Warnings for this chapter: Ableism


After awhile, sleep started to come a little easier, though her nightmares were still often occupied by images of Crane. Now, though, she saw him menacing someone else, someone she couldn't identify, while she stayed at a safe distance and watched from afar. Those dreams were somehow both better and worse than the ones she'd been having before. Becky tried not to spend too much time thinking about them, more concerned with reclaiming her life piece by piece. She worked, came home, locked her door and windows and tried to keep up with school. It was a monotonous existence that still felt like a victory in a small way.

The first week of November, when most of the leaves had abandoned their trees and left them trembling half-naked in the frosty air, Becky woke up on her day off and found to her delight that the weather wasn't completely intolerable. She spread the curtains of her bedroom window wide and looked out on the dingy street beneath the gray, overcast sky. It was the first time she'd opened them and let the sun stream in since Crane's lawyer-slash-henchman had shown up; it wasn't until she saw the wind sweeping through the trees and shaking their branches that she realized how cooped up she felt. When had she done anything even marginally recreational in the past few weeks? She couldn't think of anything.

Worrying her lip between her teeth, she weighed the idea of going out. It was a scary prospect, leaving the apartment to go somewhere she wasn't expected, where no one would think it odd if she didn't show up by a certain time. Work and school had a sense of safety to them in that respect: if she didn't show, someone might actually bother to look for her.

A dog barked beneath her window, hopping along in front of its owner and yipping with excitement. It was such a beautiful day…and who knew when the snow would come? It would be hard enough just getting to work and school on time then, it would be next to impossible to do anything remotely fun when the sidewalks were slick with ice.

Her mind made up, she bundled up in her coziest sweater, knit tights and jeans, put her leg braces on and loaded up on Ibuprofen to ease the swelling in her joints from a week of standing around at work. Carefully, she took her camera down from its top shelf in her tiny closet, the one thing of value that she owned. It had taken two years in high school to save up enough to buy it, and it wasn't even new when she got it, but it was precious just the same. The photos she'd taken with it were the only reason she'd snagged the modest scholarship that was helping put her through college.

While the photography school she attended was laughably tiny in comparison to the community colleges in Gotham that were basically punchlines, it was still a huge step up. To someone else, it might have seemed like a pittance, but to Becky it was a ray of hope—that maybe, someday, she could support herself with a job that wouldn't wear her down to nothing every day. The only alternatives were working a minimum wage job until she dropped over dead, or spending a few years—years that she couldn't afford not to work during—trying to get on disability.

The weather outside was brisk enough to make her ache, but it was more manageable than it could have been. For that she was thankful. Climbing on and off the bus was a challenge, but the art museum was worth it. In summer, she would have gone to Robinson Park to people watch and take photos, but fifteen minutes on a park bench in this weather would have been her limit, and she wanted—no, needed—more time than that.

Most museums in Gotham were in the middle of the city, smack dab in the most tourist-friendly part, and a lot of them didn't charge admission. Because there were sight-seeing tours trickling through the doors of the museums all day long, and a lot of the tourists were tired after hours of pounding the pavement outside, the museums provided plenty of places to sit and take a break to watch the patrons go by. The Museum of Film sometimes even had free film festivals that Becky took advantage of when she felt energetic enough to do more than work, attend class and sleep; they had comfortable seating, air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter. Best of all, none of the museums had "No Flash Photography!" rules. It was an ideal day out, as far as Becky was concerned. Free, accessible and full of interesting people to photograph.

After some thought, she decided today seemed like a Modern Art kind of day. She didn't feel up to traversing the dozens of steps up to the entrance of the Natural History Museum, and the Folk Art Museum was advertising the same quilting exhibit they'd had for six months. Becky didn't think she could stand another afternoon of taking pictures of mid-western grandmothers with fanny packs oohing and aahing over intricate stitching that all looked the same after awhile.

The museum wasn't particularly crowded, but there were enough people to suit her purposes. She chose a bench in a corner of one of the exhibit rooms that was more secluded than the others, amidst the cubist paintings, and sat down.

There was the usual mix of families—many with hyper or tired small children and bored teenagers checking their watches—and couples holding hands, ranging in age from their twenties to their sixties. She snapped a few shots of the intertwined, knobby fingers of one of the older couples, satisfied that she'd captured the moment the husband's wedding ring had caught the light. She wondered how long they'd been married; if theirs was the lifelong or the second chance at love sort of relationship. A little boy, fast asleep in his mother's arms with his head on her shoulder, was her next subject. Becky made a point not to get either of their full faces in the picture, letting the segments of their bodies tell the story of a sleepy child and a loving parent.

A handful of single museum patrons drifted through the room as the hours passed. A woman, graceful and tall, yielded a picture of bright green eyes behind black sunglasses studying a painting. A man, black vest, deep, deep emerald shirt rolled to his elbows, became a photo from the nostrils down, a smirk twisting his lips and his hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. Another woman, red hair, became a picture of her back, the focal point of the photo the old-fashioned seams running down the back of her dark stockings.

None of them noticed Becky, or if they did, they didn't mind her presence. People made a habit of treating her as invisible when she wore her leg braces; no one wanted to be caught mid-stare, so they did the opposite and avoided looking at her at all. The cane garnered the occasional looks of pity or disbelief that someone her age could possibly need it, but the braces were another story. Sometimes the invisibility bothered her; sometimes, like today, it was exactly what she wanted.

When her tailbone started to hurt from sitting in one position too long, and her stomach started to growl, Becky shifted and winced. If she'd had the money to waste, she would have stopped in the museum cafe, but a fifteen dollar gourmet snack was so far out of her budget it might as well have been on another planet. It would have been nice to have the option of grabbing a bite and squeezing some more pictures into her day, but it just wasn't feasible. Though she wanted to stay for several more hours, even if she didn't need to go home to eat, she was going to be bone tired by the time she got off the bus as it was; there was no way she could push herself any further. She had to get ready to head home.

But…

Though her every rational impulse was screaming at her to do otherwise, that Just a few more photos would be too many and she'd regret it later when she was too exhausted to make herself a dinner more complicated than a granola bar, she couldn't help herself. Becky lifted the camera to her eye, scanning the room for her next subject.

Ah. There. Business woman. She adjusted the focus on her lens and tried to pick a focal point. The hair pulled tight in a severe bun? No. Rigid shoulders and a pearl lapel pin? No. Shoes? Yes, the shoes. Black, alligator, silver buckles on the pointy toes; very chic. Becky smiled, but it faded as she tried to get the subject in the frame. The shoes were heading her direction in purposeful, steady strides.

Becky pulled the camera away, her eyes rising to meet the face of the woman. What she saw made her shoulders slump. Not her. Not today. Not now. It had been such a good day…

"Becky Albright! As I live and breathe!" From the wide, welcoming smile on her face, you'd never have guessed that the woman who scooped Becky up from her place on the bench had been one of her biggest adolescent tormentors. Heather Garski, leader of the second most popular clique in grade school, middle school and high school, forced a bear hug on Becky, which she endured with a wince arising from emotional discomfort rather than physical pain. "How are you?"

"I'm—"

Heather drew back and, looking at Becky's face, let out a dramatic gasp. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Stupid me, always forgetting how fragile you are!"

Of course. I'm uncomfortable, but it couldn't possibly be that you have no sense of personal boundaries, I must just be breakable. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"Here, let's sit down," Heather took her by the hand and led her all of two feet to the bench she'd already been sitting on, as though she couldn't make it on her own. "I don't want to wear you out. Now then, how are you?"

Becky put on the most convincing smile she could. She couldn't very well snap at her. No, never could snap at anyone for that kind of remark. Casual reminders of her disability and how it defined her in other people's eyes were easily defended as just being sensitive to your needs, Becky or just trying to help you out, Becky, not dehumanizing. Not being willing to be treated like a breakable object was deemed ungrateful and intolerable, lashing out at the poor, big-hearted people who only wanted to be nice; she just couldn't deal with that particular futile battle today.

"I'm doing okay. School, work, you know," she said pleasantly, making a fist with one hand and digging the nails into her skin to steady herself. "And my photography is keeping me busy, obviously."

If she tried very, very hard, she could block out the memories of overhearing Heather and her friends talking about how they felt so bad they just had to do something for poor, lonely Becky…how she was invited to sit with them at lunch, yet was still left out of the conversation because she was only on the outskirts of their group to make them feel altruistic. How, the first time a boy had asked her to a dance, it was only because Heather had asked him to, and how she was never allowed to carry her own things or go to the rest room unaccompanied at school because Helpful Heather went to the vice principal on a campaign to make her life 'easier' and 'safer' without consulting her. There were always kids who pointed at her and said she was weird and broken at school, and they were awful, but Heather and everyone like her somehow grated more. Sympathy—no, pity—was worse than whispers about how she must have been a secret cyborg to have metal things on her legs.

Becky shoved all those thoughts down and tried to focus on chit-chat. "Right now, I'm working on a photo series—"

"Well, you look fantastic!" Heather's face lit up. "And healthy!"

Becky felt the skin of her palm break under her nails. "So do you. What are you doing these days?"

"I'm a junior events planner," Heather said with a glimmer of pride. "I'm here to scope out the location for a gallery party, actually. What are you doing here?"

"Like I said, I'm working on a photo series…" She hoped she sounded enthusiastic enough. It was hard to tell; the conversation was making her feel crankier by the second. "I was about to go, though. I'm a little—"

"Tired?"

Oh, there was no point in contradicting her, it would just drag this torture out. "Yeah. I'm working long hours lately and with school and everything…."

"Are you still working at that little sandwich shop?" Heather asked. "I can't imagine being on my feet all day, it must just be awful for you. You know, you should look into a desk job."

Inside, Becky thought with marked sarcasm, No. Really? I never would have thought of that. Outside, she said, "I'm thinking about it."

Heather smiled at her with such genuine warmth Becky felt bad holding anything against her. "It was great seeing you. Do you want me to walk you anywhere?"

"No, I'll be okay." Becky slipped her camera strap over her head and got to her feet. "I'll see you around."

"I hope so." Heather jumped up and hugged her again. "Look me up sometime! We'll have lunch."

Becky spent her walk to the bus stop replaying the conversation and coming up with more clever things to say; angrier, more honest things. She spent her time on the bus feeling guilty about having any negative feelings about the whole thing at all. By turns she berated herself for not being angrier and for being angry.

The swirl of emotions only came to a stop when she reached the floor her apartment was on and found Janet Van Dorn standing in front of her door.

Becky blew some of her hair out of her face and sighed. Today just got better and better.

"Hello, Miss Van Dorn," she said, passing her by to stick her key in the door. She turned it in the lock and pushed the door open. "I guess I'm inviting you in, huh?"