A/N: This is a long chapter, but I didn't know how to cut it down! Thank you to joel shell and Elena, for your feedback!
CHAPTER 15
He'd been able to leave the house in utter silence at the usual time on Sunday morning without disturbing Margaret or causing some kind of melodrama to erupt in the Winchester household. Turning the ignition of the Bentley with a smile, Charles took great pleasure in knowing he'd escaped consequence for now and could focus on his work for the day without distraction.
And yet, when he'd set his briefcase down in his office and peered at the stack of postoperative reports he had yet to finish reading, Charles was overcome with indecision. What was Margaret going to do today? Was she going to spend the day telling Honoria of his strange behavior, his random outbursts of anger? Would his sister, in turn, tell Margaret about how he'd cried his eyes out in front of her?
He'd been so wrong yesterday in how he'd treated Margaret. They'd been so chummy in Korea, working side by side in the O.R., sharing gourmet food and a love of (very different) music, ganging up against Pierce and Hunnicutt on the odd occasion, and comforting each other when life became difficult.
And yet, Margaret's ultimate act of friendship, to help Charles achieve his career goals, had, in fact, been used as a weapon against her. Perhaps she would leave Boston today and travel to Crabapple Cove, where she could justly condemn him to Pierce. Perhaps she and Pierce would resume whatever had been suggested by their long goodbye kiss. And when Charles received their wedding invitation, he would know that he had truly deserved this outcome.
Charles took the postoperative report from Friday off of the stack of papers on his phonograph, the report detailing the surgery he'd botched with his stupidity. All his undeserved good fortune of late—his return to Boston, the restoration of his health, his prestigious position—required an equal and opposite reaction, as per the laws of physics. He closed his eyes, picturing Margaret leaving Beacon Hill now, a smile on her face as she anticipated seeing the very friendly face of Pierce.
And to think, all of his recent misfortunes had begun concurrently with the advent of his digestive issues. Since then, he had chalked up a rather large list of iniquities: firstly, he was certain that he was in fact responsible for the death of those five Chinese musicians, as well as that of the night janitor Bob Sullivan. The poor janitor had been blatantly crying out for help in confronting him in his office that first evening, and he'd selfishly avoided him every night henceforth, compelling the poor man to commit suicide. Those six deaths weighed heavily on him.
And yet, he mused, rather than learn from what he'd done, he'd begun purposely avoiding sustenance, going so far as to perform surgery in a dangerously weak state and putting another life at risk! And just yesterday, after making his first real progress with Dr. Jackson, he'd horribly mistreated a friend who'd traveled thousands of miles to see him. The scales were due to tip the other way soon; perhaps he himself should initiate that process.
He considered what he should do as he stared at the meaningless symbols on the paper. Should he resign from this position? Should he demote himself to a mere surgeon in the department? Should he quit practicing medicine? Should he reenlist and allow the Army to decide his fate? Or should he perhaps apply for a job far away from Boston, a place with no Uncle Bob, a place where the Winchester surname was inconsequential?
The lattermost option seemed the best, at first thought. Leaving his hometown, his family, after spending nearly two whole years away from them, seemed an unthinkable choice and yet, would it really be so difficult to physically distance himself, being as he'd already emotionally distanced himself?
After nearly three hours with not one postoperative report reviewed and paralyzed by a vicious combination of guilt and indecisiveness, a wave of exhaustion overcame Charles. Frowning at the phonograph and the stack of papers on top of it, he folded his arms on the desk on top of the embarrassing postoperative report, lowering his face into the junction of his arms.
At exactly twelve noon, Charles Winchester's office door was thrown open without warning. Margaret Houlihan stood in the doorway in far plainer attire than yesterday, her face dead serious, arms crossed. Now that she'd been left alone all morning with Charles's sister Honoria, she no longer had to pretend she didn't know what he'd been up to these past few weeks.
Immediately Charles awoke from where he'd fallen asleep on his desk and sprang to his feet, his eyes wide with shock.
"Margaret!" he exclaimed, his astonishment overpowering all other complicated feelings that had arisen at the sudden interruption. He felt a wetness on his bottom lip and reflexively wiped what certainly seemed to be a glob of drool away.
"We need to talk."
Her solemn request elicited a wave of shame that cascaded over him, making gooseflesh shoot straight down his spine. And to think, it was only two days ago that he'd craved a good scolding for his foolish behavior, having resorted to insulting himself for a sense of satisfaction. Incongruously enough, what he'd craved then was now coming true, and yet he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of dread. And yet, he had to face the music, as it were.
Charles and Margaret sat in her rental car in the parking lot of the hospital. She sat on the driver's side of the long bench seat, her keys on the seat between them. Charles sat a short distance beside her, his hands laced together in his lap, head bowed. It was now Margaret's turn to be shocked; not only had Charles wordlessly complied with her order, simply nodding as she gestured to the hallway and then promptly leaving his office, but he'd kept his head down and mouth shut like a shameful little boy all the way to her vehicle.
Margaret turned completely to look at Charles, who was silent, his head bowed, waiting expectantly for her to speak.
"I spoke to your sister today," Margaret began, her voice stern yet somehow also less pointed than it had been just last night.
He only raised his eyes briefly in acknowledgement, a soft grunt escaping his lips.
"She tells me you aren't talking to your family. You aren't eating with them, and you've completely stopped listening to music. She said the maid found a half-empty bottle of cognac in your room only a couple of days ago. She's really worried about you."
As Margaret spoke, she could see Charles wincing as if burned by each newly revealed fact. And yet, once it was clear that she was done speaking, he had nothing to say for himself. He wondered if Honoria had told Margaret of his moment of weakness, sobbing like a baby in front of his sister. At least Margaret had the good sense not to mention it, if she had indeed been told.
"I'm worried about you as well," Margaret added. "This doesn't sound like you at all, Charles." She reached out and touched his leg, only to feel him shudder at the contact. Now she could see him shutting his eyes. "Not even music?"
"It's my burden to bear," he muttered lowly.
"Talk to me," Margaret insisted. "What's going on with you?"
"I am considering leaving Boston," he muttered. "For good."
"Now, why the hell would you want to do that?" Margaret exclaimed. "You just got your dream job! What, are you unhappy here?"
"I simply need to start over," he muttered, his head remaining bowed.
His reply was met with silence. What was Margaret going to do? Was she going to explode at him, screaming obscenities about his impetuous decision? Was she going to throw herself into the fray and accuse him of doing this out of revenge?
He waited for her reply until impatience overcame him and he could wait no more. Wincing, he turned his head to look at Margaret.
Margaret was looking over at him with tears in her eyes, her face a stomach-churning mix of fear and sympathy.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, as their eyes locked.
Charles seemed to be very near tears as well, and he promptly looked down at his feet.
"There's nothing you can do now," he replied, his voice soft but laced with bitterness, continuing to stare downwards. "What's done is done."
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her crossing her arms now.
"You're gonna have to be more specific than that. I have no idea what you mean."
He raised his head again, staring through the dashboard window off into the distance as he explained. "I realize now that I have spent my life unwittingly led by the whims of powerful people, people deciding my fate based on factors beyond my control. I have to take back control of my life, Margaret—if, in fact, I've ever had control of it in the first place."
"Are you referring to that letter again?" she replied, her voice not quite as soft as it had been. He could sense that Margaret was starting to get riled up again and it would not be long before she was pummeling him with her words. Charles sighed, waiting for the verbal blows to come.
"It's not just the letter," he muttered, closing his eyes briefly. "I gather that by virtue of my surname, I have most likely been granted opportunities here in Boston that I would not have earned on merit alone."
"Are you kidding me?" Margaret blurted. "You are the best surgeon I've ever known. The opportunity to watch your hands work their magic will always be a highlight of my career."
"I appreciate that, Margaret, but… how many surgeons could you possibly know?"
Now she was frowning.
"I've been a nurse longer than you've been a surgeon, buddy! And as a military nurse, I saw far more surgeons than I would have as a civilian!"
He visibly sank at her anger.
"Would the best surgeon have nearly killed a patient due to his own stupidity a mere two days ago?"
Now her features softened.
"Surgery is complicated and unpredictable; you more than anyone, should realize—"
"It had nothing to do with the surgery," Charles said, locking eyes with her. "I had an episode of acute hypoglycemia and fainted in the O.R."
Now she was shaking her head, looking at him with concern.
"I fail to see how that is your fau—"
"What if I told you that I hadn't eaten much of anything for the better part of three days, and had an excess of cognac every night? It was very much my fault, and I should have been fired for such idiocy."
"You're being far too hard on yourself," she said. She picked up her keys from the seat. "Let's go somewhere to eat. And don't you dare say no—you literally just told me how stupid it was for you not to."
"Are we not going to stop for lunch?" Charles murmured, watching as Margaret drove away from the restaurant-lined shops of the city, instead turning on to a road that paralleled the Charles River. He peered nervously out the window as he took in the view of the river he'd swum across a decade ago now, the night after he'd graduated Harvard Medical School. At the moment, it was very unlike that chilly spring day, being unusually hot for early fall, the sun high in a perfectly cloudless blue sky.
It was then that Margaret pulled the Roadmaster along the shoulder of the road and put the vehicle in park. Charles glanced over at her, clearly confused.
"You forgot the food," he muttered, having glanced briefly into the back seat to find it empty. He looked out the window at the river, now a stone's throw away. "Or are you implying that we are going to fish for our lunch, Margaret?"
"Of course not, Silly," she said, getting out of the car. He hesitated leaving the vehicle, turning in his seat as he watched Margaret proceed to the trunk of the car. Shortly after opening the trunk, she produced a picnic basket. In her other hand, she held a blanket.
Charles sank with exasperation in his seat and then decided to address the innate discomfort of this particular style of eating.
"Margaret," Charles said with a groan, clambering out of the car and leaning heavily on the door, "I am hardly in the state of dress to sit on the ground to eat."
"Aw, live a little!" she exclaimed, beaming. "It's Sunday and it's just beautiful out!" With that, she locked the trunk and walked toward a strip of lush green grass by a little wooden dock jutting into the river. In the distance, Charles could see various singles and couples picnicking, birdwatching, or simply staring at the calm waters that flowed past the esplanade. Briefly he shut his eyes, reminiscing of those simpler times, a young man full of hope and excitement as he'd leapt into this very river in his cap and gown ten years ago.
"Here's a good spot!" Margaret yelled from a short distance away, spreading the blanket over a flat area of grass, the spot shaded by a large oak tree nearby. She knelt down on the blanket, pulling out the food.
"That's not your picnic basket," Charles grumbled, standing above her now with his hands in his pockets.
"Good eye!" she replied quickly. "Your sister suggested it. She said you have close personal experience with this river, and hell, it's named after you, so why not eat here?"
"Ha," he muttered flatly. "I should have figured Honoria had a hand in this. I don't understand what it is you are still doing here. You should be several hours into your trip to Maine, and Pierce by association, to receive a more… appropriate welcome."
"For the second time, seeing Pierce right now isn't part of my plan. Please, sit down."
Charles sighed audibly and lowered himself to his knees, positioning himself awkwardly on the picnic blanket.
"Then what is your plan?" he asked, now seated cross-legged on the blanket. "Do you want a job at Boston Mercy? You do happen to have connections there."
Margaret pulled out some individually wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade and placed them on a tray from beneath the picnic basket. She shook her head with disappointment as she replied to him.
"I just don't know what to think of you anymore, Charles. Are you saying that judgmentally or as some kind of encouragement? And I have to correct you—my Uncle Bob is my one big cheese connection to Boston Mercy."
"You have me," he replied, "…at least for now."
She gawked at him then, blinking more rapidly than usual. What was he suggesting? Charles was not a smooth-talking flirt like Pierce and the seriousness of his delivery certainly annihilated any potential playfulness in the statement. Thankfully, Charles was able to pick up on her confusion.
"What I mean to say, Margaret, is that you are certainly welcome to apply for a nursing position in the Department of Thoracic Surgery… the sooner, the better." As he spoke, he nervously loosened his light blue tie. "I'd be more than happy to recommend you to my colleagues. If it is your goal to work at Boston Mercy, I will do my best to ensure that you are hired."
"Are you offering to do this because you think you owe it to me?"
"Not hardly," he replied with a humorless chuckle. "You'd be an asset to the department. You are an exceptional nurse and any hospital that hires you is lucky to have you."
"And then right after I get hired, you're gonna quit, is that right?" she shot back, recalling his earlier desire to leave Boston to start over.
"To be completely frank, I don't know what I'm going to do," Charles muttered, sighing. "All I know is that I can't continue along this current trajectory."