Chapter 14: Touched by an Angel
The sun vanished from the earth and, before she realized it, Fiona Goode was surrounded by the dark dust of dawn and only the warmth released from the ground's worn-out cement reminded her of its bright presence. It didn't take long for her eyes to be enchanted by another such presence—the moon, ruler of the night, beamed its rays towards Fiona and into the night, out-lighting all neighboring stars.
The Supreme looked down suddenly; it was as if the moon's round face was looking at her guiltily, reminding her of the woman she loved, and each of the stars questions yet to be answered.
Was she wrong? Was she wrong in grieving, screaming, leaving?
Her mind knew that the only reason for Stevie's actions was that she loved Fiona, but the Supreme couldn't help but blame herself for the white witch's position—had she been less selfish, less self-pitying, less irrational, maybe Stevie wouldn't have seen this as the only possibility. After all, it was her, Fiona, who was supposed to lie in this ghostly hospital bed, being pumped with medicine and deprived of human contact.
This, Fiona reminded herself, was why she'd promised herself not to open up to love again: it makes people do irrational, selfless things, and that's not what witches, let alone Supremes, do. At least not the Supreme she had made of herself. But now it was too late—she could not unlove Stevie, and neither could she reverse the spell. After she'd left the hospital earlier that day, she had spent hours on her knees, the floor covered in books and her fingers covered in papercuts, desperate to find something—anything—to reverse the spell. But Cordelia's worthless library had left her with nothing, and she knew if she'd spend another day searching for a solution, she might be too late. She knew what she had to do.
Her black heels made quiet but clear sounds as they traveled across the crooked pavement of the trail along the Mississippi River. Once she reached Chartres Street, the air filled with more voices, and Fiona quickened her pace and flung her hand in the air with a sense of newfound urgency, "Taxi, please!"
Fiona's discomfort grew at the sense of familiarity the sterile hospital walls evoked in her. She bit her teeth and continued the walk towards the door that belonged to Stevie, entering it without a second thought to avoid any form of hesitation that could cause her to turn around and run, fast.
She was taken aback by the presence of a nurse in the room, his misplacement in the situation apparent, even to him. He picked up a used tray next to Stevie's bed and made his way out of the room determinedly, greeting the Supreme only with a weak, sympathetic smile, which was left unreciprocated.
"You came back," Stevie uttered when she saw Fiona's lost and tired eyes.
"Stevie Nicks makes her grand finale and you think I'm not gonna be here for that?"
Fiona's attempt to lighten the mood proved futile as her voice trembled when she spoke and she failed to take control of the tears that immediately filled her eyes. She made her way over to the bed and rested her right hand on the tray next to the bed, too overwhelmed by a feeling of vulnerability to be ready for Stevie's touch.
"What made you decide to—"
Stevie was interrupted by Fiona's still trembling but, this time, more determined voice.
"Stronger," the Supreme uttered, replacing eye contact with a blank stare.
"You said you did this to make me stronger, healthier. To relieve me of my sickness," she exclaimed, followed by a preposterous laugh.
"But you know, you didn't quite think this through, little white witch."
Fiona tried to catch some of her tears that were getting ready to roll down her face and displayed a smile that added a light-hearted air to her words, only to make saying them bearable.
"Because," she took a step back, placed one hand on her hip and used the other to cover her mouth, her smile vanishing immediately. Her tears became more plentiful when she looked up to the ceiling and her voice cracked as she spoke.
"Because I will be weaker without you," she swallowed, "than I ever was with cancer. And Fiona Goode isn't that: weak, fragile, dependent. But you have made me that; you have made me want to be that—because it was the only way I could love you. And now, you see, I understand why you did this. But what you failed to realize is that without you, I will be weaker than I have ever been. Living without you," she paused briefly, "is dying."
Fiona's eyes suddenly turned to Stevie and locked with hers. Stevie reached out her hand and, finally, Fiona gave in and took it. It was only then that she realized how much she'd missed the soft, familiar touch of the singer's skin; the relief they offered with their mere presence and the way both of their hands fit perfectly together—as if her hand fell into place, long lost but found at last.
The sight of their hands joined together released all of the tension and the tears Fiona had previously tried her hardest to keep inside, and as her body sunk on the chair next to the bed, her head rested against their hands, which were quickly stained with small streams of salty water.
Stevie's body was filled with intense grief—not for her own body but for Fiona. Seeing her like this was unbearable to the singer, which was why she had decided to go through with her plan in the first place. While her lover was sobbing next to her, she kept telling herself that this was what she'd wanted, and it was the right thing to do. Fiona would get through this, and she didn't care about herself—her body was merely a shell, a temporary medium for her soul, after all. Though, as hard as she tried to hold on to that thought, the weakness had crept through and then conquered her body, her soul pressed heavily under the numbing weight of vanishing strength.
"You know, and the worst thing," Fiona looked up when the piercing pain of sadness loosened its grip for a second, "the worst thing is that if it had been you from the beginning, if you had been the one with cancer, I—I don't know if I'd done the same."
Sobs overwhelmed her once again and she withdrew her hand from Stevie's, feeling undeserving of its warm touch.
"I love you, Stevie. And the fact that you did this is one of the reasons I love you so much. But I am not loveable. I know myself, I know myself, and I know that I am selfish and scared and mortified—god, am I mortified—and I don't know—I don't know if I would, if I could have done the same."
Fiona had become so preoccupied with her speech that her tears had stopped coming. She looked up to Stevie, feeling hopelessly lost and caught between dark shadows, although she knew deep inside that it wasn't her who had the right to feel that way.
"I love you," Stevie cupped Fiona's face with her pale fingers, "And I know you love me just the same," she added with a weak smile.
Fiona met Stevie's gaze and as she stared into her infinity-eyes, she didn't need to hear further words to know what she wanted to say. Her eyes were filled with endless love—confusing, troubling, exhausting, intensely present love—but also with growing exhaustion, and a need to let go. In this very moment, Fiona hated that she knew Stevie so well because recognizing her weakness evoked an overpowering feeling of unbearable pain in the core of her body, urging more tears to fall.
Fiona took Stevie's hand and, along with her head, laid it on the white sheets she despised next to the woman she loved. It was only now that she felt a sudden wave of exhaustion trailing through her body. When she closed her eyes, the room filled with an intense, heavy silence that was accompanied only by silent, fading sobs.
The Supreme was awakened by a sudden, overwhelming, cold terror—maybe a bad dream, she thought, but she knew that witches don't have nightmares—they have premonitions.
Almost naturally, she looked up to the machine monitoring Stevie's heartbeat and hated herself for it—this felt so cliché, so real-life—what was she, a soap opera star? The numbers looked fine, a little below average, but fine—although a nagging and persistent discomfort made sure she sensed that it would not stay that way.
Fiona looked over to Stevie and, when she saw that her eyes were closed, she shook her arm softly—no response.
"Stevie," she whispered, shaking her with a little more urgency.
"Stevie, love," she tried again, her voice layered with rising panic. Immediately anxious, Fiona got up from her chair and, not knowing what else to do, rushed out into the hall, her head turning from one direction to the other, trying to spot anyone in a white coat, or even in scrubs.
Skipping any courtesies, Fiona grabbed the first white-coated arm she could find, pulling it into the direction of Stevie's room.
"You have to help me, my friend isn't responding and I—I don't know what to do,"
"Stay calm, ma'am," the doctor freed herself from the Supreme's grip. "Now, where is your friend located?"
Fiona pointed towards the door, fear paralyzing her. As the doctor took the lead, the witch followed, only to be greeted by a dulled, hectic beeping. It took her a moment to realize it originated in Stevie's room—even when she watched the doctor quicken her pace, fling open the door and rush to Stevie's bed; her eyes widen when she looked at the monitor—it felt like she herself was only a bystander, watching her surroundings in slow-motion, unattached—this couldn't be real, right?
She was thrown out of her trance when someone bumped into her from behind. The doctor she had declared incompetent just earlier this morning suddenly took up most of the space in the room, and it looked like she was communicating with the other one, though Fiona's ears shut out any sounds except for the dominating, disturbing, ever-quickening beeping.
"Do something!" She blurted out suddenly, stepping into the room. "Help her already! Do something!"
Even though she hated it, tears started streaming down her face and fear-turned-rage made her voice coarse and load.
"I'm sorry, Miss… Goode, right? Ms. Nicks signed a document earlier today, explicitly stating that she didn't want any life-saving measures so that reanimation—"
"What?!" she interrupted the doctor, "are you fucking kidding me? She is dying, so you are just going to let her die? Who the fuck are you to decide who gets to live and who doesn't!"
"Now, ma'am, please calm down," the doctor tried to push Fiona out of the room by coming closer, but the Supreme didn't move an inch.
"Don't you patronize me, you incompetent little moron. You—"
Her voice was cut by the deadening sound of a steady beep—no intervals, no rhythm, no inconsistencies—just the piercing certainty of a sound that represented unshakeable, absolute death.
Fiona's jaw dropped slowly, falling from shock and the need to absorb as much air as possible, and her hand covered her mouth almost automatically, unconsciously.
"No," she uttered quiet words of soft disbelief before rushing to Stevie's bed, "No!"
Fiona grabbed Stevie's face, feeling her still-warm skin under her hands.
"You can't just die on me like that, I wasn't ready yet!"
The doctors had retreated to the back of the room, silently watching. While she was catching her breath, Fiona halted for a moment. She let her eyes wander over Stevie's face, that perfect face she had woken up to so many times; she studied her closed, peaceful eyes, her cheeks that were less rosy than she was used to, and her curved lips that were parted by a small gap of nothingness, only air where breath was supposed to be.
She took a step back and realized that now, she was just a body, this wasn't Stevie anymore; soon her cheeks would be white and her limbs would be cold, turning her into a shell that used to be. A shell that used to be a living, breathing human being that had interacted with, lived for, impacted, and loved others. A link in the chain that was the world, her world, gone.
As she stood there, alive, and seeing death before her, she also knew that it shouldn't have been Stevie lying there, it should have been her. Her body didn't belong here anymore.
TBC