She had an ounce of an idea that she could hide under the bed. It didn't get any heavier, didn't become two ounces or three. Didn't form past that first initial glint of suggestion. Didn't crystalize to become something tangible, something that she could act upon. The bed was too high, this was the problem. Visibility was present whether a person was sitting or passing by. If they were to sit down in the chair she currently occupied, then the view they'd be privy to would be of a woman in her forties, whose clothes were entirely inappropriate for her age and whose make-up smudged around her eyes. She'd be curled over, her arms clad around her jean-covered knees and a bright red stiletto slipping precariously from a foot. If said person were to, instead, enter the room and remain standing, then the sight would be different and infinitely fractured. A leather-sleeved elbow would jut from the shadows. Hair would suspend, the wisps made static from the bed frame. That single red stiletto would flash like a beacon, hanging from its disembodied foot. The black nail varnish painting the slightly aged toes would communicate a women perhaps not accustomed to sensible decisions. Either way, this person would finish with an expression of astonishment suspending their features. They'd eventually be looking at each other (the person and the woman), square in the face. This person no doubt dumbfounded by the sight. The woman might raise her eyebrow in a comical 'busted' expression or perhaps she'd unfurl from her hiding place and straighten up as if simply emerging from a car. Or maybe she'd return to that infantile belief that as long as you're frozen, you cannot be seen.
Dean was the said person who inspired this childish notion, with his tanned arms thrust deeply into his pockets and the delicate manner in which he entered the room. He trailed Paddy. The look on his face was one of grief. And in that second, the ounce of that idea formed and she would have done it, had the bed been lower. She would have hidden underneath, held her breath to still any announcing noises and prayed to remain shrouded. But the bed was too high so, instead, she simply rose unsteadily to greet him. "Hi Dean," Chastity said hesitantly, her voice cracking. Dean wore apprehension like a cloak. It covered every inch and seeped into his pours as if it were an intricate part of his biology. His shaky breath expanded to become an entire body tremble. Chastity risked a glance where Dean's eyes settled. She understood his distress. "He shouldn't be like this for long," spoke the deceptively calming tones of Paddy. In truth they didn't know. Ever the optimist, was Paddy. Always a man whose pint was half full and whose sky was decorated with silver-lined clouds. They didn't know, this was the reality. This could continue for years, those had been the doctor's words. The ambiguous way in which Aaron lay communicated neither a man ready to return nor desiring to indefinitely upkeep the status quo. He was now on his side, body slightly curled, arms tangled against his chest. Every now and again he'd tense his left arm, pushing his elbow into his ribcage. It was the only motion he persisted with, that and rapidly blinking. He'd stare off for ages, a faint determination in his eyes, before those lashes descended. The heaviness in which they landed communicated a character that lacked in every other part of Aaron's face. Every other part remained slack. There was no accustomed narrowing of the brow or petulant curling of the lip. Nothing to suggest he was anything but an imposter wearing a familiar mask. Dean looked terrified, "he's… he's catatonic." It was neither a question nor a statement, just said with the disbelief of someone who'd heard of a condition but never witnessed it. Perhaps never even given it any real consideration. "Yes, he is," confirmed Paddy. The older man had intercepted Dean in the reception area of the hospital. For the last two hours, he'd incessantly called, and each time the call had gone straight to voice mail. Paddy had fretted that they'd left Dean to deal with this alone, whilst Chastity had remained silent. When asked where she thought he was, she'd closed off. She didn't even attempt to hide it behind consideration. She merely shrugged and Paddy seemed to accept her obstructiveness as shock. When Dean finally answered his phone, he was encouraged by Paddy to come to the hospital and he didn't seem to require much persuasion. Looking at him now, it was obvious he'd been informed about Aaron's current condition during the walk from reception. His face displayed alarm, without confusion. Distress, but with no panic.
"Are you OK?" Chastity didn't really want to ask that question. It was too leading. It invited a response that might have to be met with solace. She'd asked for lack of anything else to say and because of that bed that was just too damn high. "I don't really know what I'm feeling." Paddy cleared his throat and stepped forward, stopping next to Dean. He gingerly put out a comforting hand but halted. Changing his mind, he stepped back. What do you say to someone whose loved one was in a catatonic state? It should be easy. It should be something along the lines of, 'Don't worry, we'll get through this together." This should be the sort of thing that unites a family, draws them together and provides them a goal. And that is exactly what would be happening now had it not been for that other man named Jackson. Maybe that's why Paddy stepped back, because he couldn't give such reassurance. Because to do it would mean dismissing Dean's fears and explaining Aaron's behaviour, putting it down to his condition. "It was only a few hours ago that I had no idea about any of this." Dean's eyes remained fixed on Aaron's form. "I didn't know about his illness. Had never heard of the name Jackson. Didn't even know the truth about his past." He swiped out his tongue to wet his lips and continued to gaze. His face relayed utter disbelief and complete torment. "I'm not sure what this says about our relationship."
"I'm sorry," replied Paddy and even though it was clear he meant it, he'd obviously said it in place of anything constructive. In response, Dean shifted his weight to his right foot. He folded his arms and sniffed loudly. He absently nodded and a determination crossed his features. It caused Chastity to suck in a breath. "Jackson said that Aaron stopped taking his medication before anything between them began." And there it was, the beginning of a long and hard conversation that she desperately wanted to circumvent. Chastity was jolted by an intense loathing at the height of that bed. Why hadn't it been lower? Why had that nurse hiked it to that level? Had she foreseen the cowardly opportunity that it possessed? Realised the potential sanction, the avoidance that could be achieved? "And we were happy," he continued, "we really were, so surely that must mean something." A nurse that had been the bed hiker came into sight. Chastity held her breath, hoping the woman was entering Aaron's room to check on him. She needed her presence to halt this line of conversation. Her prayer was not answered and the nurse continued past the window without slowing. "But how is it that he is a complete mystery to me, we're meant to be getting married? She could see what Dean was doing. She could understand the back and forth trapeze, see the daring stunts his mind performed as it navigated and analysed. "You know, it all makes sense now, the way he was. His strange moods." His eyes stared off wistfully. "He'd be like two different people and we even used to joke about it. Sometimes, he'd be so fun. He'd want to meet friends and take random trips and he'd have so many dreams about the future. But then there was the other Aaron. This one would keep his head down, want to hide away. He never wanted to do anything other than stuff his hands deep in his pockets and frown uncomfortably. I loved both of them." Dean paused and then moved jerkily, the motion looking uncoordinated and unplanned. His eyes landed on Chas. She felt the molecules of her skin tingle, she imagined them moving protectively to form a barrier. To thicken, to become impenetrable. "So go on then, which one is the real Aaron?"
"I don't know," she answered and internally she heard the inner voice screaming at her that she was a coward. "OK, so who was he right back at the beginning? Before suicide attempts and train crashes and hospitalisations?" The answer caught in the back of her throat. It remained at the threshold of her oesophagus, too terrified to do anything but meekly peek out at the hostile environment. Self-interest reversed her words movements and she remained silent. It was Paddy who responded, "Aaron was always more like the second person." Maybe he spoke so easily because he felt no responsibility. He'd carved no lines, manipulated no one. He'd done what he was always willing to do, wait, listen and think. They'd played their roles so predictably, she'd fallen into character with no hesitation and it made her insides burn. Dean studied Paddy's words for long moments. They were pulled apart, rearranged and reassembled. Inverted, turned up-side-down, broken and fixed. He mouthed them silently, trying them on for size. Confusion accompanied and the squint in Dean's eyes made his next words indeterminable. They waited and every cell in her body froze when he finally spoke. "It doesn't matter. I still love him." It was said with no trace of hesitancy, merely determination. He nodded at them aggressively. "This last week, Aaron has been ill. I know this." He bit his lip for a second, "We will get past this." Everything inside Chastity collapsed. She trembled at these declarations, the firm stance and the formidability in which they were spoken, they was so beautiful. It spoke of the strength in Dean's character. Paddy's eyes met hers and a small, uncertain smile graced his lips. This is the scenario that should follow. She should bend her knees in relief. Touch her shaky finger tips to her forehead. Take a moment to breath heavily and say a silent thanks. She should approach Dean, curl a hand around his defined arm, pull him close, and encircle him into a hug. Tell him that everything will be OK. Rejoice that she didn't have to go through the hard sell. Hadn't had to stand and beg and speak unsurely of Aaron's illness and its part in the reconciliation between Aaron and Jackson. Dean had done it on his own, come to the conclusion with no assistance from either of them, no lie had escaped her lips. No further manipulations needed to follow. But Chastity remained still, this magnificent flow of events didn't materialise. Dean had a look of anticipation breaking through his steely expression, it was clear from the twitch in the corner of his mouth that he wanted to expand his lips into a smile. He was poised, ready to receive Chastity's answering grin. He scanned her, waiting for that positive and life-affirming moment that always appeared in happy endings. Chastity just looked at him and the smile halted. Around her, she heard a swishing noise, as if everything was moving past too quickly. And it was. She wasn't ready to perform the task that she alone needed to do. She chattered her teeth together and held her breath. She was undoing everything in this single sentence. "I'm so… sorry Dean." She glanced at Paddy, his gaze was fixed back at her. His brow was raised. He understood what she was doing and his look was of comprehension intermingled with shock. "I'm sorry," she repeated, exhaling shakily. Moisture accumulated in her mouth, coating her teeth and muffling her words. "I could stand here and agree that this last week was all one big mistake." Moisture pricked her eyes, "And I want to. You have no idea how much I want to do that. I could say that Aaron is ill, that you should completely ignore everything, and oh god I really want to do that." Dean's frame leant back, creating distance, his face creased to the tiniest degree. "But that would be a lie." Water bubbled up in her eyes, obscuring her view, and she frantically wiped it away, she'd started and so she needed to finish. "The doctor said that everything that Aaron had done could be down to his medication, this would be such a comfortable theory for me. I could cling to it and adamantly reiterate it, but all the while I would be ignoring the truth." Her throat caught again, a hard round ball prevented the words from seeing light, she swallowed aggressively. This next sentence needed to be said and it jerked out like a knife attack. "But, Aaron loves Jackson. He always has, he always will. And Aaron wants Jackson." She immediately averted his gaze, unable to bear witness to the outpour of grief on Dean's face. He was silent as he digested her words, "why are you saying this?" he whispered. She imagined blood spilling from the open wound she'd just created. She focused on the bed that cradled her son, watching Aaron perform another round of rapid blinks.
"Because it's the truth and it's the least you deserve."
"You could be wrong."
"I'm not wrong."
"I don't understand," begged Dean. Aaron pressed his elbow into his ribcage, it didn't mean anything. Certainly not that he was about to come to and definitely not that he was about to take over from what his mother had started. An intense need to cry overcame her and she bit down on her lip, she couldn't look back at Dean. "I don't understand," he repeated, "you called me here. You got me to come to England." He was saying this defiantly, as if it were some contradictory evidence. "I know," she still couldn't look at him and once again fantasised of the opportunities gained from being hidden beneath the bed. "So why am I here then?" Disbelief gently collided against her cheek. She took a shaky breath and stared, willing those tears not to fall. Dean shouldn't have to contend with them as well. Steeling herself, she turned back to face the full force of her irresponsibility. She had set the motions in place, she had inserted that last cog, and it was up to her to fix whatever was possible. "Because I was scared and desperate and because I didn't want to believe that Aaron and Jackson were getting back together. Because I couldn't handle everything that had happened and this was my attempt at making sure history wouldn't repeat itself. I saw their love as poisonous, something that needed to be contained. I thought they had caused every terrible thing in each other's life. I couldn't see that their love lived on in spite of every terrible thing. I was wrong, I know that, now" she paused, uncertain, "actually I always knew it, I just accept it now."
It took a second and then Dean's face contorted to resentment, anger dispersed from him in waves. His denial hardened into a compact mass of contempt, "What, so I was just a pawn?"
"I'm sorry," she answered, futilely. It meant nothing, it was as solid as the breath that carried the words. The tears that she'd held at bay earlier, trailed her cheeks. Paddy hadn't spoken, hadn't joined in. He'd merely stared between her and Dean. She'd watched his expression grow more sombre at every uncomfortable sentence uttered. "Dean," he quietly, finally said. Dean interrupted him suddenly, what he said came out slow and determined, "I don't believe it." He shook his head, his anger receding once again behind the more comfortable emotion of denial. Chastity could understand, at least denial brought hope. "OK," she answered delicately, needing to navigate without crushing salt into the wound. More tears fell. "You're more than welcome to stay as long as you need, OK? Until Aaron comes to or whatever." She sniffed, "But, I'm telling you that the only grief he will feel is because he hurt you." Her voice broke and her last words lost coherency, the truth of them too much even for Chastity to bear. "Because he loves Jackson."
Dean didn't respond. He remained silent, breathing heavily, his own eyes encased with a watery sheen. He gazed around the room, a desperate need to anchor himself apparent in his face. His eyes settled on Aaron who once again blinked rapidly. Dean sucked in a breath and Chastity believed that he was willing Aaron to suddenly sit up and dispute everything she had just said. Nothing happened and when he turned and stumbled towards the door, she wanted to follow, to speak some sort of comfort, to make everything alright. But didn't, because in truth, there was nothing more to say. This was the reality, she was done. Instead, she felt a clammy hand slip into hers and looked up to see Paddy gazing at her. His image blurred through her sodden, puffy eyes and she shuddered out a sob. "Did I do the wrong thing?"
"No, you did the right thing."
