionate than he would have dared... or hoped.
- I'm sure Mr. Brady will be a useful addition to the staff, we've worked together in the past. He's very talented. It's a good thing, I am very demanding on quality.
He looked down and gulped. His chest was pounding, his heartbeat was all over the place. He did find out how to talk to mumble some excuse to his guide and go outside to get some air. He didn't have room for all this. His mind was devoted to Marlena. Should he quit? He wouldn't find any other job in Salem and going to Chicago would be losing precious time commuting.
He went back inside when the trembling in his hands had subsided. She was still there, this time, sitting at her computer, typing furiously away. He couldn't help passing in front of her desk but she didn't react. Her hair was longer than the last time he had seen her. Her dress was longer too, and although you could never call what she wore 'modest', it was tamed down. She looked more like a business woman now. In his eyes, of course, she was also beautiful and warm, supportive and loving, as she had been when the roles were reversed and she was the one at the bottom of the ladder, but none of that showed. There could have been a glass between him and her at all times and it would feel the same.
He was given a cubicle, all bland, with a computer and a stylish chair, of the kind that was as uncomfortable as it was flashy.
- Sorry, it's a small space, but as a photographer; your main work won't take place here. You've been given a professional e-mail, I've noted the password on this paper. You can personalize as much as you want of course, as long as it's not offensive."
He had a small derogative smile
- I used to be a priest. I think my definition of offensive is far beneath yours.
He opened his session and logged in to choose a new password. There were already a few mails, waiting for him. Some about company policies, some about payment procedures and one for his first assignment. He opened it and flinched. The first word his eyes had caught where the name of the journalist who requested him. Nicole Walker."