"I really like that Ben Carson fellow," began Charles Westmore, pausing to dab the corners of his lips with a napkin before continuing, "He's a doctor you know. You can always trust a doctor. Moreover, this nation could use another black president — albeit one that will uphold the Christian values from which this nation was founded unlike Mr. Obama."
"Mhm," hummed Rochelle in agreement as she took a sip of wine, "Obama's got a handsome face and all, but the man prides himself in enabling the homosexual agenda and seems fairly content with the murder of unborn babies. Uh uh, that man needs to get right with the Lord. Tsk, what a shame."
"What are your thoughts on Carson, Michonne?" queried Charles as he gestured in his daughter's direction with the wine glass fit to his palm, its crimson contents sloshing around before he downed half the glass in one swig.
Much to her father's dismay, Michonne simply blinked and continued to stare intently at the back of the sofa when she was summoned to give her opinion, absently twirling the bundle of linguini on her plate.
Somewhere between hearing the phrases 'Ben Carson' and 'homosexual agenda' Michonne had mentally checked out of the conversation. Given her relatively 'liberal' beliefs, (she found that labels, at least in this context, only stunt cooperation) her friends and colleagues were always surprised to find that Michonne's parents were raging, black conservatives — a rare breed that made up for their scant numbers in political fervor. It only made sense that their premier offspring had developed a brilliant mind and quick wit for a career in law; however from a young age, Michonne was determined to form her own opinions based on scientific data and historical fact. So yes, she believed in global warming. Yes, she believed in contraception, and. Yes, she believed women have the right to choose. That being said, her tongue often had to navigate the fences in her speech when it came to dealing with her beloved parents.
"Mich, sweetie..?" Rochelle called, gently shaking her daughter's shoulder. Michonne's glazed expression fell away as her features softened, her mother's voice permeating her thoughtless daze.
"Huh? Oh yeah, um the founding fathers ascribed to deistic theology, so I wouldn't say this country was specifically founded on Christian values, especially considering that at one point, the constitution condoned the enslavement of africans under the institution of white supremacy. While the thirteenth amendment referred to blacks as three-fifths of a human being, the book of Galatians tells us that we are all one in Christ regardless of sex, race, or status, and yet the plunder and subjugation of black bodies continued to take place under the banner of a white God for centuries in the United States. As for Ben Carson, well, I don't believe that his surgical background indicates any level of political aptitude, however I commend his achievements and respect his tenure in the medical community," Michonne stated respectfully, purposefully avoiding the mention of homosexuality or legalized abortion to keep the peace.
Her parents just looked at each other and smiled, most likely ignoring most of what she'd said but indulging in how well-spoken their daughter had become.
"Well do you hear this one? No wonder our baby is such an excellent lawyer," her mother said as she cut into a meatball.
"Now if only she could stop playing with her food," her father chortled, calling attention to the entire plate of pasta wrapped around his daughter's fork. Michonne glanced down, flushing slightly when saw the tightly wound bundle of pasta. Her parents always managed to make her feel like she was a clumsy twelve year old all over again no matter how poised she'd become with age.
Michonne picked up her glass of white wine for the first time and sipped it quietly, frowning as the flavor dissolved on her tongue. Dry.
"Mm, Mich, I've been meaning to ask, whatever happened to your assistant? Ah, I can't seem to remember her name. You two were so close, but I don't recall seeing her at the engagement party.." Rochelle trailed off, trying to figure out whether she was just being forgetful or if there was something she'd missed.
Michonne opened her mouth to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. She raised her hand to her temple as she felt the signs of a migraine coming on, but she coolly played it off with a smile.
"Andrea was just a colleague, mom. She helped me stay organized, and you know, we'd chit chat every once in a while, but that was really it. After a few months, she was offered an internship at another firm and I let her go," Michonne quickly summed up before standing and clearing her throat. "Excuse me for a moment, I'll be right back."
Michonne exhaled deeply once she was out of sight. Naturally she sought out the bathroom where she could talk herself down from the anxiety and touch up her make up.
"What is going on with me tonight, and where the hell is Mike?" she sighed as the turned the handle and leaned her body weight into the bathroom door only to be met by her little brother sitting on the toilet.
Michonne let out a shriek upon seeing the "intruder", startling Noah and prompting him to cry out as well.
"Oh Jesus, Michonne. Why did you have to scare me like that?!" He panted, his hand placed over his heart as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Why did I scare you?!" Michonne exclaimed incredulously, completely in awe at her brother's nerve. "Noah, what in God's name are you doing in my house?"
"Taking a dump. Duh," He snickered, gesturing to the jeans pooling at his ankles.
Luckily for Michonne, his shirt was long enough to cover his private area — not that it was anything she hadn't already seen given the copious amount of diapers she'd changed in her teen years.
Unfortunately for Noah, his sister's patience was thinning exponentially, and he'd caught her at a particularly bad time. Before he knew it, she had one hand on her hip and the other on his ear about to rip it off as she shot him the meanest death glare she could muster.
"Boy, if you don't stop playing games with me, I will march your pasty butt out there and tell mom and dad what you've been up to," Michonne threatened.
"So I snuck into your house. Big whoop. You really think they'd care about that?"
"Maybe, maybe not," she began, a sadistic sneer growing on her face as she tugged that much harder, "However I do think they'd be interested in you wiping J.J's fingerprints from that stolen pick-up truck. You know tampering with evidence is a federal offense, right?"
"Of course. I think we both know that considering I've done it for you a few dozen times."
"The only difference? I took pictures of you helping out your little friend. Whoops," Michonne shrugged, letting go of of her brother and letting him fall back against the porcelain tank.
"Whoa, slow your roll there, Chonne. Let's not be hasty now," Noah pleaded, placing his hands up in surrender.
"You really are your father's child," Michonne chuckled, rolling her eyes at their comparative gestures before crossing her arms, "Okay, now spill."
"Okay, okay… It's really not a big deal though. Mike wanted me to come over to help clean up his car. He hit a black bear on the way home, and they're endangered. He wanted me get rid of the evidence, replace the windshield, and fix the cracked bumper."
"Wait, Mike's home?" she asked, knitting her eyebrows together before peeking her head out of the bathroom door, only to hear Mike's voice and her parents' laughter echoing throughout their home. Her tense features immediately softened as she stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her, completely ignoring Noah's request for more toilet paper.
She sauntered back into the living room where she watched her fiance and parents bond through amicable conversation. Michonne couldn't help but smile at how natural their interactions were. Mike was just so… perfect.
"I see someone finally decided to show up," she stated sarcastically, her voice laced with enthusiasm that she was trying to mask.
Mike looked up from the table, smiling when he saw Michonne's voluptuous form in the flesh for the first time that evening. He stood up and quickly made his way over to her, placing a chaste kiss on her luscious lips.
"I'm sorry I'm late, honey. The traffic was so bad out there," Mike lied, hoping Michonne wouldn't pick up on the flash of anxiety in his dark pupils.
"I know your secret," Michonne whispered just loud enough for the two of them to hear.
"What..?" He questioned, a look of genuine terror overtaking his mildly handsome features. He had to get out. Now.
"You hit a bear," Michonne smirked, smoothing her palm along his cheek.
He let out an internal sigh of relief, the color beginning to diffuse back into his face. However his obscure body language hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Noah ratted you out," she said, nodding toward the hallway where the downstairs bathroom is. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble." She smirked, reaching up to straighten out his collar.
"Oh thank goodness," he feigned relief, pulling her closer to place a kiss on her forehead. She hummed softly in response, enjoying their private moment together.
Just then, Michonne heard the bathroom door open, and Noah soon appeared from the dark hallway.
"Hey, everybody," said Noah nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just appeared out of nowhere.
"Noah? What are you doing here?" asked Rochelle, unaware that her son had been invited to the dinner.
"Ooo, is that spaghetti and meatballs?" Noah ignored his mother's question, ready to pull out a seat for himself at the table.
"I invited him," interjected Mike, coming up behind Noah to pat him on the back, "No family dinner would be complete without the whole family."
"Come on over here, boy. Sit next to your old man," Michonne's father chimed in, motioning for Noah to take the seat beside him as Mike sat down at the head of the table.
Michonne eventually took her place at the table as well, but didn't share in the overall jubilance of the evening. Something was off. She just couldn't place her finger on it. Around the table, everyone bowed their heads in prayer except Michonne. She just sat back in her chair, Mike's odd behavior stewing on her mind.
"Amen," they concluded the prayer in unison.
Mike lifted his head and looked lovingly upon the smiling faces of his soon to be family but averted his eyes when he found a his fiancee's gaze fixed on his, her expression clouded in concentration.
"Alright, everyone, let's dig in. Lord knows I'm starved after day I've had, " said Mike, the skin below his eye twitching inadvertently.
"I know that's right," her father quipped, his hearty laugh filling the room as he spooned another forkful of pasta.
'Right,' Michonne thought. Something was definitely up.
{Divider}
Rick fumbled with his house keys to lock to door before taking off in a full on sprint toward his red pick-up truck. He slammed the door and floored the gas pedal with little regard for any of the surrounding vehicles as he broke his parallel park.
It was difficult to keep his eyes on the road as he blinked profusely in an attempt to keep the tears from flowing. The same tears he'd been holding back since he knocked on his neighbors' door and begged Maggie and Glenn to watch Judith due to a 'family emergency'. Rick promised he'd be back as soon as the situation would allow to which Maggie kindly allayed that he take all the time he needed. Rick felt grateful for the young couple, but guilt immediately followed, knowing very well he wouldn't have made their acquaintance if Lori hadn't brought them a housewarming gift upon moving in next door. In actuality he had Lori to thank for most things: supporting him through times both good and bad, the occupation he previously held, and more recently, his beautiful baby girl. And yet, his love had run dry.
"Oh shit," he blurted as he swerved to the right, nearly colliding with an SUV after having drifted into the wrong lane. Rick made a hard left, turning into the hospital's emergency parking lot. He glided into the first spot he laid eyes on, bringing the car to an abrupt halt before making a dash for the automatic double doors.
The waiting room was vacant, save for a middle aged man with a bandaged arm. Rick walked briskly as he made his way up to the front desk, his features plagued with desperation.
"How can I help you, sir?" the woman asked routinely, not bothering to look up from her computer screen.
"My boy, Carl Grimes– he was struck by a vehicle tonight. The police said they brought him here. I'm his father, Rick Grimes. I need to see him now. It's urgent," Rick asserted, his voice cracking as he pressed crescents into his palms.
"Carl Grimes…" the woman trailed off, smacking her lips as she entered his name into the system, the screen's dull glow reflecting in her eyes as she scanned the list of patient names, "Ah, Carl Grimes, room 23. Go right ahead, sir," was all she had to say for Rick to take off again.
He jogged down the expressionless hallway, earning strange glances from a pair of nurses on their lunch break. Just as Rick veered toward the room labeled '23', he bumped into a doctor exiting the patient's chamber.
"Sorry, excuse me," Rick mumbled haphazardly as he pushed past the young man.
"Whoa sir," the doctor warned as he grabbed onto Rick's forearm, pulling him back, "You are not allowed to go in there. That patient has experienced severe head trauma and is currently recovering from brain surgery."
"That patient happens to be my son. Now the hell off me," growled Rick, easily freeing himself of the young man's weak grasp, and in doing so, failing to heed his warning before disappearing behind the mint curtain.
"Sir, please!" the doctor called after him, knowing that this wouldn't end well for the boy's father. He followed after Rick, but it was already too late.
Rick stopped short in the corner of the room as he beheld his son's angelic features beneath the artificial white lighting, marred with thick, black stitches and his head shaved where the surgeon had prodded his instruments. His heart dropped into a bottomless pit as felt everything at once and then went completely numb, just as it had been when metal chanced Carl's tender flesh. The young boy heard the first 'snap' as he felt the steel bumper crush his ribs, he had felt the moment his skull split open, warm sanguine blurring his vision and matting his hair, the wound crusting over like stale sugar. He felt how excruciating it had been to breathe with only one lung as blood filled the other, and the roar of the engine silencing his sprightly dreams. Carl had felt it all. And then there was nothing.
"Mr. Grimes, is it…?" the doctor addressed Rick hesitantly.
Only silence pervaded the space between them.
"We have a visitor's suite where you can stay for the night if you'd like," the doctor offered apologetically.
"What's the prognosis?" Rick finally responded, disregarding the doctor's offer.
"Excuse m—"
"Carl's prognosis for fuck's sake! What is it?!"
The young man took a deep breath before lifting the clipboard at his side, realizing just how heavy his limbs had become. He readjusted his glasses before reading his notes out loud, his speech cautioned as if trying to spare Rick's ears:
"Carl sustained various injuries, some less debilitating than others for example: a fractured jaw, a dislocated shoulder, and heavy bruising on his legs and abdomen. However your son is also suffering from a concussion, internal bleeding, and nerve damage. Cognitive impairment is guaranteed. Not only is there severe trauma to his frontal and occipital lobes, but we've also isolated spinal damage in his lower lumbar region. It pains to inform you, Mr. Grimes, but there is a very large possibility that Carl may never walk again."
{Divider}
The clock sitting at Carl's bedside shifted to display 2:37 a.m.
Rick's eyes were bloodshot as he continued to stare at Carl's lifeless form from across the room. According to all the plastic tubes and machinery, his son's vitals were fine, and yet, Rick felt he had already lost him. 'Cognitive impairment' was a very broad term, Rick learned. For all he knew, his son could wake up be a completely different person. All of their fond memories – trips to the beach, going to the park, not so cherished family get-togethers – gone in a matter of seconds, having erupted from Carl's vessel and spilled out onto the unforgiving pavement.
Rick's stream of conscious was suddenly interrupted by a loud gasp. In a matter of seconds, Rick's weary frame sprung from the armchair and closed the space between him and the hospital bed. Carl's eyes shot open, regaining consciousness for the first time since the accident as his lungs struggled to inflate. He was beginning to panic.
"It's okay," Rick comforted, his own breathing becoming ragged as he watched his son struggle to achieve such a simple task, "Just follow me, okay?"
Rick had to shut his eyes, biting back the tears that had been threatening to fall all night. He needed to be strong for Carl.
"Breathe in," he said, demonstrating by taking in an exaggerated breath. Rick couldn't help but smile when he saw Carl calm down enough to follow his instructions.
"And out," Rick said before they exhaled in unison. "You're doing great, buddy. Just keep that up. I'm here," he whispered, fearing that talking loudly might frighten the boy in his fragile state.
Rick stood in comfortable silence, listening to Carl's evening breaths. He closed his eyes, clinging, meditating to the sound of sweet life flowing through his first born. He knew now after listening to hours of the respirator forcibly pumping oxygen into Carl's body how euphonious the sound of manual breathing truly was.
"D-d..da.." the boy stuttered, struggling to get out the consonant.
"Shhh, it's okay. You need to rest," Rick assuaged, gently stroking his fingers through his son's wiry bangs.
"D-dad," Carl breathed, the corner of his lips turning up slightly.
Rick's heart fluttered upon hearing the single syllable phrase, tears of joy welling up in his eyes and overflowing onto cheeks.
However the moment was short lived as Carl's breaths suddenly became erratic, each one drawing shorter than the last as his body began to convulse.
"Carl… Carl!" Rick shouted, his frenzied mind pleading with the Lord to bring his boy back to him – boy that was present just moments ago. The convulsions were only getting worse as his sons eyes rolled back in his head and he began foaming at the mouth.
"Help! Someone help me, please!" Rick called out, consequently lurched forward, holding down Carl's limbs as the seizure ravaged his weakened body.
The emergency staff suddenly began flooding into the room, and the first thing they did was pry Rick from Carl's quaking body. At this point Rick's legs could no longer carry him as he collapsed, sobbing onto the sterile tile, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he watched a nurse inject a sedative filled syringe into his son's neck.
"Why God," he pleaded as he room began to spin, "It should have been me, it should have been me," he repeated the mantra as he began to fall in and out of consciousness.
{Divider}
Rick let out a loud groan at the dull ache in his temple, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal his wife pacing back and forth. It seemed he had been placed in a room of his own after passing out in the midst of all the commotion.
"Lori," Rick called out, relieved to see a familiar face in all of this.
She turned to look at him, newly aware of his conscious state as a scowl formed on her lips.
"Good, you're awake. Now you can sign the divorce papers," Lori announced apathetically before turning to the doorway, "Banks, we're in here."
A rather plump man in a suit appeared in the doorway and quickly made his way over to Rick, presenting him with a clipboard containing the divorce papers and a shiny, ball point pen. Rick couldn't even begin to process the situation, much more for what had prompted the decision overnight.
"Wow, so that's how it is," Rick almost laughed. He was hysterical at this point. "You're really a piece of work, Lori. Showing up here, asking for a divorce when our son is in the next room over fighting for his life!" Rick's voice grew louder as the situation became more and more ridiculous in his mind.
"Yeah well, he wouldn't be if you'd answer your goddamn phone, Rick! He is lying in that bed because you didn't give him a ride home. He's paralyzed from the waist down because of you! So don't you dare tell me I'm being ridiculous. You killed our son's future, Rick. My baby is going to be a vegetable for the rest of his life," she spat, her face red with anguish and tears brimming in her eyes.
"Lori…" the words died on his lips as he watched the mother of break down. All he could think to say was, "I'm sorry."
"It's too late for that now," she spurned, turning away from him as to not show weakness as the tears began to fall. "Just sign the goddamn papers, Rick."
Finally, he had the answer to his question. Signing those papers was the only positive thing left he could do for Lori. Reluctantly, he took the pen and filled in his signature wherever the lawyer advised.
"There," he conceded.
"And another thing," Lori began, placing her hands on her hips, "I'm taking Judith. We'll sort everything out with Carl when this is over, but don't bet on anything more than visitation."
"What do you mean? You can't take my daughter from me!"
"Actually she can," the paunchy lawyer interjected, pointing to the freshly signed document, "You just turned over your custody rights."
"Lori, please. You can leave, but I beg of you, don't take my baby girl," Rick pleaded with the woman he once called his wife. He made an attempt to get up but his body remained indisposed of catering to his desires.
"You should get some rest," Lori encouraged absently, hiding her tearstained eyes with a pair of Versace shades, "Congratulations, you are all alone."
"Fuck you."
Without another word, she turned on her heels and exited, her nameless lawyer following suit, leaving Rick to bawl into the disinfected, cotton sheets.
{Divider}
"What do you mean there's nothing you can do?" Rick pinched the bridge of his nose upon receiving the bad news.
"Mr. Grimes, the driver has yet to be identified. Until we have a name, we can't file a claim for your son's medical bills," stated John A. Snover, the 26th lawyer he'd seen about Carl's case in the last two weeks.
"Well the police ended their investigation last week and turned up with nothing. Are you seriously telling me that not only will the perpetrator go unpunished, but I'm going to be forced to pay for his bills out of pocket?"
"Well yes— unless you have insurance. Have you considered utilizing your worker's benefits?"
"I'm kind of in between jobs right now," Rick divulged, avoiding the lawyer's gaze.
"I'm truly sorry about what happened to your son, but there's really nothing I can do. Furthermore, I'm afraid you won't find much help elsewhere. These are the kind of cases that tend to slip through the cracks, if you will."
Ricked sighed dejectedly before standing up to bid the man a good day, "Well, thank you for all your help, Mr. Snover."
Rick offered a weak but polite smile before turning to exit the office. He paused for a moment, looking back over his shoulder, "Oh, Mr. Snover? Do you happen to have a restroom in your building?"
"Why, of course. My intern, Andrea, can direct you," he answered with a smile. He then pressed a button on the P.A. system before speaking into the microphone, "Andrea Harris to the main office please, Andrea Harris."
Unbeknownst to Mr. Snover, Andrea stood right outside the doorway, waiting a few moments to conceal the fact that she'd actually been eavesdropping on their conversation the entire time. After a minute or so, the blonde appeared in the doorway, greeting her boss and Rick.
"I'd like you to show Mr. Grimes to the water closet," stated Mr. Snover.
"Of course, right this way," Andrea nodded in affirmation, before leading Rick down the hall to the facilities.
"And it seems we've reached our destination," Andrea chirped, stopping just outside of the men's bathroom.
"Thank you kindly," Rick nodded in response before placing a hand on the doorknob.
"Uh, wait, Mr. Grimes?"
Rick paused, curious as to what the holdup was about.
"I just wanted to offer my sincere condolences," Andrea began, knowing she should probably keep her mouth shut. "And I think I know someone who can help."
"What? Who?" Rick turned to face her completely now, no longer concerned with his bladder.
"Michonne Westmore," she revealed cautiously, knowing there was no turning back after leaking her name.
"How can I contact her?" Rick questioned, his pupils dilating at the prospect of sorting out this mess.
"Here," Andrea pulled out a pen and grabbed Rick's wrist, scribbling a mysterious number on the inside of his forearm. Rick frowned slightly at the lack of professionalism, but then again, receiving a strange number from some woman you just met was also pretty shady, so he figured the situation warranted it.
"Thank you," Rick said once she'd finished penning the number and the name.
"No problem. Just, don't tell her who sent you, okay?"
"Your secret is safe with me, Andrea," Rick promised, grateful for any help at this point.
"Great, good luck!" With that she quickly scurried back to her desk, her heart pounding in her chest. It had been such a long time since she'd said that name out loud.
Rick stared down at his arm for a moment, blinking slowly as he took in the miraculous turn of events. Whoever the elusive "Michonne" is, she offers something Rick thought he might never find again: hope.