Julia

Chapter 25 Arrival and Departure

Charlie picked up his T-shirt, and paused for a moment. He needed deodorant. He turned and headed into the bathroom, his eyes downcast, avoiding the mirror. He hadn't looked in the mirror shirtless for months; he had discovered early on that the sight of the letters carved in his chest delivered a blow that was more painful, more devastating to his fragile self-esteem, than any of the physical injuries he had received. So he was stunned as he picked up the deodorant, catching a quick glimpse of his chest in the mirror, and saw – nothing.

Well, close to nothing. He turned slowly, studying his chest. The scars had been thin to begin with, because they had been made with a razor blade, and had since faded. The fine white lines were next to invisible under the hair on his chest. To anyone who didn't know they were there, they would be invisible. He straightened, and for the first time in months, looked himself directly in the eye, and saw a whole person. Damaged, still hurting inside, but whole. Someone who just might have a purpose in life. Someone, who, for better or worse, was going to be a father.

Thoughtfully, he stepped back into the bedroom; mechanically applying deodorant to one armpit, and awkwardly to the other, then wormed his way into his T-shirt. His left arm was finally free of a cast, and he had started physical therapy, but surgery and weeks of inactivity had left his arm extremely weak. His grip in particular was feeble, even though he had been working hard in physical therapy. He only had six more weeks before he had to have two functioning arms, so he could hold the baby.

In the past few weeks, he had come to grips with the decision he had made. He had decided he was ready for this; he had to be ready somehow. He gathered books and magazines and catalogues, looking at pictures of cribs and changing tables, reading articles on child rearing, and the more he looked at, the more he read, the more his feelings had developed. He had gone from a sense of trepidation, and the realization that it was his duty to care for the child, to mild interest, to absorption, to fascination, and finally to anticipation. He was going to be a father, and in spite of some anxiety over how well he would do, he suddenly couldn't wait.

He would do a good job, he vowed. He would get his act together again – he had already started. Over the past months, Yang-Mills had been replaced by the healthier, more realistic pursuit of Cognitive Emergence theory; and he had never told anyone about actually finding the answer. Yang-Mills had joined the "P vs. NP" list, and he could never be proud of the time he spent on it. He had begun slowly, and then with more frequency, to perform the odd calculations here and there for Larry; and then added some side projects for Millie. Recently, he had started to prepare for the upcoming semester. He had decided that it was time to go back to teaching, and to his relief, Millie was more than supportive of the idea. They had agreed on a class schedule – the next semester was still two and a half months away, but suddenly Charlie couldn't wait for that either.

After his talk with Dr. Anderson, he had also begun to realize the toll his anger was taking; on himself, and on his father and brother. He had been trying hard to change that; he had started by simply modulating his responses by speaking in a civilized voice instead of snapping. Encouraged, his father and brother had responded by talking more instead of retreating, which had sparked actual conversations. It was helping all of them to heal. Last week, he had gone out to lunch with Don, for the first time in months.

He had so much to do; things to buy for the baby, he had to find a nanny or daycare if he was going back to teach… His thoughts spinning, he headed downstairs. His dad was at work; the house was peaceful, quiet. A little tea, some yogurt, and the latest Baby News. He was looking forward to it.

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Finally. Jessica gritted her teeth through the rising contraction, as they rolled her down the hallway on a gurney, and into the delivery room. As much as she usually enjoyed pain, childbirth somehow didn't seem to have the same effect. Her repeated efforts to snuff out the life inside of her had apparently failed, and she had carried the damn thing to just six weeks short of full term. The room was a flurry of activity; nurses, the obstetrician circled around, preparing. They helped her off the gurney onto the delivery table. 'Look at them,' she thought scornfully. Running around with concerned looks on their faces. They actually cared about the brat; cared that it was six weeks early. She didn't give a crap, and it was hers. Well, it disturbed her that Charlie had been awarded custody; but then it disturbed her that Charlie was alive.

The only thing that mattered to her now was that she would soon be free. Free of the disgusting thing inside of her, and soon free, period. One way or another, she was going to use this opportunity to escape. Then it would be complete release, complete autonomy, somewhere on an island, far away. But before she left, she had some business to take care of. She smiled. Sweet revenge. First Don Eppes, then Charlie. Today, with any luck, would be their last day on earth.

One of the nurses saw her smile, and smiled back. "Do you have a name picked out?"

Stupid bitch had no idea who she was, that she was supposed to be criminally insane. She was actually trying to make conversation. Jessica smiled sweetly at her. "Yes," she said, her voice dripping with saccharine. "Julia."

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The call came at two-thirty. Charlie was deeply immersed in a transfer function, and it made him start, and look around wildly for the source of the noise. Phone, he realized. He took the call on the kitchen phone, expecting it to be Alan.

"Mr. Eppes?" came the female voice. "This is the delivery room at Huntington. We were instructed to call you when the baby was born."

"Yes, this is Mr. Eppes," stammered Charlie, his head reeling. "But – it's early – she's not due yet -," He fumbled with the phone, trying to place it on his shoulder, and looked around desperately for a note pad.

"Yes," came the voice, "She was six weeks early-,"

The rest of the conversation was lost as the receiver slipped from Charlie's shoulder and tumbled to the floor. He picked it up and put it back to his ear. "Hello? Hello?"

The connection had been broken. He looked frantically around for the phone book; then thought better of it. He could be there in ten minutes. It would take him almost that long to look up the number and call them back. He dashed upstairs to find his wallet and his car keys.

On the way out to the car, he grabbed his cell phone from the dining room table. Holding it awkwardly in his weaker hand, he hit Alan's speed dial. The phone rang as he climbed into the car. He waited impatiently until Alan's voice mail came on. "Dad, it's Charlie. I'm on my way to the hospital – they called – Alana's here. I'll be at Huntington."

His hands shaking with adrenaline, he hit Don's speed dial next, with the same result – voice mail. Where in the heck was everyone? He left a similar message and tossed the phone on the seat, starting the car, and shot down the driveway, tires squealing in protest.

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The orderly wheeled Jessica down the hall toward the private room. The police officer stood outside, and Jessica allowed her head to loll against the pillow, trying to look out-of-it, spent. In actuality, she was ready to turn cartwheels. She was free of the brat, and to top it off, it had been stillborn. While her efforts had not resulted in a miscarriage, she had still done some kind of irrefutable damage. She smiled inwardly, anticipating Charlie's pain. Let him have custody. Custody of a corpse.

The orderly pushed her through the doorway and situated the bed in its proper location, and a solemn-faced nurse pushed up a bedside table with a pitcher of water. "Can I get you anything, dear?" she asked; sympathy on her face.

"No," sighed Jessica, and she contorted her face in false grief, hiding it with her hand, and forcing out a sob. "I just need some privacy."

"You just hit the buzzer if you need anything," replied the nurse, and she was gone.

Jessica was immediately on her feet. Adrenalin more than compensated for the physical ordeal her body had just been through. She un-taped the IV from her hand, and pulled out the needle. Creeping toward the door, she peered through the crack. She couldn't see anything but hallway, and she pushed it open an inch, then another inch. Finally she dared to stick her head out. The idiot cop was leaning against the nurses' station down the hall, his profile to her, talking with one of the nurses. She smiled and slipped out, gathering her gown around her and heading toward a nearby exit sign, waddling a little.

One floor down, there were rooms for patients recovering from surgery, and she walked slowly down the hall as if she was on a routine exercise stint. She finally saw what she was looking for, a locker room, and slipped inside; listening to make sure it was empty. She heard footsteps, and ducked behind a row of lockers. The door opened and shut, and then it was silent. She slipped around the row, and found a table with folded green surgical scrubs. Just what she needed.

As she slipped the hospital gown off and stiffly pulled on the pants, satisfied to discover they were large enough to pull over her disgusting baby fat, she glanced down the row of lockers. One of them was protruding just a bit, as if it hadn't quite shut. She slipped the green tunic over her head, as she walked toward it and gave it a pull, and it jerked open. Eureka! This just had to be her day. Inside was a purse, and better yet, shoes. There were jeans and a shirt in there too, but they were way too small. Better stick with the scrubs.The clogs were too small, too, but they would get her out of the building. She crammed her feet into them, and slinging the purse over her shoulder, walked out of the room and boldly down the hall.

Two minutes later, she was outside, hailing a taxi, on her way to her gym. There was a warm-up suit and tennis shoes in her locker there, and spare keys, including keys to Don's apartment.

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The meeting broke up, and Don finally fished his cell phone out of his pocket, his heart leaping a little as he saw Charlie's number. In the last month or two, his brother had finally started coming out of his self-imposed exile, and had started to talk, to open up. They had actually had lunch together last week. His heart fell as he looked at the clock. Two forty-five. It was way too late for lunch – he had missed him. He called up the message anyway.

Megan glanced at Don on the way to her desk; then did a double take. He had stopped dead, and his mouth was hanging open. He snapped the phone shut and looked up at them. "That was Charlie – he left a message – the baby's here." He strode over to his desk and grabbed his keys, as they stared back at him. "I'm going to run over to Huntington – Charlie's already there."

"I thought it wasn't due for another month," said Colby, confusion on his face.

"Six weeks," replied Don quietly.

"They can do a lot with premature babies," offered Megan, her eyes sympathetic.

Don nodded, and headed out of the bullpen. He refused to speculate. He was just going to assume that the baby was okay. For Charlie's sake, he couldn't bear to think otherwise.

"Call us!" yelled Megan after him, and she looked at Colby and David, apprehensively.

As Don got off the elevator, he dialed Charlie's cell phone, with no response other than voice mail. "Charlie, it's ten to three, I just got your message, and I'm leaving the office now. I'm going to stop at my apartment, and then I'll be right there." He headed for the parking garage, with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

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Charlie fidgeted impatiently on the elevator, and took off like a shot when the doors opened, half jogging down the hallway. He paused briefly at the nursery, scanning the half dozen babies in their clear bassinets, and then shook his head and moved on. A baby this premature would be in intensive care, he told himself. He moved on, down to the nurses' station, his heart pumping.

"Can I help you?" asked the nurse behind the desk, a pleasant-faced blond woman of about forty, whose tag said "Trish."

"They called me at home," stammered Charlie. "For baby Eppes. I'm the father." As he spoke the word aloud, his heart leapt. He was a father. He had a baby girl. He wondered if he would be allowed to hold her in the ICU.

Trish took in the thin young man in front of her, his face pale and serious. 'Poor thing,' she thought. 'He seems to be holding up well, though.'

"Of course, Mr. Eppes," she said, moving around the station. "Come with me." The morgue had not come up yet for the child; he could see it here. It was much better that way, she thought.

Charlie followed her to the delivery rooms, and looked puzzled as she turned into a smaller room off of one of the delivery bays. "I would have thought they would have brought her to the ICU already…," he began, and then trailed off into silence as he looked over her shoulder at the sheet-covered bassinet. He felt the void, the chasm; begin to open in his chest even before she spoke.

She was looking at him in dismay. "I'm so sorry; they didn't tell you?" He was staring silently at the bassinet and she answered her own question. "She was stillborn."

He was still gazing at the bassinet, and began to move slowly toward it, and then stopped, still staring blankly, as he reached it. She wasn't sure if he had heard her, and she moved beside him.

She gently uncovered the tiny body, and he felt his heart contract. The form in front of him was a work of art, miniscule, fragile, delicate; perfect. Tiny hands and feet, a delicate face with nearly translucent skin, even the faintest of dark fuzz on her head. There was tag at the head of the bassinet. "Julia Eppes."

He shook his head, still stunned. Jessica had taken everything from him – even his child's name. He looked at the nurse, and the sadness in his face touched her heart. "That's wrong," he whispered. He reached out and tore at the tag, which he could not pry loose. "Her name is Alana. Alana Margaret Dawn Eppes."

Trish looked back at him, her face full of pity, then backed toward the door. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, take as long as you need. I'll go…make a new tag…." She slipped from the room, and Charlie turned back to the bassinet.

He stood there and looked down at her, his daughter, and touched the delicate cheek gingerly with his forefinger. He stood there, as the first twinges of pain hit his heart, still staring at her beautiful little face. He stood there, as the pain magnified and grew, turning into a yawning void that threatened to swallow him whole. He stood there, and the tears streamed down his face.

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End Chapter 25