Half bathed in shadows, the small living room is lighted by one lamp and the flashing hue of the muted television. The day waned without the resident of the apartment having left it all day. Nightly neighbourhood noises fill the silence; loud music, barking dogs, hollering voices, honking horns. In the semi-blackness, Nathan's tall, broad form shifts on a kitchen stool. Involuntarily, he traces a hand over the bandage underneath his faded t-shirt. With frustration, he restrains himself from scratching at it like a mangy dog with fleas.
Two nights ago he checked out of the hospital. He has spent the time napping on and off, sleeping off medication and resting sore muscles. Yesterday he took one walk around the block before he returned home; his body hadn't felt so heavy and pulled since the night they won the State Championships. When he hasn't been sleeping, talking with visiting friends, making aimless circuits of the apartment in an attempt to walk off any blood coagulation, he's thought too much. His head is throbbing.
Realizing he's close to wounding himself further, he stops scraping away at his side. "Son of a…" he says under his breath.
He stretches his back and concentrates on the screen before him. For a good part of his convalescence, to divert and strangulate burning thoughts, he has pulled together whatever he can find about Haley's case. Her story has had little news value lately, the media focused on the story of a bus carrying thirty-three missionaries crashing.
There has been nothing new, just the same thing written differently by different people. Every damaging headline and article – 'Ghastly Execution in Store', 'Teen Arrested in Store Slaying' – left him uneasy and filled with monumental distaste; they've laid out the details, including those on the surveillance video, in a manner that paints her guilty as sin.
He's tormenting himself, and instead of giving up, he stays huddled at the kitchen breakfast bar in front of his laptop.
His knees are aching. Every limb, every joint, carries a bothering soreness. A dead weight rests on his shoulders. He wants his wife; her boundless warmth, her softness, her comfort, her touch, her smell, her voice. The very longing rears a lump in his throat. He inhales deeply and shakes his head as if to clear away a dream.
His red-rimmed eyes look at the smiley-face clock above the refrigerator. Ten-forty. He winces. There's that cramp in his side again. He stretches, his elbow knocking against the container of thinned yoghurt that was meant to supply some late-night fuel, but he found he no longer had the will to spoon anything into his mouth.
He feels rotten, more so after checking the comments on Haley's social page. Her privacy settings are minimal, which he's always been opposed to, considering it reckless. Anyone could look at her page without having to befriend her first. She wasn't obsessed with caution and privacy as he was, saying that she was an open book, and besides, she barely used the page, logging in every other week or not at all. Her relationship status was set to 'married', his name alongside the affirmation, but anyone who clicked on his name couldn't see his timeline as they saw hers.
She had changed her profile picture a few weeks before the police came for her. Her head is tilted slightly, as if she's looking off towards something. She is relaxed, her mouth curved up to one side in a pleasant smile. Her eyes are unseen behind a black pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. It was the evening of a barbecue his mom held at her house for her cousins visiting from abroad. When everyone was gone, Haley retrieved her old guitar from the car, packed away there after a lesson she'd taught earlier in the day, and sat on a lounger.
It was just the two of them at the poolside. She strummed a few cords before she settled on something slow, just like she would on some nights when they were in their apartment. Her voice floated over the notes, a contralto that matched her fingers effortlessly moving over the strings. Her singing has always sent goose bumps down his arms from the first time he heard her. It's truly something special.
He closes his eyes, remembering a riff of it, but not the title. All he knows is that it mentioned months of the year.
He snapped the shot after her lips stopped moving, but her fingers were still playing. He showed it to her days later and it surprised her that he'd taken it without her knowing. She could get lost in music, like he with basketball.
He doesn't recall why exactly he brought up her page but he's been roaming bar through it for a while now, and what has confronted him has been sickening. He has noted down the unfamiliar faces and names of those who've ever commented on anything she posted. He read their profiles and listed anyone who seemed dubious. In the end, all he has is notepaper filled with names that are crossed out, circled or with question marks attached. No one strikes him as guilty or wacky enough to frame her.
These are their former schoolmates, he's sure. Those brave enough not to be anonymous have sent him messages of disbelief, pity and curiosity. In some messages, he can swear he could detect a slight tone of boisterousness, as if they were pleased that Haley was being accused of murder.
But that's not the part that is most galling. The comments are in the thousands. One thousand, five hundred and twenty-four so far, to be exact. And the more he reads, the more annoyed he gets.
I didn't think she was capable of something like that!
Maybe she's bonkers. Anyone who elopes in high school is not all there.
I find it hard to believe that she did what they're saying she did. She looked so nice.
The nice ones can hide a lot of issues.
What drove her to it, do you think?
A prank gone wrong?
Drugs. Definitely drugs.
I heard that she was screwing the dead guy.
I heard that she got pregnant and when she told him, he denied it. So she shot him.
Do you think she'll be on death row?
If not DR, she'll rot in jail.
Hubby probably gave her an STD that affected her brain. He cheats on her, like, all the time.
That's awful. And gross!
Come on, guys! She was robbing the place and when he refused to fork out the money, she shot him.
His face is burning. He reads them with astonishment and contempt until he can't handle reading any more. He clicks on a number of names with the most hostile comments, but as suspected, the links lead to too-clean and undoubtedly bogus profiles. They created accounts just so they could post their unfiltered thoughts and opinions. If there's something he's glad about, it's that the surveillance video has not been made public. It would do serious damage to the case, making her look like a homicidal maniac, and it would take a miracle to convince people that Haley's not the one pointing a gun at someone.
One that stands out is a supportive yet aggressive message written by Peyton. It's an hour old, and below it is someone else's response with an embedded laughing cartoon. She reacted with an even cruder sketch, which she most likely drew herself.
Her missive is expectedly mordant, and brief as it is, she makes her point to the "boors". She further calls them chickens for hiding behind screens to write things they can't say to their faces because they know they're all done with school. And then there's a little splash of a threat that may or may not get away as a non-threat under scrutiny. He's not sure whether she'd actually scrounge up people's IP addresses through a social media website, but this is Peyton; she doesn't mess around. He's pleased, though, that she's come out with both barrels on Haley's behalf.
As for himself, in response to the anonymous accounts' lack of compassion, he logs out of Haley's account, logs in to his own, and creates a new note on Haley's profile. He stares at the blinking cursor for a minute, debating the idea. At Christopher's advice, he has not made any statements about the case. But these comments demand a reaction.
He draws a long, deep breath, and starts typing. He's kept his silence in the days since Haley's arrest, but he feels that he has an obligation here, to defend her to these people who have declared her guilty without presuming her innocent.
Last week, my wife Haley was arrested. Police officers showed up at our door in the middle of the night with a warrant, tore up our place, and in seconds, took her away in handcuffs. A day later, she was in prison. She's been shattered by this accusation, and while most of you seem to be entertained by it, I am pained by what is happening to her. This is a nightmare, not just for us, but for the family of the man who…
His fingers pause their typing. The man who was, what, murdered? Assassinated? The man who died? Which is it? Nausea swirls in his gut at the reminder of Dwight's on-screen slaying, of blood, grey matter and tissue. It's a memory he can't undo.
…was killed, he finishes.
It's an adequate word that does not give the suggestion of the horrific way that Cornelius Dwight's life ended.
She had nothing to do with it, and your guess is as good as mine as to what really happened in that store that night. Don't condemn her because of the bad facts that have been given. She is not a criminal, and she has had to endure immeasurable indignity until this is cleared up.
He'd love to do it like Peyton, be as offensive as they've been about Haley, but he has a feeling that should he do it that way, Christopher will not only hit the roof but it will affect Haley's case in a manner they can't afford.
As her husband, I wanted to let you all know that there's more to this than meets the eye. My warm, genuine, intelligent and considerate wife is sitting in a prison cell and no one seems to care about the truth.
For a moment, he contemplates cancelling the note, which might be some kind of outburst of stupidity against Christopher's do-not-engage order, but the significance of these words has more weight. He posts it. He picks up his phone and writes a message to the lawyer before word trails back to him: I reacted like you asked me not to. I'm sorry.
Having done that, he makes his way to one of the living room's windows and out of a ritual he has developed lately, pushes aside the curtain and looks outside. Surveying the compound of the complex brings up nothing unusual relating to reporters or cameras. He turns off the lights, picks up his laptop and wanders to the bedroom. He sits with his pillow propped against the headboard, and goes on to reread what never changes; as it has become his habit since that fateful day, he scans headlines and revises older ones. His resolve is to learn as much as possible about the case, however disconcerting or fictionalized. The reports are similar, made more sensational by the implication that sex was the motivation for the violence. Some articles are accompanied by a photo of her; the same four found in her single digital album on her page have been recycled across the board.
Again, it comes to him to look up life in prison. He can no longer avoid it. The sheer volume of content is mystifying. He is inundated with articles by journalists, human rights activists, lawyers and ex-convicts about prison. It is horrifying and frightening, the stuff of nightmares.
Feeling queasy, he is confronted with statistics about the high rate of abuse, rape and mistreatment. Add together terrible living conditions, hardened prisoners and prison officers who can be abusive, there is very little encouragement about Haley's welfare. He sits rigidly, stricken and overcome. For minutes, he grapples with it all in his mind. The thought of Haley, and their baby, at the mercy of such brutality seizes him with such fear that a sound of distress leaks out of him.
He flips closed the laptop and dumps it at the foot of the bed. Defeat and disbelief darken his mood further. He is under no illusions that prison would have the feel of a resort, but the nasty truth of the reality behind bars by people who've been in it, not watered down, fictional entertainment based on the lives of former criminals, is much too much.
In the midst of his contemplations, his phone cheeps with an incoming message. It's Christopher: what does that mean? What did you do?
He puts it aside. For the time being, he won't reply. He closes his eyes, more scared than he's ever been since this whole thing started. He stays in the dark for a long time, contemplating, assessing and mourning the cost of an accusation that has left them exclusively at someone else's mercy.
Her bestowed shower sandals squish against the wet cement as she sidles over to a stainless steel sink. She tucks the thin towel edge tighter around her chest and rests her things on the counter.
"You got through another day," Haley whispers to herself, standing before the tiled wall that should have a mirror but doesn't.
It fills her with relief to be alive at the end of each day and the rise of every morning. She's hanging on by a thread; just yesterday, she was in close proximity when two inmates' roughhousing turned into a punch-up that required the intervention of COs.
A clank beyond the doorway startles her, sounding so loud with the inmates asleep. She looks around the empty, dank bathroom like a skittish squirrel. To the left and right, a row of shower cubicles without doors. A shelf in the middle where their towels lie in wait to be picked up after a shower. To the back, another long chain of toilet stalls with waist-high separators. To the front, stainless steel washbasins. She urges herself to stop dawdling and hurry up. This is not a place to dillydally, especially at night.
The solitude is worrying, but gratifying; it's a rare thing to have this much of it when inmates are often talking and yelling at all hours of the day. Back home, the night-time quiet was something comforting, something to get lost in after a long day of work or school. In here, it's nothing close to reassuring; she's constantly imagining being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for some sort of newbie hazing ritual.
With that belief, she brushes her teeth faster. That done, she quickly rakes shaky fingers through her hair to comb it out. The commissary has things that inmates can purchase but she has no money. She needs toiletries because three months is a heck of a long time to comb her hair with her fingers. Like Selena said, it's every con for herself in here. She doesn't even own a hair band. She forgot to mention her account at the commissary to Lucas; she'll just have to wait for the two-week phone ban to end before she can call Nathan.
Nathan. Her hands still. Nathan, lying on a hospital bed, post-surgery. In the face of sickness, he's not the best convalescent; he tends to do the opposite of what a doctor recommends. His reaction to bed rest is to slink out of the apartment in the middle of the night to play hoops when he has the flu. By now, several days after Luke's visit, he could be home being stubborn as a mule. How she misses him.Barking at him in their last phone calls makes it feel like the distance between them is more immense than it physically is. In the silence, the rhythmic tune of dripping water echoes.
She starts to hum softly to chase the blues away. In the time she's been here, she's taken pleasure in the smallest things, like being able to hum without anyone deeming her wacko or disruptive.
"Doing time" is quite the appropriate expression to define imprisonment: time is all they have. Time to think, time to reflect, time to regret, time to self-analyse, time to dream their lives away; too much of it, intended to tidily drive an inmate crazy with just how slowly it moves. They're hamsters in one cage, and the meanest ones make the rest run around in mistrust and fear.
For her, a lot of time is spent brooding over this screwy mess. Who had the nerve to carry this off? is the question she's constantly asking herself. Who, who, who!? It accomplishes nothing because she gets nowhere with it. And if it's not that she's thinking about, she's preoccupied by torturing concern for her family: what will happen to Nathan? Why did this scheme bring him to the point of near death? How much more can their world be turned inside out? How can she protect the baby from harm?
She combs out the last strands and looks at her bare ring finger. It always struck her with elation every time she fiddled with it. She didn't care that it was simple; she loved wearing it. To her, it's a masterpiece, an embodiment of love from a man who wanted to be with her, a reminder that her life is tied together with somebody else's. To see her husband wearing his was an assurance of his own commitment.
That drives her back to where they had started. She had logged every hazy sign that he might have been interested in her, every out-of-the-ordinary look and touch that may have given her hope. She was right to do that because it gave her the boldness to take a step forward. That first kiss at the entryway of his apartment was remarkable, spoke of a mutual attraction and led to an open conversation.
Their feelings for each other developed fast. She fell hard for him, but by her reckoning, there were times he was holding back. Their relationship became so intense and unpredictable for him that he needed to pull the plug on it. While she was trying to make sense of how deep she was with him – she was experiencing love like she never had before – he wanted out.
She was not an idiot. How could she not catch on to what he intended to do when their phone calls became too brief, his greetings became cooler and he was cancelling their dates using weak non Nathan-like explanations – "I'd like to stay in tonight and do some organizing."
The wintry Saturday evening in mid-January he came to see her, she knew what was coming just by the look on his face, but him actually saying the words – "we should take a break" – was like a stake through her heart. Watching him, she had realized in that moment that he was reading her the Nathan-Scott's-any-more-than-a-month-and-I'm-outta-here speech. To her own surprise, she'd said in a purely conversational tone, "Who do you think you're kidding? Take a break or break up?"
Eventually she broke down crying, not comprehending why he was willing to drop her like a thing he no longer needed. An old sock, maybe. Something strong and good had grown between them and she wasn't letting him walk away from it because he was scared. She would've been a fool to let it slip through her fingers.
Another of the most daring things she's ever done was give the appearance of complete composure as they sat facing each other on her mother's dining table that was made from reclaimed wood, and before she could think better of it, itemizing why she was not on board with the suggested break. They enjoyed each other's company, didn't they? She was prepared to see how far it would go. She wanted to be with him. They were really, really good together, and though she understood that being with another person made him want to run, she believed in them. So, no, she was not supporting the suggested time-out.
His astonishment when she was done was precious, his mouth parted and eyes wide as if he didn't know what to make of what she'd said. There was no sound between them as she waited to see what he would do next. Then to her eternal shock he'd whispered with some sort of disbelief, "I think I've fallen in love with you and it scares me to death."
She jumped to her feet like an eager beaver, walked around the table, sat on his lap, and kissed him. "I'm definitely in love with you," she told him.
The rest, as it's said, is history. They were happier than she ever would have imagined possible. The thought that they might be history pierces straight through the heart. She has calculated every angle and what she feels she has to do will not only make matters worse but also bring its own form of torture.
Wistful, she closes her arms around her middle. A year ago, what she's been considering doing lately was unthinkable. She was convinced that the two of them were unshakeable, but here she is, in the unlikeliest of places, weighing up what feels like a life-and-death decision. Maybe she's not thinking too clearly if she's actually considering putting an end to the best years of her life.
She shakes her head to offload the sombreness from her ruminations. It also makes her conscious that she's spent far too much time already in here on her own.
All at once, though, she gets uneasy and the stillness in the humongous bathroom turns oppressive. Her eyes flit to the door-less entryway. A chill crawls along her skin that has nothing to do with only having a towel on.
It's not strange that she's the only one in the bathroom. For the duration she's been here, she's snuck in when people are clearing out; she's not one to strip bare in front of strangers, and even in gym, she waited until the showers were emptying out before taking her own. This is the first time she has felt genuinely fearful being all alone.
A crash ricochets in the late night quiet, so startling that she jumps back. Heart beating faster, she stares intently at the entrance.
"Hello?"
In the back of her mind, she scoffs at herself for saying something so prosaic that makes her sound like a film character whose fate is death.
The uncanny sensation persists, and it's not the usual alertness that creeps up on her in the presence of anyone. She feels as though she's in danger. Then she tells herself that she's being unreasonable, but then chastises herself for rationalizing it; she would rather be paranoid and it turns out that she's wrong than to not be and then she's ambushed. She just can't take the chance of being complacent. Her eyes stay glued to the doorway. There's a pervasive anticipation and tension that's no longer in the backdrop lying in waiting but overpowering the space.
Suddenly, the lights go off. The abrupt darkness makes her jump back. A rush of panic engulfs her chest. Her gaze darts wildly around the dark bathroom. Her heart is thundering, her breathing accelerating. Something terrible is about to happen.
"There's somebody in here," she calls out unsteadily.
A shadow falls over the entrance, blocking out the light from the hall. Haley gasps. Given that the only exit is the doorway, running is impossible. She scrambles for her things on the counter in search of some kind of weapon; she touches a wet washcloth, bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, prison khakis. She grabs the toothbrush and holds it in front of her, the end pointed to the sinister figure as though she's brandishing a knife.
"Who's there?"
No answer. The large shadow steps forward. It's breathing hard and not bothering to be stealthy.
"Could you p-please turn on the lights?" Haley stammers, shrinking back.
As the figure approaches, another emerges from behind it. A sense of foreboding overcomes her. Concrete terror moves deep inside her. She's frozen, her useless weapon forgotten.
Not knowing what to do, she shuts her eyes tightly. Things happen at once. She opens her mouth to scream for help but before a sound gets out, a fast fist catches her squarely in the jaw. The wind is knocked out of her. A white light and a blast of pain yowl through her head.
She stumbles back and lands heavily on the cold, wet floor. The toothbrush clatters somewhere. Her head bounces against the floor. Just as the flash in her eyes is settling, they all descend and strike at once.
A foot slams into her backside. Another into her legs. Yet another into her rib cage. In that split second, the fieriest pain she has ever felt touches every part of her body.
She crumples onto her stomach, struggling for breath, convinced she'll black out. Instinctively, she curls up into a tight ball, to protect her baby more than herself.
Her body rears at another blow to the middle of her back, splinters of pain like a lightning bolt going through her. Sweat breaks out on her forehead and she feels a wave of nausea.
She tries to sit up but she's quickly doubled over again from a series of kicks into her arms and the back of her thighs. She keeps her body from bucking to prevent them from sending one of the vicious hits to her belly. All she's thinking about is protecting the baby.
"Bitch!" she hears one of them growl.
One brutal kick sends the back of her head hitting the floor so hard that she's afraid she may have cracked her skull. She cries out, which earns her another blow. Shivering and unable to move, she starts crying.
"Shut it!" orders an unsympathetic hiss. "Shut ya mouth!"
The shadows take turns kicking at her, each of them grunting with the effort. At one time, a canvas shoe hits the back of her neck that her brain short-circuits. Starbursts explode behind her eyes. She frantically imagines how much damage this has done to her poor, delicate baby.
She covers her head with her hands as if to shut it all out. Like to protect itself, her mind conjures up images of safety and freedom. She pictures herself as an awkward preteen doing cartwheels on the lawn, the scent of freshly cut grass adding to the euphoria of her carefreeness. She thinks about one of the perfect days of her life, the feel of sand between her toes and the touch of sunshine on her shoulders as she walked towards Nathan to be married to him. She imagines that there's a version of her in a universe where there's a baby in her arms as a healthy version of Nathan takes one picture after another. She imagines that she's safe and not worrying about looking over her shoulder—
"Hey!" a voice yells, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls and slashing at her thoughts.
The shadows above stop. Then she hears cursing and scrambling. One more kick lands on her lower back again, making her scream out in agony. Eyes still shut, she feels quakes go through her, quakes that are more from the attack than the cold seeping off the slippery floor. She becomes aware of the pulse in her ears, the hard floor beneath her, the taste of blood in her mouth, the ragged pants of her breaths, and the flow of pain in every part of her body.
As she gasps for air, a coarse hand touches her shoulder. Jerking, she moves away, a desperate moan passing her lips. "No!"
Frantic, she backs up until she's against what must be the wall, unaware that her towel has loosened. "Get off me!"
"I'm only here to help you, sweetheart," says a soft murmur.
She's shaking everywhere, a feverish trembling that's making sitting up a struggle. She flops against the wall as though boneless. With great effort, she opens her eyes, slowly like she's afraid of what she'll find. After the world spins momentarily, she realizes that the lights have been turned back on and someone is bent over her. Her teary vision makes out tattooed arms, compassion in grey eyes, and blood at the corner of a full mouth. She's so thankful to see her that she cries.
"J-J-Jean?"
"It's okay, pretty girl," Jean soothes.
Haley coughs and it brings on a douse of nausea. Halfway slouched, she shuts her eyes. Tears slip down her cheeks. She doesn't notice Jean glancing at her nakedness. She wants to go home. She wants Nathan.
"H-help me."
"You'll be okay," Jean says, adjusting the towel and putting her arms around Haley's middle.
She has no strength to get to a sitting position and Jean has to do it for her. She's in shock. She's in agony. Her head is pounding savagely. She can feel her body swelling up and the worst of the pain congealing in her side.
"My baby, my baby," she weeps hoarsely against Jean's shoulder with indescribable sorrow.
Jean picks up her things and binds them in the orange khaki shirt to create some sort of carrier. "Come on, let's get up. Can you walk?"
Haley nods weakly. Heaving for breath and gasping from pain, she allows Jean to help her up. It takes some time and she's slanting against the wall as much as Jean is supporting her. The room tilts. She's so woozy that she has an urge to vomit. She sucks in air deep into her lungs and leans into Jean. Right now, the trace of cigarette smoke is more consoling than nauseating. She doesn't ask how Jean knew when to come the moment she did.
Haley's body thrums painfully with every sluggish, barefoot step. Jean holds her tightly, carrying most of her weight like she weighs a pound. She barely notices when Jean speaks up and Jean has to repeat herself.
"Do you want me to take you back to your cell?"
"Infirmary," Haley answers without even thinking about it.
Jean pauses midstride. The look of intensity she gives Haley is also cautionary, as if she's passing a message. In her shock, she hadn't thought of what she'd say when asked what had happened.
"I slipped and fell. You found me," she says firmly, sniffling and swallowing back a sob.
"They'll write it up."
It's Haley's turn to stop. A glint of determination settles in her frightened eyes. "I'm pregnant, Jean. I need to know that my baby is all right."
They continue quietly past sleeping inmates, down the stairs, and to the door that will lead to the infirmary. Jean's abrupt and forceful "she needs a doctor" into the camera above the door doesn't raise a challenge; the mechanical door buzzes open. They encounter a CO at the door to the sanatorium, one who's unconcerned expression tells of a man who's come to accept that nothing that walks through has any real impact on him.
"Where's the doctor?" Jean asks with her unmistakable hardness after helping Haley onto the examining table.
Haley draws out a rough breath and coils her arms around her middle. She's shuddering and her teeth are chattering, and not because she's cold; it's the aftershock of adrenaline. She finds herself so packed with fear that she wants to weep hysterically.
Even though she's dazed, she starts making an inventory of what hurts and how much. Her left wrist feels tight and swollen, cradled in her right hand. There's a dull stiffness in her shoulders and back. Her hip feels like it's in the grip of flaming fingers…It just hurts everywhere. She's never been slapped, hit, roughed up, or engaged in any physical altercation. Here she is bruised, scared stiff and praying that there's no permanent damage. She felt like she was being stomped to death. But she will take all the aftereffects as long as her child is all right. She can handle a sprained wrist, but not losing a baby.
"You need to sit up."
The words sound curt to Haley's ears. She blinks away the fluorescent lighting to get a good look at the face. It's dispassionate, fleshy, lined, worn, and female. This is a doctor she's not met before.
The doctor's examination is clinical and impersonal. Haley tries to keep her mind free from terror but it's impossible to do. Every detail of the last quarter hour soaks into every corner of her brain. The question she most wants an answer to – "is my baby okay" – remains largely sidestepped by the expressionless doctor – "it'll be a while before we find out; does this hurt?"
Her damp eyes darting from one corner to the next of the ceiling, she palms her stomach, massaging, patting, praying; the baby just has to be all right because the alternative is too terrible to consider. Jean's silent presence is reassurance that she's not alone; she's never needed Nathan to be with her more than she does now.
Dread burns like acid once the examination is done. The doctor concludes that her wrist is not broken but she has a bruised rib, and she'll have to stay in the infirmary at least overnight. A nurse is called in to check her blood pressure and hand her a gown she can change into. As the cuff is wrapped around her arm, she fears that the worst is yet to come. It makes her heart ache.
She rubs her reddened, stinging eyes as if to erase any more morbid thoughts. She forces herself to cross over to the present and look around her. The world had shrunk as she lay preoccupied with more pressing things but now she's much aware of the stench of antiseptic. She's in a room she's not been in before. It's bare with nary a tray of instruments or device in sight, and there's only a single bed and rolling chair. Beyond the glassed door of the exam room is the rest of the infirmary, and she's sure that adjacent to the large area is the room where the doctor doles out her regular dose of prenatal vitamins. Nothing is hidden, the open area one single ward with a dozen beds and no curtains or partitions. Though the lights have been lowered, she can see that four beds are occupied and each inmate has a handcuff around a wrist that has been linked to the bed.
"How did you know?"
Haley turns away from the ward to face Jean. Jean may be unobtrusively leaning against the wall by the closed door with her arms folded across her chest but her presence is considerable.
"To come when you did. How did you know?" Haley asks again, cautiously and without accusation.
Jean, unperturbed, stares with unblinking eyes. Her marked lip bears the scar of her valour. "I was watching for you."
Stunned, Haley waits a moment until she's absorbed her declaration. "You, um, do that often?"
A shoulder winches in a shrug. "I do know that you don't take more than five minutes in the bathroom."
"I like the privacy but I don't like being there on my own too long. It can get spooky." She scoffs around the bitter taste in her mouth, her hands clenched into hurting fists where they grip the thin sickbay gown. "I can now see why people would prefer showering in a bunch than alone."
"You're learning," Jean says, her voice a little pinched.
A heaviness grows in the room. Startled at the first sign of rebuke, Haley casts a sideways glance at Jean before returning it to the orange bundle of her things at the foot of the bed. Like it or not, she has been given a lesson, and she wishes that she didn't have to learn in such a hard way. The situation seems otherworldly.
Frustrated, she pushes her still-damp hair behind her ears. "How's your lip?"
Jean's hand rises to her mouth to dab at the welt. "I'll survive."
Haley goes to say something else but the doctor returns. She suddenly can't get enough breath into her lungs. Starting from the base of her spine to the top her head is a hard pulsating that is not just about physical pain. Her hand finds her midsection and absently starts to stroke her stomach.
"Let's get the formalities out of the way. What happened? Who attacked you?"
Prepared with a response, Haley says steadfastly, "Nobody. I fell in the shower."
"You fell in the shower," the doctor repeats, pen poised over the open folder in her hands. Bromley, states the blue stitching over the pocket of her white coat.
She doesn't shift her gaze from the doctor's. "Yes. Jean helped me."
Bromley's lips purse as she looks over at Jean. Then she releases an exasperated sigh and carries on writing, as if she has decided that probing is not worth the effort.
Haley's hands cradle her belly. "Is my baby going to be okay?"
She's torn between building up her hopes and preparing herself for the worst.
"I'll have to do an ultrasound to make any conclusions. It will be here shortly."
Jean snarls tartly, "This waiting around isn't doing her any good."
Bromley's face gives nothing away as she looks at Jean, not offence or irritation or uncertainty or anxiety or unease, like she's encountered such behaviour before from inmates. "Look, I can't tell you anything without doing a scan. As l said, I've arranged for it. Let's wait for the nurse to bring it in."
It doesn't satisfy Jean and her nod is more obligatory than accepting. A controlled expression remains affixed on Bromley's face. Perhaps it's just her typical style. Haley just stares stoically at her stomach.
The phone secured to the wall chimes and blinks. Tucking the folder under an arm, Bromley picks it up. She murmurs briefly and without a word to them, she hangs up and exits the room. The door clicks shut and buzzes with confirmation behind her.
Haley pulls her legs up to her chest and drags down the washed-out gown over her knees until it's covering her paled toes. She rests her tear-splotched face on her knees, and then her shoulders shake. But she's not crying; she's all tapped out from wrestling with the horrors of a potentially-fatal attack and waiting to hear whether her baby is alive. Time is a form of torture when her child's very existence is in jeopardy.
She forces herself to focus away from what may turn out to be the worst news of her life. She raises her head, which makes her nauseous, and squints up at Jean. She's surprised to see her sitting next to the bed in the room's lone chair.
"You don't have to stay. You can go back to the cell block."
Jean peers at her curiously. "Do you want me to go back?"
She smiles weakly. "I'd like it if you stayed, to be honest."
An understanding passes between them, and she doesn't need to voice how frightened she really is by the unknown.
Through the pounding headache, she searches for Jean's hand. It's rough and firm, reminding her a little of Nathan's. "Thank you for…Thank you for what you did," she says in a small voice.
"You didn't have this in mind when you got here?" Jean asks, rubbing her thumb over Haley's skin.
Sniffling, Haley attempts a smile. The festering anger about the attack puts a stop to it. "You mean your girlfriend putting out a hit on me?"
Jean's hand stiffens in Haley's hold. Haley releases it.
"Let's be frank; who else could it have been? That wasn't a random beating. She's made it clear of the fact that she doesn't like any association I have with you, which has been close to nil since our last delightful conversation. She's the only one who would have a reason to want me incapacitated or dead."
"Tessa is…" Jean's mouth sets in a firm line. "Tessa is nothing to me."
"She must think she's something to you to take it out on me."
Her jaw is tight as her grey eyes flicker across Haley's face. "She can think all she wants but I've moved on."
Haley is taken aback by the intensity behind Jean's soft-spoken words. There seems to be a touchable weight attached to them that makes her nervous. She straightens her legs and shifts slightly on the bed. "Jean, I'm not…"
Homing in on a bird tattoo lacing Jean's forearm, she tries to come up with words that will convey what she really wants to say without being insulting. "Thank you for coming to my rescue. I'm so very grateful for that but I'm not…I'm not gay."
She lifts her eyes. "In here or out there. I don't see you that way. Not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me," she adds hurriedly.
Jean reclines in the chair, folds her arms across her chest and regards her. "I'm not gay, either."
Surprise and confusion move across Haley's face. "I thought—"
"The option is only one," Jean gives a small shrug.
Haley simply nods. Jean's announcement is nothing new to her ears, and her personal business is of little concern to her. What worries her is that Jean's private business will suck her into its vortex like it has tonight. She wonders if all the help Jean has given her will come at a costly price.
"You sure have pretty eyes."
Haley rubs at the reddened, swollen eyes, only serving to make them feel rawer than they already are. They must look like over-ripening plums.
"Why not give me a shot while you're here?" Jean says with a good-natured glint in her eye.
Her quiet laugh is genuine. "It's not that easy."
"We'd have fun, you and me. I know it. You wouldn't regret it."
Haley's amusement droops. A hand on her belly, she glances around the small room. It's beyond words that Tessa retaliated in this way just because they had a spat a few days ago. "I'm not having fun."
"You know what I mean. I like you, is all."
Though Jean is sincere, it fills Haley with anxiety; there is already a price to mixing with Big Jean Sheridan, and investing any more of herself in their association means that she's the one at risk.
"You don't even know me. I could be a spy sent to strip you of your power and authority for all you know," she says lightly, trying to minimize the heft in Jean's assertion.
Jean smirks. "With that innocent face and those Bambi eyes, I'd say you're doing a good job." And then the intensity is back in her eyes. "Can anyone really explain attraction?"
Haley's ears heat up, that warmth touching her cheeks. She doesn't consider herself a head-turner, and Jean's interest is puzzling. She could never explain her attraction to Nathan when she didn't feel the same towards his brother. People assumed that she and Luke had had a relationship, but it had always been strictly platonic. When it came to Nathan, however, she couldn't explain why she always wanted to rip off his shirt the minute she saw him. Loving him was easy.
"I guess not," she murmurs, her eyes moving swiftly away from Jean.
Jean chuckles softly but she doesn't quite take notice of it; she's back in that bathroom with its charge in the air, danger lurking in the shadows before she's ambushed by someone with a bad attitude and someone mad enough to stomp on her most vulnerable place. With her trembling hands on her belly, she makes herself perfectly still, as though she's petrified that the slightest move will shatter some brittle calm-before-the-storm.
"You okay?"
Reflexively, she nods and smiles coolly at Jean's concern. She is not okay; she is afraid. That was a wake-up like she's never had before and she may just never sleep again in this place.
She feels it and smells it before she sees it. The dribble of bright red on her inner thigh is so slow that incomprehension swoops across her face. The awareness of what she's really looking at doesn't stun her at first; here is the grim evidence she was praying not to see. Then she thinks there must be a mistake. Sluggishly, her fingers touch the trickle as though they're seeking authentication and they come away glazed with blood.
She pulls a sharp breath. Jean curses.
She starts shivering from ripples of potent and overwhelming shock. Her heart beats like a jackhammer. Cold shades of alarm contort her insides. The short breaths leaving her are making her light-headed. A desperate scream is scrambling its way up her throat.
Her face has taken on a greyish hue as she raises it to look at Jean. "S-something's wrong…"