A/N: Thanks for the chapter 5 reviews and for sticking with me so far. I probably sound like a broken record saying that before each chapter, but oh well. You guys rock. :)
I'm not a child anymore
I'm tall enough
To reach for the stars
I'm old enough
To love you from afar
Too trusting, yes
But then women usually are
- Fleetwood Mac, "Beautiful Child" (Stevie Nicks)
CHAPTER 6: Beautiful Child
The toast was the texture and flavor of cardboard; the apple juice, in a cup the size of a baby food jar, looked like urine and was approximately the same temperature. Make that soggy cardboard, Santana thought, poking the bread where it had gone soft in the middle from a thick layer of butter. She dropped it on top of the other triangular slice she hadn't touched, dusted the crumbs from her fingers and pushed aside the tray her breakfast had been wheeled in on. An upset stomach, exhaustion and a headache that bordered on a migraine left her with little appetite, especially for swill. Only a sense of duty—she couldn't remember her last meal—prompted her to order the food in the first place.
She wrestled with the tray for a moment, trying to steer it parallel to the bed, but the wheels doubled in on themselves and swerved towards the visitor's chair nearby. Muttering a curse, she pushed until her strength gave out, then settled for glaring at the chair that wouldn't budge. It was still in the same position Rachel had left it during her hasty retreat the night before. And still just as empty.
Most of the previous day was a blur to Santana, but she couldn't forget how harshly she'd treated Rachel. Instead of sleeping she spent half the night feeling like an asshole for sending the girl away. Even after all the drama of the past week, Rachel had come to Santana's aid—saved her life, for God's sake—just to have abuse hurled at her for doing what any reasonable person would have done. Santana wanted to apologize, to explain that she'd spoken out of fear. She wanted Rachel there to hold her hand. But now she doubted they would ever see each other again.
One more thing to add to your list of screw ups, Santana told herself. She regarded her ugly white cast with disdain and balled a fist until the ache in her forearm became unbearable. She wouldn't even look at the IV in the other arm, the mere idea of a needle penetrating her skin enough to make her cringe. Nevertheless, she could feel its pinch and the irritating pull of the tape that secured it. How ironic that her preference for snorting cocaine, rather than injecting it, was partly due to her aversion to needles. That, and it seemed safer. Less addictive, somehow. Junkies were the ones who died in crack houses with syringes plunged into their veins. They were the ones who, if they were lucky enough to wake up, found themselves in a hospital bed, no clue how they got there...
Santana bought the drugs from Tulsa planning to do a few lines and forget about her whole shitty existence for a while. Not the most brilliant plan ever devised, she knew, but she needed to get her frayed nerves under control. It began with finding the note from Rachel, asking her to dinner at Roma's—she really did believe she was about to be tossed out of another home. (And she couldn't blame Rachel. When someone you sleep with acts like a bitch and ignores you afterwards, of course you get rid of them. How could Santana admit there was more to it than just sex, though? How could she open her heart to another person who might not reciprocate?) So she stupidly accepted Dougherty's proposition, thinking it would be quick and easy money. But, as he was on top of her, sweating and grunting, pictures of his cute, baby-faced daughter and her friends smiling down from the walls, Santana felt ripped apart. He didn't harm her in any way, yet she had broken all the same. She cried and chain-smoked the entire walk to the restaurant, trying to come up with reasons Rachel should give her a second chance, finding none. (We were wrong nicknaming you Belladonna, Rachel. I'm the one who's poison.) And what was her solution? What it had always been. Treat people like shit so they don't see how much you're hurting. Rachel offered Santana the exact thing she was afraid to hope for, and Santana still blew it. She fucked over the one person she'd truly cared about in years. An even bigger wreck when she left the restaurant, she made a beeline for Tulsa the moment she arrived at the Gate, duffel bag on her shoulder. Since she had already ruined everything else, it didn't seem to matter if she got fired or if she used after promising herself to quit. Twenty minutes later she was blissed-out in the bathroom of the club, her last clear memory. Until yesterday.
It terrified Santana that two days of her life were entirely unaccounted for. She wondered, too, why she had gone up on that roof. The question haunted her through the night, and the daylight had brought no answers, only more anxiety.
She peered at the clock mounted on the wall, its ominous ticking and a hum of medical equipment all that kept the room from total silence. After waking from a fitful sleep at 7AM, she had avoided checking the time. A visit from the doctor, then the nurse taking her breakfast order and delivering it, provided plenty of distraction. But now there were just her thoughts and those boldfaced numbers to keep her company, and they were determined she know two hours remained till her parents' arrival.
Considering what to tell her mother and father made Santana nauseated. Not a day went by without her thinking of them or longing for the courage to pick up the phone and call them. But she had disappointed them enough by being a lesbian. It would kill them to know about the stripping, the drugs, the prostitution. They were better off believing she had run away and found happiness, or even that she was dead. The longer she dwelled on it she began to wish she had died, and that frightened her more than everything else combined.
A knock at the partially open door went through her like a gunshot. She quickly checked the time, afraid it had slipped away from her again, but it was no later than before. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice tight and higher than usual.
"May I come in?" And after a pause, "It's Rachel."
Santana felt a rush of relief akin to that first hit of cocaine. But instead of euphoria, this one was followed by shame. Rachel sounded uncertain she would be allowed to enter. Sitting up straighter in the bed, Santana pulled the covers closer around her waist and swept the hair off her shoulder, fingers catching in its matted ends. She tugged them loose, wincing, and said, "Yeah." Stop saying yeah. "Come in."
Inching past the door without opening it any further, Rachel stood with her back pressed against it. Her arms encircled a large canvas bag she could probably have fit herself inside of, if she took the notion. She wore a yellow headband in her hair, but it was the only cheerful thing about her.
They gazed at each other for a long time like shy children peeking from behind their mothers' skirts. Santana knew she should be the one to break the awkward silence, since she had created it. "I didn't think you'd come back," she said, trying to imply her approval with a tone, a look.
"I'll leave if you want," Rachel said, her hand already on the doorknob. "I'm sorry—"
"No, stay." Santana couldn't hide her desperation, the prospect of being along in the grim hospital room for another second sending her into a panic. "Please. I want you to stay. I just didn't expect you to wanna see me anymore after last night. But I'm glad you're here."
Rachel turned and eyed Santana, gauging the sincerity of the request. Then a faint smile appeared as she ducked her head and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "I never really left. There's a nice waiting room on this floor. Right around the corner, actually," she said, aiming her thumb in the direction she meant. "I saw the nurse bring your breakfast, so I knew you were awake."
"You slept out there?" Santana asked, incredulous.
"Yeah. Well, if you can call it sleeping. I didn't get much rest."
"Me neither."
Rachel rocked back and forth onto the balls of her feet, but didn't step away from the door. "Are you... feeling any better?" she said, obviously choosing her words with great care.
Santana made a small, noncommittal noise. She didn't know how to explain that, although her body might be recovering from the shock it went through, she was sicker and more twisted up inside than ever. "The doctor came by a little while ago. He said my blood pressure's still kind of high. If it doesn't go down soon, he wants me to stay another night."
"Oh." Rachel gave a sympathetic nod.
"What happened to your knees?" Santana asked, noting the Band-Aids crisscrossed over the inflamed skin on both of Rachel's kneecaps, a quarter-sized bruise on the right side. She had wanted to change the subject, but immediately guessed the answer to her own question and wished she had kept her mouth shut.
And sure enough.
"Um, it's from yesterday. Kneeling on the concrete. And there was a lot of glass," Rachel said, glancing past the hem of her belted shirtdress. "Then I ran into the chair last night when—... well, anyway, I didn't even notice they were like that until this morning."
Now it was Santana's turn to say, "Oh."
They were headed for another uncomfortable lull, but Rachel rescued them with an admirable attempt at lighthearted conversation. "Okay, I lied," she said, outwardly gearing up for a chatter session. "I did go home about an hour ago, but only to shower and change clothes." She patted the bag in her arms. "And I grabbed some things I thought you might need. I know my style's not really your cup of tea, but I figured you'd want a clean outfit when you do get released." From within the bag, she procured a neatly folded pair of pants and a shirt, displaying them on her upturned palm.
"At least it's not argyle," Santana teased.
"God, no." Rachel made a face. "Or worse, pink."
They exchanged brief smiles at each others' jokes, and Santana waved Rachel closer. "What else you got in there, Mary Poppins?"
Finally, as if an invisible barrier had been removed, Rachel walked over to the bed and pushed the chair towards the wall with her hip. She set aside the clothing and straightened the unwieldy breakfast tray before plopping her bag onto it, making a point of looking at the cold, uneaten toast. "Well," she said, unzipping a second compartment and reaching for something that crinkled. She withdrew a cereal bag, its excess space rolled tight and secured with a clothespin. Even without a box, the cereal—plain pieces mixed with bright marshmallows shaped like rainbows, horseshoes, four-leaf clovers—was instantly recognizable. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," she concluded in singsong.
Santana had the urge to grab Rachel's face and kiss it. "Ooh, gimme," she said, snatching up the bag instead. She unfurled it with one hand and dug in, enthusiastic as a six-year-old on Christmas morning. She dropped a blue crescent moon onto her tongue, sucking until it dissolved. Magically delicious. All at once, she became ravenous and scooped out an entire handful, emptying it into her mouth.
"Sorry, couldn't fit the milk in here," Rachel said, watching with amusement.
"Thmafs mkayf."
Rachel reached into the bag again, this time pulling out a few items and holding them up one by one: a paddle brush, an eyeliner pencil and mascara, red nail polish, body mist, cherry lip gloss. Santana munched slowly, observing the presentation, then intercepted the spray bottle and sniffed the nozzle. She recognized its floral scent from the sheets on Rachel's bed. Tilting her chin up, she spritzed her neck and grazed her wrist against it; she misted the air in front of her and leaned forward. "Is this your subtle way of telling me I smell bad and look like shit?" she asked, smirking as she passed the bottle back.
"I just thought you might want to freshen up before your mom and dad come." Rachel glanced down, as if mentioning Santana's parents while making eye contact had the same capacity to blind her as gazing into a solar eclipse.
Santana fiddled with the nail polish that rested on the edge of the bed, along with the other makeup. Her last manicure had started to erode days before her binge, and now it was a tacky, clichéd mess of chipped red paint. The attention to detail it must have taken to notice such a thing, even in the midst of chaos, impressed her. She tapped Rachel's arm with the wand end of the polish, urging her to look up, and said, "Then quit standing there, and fix me. I'm disabled, remember?"
Brightening, Rachel took the bottle and hammered it lightly against her palm to mix the contents. "Does it hurt very badly?" she asked as Santana extended her left hand, still shoveling in mouthfuls of Lucky Charms with the right.
Santana waited until the cap was unscrewed—the lacquer-coated brush poised less than an inch from her thumb—to give a sharp, anguished gasp. She resumed chewing as if nothing had happened, while Rachel, white as a ghost, recovered from nearly leaping out of her skin. "Kidding," Santana said impishly, sticking a pink heart marshmallow to her outstretched tongue.
"Evil."
"It hurts like a son of a bitch." Santana rooted around in the cereal bag for a moment, crumpling it shut when she found the piece she wanted. She pinched the shooting star between her forefinger and thumb and offered it to Rachel. "But it's nothing I can't handle."
"Lima Heights Adjacent," Rachel said, as if the name alone connoted a high tolerance for pain. She leaned forward to capture the treat in her lips, hands occupied with the polish bottle and brush.
Failing to contain a smile, Santana wiped sugary crumbs on the blanket and turned to give Rachel better access, fingers splayed against the mattress. "Damn straight," she said, adding a firm nod.
The first few strokes were tentative, but once there were no more fake-outs or actual cries of agony, Rachel expertly applied a layer of red to Santana's left hand. The new color wasn't a perfect match to the old, but close enough that no one would notice the difference unless they were looking for it. Santana blew on her wet nails as Rachel began on the right, gently lifting each finger this time and making sure not a single drop of red met with skin.
"I hope you won't be too upset, but... I talked to your mom again," Rachel said, keeping her attention on the delicate pinkie she was touching-up. "Just to let her know you were stable. So she wouldn't have to worry as much." She surveyed her work, then recapped the bottle and set it on the tray.
"They are still coming, aren't they?"
"Of course they are. They both can't wait to see you."
Santana relaxed a little, surprised by how quickly her pulse had spiked and how readily the tears had pricked at her eyes. She took a deep breath through her nose, the oxygen tube not seeming like such a nuisance anymore. "We'll see how long that lasts," she said, her attempt at a humorous delivery falling flat.
"Maybe it won't be as bad as you think," Rachel said, her features so soft and kind that Santana almost believed her for a second.
"Yeah." Careful not to smudge the red polish, Santana picked up the eyeliner and circled it in front of her face. "It's not everyday I trust somebody with this," she said, and held out the black pencil. "Don't go getting creative."
"I'll try to restrain myself."
At Rachel's behest, Santana closed her eyes and sat perfectly still while subjected to a lamentation about cosmetics—none of Rachel's concealer went with Santana's skin tone, making the decision what makeup to bring a tricky one—with a happy conclusion: just a smidgen of color on the eyes and lips would look more natural anyway. She only half-listened, her thoughts straying to how tenderly Rachel touched her cheekbone, her eyelid, her temple. It felt good to have physical contact that, for once, wasn't about sex. When she opened her eyes, bottom lids receiving the same painstaking outline as the top, she caught herself watching Rachel instead of the ceiling. And she stifled a giggle as Rachel, mouth formed into a small "O" of concentration, daubed the mascara on her eyelashes like a painter of fine china.
"There," Rachel said, close enough that tiny gold flecks were visible in her deep brown irises.
(It crossed Santana's mind that she finally understood what Stevie Nicks had meant when she penned the lyric, "Your shinin' autumn, ocean crashin'...")
After a quick swipe from the tube of lip gloss, Santana checked the results in a compact Rachel handed over. "Not bad, Berry," she said, then aimed the mirror towards her hairline, nose crinkling in disgust. "But it'll take a freakin' exorcist to tame this shit."
"Give me one second."
"Umm, that was a joke," Santana called as Rachel hurried from the room.
Moments later she returned with a small plastic basin of water and a washcloth—compliments of the nurse at the desk, she explained, when Santana gave her a curious look—and put them on the tray, moving her bag to the chair. She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out and directed Santana to turn around.
Santana quirked a brow. "Time for my sponge bath?"
"I need to wash out some of the gunk at the ends. It'll help with the tangles," Rachel said, in a no-nonsense manner. "Now, turn."
Santana gave an obligatory roll of her eyes, but faced the other direction as best she could without leaning on her cast or ruining her nails. It was complicated, and she rested her back heavily against the side rail of the bed, worn out from exertion. Hating how slow and debilitated she felt, she muttered a curse under her breath, then fell into a pensive silence as strands of hair were gathered from her shoulders and beneath the neckline of her gown.
"Let me know if I pull too hard or if you want me stop," Rachel said, wetting down snarls and scrubbing the especially stubborn ones between the damp cloth. She did this for several minutes, soaking the cloth, wringing it out and cleaning away dried blood, vomit and alcohol.
They didn't speak, the splash of water and the vigorous rustle of terrycloth noise enough for both of them. As a child, Santana had loathed having her full, long hair detangled, the sight of a comb in her mother's hand instigating countless tantrums. But she didn't complain when Rachel switched to the brush, first toiling at knotted ends, then working upward until the nylon bristles caught fewer and fewer snags. She was coaxed into a trancelike state by the repetitive strokes, the sensation of Rachel's hands gliding over and through her hair, and even the occasional tug that made her scalp prickle. She began to wonder how someone who had grown up without a mother became skilled at such a maternal task. She wanted to stay like this for hours.
But the bristles passed from root to tip easily now. Santana knew if she was going to make her request, she should do it while her back was turned. She might not have the courage to say it face to face.
"Rachel?" she asked just above a whisper.
"Hm?"
"Would you, um... would you stay with me when my parents get here? I don't think I'm ready to talk to them alone."
Rachel's surprise, indicated by a barely perceptible slowing of the brush, lasted no more than a moment. "I'll stay as long as you'd like," she said, smoothing the hair down Santana's back with her palm. She repeated the motion once more, then laid a hand on Santana's shoulder, squeezing. "All done."
Shifting until she rested against the pillow again, Santana reached for Rachel's hand before it moved away. She curled her fingers around it lightly and said, "Thanks."
"The tangles looked worse than they actually were."
"No, I mean... thank you... for everything."
Rachel started to respond, couldn't get it out, and simply nodded.
They settled for exchanging meaningful gazes rather than clumsy words, and they were in the middle of a lingering one when someone in the doorway announced his presence by clearing his throat. Santana glanced over, expecting to see her doctor, but found herself staring at a handsome dark-haired man in a smart blazer and slacks. At first she didn't recognize him behind the salt-and-pepper beard, but there was no mistaking the raven-haired beauty at his side. Santana could only hope that age would be as kind to her as it had been to this woman.
"Mom," Santana said breathlessly, and then—wishing the term "daddy" hadn't been spoiled for her by the experience with Dougherty—"Dad."
For what seemed hours, they stared at her as though she were a complete stranger. Santana felt like she had plunged into deep water, the weight crushing down on her, restricting air and movement. But all at once she broke the surface. Her mother came forward first, arms thrown open wide, wrapping Santana in a bone-crunching hug and thanking Jesus in rapid, tearful Spanish. She cupped her hands to Santana's cheeks, bombarding her with kisses and English: "Baby, you're too thin. And look how pale you are. Haven't you been taking care of yourself? Daddy and I have been worried to death."
"Let the girl breathe, Estella," said Gary Lopez, stepping up next to his wife. But even as the words were leaving his mouth, he swooped in and collected Santana into his strong arms, nearly lifting her off the bed. His chest quaked with unshed tears, and it took him awhile to let her go. When he did, setting her down as if she were breakable, he rested his hand on top of her head for just a moment, the way he had when she was very small. "Mija," he murmured.
"I— I didn't think you guys would be here till ten," Santana choked out. It was a poor excuse for a greeting. But what did one say to her parents after skipping town without so much as a goodbye and not contacting them for years? Anything she said would be inadequate. At least if she kept them talking instead of bawling, she could stave off her own tears.
"Your mother pitched a fit until they gave us seats on an earlier flight," Gary said, his chuckle sounding forced. "We're lucky we didn't get arrested. She yelled at the ticket agent in Spanish for half an hour."
"Oh, it was twenty minutes, tops," Estella said, waving off the exaggeration. "And never mind that." She crowded past her husband to be closer to Santana, the better to fuss and fret over every last inch of her. "What happened to your arm, sweetheart?"
"I fell." Santana tucked the cast across her belly, covering as much of it as she could with her other hand. "It was stupid. But it's just a broken wrist."
"Just a broken wrist." Estella clucked her tongue and looped a lock of hair behind her daughter's ear, a habit that had driven Santana crazy as a teenager. She tried to ignore it now and smiled indulgently as Estella continued, "You always were a little ruffian. Wasn't she, Gary? Remember the time she rode her bike into the rosebushes and came strolling in the house, gushing blood, full of holes, and all she said was, 'Mommy, do we have any Band-Aids?'"
Santana watched her father, waiting for him to narrate his half of the story, marveling at what a trouper his seven-year-old baby girl had been as he tweezed thorns out of her skinny arms and legs. When he didn't respond, she tapped her chin. "What's with the George Clooney beard?" she asked. "Are you having a midlife crisis?"
Estella laughed louder than necessary, making up for her suddenly taciturn husband. She turned to pat his cheek and said, "Doesn't he look distinguished? He used to be so scruffy when he grew it out. He stopped trying after you got to be a toddler and told him you didn't like his scratchy kisses."
Something flashed in Gary's eyes to alert his wife that her walk down memory lane was not as enjoyable as she believed. Santana saw it too, but she played along while they pretended it hadn't happened, standing above her with tight-lipped smiles, their alliance with each other clearly stronger than ever. And just like old times, they weren't prepared to hear the truth about their perfect little girl. It was practically written all over their faces.
"We're being rude to Rachel," Santana said, gesturing to the corner where Rachel had positioned herself like the statue of a saint in the recess of a church. "You guys remember her, right?" Winking, she added, "The next most talented performer in glee club, after yours truly."
Gary merely tipped his head in Rachel's direction, not offering the signature doctor's handshake that, for years, had been automatic even outside his practice. But Estella bustled towards Rachel and embraced her as an old friend, then held her at arm's-length. "Now that I have a face to go with the name and the voice, yes, I know who she is. Quite the showstopper, this one."
"Thanks," Rachel said, apprehension melting away as she beamed at the compliment.
"You have no idea," said Santana.
Guiding Rachel by the hand, Estella urged her to take a spot near the bed. "I should be thanking you, darling. You're the reason I have a daughter again," she said, rejoining her husband on the opposite side.
Well, isn't this nice and awkward, Santana thought.
Out loud she said, "You never stopped having a daughter."
"You know what I mean."
Santana clamped her mouth shut to keep the sarcasm from escaping. Despite the anger she harbored, she wanted this reunion with her parents to go well. She'd had enough drama in recent days to last her a lifetime. But as she suppressed her own tongue, her father found his.
"Why are we here, Santana María?" he asked, leveling his solemn brown eyes at her. "What did you get yourself into?"
His certainty that she had caused her predicament stung, even if he was correct. Santana considered lying—he probably expected that from her, too—but a sidelong glance at Rachel's face told her it was a dead giveaway. And after what she had put Rachel through, anything less than honesty would be a disservice. Santana trained her gaze on the oxygen tube she wove between her fingers. "I was drinking," she said, setting the tube free and beginning over. "And I used cocaine. I overdosed."
"Oh, Santana, no," Estella gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. The tears were immediate, spilling in fat drops from her wide toffee-colored eyes as if she had been saving them up, nurturing them for just such an occasion.
Gary put an arm around his wife and shook his head. "Good God," he muttered. "I thought you were smarter than that. You're lucky your mother and I aren't visiting you in the morgue."
Estella wept harder and buried her face in his chest.
"Yeah, I know," said Santana.
"How many times did I warn you not to get mixed up in drugs?"
"Lots."
"Is this the first time you've used cocaine?" He sounded hopeful.
"No," Santana said quietly. "I started about... a year and a half ago, I guess. A friend gave me some to try, and I was curious."
Gary shot an accusatory look at Rachel.
"Jesus, Dad, not Rachel. It was someone I work with." Santana hadn't planned to bring up her job, and she hastened to cover her mistake. "Anyway, I've been trying to quit for a few months. I did all right for a while, but I've just had a lot to deal with lately and..." With a lift of her hand, she indicated the hospital room and the bed she sat in.
"You should have called us," Estella said, peering up from the shelter of her husband's embrace. "We would've dropped everything to come here and help with whatever you needed."
"Really, Mom? Because when I left Lima, I was kinda under the impression you didn't want anything to do with me."
Estella pulled a tissue from her pocket, blotted her cheeks and blew her nose. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, only lightly scolding. "You're our little girl, and we love you."
"You called me an abomination."
"I said what you were doing was an abomination—"
"Let's not get into that here," Gary interrupted, stepping in as mediator, a role that had been assigned to him from the moment Santana learned to speak. "The important thing is that you're okay now. I'll talk with the doctor about your condition. We can make arrangements from there. Has he said when you'll be released?"
"Not for sure." Santana narrowed her eyes the slightest bit. "What do you mean, 'arrangements'?"
"You're coming home with us. We'll help you get straightened out."
There was confidence in her father's voice. Santana wanted to believe it came from his concern for her well-being; that it proved how seriously he took her recovery; that the relief she had survived was so great it outweighed his disapproval of her actions. But his businesslike manner ruined the illusion. He was a physician, and she finally had something wrong with her that he could fix.
"Straight being the operative word," she mumbled.
"What?"
"Never mind." Santana sighed and cast a sorrowful gaze at both her parents. "I can't go back to Lima with you. I'm sorry if you came all this way thinking I would. But I won't."
"Why not?" Estella demanded, balling the tissue as she brought her fist down against the mattress emphatically.
"Because there's nothing for me in that shi—... crummy little town." Seeing her mother about to object, Santana hurried on, "I don't mean you guys. It's just... I can't be myself there."
"Yourself." Gary scratched at his beard in agitation. He rubbed his fingers over the whiskers, first one side and then the other, smoothing them down. "You mean a lesbian."
Santana returned his challenging look. "Yes, Dad. A lesbian."
"I hoped you'd be over that by now."
More baffled than hurt or angry, Santana stared at him open-mouthed, blinking. It amazed her that someone as intelligent as her father could be so thickheaded. Even after all the arguing with him, the crying and screaming matches with her mother, and the years of estrangement because of their refusal to accept her sexuality, he still believed it was a phase. Like the time she'd wanted to collect every Bratz doll in existence, or when she forced everyone to call her Regina for an entire week. "Oh, my God," she groaned, dropping her face into her palm.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Rachel press against the bed rail, physically trying to assert herself into the conversation. She had that officious air about her—the one she used to get during glee rehearsals, when Will Schuester's teaching methods weren't living up to her standards.
This was going to be good.
"Excuse me, Dr. Lopez," Rachel said, polite yet crisp. "You might not be aware of this, but I was raised by two gay fathers. I speak from experience when I say that Lima is an intolerant and homophobic town. When my dads came out, their families had similar reactions to yours. Some of our relatives still think they'll 'get over it,' even though they've been together more than twenty years. But it's not something they can change about themselves, nor do they want to. It would be like asking you to get over being Latino." She folded her hands contritely, as if worried she had gone too far with the final remark. But then she added, "And begging your pardon, sir, I think someone in the medical field could stand to be a bit more progressive minded."
Gary listened to the speech with his arms crossed, his face growing redder by the minute, features hardening. When Rachel was through, he marched to the other side of the bed and took her by the arm, leading her away.
"What are you doing? Let her go," Santana said, sitting bolt upright and shrugging off her mother's hand as it tried to ease her back against the bed.
"I want her out of here," Gary said, headed for the door, Rachel still in tow and looking too stunned to resist. "She's not family. She doesn't belong in this room."
"Like hell she doesn't. I asked her to stay," Santana snapped, flinging aside all efforts to keep her temper under control. "She has as much right to be here as either of you. I'd be dead if not for her. Let her go."
Though he grudgingly obeyed, Gary continued to glare at Rachel as she stepped back several paces and bumped into the foot of the bed. "I suppose there's something going on between you and my daughter," he said with contempt, planting his hands on his hips. "But that doesn't give you any say in this."
"What?" said Santana, her voice rising sharply.
"I saw the way you two were looking at each other when we walked in," Gary said, pointing at Santana and Rachel, then to his wife and himself. He spoke in a harsh whisper as a nurse wandered by the open door and snuck a curious peep inside. "I knew right then."
"You don't know shit."
"Santana María," Estella warned, her accent thickening, a sure sign that a deluge of Spanish was not far behind.
"And so what if Rachel and I were together? Would that make a difference to you?" Santana leaned forward, addressing only her father. She pressed the flat of her palm over her heart. "You love me, but it's conditional, is that it?"
"Your father loves you no matter what," Estella said. "We both do."
Santana didn't take her eyes off her father. Silently, she pleaded with him to answer, heart thundering so hard inside her chest she trembled with the fury of it. She ached to be gathered into his arms again and told that nothing on earth—or in heaven—could change the way he felt about her. His mija.
But he kept her waiting a moment too long, and it cost him.
"I've been working as a stripper for the past three years," she said, turning to her mother as she delivered the news with a vague smirk. She tilted her head inquiringly. "Guess that won't matter either, since you're such devoted parents?"
"I don't believe you," Estella said, but recoiled and clutched at the tiny crucifix around her neck. "You're lying just to hurt me now. That is the sickest, most spiteful..." Distressed, she looked to her husband as he paced back and forth like a caged tiger, running fingers through his thick, wavy hair over and over. "Gary, say something."
He ignored Estella as he processed the information, his stride carrying him from one end of the room to the other. When he finally diverged from his path and returned to the empty side of the bed, apart from his wife, he gazed down at Santana and asked in a confidential tone, "Is it true?"
"Every word."
"Dios mío," said Estella.
"Why?" Gary spread his hands in desperation, as if understanding were a tangible thing he might be able to clutch onto. "Why did you turn out like this? Where did we go wrong with you?"
Santana shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Mom drank too much sacramental wine while she was pregnant. Or maybe I'm just—" Before she could call herself a bad seed, her father grabbed her by the shoulders and gave a quick, savage shake. She made a soft hiccupping sound, too startled—and weak—to prevent her head from snapping backwards. She looked up at him in surprise from beneath long, tousled bangs.
"Dr. Lopez, please," Rachel said urgently. "She went through a lot yesterday. I wouldn't—"
"It's okay, Rachel." Santana tossed the hair out of her eyes, the pounding in her skull intensified by the movement. She didn't let it show. "I'm used to guys putting their hands all over me."
Gary's face twisted in revulsion and he jerked away. His arms dropped loosely at his sides. Even on Santana's worst days as a teenager, he had never manhandled her. He studied his hands like he was seeing them for the first time, then shoved the culprits into his pockets. "I don't know what's happened to you," he said dejectedly. "You are destroying your life. You could be in college right now, making something of yourself. Instead, you're a..." His voice broke and he turned his back on Santana, facing the wall as he finished: "I am so ashamed of what you've become."
It would have hurt less had he shaken her again. The words were just a different kind of jolt to the system, and not as easy to recover from. Santana knew she had already caused enough damage, but she'd been wounded, too, and retaliation was always her most favored defense. "You mean a trashy, coked-up little slut?" she offered, the description leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "Well, you don't even know the half of it. I've been slumming it as a call girl, too. I'm still pretty new at it, but the pay's good. Gotta support my habit, y'know?"
Shoulders sagging, Gary lowered his head and put his palm out, bracing himself against the wall. Fleetingly, Santana wondered if she were responsible for the white in his beard and the silver strands threaded throughout his otherwise black hair. Averting her eyes when a shudder ran down his back, she swept them in her mother's direction—poor Rachel looked shell-shocked—and found her frozen with a horrified expression on her lovely face. Santana nodded as Estella's head shook in denial.
Estella closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross, muttering in supplication to one saint or another. Santana preferred her mother loud and dramatic rather than pious. "Look at this way, Mom," she said. "Maybe if I suck enough cock, I'll learn to like it. Then at least one of your prayers will be answered."
With startling accuracy, Estella's hand snaked out and connected with Santana's cheek. There wasn't much force behind it, but the noise of it was impressive and drew a gasp from Rachel. It galled Santana not that she had been slapped like a bratty four-year-old but that she'd flinched. She and her mother stared coldly at each other, Estella exhibiting none of the remorse her husband had for his outburst.
"I came here thinking you might have changed, but you're even more hateful than you used to be," Estella said. "It's impossible to talk to you like this. And I won't stand by while you ridicule me or your father. You've already put us through hell once before, and I won't let you drag us down again." She moved towards the end of the bed, motioning for her husband. "Come on, Gary, let's go. We're obviously not welcome."
Rachel stepped into Estella's path, at the risk of getting bulldozed by the woman who towered no less than five inches above her. "You can't be serious," she said, all deference for her elders gone. "How can you just walk out? She's hurting every bit as much as you are."
"That's her own doing," Estella said, chin lifted in defiance. "She's beyond my help. It's in God's hands now."
"If you're so religious, where's your compassion? I'm Jewish and even I know the story of Jesus pardoning the prostitute."
"That woman was repentant. She—" Estella pointed to Santana without looking at her. "—is anything but."
"Can't you see how much she needs you?"
"I see nothing of the sort. And this conversation is over." To her husband, Estella said, "I'll be waiting downstairs."
A numb feeling Santana tried to pass off as indifference settled upon her as she watched her mother leave the room without glancing back. The click of high heels faded into the distance, and when they were out of earshot, Santana gazed dully at her father. After a while he seemed to sense it. He sniffed, his posture becoming erect. From the inside pocket of his blazer he retrieved a handkerchief and dried his eyes. Then he turned and started for the door at a brisk pace.
"Daddy?"
He stopped and touched the doorframe, opening his mouth to reply, closing it. His weight shifted as if he would alter his course, walk to her side, wrap her up in a safe and comforting hug. But he put one foot in front of the other and kept on going, his departure lacking the sound effect of his wife's. He simply vanished. Less effective, but much more final.
"Well," said Santana, once it was clear neither parent would have a last minute change of heart, "my life is officially a telenovela."
The wry smile she gave Rachel crumbled the moment their eyes met. At first the tears came silently, but soon she was racked by violent sobs that left her gasping for air. She made a cradle of her arms, hiding her face in it and rolling onto her side, away from the empty doorway. Drawing her knees towards her chest, she curled up as small as she could.
"You should've let me die," she said when Rachel's palm rested against her back, stroking in circles. Her voice halted and quaked uncontrollably, distorting the words. She steadied it and repeated with hardly a stammer: "You should have just let me die."
The bedrail clinked and the mattress rustled as a slight, snug body fitted itself behind her. Arms looped around her. Low, soothing noises that were like a melody floated into her ear.
"Shh," Rachel hushed. "Don't say that. I know it's awful right now, but it'll get better. Everything's going to be all right."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'll do my best to make sure that it is." Rachel dropped a kiss into Santana's hair. "And you know how I am when I set my mind to something."
Santana didn't remember the last time she had chanced letting her guard down with anyone, but she did it in that moment, before fear or pride could dissuade her. Turning, she melted into Rachel's embrace, allowing herself to be comforted and murmured to as she cried until there were no tears left. Head tucked under Rachel's chin, she sank into a deep exhaustion. Her arms and legs felt like they were filled with lead; her eyelids were too heavy to hold apart. She lost track of how much time had passed, but she'd drifted into the pleasant haze between dreams and reality when she heard a birdlike trill, followed by Rachel softly inquiring, "Hello?" Even half asleep she detected rising excitement in the stream of affirmative answers Rachel gave to the caller, concluding with: "Absolutely. I'll see you then. Goodbye."
"You leaving?" Santana asked.
"No, I'm not going anywhere." Rachel ran her fingers through Santana's hair, whispering, "But I did just get a callback for Sybil. They want to see me again in a few days."
"Mm. Knew you'd get it," Santana said, uncertain whether she had formed actual words or garbled together sounds that mimicked speech.
"Santana?"
"Hm?"
"When you're released I want you to come home with me, okay?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Good. Get some sleep." Rachel kissed the top of Santana's head. "I'll be here when you wake up."
