Guys, thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews on the last chapter. Your incredibly positive feedback to the story amazes me! It's so much more than I could ever have wished for. This tale means a lot to me, so it warms my heart that you enjoy reading it so much. Sending out all the thank-yous and virtual hugs of appreciation to whereever you are.
Set in 2008, this is the final installments of the first act of this story. It's time to stir it up a bit and throw a perspective into the mix that was blatantly absent up to this point. Any guesses on who it is? Well, I suppose you'll find out soon enough. Words of advice: grab a family pack of tissues. You're going to need it. When I was writing this chapter I cried. A lot. Also, I'm kind of proud how this one turned out.
Because I'm heading into unpredictable work schedules for the next two weeks and am not sure when I'll be able to update next, I'm posting this earlier than I originally planned. Enjoy.
My Heart is Spilling Over, Crashing on The Ground
Villagers – A Trick of Light
Everyone has a unique, intimate way of dealing with loss.
Over the last decades many attempts have been made to find a consensus on how to group types of grief. To find a classification for something that can't be generalized for there would be just as many categories as there are humans on earth, equaling to roughly seven billion. It was not only ridiculous to try and describe every single one of those; it was downright impossible. The many facets in which bereavement presented made one thing noticeably clear: there was no normal, no right and no wrong way of mourning. However, there were recurring themes that allowed for differentiation, and one of them stood out drastically as it distinguished itself form the others in one idiosyncratic feature.
There was this common belief that grief began only after the death of a beloved. When decease occurred in an unforeseen way, something or someone was taken away abruptly. Like a slap to the face or like an explosion. Yet this was a popular misconception for many losses. Most of them didn't happen out of the blue; they came with a warning. Especially with factors like old age or degenerative disease the demise of a loved one was a well-known and unavoidable fact, their departure from this world abided. Defined as anticipatory grief, in those instances the process of mourning already started some time before the lurking grim reaper knocked on the door.
Some people thought that knowing what was going to happen made it easier to accept the looming fate. It offered them a chance to prepare for the time after their loved one's passing, granted those left behind the opportunity to say their goodbyes. For some that was true. But for most it was much more complicated than that. This agonizing waiting game gave the bereaved too much time to ponder should-haves, could-haves and what-ifs in a rather unhealthy way. Nothing good ever came from overthinking and trying to concoct ways to circumvent or drag out the inevitable.
Patrick Halstead knew of the possibility of his wife's premature death pretty much from the day their love blossomed. When he had met the fiery redhaired woman twenty-six years earlier she had just gone into remission from her first ugly affair with chronic lymphocytic leukemia. That in and of itself had been a marvel, considering that CLL was a type of cancer people rarely survived or recovered from and medicine was far from as advanced back in the nineteen-eighties. Nevertheless, she had beaten the odds and come out on top of it.
Their first encounter had been at a local pub one night. He had drunken an afterwork beer while she had played the fiddle in a traditional Irish live session. Both had been dealt a shitty hand in life. Yet she was everything he was not. Where she had been ready to celebrate and tackle life post-cancer, he had become grumpy and jaundiced due to his low social status. Born into a blue-collar family he had been forced to drop out of school in favor of contributing to the household budget with hard physical labor, something he had never wanted and that made him feel sorry for himself in his young years. However, he had been intrigued by Sadhbh's jolly laughter, her boundless optimism and her brimming mirth from the moment he had laid eyes on her. Her contrasting outlook on life had him smitten. Meanwhile, she was charmed by his brooding mysterious persona. They say opposites attract and for them it was an accurate description of their blooming relationship and later their marriage.
Their antagonizing personalities translated all the way into how they dealt with the very real prospect of recrudescence. While Patrick was worried about it constantly, particularly in those early years of matrimony when their sons were still little, Sadhbh was extraordinarily blithe about it. They balanced themselves well, with her lifting his pessimistic thoughts and him mellowing her overt laxity. And as years had gone by, their sons having grown older and more independent, his fears had shrunken, almost vanished altogether when their oldest had been ready to leave the nest.
Almost. Because two months short of Will's high school graduation Pat's preexisting anxieties had been reawakened when Sadhbh had seemed unable to shake a persistent cold, lost weight at an alarming rate without any apparent reason and sweated severely throughout the night. She had also been extremely tired all the time, something so unusual for the spirited and energetic woman. Patrick had urged her to see a doctor, but she had always brushed him off, told him he was making a fuss about nothing. But when she had noticed the swollen lymph nodes one night, even Sadhbh's irrepressible optimism was jolted and she agreed to some scans. She had called it a routine check-up still, ever strong and positive. Alas, her visit confirmed the one thing, neither of them had ever wanted to be confronted with: the leukemia was back. And this time it was there to stay.
From the very day of her diagnosis, Halstead senior shut himself off. He refused to think about what a potential life without his beloved wife would entail. Unable to face the grave reality, Patrick went on with his routines in almost the same way as before. The only changes were the longer work hours to balance out her medical bills as well as his more frequent bar visits. Denial ended up being his way of grieving.
Six years went by; the likelihood of her not being the victor this time morphed into absolute certainty one day in July. Severe abdominal pain had forced her to go to the hospital and when she had called him after long hours filled with tests and screenings she had disclosed to him that the cancer had reached a terminal stage and she might not come home from the hospital. But not even then had Patrick allowed himself to cry out his anguish. Instead of visiting her, instead of sitting by her side and holding her hand every day, he detached himself from the situation. He worked even more relentlessly, let ten to twelve hours of strenuous construction work tire him out enough to numb his mind. And when the job was done for the day, he headed to Kelly's Tavern. Drowned out the rest of the impending thoughts with beer after beer and the occasional whisky or vodka thrown into the mix. He fell into bed every night buzzed, in a drunken haze, sometimes stone-cold blacked out, where he slept dreamlessly until his alarm woke him up early the following morning for a repeat of the previous day.
Over the last two months this had turned into his new modus operandi. He slowly adapted to his miserable life consisting of nothing more than work and liquor. And with every passing day, with every passing week it became just a fraction easier. Easier to pretend that he wasn't grieving. Easier to pretend that he didn't have two sons roaming around somewhere in the world. Easier to pretend that the love of his life wasn't waiting desperately for his appearance in her final days. Classic avoidance.
But even pretending all that, pretending the last twenty-six years had merely been a wonderful dream that he just woken up from, his memories always reminded him that this was in fact not just a figment of his mind. A joyfully laughing young Sadhbh dragging him onto the dancefloor the day they met. Seeing the sparkle in both his boy's eyes when he taught them to pitch a ball and feeling the pride when both turned out to be naturals. And the most powerful of them all: coming home after a long day to his buoyant wife in her gravy and applesauce speckled apron and his playfully bickering sons setting the dinner table – a perfect happy family. The picture always filled him with warmth and contentment, but at the same time it reminded him of the excruciating reality that by corking himself up he had lost it all; his son's to adulthood and his wife to the cruelling cancer.
What a clusterfuck his life had become.
It all came crashing down when he pulled a stack of envelopes from the mailbox one morning early in October. Forwarded to his youngest from Fort Benning, Georgia, they were varying in size, shape and color. Only one of them was the familiar looking monthly paycheck from the Army, the only mail Jay explicitly permitted him to open for the sole purpose of making a dent in Sadhbh's piling medical bills. His son rarely got any other mail to the house, unsurprisingly considering he had hardly been home ever since he enlisted.
Jay was back in Chicago though, had been for a couple months now, ever since he had been informed about the gravity of his mother's condition. Patrick had known about his return ever since the army ranger had flown in. It had been one of those few days on which he was too tired to go to his regular hangout and chose to spend his time in front of the television in the oppressing confines of his living room instead. His son had stumbled in that night, looking like death had warmed over. He hadn't even stopped for a greeting, just ascended the stairs to his childhood bedroom, nearly faceplanting in the process, to grab whatever essentials he thought he needed to spend an indefinite amount of time at Mercy Hospital. When he had come down less than five minutes later, he had almost collapsed under the weight of his army duffle bag.
His youngest had addressed him then, confused that his father hadn't moved from his spot to get dressed and ready to head out with him. Patrick had remained slouched in the caramel armchair in the little alcove of the parlor and glued to the ancient tube TV, watching whatever game had been on that night. His stoicism had ended in a brief shouting match – well, mostly him shouting and the younger man croaking in painful hoarseness – until Jay's voice had left him completely and he anticlimactically wobbled out the door, not to be seen in the Halstead residence since.
That had been close to eight weeks ago, not that Pat was counting. And just like Jay had not come back to the tiny two-story house in Canaryville, he himself still hadn't visited the hospital that was housing his wife and presumably his son too. The constellation painfully reminded him of the nature of his marriage as well as the family dynamics.
Sadhbh had always been the strong one and Jay had stepped right into her footsteps. Even fatally sick she had put on a brave face. For him and for their sons, more so the youngest because he was ultimately the one who had borne witness to the cancer ravaging her body daily in those first two years, had seen her on her better days but also her worst. Even six years ago, she had known that Patrick would be too consumed with his own sorrow of having to watch her decaying body and therefore wouldn't be capable of consoling and reassuring the resilient yet vulnerable soul that was the baby of their family. And still, the nestling was the one there with her right now, watching as she slowly succumbed to the merciless disease. Putting on a brave face as he stayed strong for her in return.
It pained him to see so much of his wife's personality in Jay. It was probably the reason why he had been pushing his son away so much ever since he had learned of her relapse. Not that he'd had the best relationship with his youngest before that. They had butted heads on a regular basis for years, but the rift had torn open even wider after his wife's diagnosis. Patrick knew how much it had saddened Sadhbh, though not once had she judged him for his inability to connect with Jay and be outwardly empathetic towards him. She had always expressed her understanding, had let it slide when her husband verbally attacked the back then teenager with offhanded and condescending comments. She had always known that no matter how strict and unfair he was being with their son Patrick still loved Jay in his own way. He just couldn't articulate his affection. He was forever grateful for her many attempts to play referee in the rocky father-son relationship.
Those days were over though. Sadhbh wasn't here, she was in the hospital and she could no longer take the baton for him any longer. He couldn't sleaze out of his responsibilities, parental or otherwise, anymore. With the envelopes mocking him, he knew he had to bite the bullet, drive his self-proclaimed lazy ass of a coward over to Mercy and at least hand Jay the urgent looking mail, even though it meant facing his dying wife in the process. It took a lot out of him, but he owed them at least that much.
Ultimately, it was because of the guilt of leaving them to fend for themselves for so long that he found himself pacing the floor of the oncology ward, steadily wearing a hole in the linoleum on October 6. His anxious patrolling as he tried to gather the courage to enter the lampooning hospital room went on for close to half an hour. Hands ran through previously disheveled scalp and facial hair occasionally, neither of which had seen a hairdresser or groomer in quite some time, making it look progressively more askew due to the clamminess of his palms. He worked himself up ever more with every passing second, questioning and doubting what for and why he was here in the first place.
Instead of building up bravery, Patrick was ready to admit his recreance, turn on his heels and leave the letters on the nurse's front desk like the chicken he was. Just as his decision was made, the door to his wife's room opened and revealed a lanky yet toned young man he had never seen before. "Can I help you, Sir? You've been out here for…" He was stunned into silence as he fully took in the older man's features. There was an undeniable familiarity there. "…a while," he finished, dumbstruck. "You're Mr. Halstead." The last part was clearly a statement, but the tone in which his name was spoken demanded a verbal confirmation.
"Yes." Pat's answer was short and gruff as he stopped right in front of the young man and squared his shoulders. He gave his opponent a onceover, taking in the clean-shaven angular jaw and dimpled cheeks, the short brown hair and large cerulean eyes. The milk face – because that's what he looked like to him – was about the same age as Jay, give or take a year. No doctor then, an orderly maybe, though his stance while relaxed screamed military, as did his camouflaged cargos and boots. Despite the obvious clues, Halstead senior didn't connect the dots. Instead he mulled over the fact that a total stranger knew who he was. "How do you know my name?" he growled, wary of the babyface in front of him. "Who are you? And what are you doing in my wife's room?" His voice rose with every question. Once those were out of his system, he was about to launch himself at the man.
Unperturbed by the impulsive outburst, the other straightened to his full five foot nine and steeled himself, ready to ward off any attempted attack. Intimidated by the combative posture and the flexing muscles under the young man's ochre button-up, Patrick halted his assault. "My apologies for not introducing myself properly, sir," the words were spoken calmly, not at all reflecting the daunting pose. "Greg Gerwitz. Army Specialist, third Battalion, seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment. I serve with your son Jay," he listed. Some of the physical signs of rage left Mr. Halstead and Mouse relaxed, leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest.
The older man grunted and flared his nostrils as he eyed him with a sneer. "Yeah? So where is that lazy bastard?" He glanced into the room, going no further than the threshold, and found it empty bar the hospital bed where his wife was presumably hidden beneath the mountain of blankets and pillows. There was a bare minimum of medical equipment at its head – a heart monitor and an intravenous drip – testament to the terminal stage of her cancer. Patrick noticed the cot in the far corner with immaculately folded bedsheets as well as the two chairs facing a small side table, an opened notebook perched on top. "I knew the little shit would be too spineless to stay for long," he mumbled under his breath, suddenly angry.
Mouse pursed his lips and bit his tongue at the derogatory remark. That coupled with what his friend had let slip about his complicated relationship with his old man, Greg felt a strong dislike for the man already. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind, a barbed comment already on the tip of his tongue, but for Jay's sake he reined himself in. Though he couldn't help the sarcasm from creeping into his response. "If by 'lazy bastard' and 'little shit' you mean Sergeant Jay Halstead," Mouse put a lot more emphasis on his friend's rank than was probably necessary, and when Patrick's eyes widened a fraction in shock, the ranger felt smug. "He has physical therapy right now."
Pat glared at him incredulously as he worked past his surprise at the revelation. His son was barely of legal drinking age. Surely, he couldn't be sergeant that young? Looking down at the envelopes in his hands, his mind wandered back to a few months ago. Sometime around the turn of the year he and Sadhbh had been in financial distress. Construction work had stagnated over the winter and treatment costs had steadily grown as doctors had tried alternative regimens to combat the cancer. But then, out of the blue, it had gotten easier to balance medical bills. He hadn't thought about it much, had never taken a closer look at his son's paychecks, merely cashed them in. Jay had never mentioned a promotion – not that he would know; he hadn't exactly made any effort to talk to him in the last years – but he should have realized that his son's salary might have played a part in the fact that they weren't threatened by bankruptcy any longer. Patrick never made the connection. What did that say about him as a father?
Oblivious to the thoughts running through the old man's head, Mouse decided not to push his luck, even though he wanted to say more. He didn't want to get his comrade into trouble. "He should be back in," Gerwitz read the time off his watch, "thirty-seven minutes. Thirty-eight tops if the elevator is clogged again. Do you want to wait for him?" he offered instead, only belatedly wondering how Jay would react to finding his father next to his mother's hospital bed upon his return. Turned out, he wouldn't have to worry about that though.
Mr. Halstead grunted in reply. Yes, he had come here with the intention of bringing Jay his mail and this unavoidably came with having to face his son. But now, with his youngest not in the vicinity, he was surreptitiously relieved with the opportunity to weasel himself out of his responsibility. If he stayed, there would be a confrontation for sure and Patrick had to admit to himself that he was too chicken to listen to anything his son had to say to him. Whatever words Jay would throw at him, the older Halstead already knew they would be true and well deserved. Never one to acknowledge his own faults, he eventually shook his head. "No." If he didn't have to deal with this, he was more than happy to return to his usual ways: denial and avoidance.
Whilst not unexpected, Greg felt the punch in the gut on his brother in arm's behalf. How disheartening it was to have the parent that was alive and well distant and indifferent whereas the loving and caring one was dying. Gerwitz' heart clenched as he thought that by losing his mother, Jay would basically end up orphaned because it didn't look like his father would be there to support him. Mouse lowered and shook his head, saddened by the grave outlook. Ready to retreat to the room and leave the older man where he was, he muttered, "have a good da-…"
He didn't come any further for he was interrupted by Patrick. "How's he doing?" His brain had caught up with the rest of Greg's earlier words. His son was in physical therapy. The bruised and battered state his youngest had been in when he had last seen him all those weeks ago came to mind. The way he had barely been able to walk much less climb the stairs, the paleness that resembled the one he had gotten used to seeing in his ill wife, the sling, the splint. Jay had clearly been injured and Pat hadn't even given it any thought, too absorbed in his own misery. The fact that his son was apparently still on the mend brought a wave of concern for the younger man's wellbeing, enough so that he found the courage to ask about it.
Mouse froze, stunned by the unforeseen inquiry. "As well as expected," he answered curtly, somewhat irritated. He arched a brow and tried to read Halstead senior, noticing for the first time the lines of sadness and exhaustion around his eyes as well as the worried creases on his forehead. The blue-green irises were dull and bloodshot. Greg wanted to hate the old man, wanted to tell him what a poor excuse of a husband and father he was and that he didn't deserve the wife and son he had. But it was those eyes, the same anguished pale Maui blue as Jay's, that wiped the anger away. In this moment he felt nothing but pity for him. Patrick looked like a wreck. The soldier wouldn't kick him when he was already beaten down. Besides, regardless of his absence and how much of an ass he was, it was also blatantly obvious that the man cared about both his wife and son.
Heaving a sigh, Gerwitz dropped his arms to his side and pushed them into the pockets of his cargo pants. "Could be better, I guess. He's hanging in there and finally taking care of himself." Patrick frowned in confusion, silently demanding a lengthier explanation, so Mouse elaborated, "Jay's barely been out of the hospital himself before he got here. Neglected his injuries for a bit because he didn't want to leave her side." He jerked his head in the direction of the bed. "Took some persuasion to get him the seek the medical care he needed. Only way to do that was to ensure someone stays with her when he can't be here."
"You're babysitting then," Patrick surmised bluntly. "Weird way to spend your leave. Watching someone die whom you don't even know." The words came out harsher than he intended them to. However, if Mouse was offended, he didn't show it. Not that Mr. Halstead would have apologized if he were. He thought it odd that someone would want to spend his free time with a stranger. A dying one at that.
"Just fulfilling my vows," Greg replied quietly. It was more than just living up to the code of conduct from the military. More than just the oath he'd taken, serve and protect and never leave any man or woman behind. It was loyalty to his best friend just as much if not more so than it was the devotion to his commanding officer. But there was no point in trying to explain all that to the older man. He doubted Halstead senior would understand or care much about it anyway. "So, I see you brought mail," he steered the topic away from himself. "Jay's?" he queried as he pushed off the wall and casually strolled into the hospital room. When Patrick didn't follow, he added, "you should get in here. Sadhbh gets the shivers when the door is open for too long."
"Sadhbh?" The milk face was on first name basis with his wife? Skepticism welled up in Mr. Halstead once more. Mouse merely raised his brows at him warningly and urged the older man to enter with an impatient wave of the hand. Still teetering on his feet, Patrick's arms and legs twitched as his body and mind battled over whether he should step over the invisible barrier or not. He closed his eyes momentarily, then crossed the threshold with a sharp intake of air. His hand clutched the envelopes tighter when his gaze landed on the bundle of blankets. He still couldn't see his wife beneath them, but the frequent rise and fall of the drapes indicated that a living and breathing being indeed inhabited the bed.
Despite the strong grip on them, the letters started to slip from his sweaty fingers, yanking him back to the conversation. "Uh yeah," he cawed and hastily put the stack on the edge of the table. "Jay rarely gets mail. It's usually just paychecks," he explained lamely. He felt nervous to be in the same room as his wife and this intimidating young man. "Those clearly aren't," he tallied. "Seemed important."
Greg stared at the harried man a bit longer, then allowed his eyes to fall onto the pile, noticing the familiar army emblem on them. He nodded knowingly. "They are. Jay expected them, would have come over to pick them up later in the week. He couldn't have them sent to the hospital." He supported his hip against the edge of the desk and traced the edge of the envelopes with his index finger. He itched to get a closer look but didn't want Halstead senior grow even more suspicious of him. For all the older man knew, he was merely his son's comrade, not his best friend. He retracted his hand and scratched the back of his neck.
"There's one from the VA," Jay's father mentioned with a bizarre tone at the end that Gerwitz couldn't quite place. "Far as I know the Army binds for eight years, so not sure what their business with Jay is." Greg's left eye twitched, the chagrin in Patrick's voice not going by him. He studied him, trying to figure out what it meant. Was it curiosity? Concern? Disappointment? Something else entirely? For all Mouse knew the older man could just be fishing for ammunition to use against his estranged son later. He surely wouldn't give him that. "No idea," he replied vaguely. He didn't want to accidently blurt anything out that might cause unnecessary tension between father and son, especially not if Patrick's intentions were ambiguous. "Thanks for bringing them." Mouse tapped the envelopes with two fingers.
"Welcome," Patrick muttered gruffly. Expecting the man to leave the room right after, Greg was surprised when Mr. Halstead hesitated. He wondered briefly if the other man was expecting more gratitude for going out of his way to drop his son's mail off. He was just about to ask the man if he wanted anything else, but he recognized the signs of anxiety: the minute glances towards the hospital bed, the slight tremor in his hands, the too-fast breathing. Mouse watched him closely as the older Halstead struggled to retain his composure while simultaneously approaching the bedside. Patrick's resolve crumbed the instant he caught a glimpse of his dying wife for the first time in months, and he would've dropped to his knees if it wasn't for the white-knuckled hold on the railing.
It was a heartbreaking sight, one that reminded Greg of the day of his arrival when Jay had broken down in a similar manner. And just like all those weeks ago, Gerwitz found himself pushing a chair towards the anguished man for him to sit on. Other than the last time though it remained untouched. Patrick reached for the frail hand of his sleeping wife and brought it to his lips, blowing a gentle kiss onto the translucent skin. His other limb loosened its tight hold on the bed and brushed over the inch of ginger fuzz at the hairline. Sadhbh stirred slightly, and when Patrick bent down to kiss her pale forehead she seemed to melt into the familiar chapped lips and scruffy beard of her husband. She didn't show signs of waking up otherwise.
Mouse wasn't surprised by her deep sleep. Her morphine dose had been upped a few days ago and the latest round had been an hour ago. It was for the best; the opioids did their magic and at least allowed her to rest peacefully. Over the past week Sadhbh's health had progressively deteriorated. She was in a constant state of pain when she was awake and increasingly distressed even in her sleep. Greg felt helpless watching over her during those episodes, assumed Jay felt at least a hundred times worse, and while he knew that Mrs. Halstead usually calmed down from the gentle touch and soothing whispers of her son, it felt wrong to Mouse for him to do the same. She wasn't his mother after all, she was Jay's.
And yet, he was shocked to see the same tranquil effect, the remaining lines of pain on Sadhbh's chalky face smoothed out by the intimate notion executed by her husband. Despite the strong analgesics, it was evident she knew Patrick was here.
"You know," the trembling voice of Halstead senior pulled Mouse from his thoughts. "Sadhbh, she's the strongest person I know." His breath hitched at the end, thick with emotion. The man swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Jay, he… he's a fighter, just like her." He shook his head in denial. "I'm not. I can't… I can't bear to see her like this. I just can't take it." A wet sob escaped his mouth, and Greg's heart clenched at the painful sound. It was gut-wrenching to watch as Patrick's head dropped onto his wife's chest to seek comfort Sadhbh couldn't give him anymore. There was another soggy whimper and a whispered 'goodbye' into the crook of her neck. When the man lifted his chin and looked at him, there was a faint trail of tears on his cheeks. He sniffled once. "Tell them I'm sorry," he pleaded, and Mouse found himself nodding mutely.
It was all the assurance Mr. Halstead needed. With one last gentle kiss onto his wife's thumb he laid her hand back on the blankets with care, then spun around and left rather hastily, not once looking back. Gerwitz was stunned into motionlessness as he tried to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He had seen a side of the man that never in a million years he had considered possible. Not after everything he knew about him. A side that Jay might never have been privy to.
With that thought in mind, Greg sat down in the chair next to the bed, stale acrimony mixing with bittersweet melancholy as he waited for his brother in arms. Unbeknownst to him, those feelings would be superseded by another much more intense emotion in the imminent future.
Jay drummed the fingers of his right hand nervously against the metal railing of the elevator as he rode up to the oncology floor, the toes of his right foot tapping along to the frantic rhythm in the confines of his sneaker. He blew out an impatient breath and stared at the ceiling. The ride was unbearably slow. What usually took less than a minute felt like an hour today. The car was packed: people wanted to get on or off on every level between the first floor where the rehab center was located and the sixth which was harboring his mother. It was Murphy's Law in its element. Or maybe it was just this ridiculous issue with perception of time playing tricks on him again. Maybe it was a combination of both or maybe the two interlocked. Either way, he felt exceedingly antsy to get back to his mom but one supernatural force or other seemed dead set on delaying his arrival.
Late last night or rather incredibly early that morning Halstead had gotten this weird sense of foreboding. Something bad was going to happen. Throughout the previous week his mother had experienced these excruciating pain spikes where not even the maxed-out doses of morphine could scratch the surface any longer. The ranger had spent every second that wasn't filled with his own annoying doctor's appointments and physical therapy sessions holding her hand. He had become her lifeline as she had squeezed his limb crushingly tight to transfer some of her agony onto him, the hand-shaped bruises and the tingling numbness a sad reminder of just how much pain she was in. He forewent meals and sleep, was literally running on empty by now. The physical and mental stress of it all was beyond exhausting and Jay, while devoted to her, didn't know how much longer he could live on stale, moldy vending machine coffee.
Things had been different this morning. His mom, for the first time in over a week, had slept peacefully through the night except for a waking moment at the crack of dawn. She had been strangely lucid, had spoken to her son in shocking clarity. He'd been relieved at first as was his right hand turned stress ball. But the reprieve had been short-lived and quickly replaced with a premonition that today would be the day he had dreaded for the last couple months. The air of phony contentment had only reinforced that feeling.
As a result, he'd been tempted to reschedule his therapy session, reluctant to leave his mom alone should his fear prove itself true. Mouse had persuaded him, or more like threatened him with Dr. Oakes, so Jay had eventually given in and trekked down to the first floor. But his mind hadn't been in it, his exercises performed carelessly and sluggishly as he failed to follow the simplest of instructions. Halstead wasn't an easy patient to deal with on the best of days, but today had been beyond frustrating for Nico, his physical therapist. Which was why the man had let him off a few minutes early, though those were undeniably lost in the long ride up.
The ding of the elevator announced its arrival on the sixth floor, effectively stopping the frenzied beat of his fingers. Jay stepped off the car and limped down the hall at an impressively fast pace considering his still healing injuries. His heart thumped faster in his chest the closer he got to his mother's hospital room, and when the door came into view, he immediately wished he hadn't listened to Greg earlier and canceled his appointment instead. The entrance was invaded by a flurry of hospital staff, doctors and nurses rushing in and out of the room. The ranger's trepidation skyrocketed as he took in the commotion from a distance. He hurried his steps even more, ignoring the pull on his already aching muscles, his ailments completely forgotten.
Nearing the doorway, he searched for Mouse amongst the cluster of people, blocking out the yelled orders from the medical personnel. He caught a glimpse of his friend at the far wall, the back of Gerwitz' knees pressed against the metal framing of the cot, trying to stay out of the way of the professionals doing their thing, gaze glued to the hospital bed. Jay halted his sprint on the threshold and as if sensing his presence, Greg turned his head on cue. Their eyes locked, the look in his comrade's cerulean orbs full of deepest sympathy and compassion. They were the young ranger's undoing. He leapt the remaining steps into the room, pushing past the whitecoats and nurses in their indigo scrubs until he reached his mother's bedside.
It was in that moment that his brain caught up with his hearing. The reassuring periodic beeping of the heart monitor which Jay had grown accustomed to over the past two months was missing. Replaced by a horrible screeching sound, resembling the wail of a banshee. It was so shrill and bloodcurdling that he expected his eardrums to burst any second. For a moment, Halstead couldn't put a meaning to the persistent squeal, his mind unable to process. But when he took in the bluish-grey tint to his mother's skin and noticed that her chest wasn't rising and falling anymore it all clicked, confirmed an instant later by one of the doctors.
"Time of death: fifteen eleven."
Five words. Five simple words, each one them so innocent and meaningless by themselves, yet so powerful in combination. Jay slumped forward, landing halfway across the bed, and cradled his mother's hand into his. "Mom?" he asked, not quite believing the words of the physician, his voice small and insecure. "Ma!" Louder, more vehement this time. He shook her shoulder as if he wanted to wake her from a deep slumber, but there was no reaction, no answer. The ranger shook his head rapidly as his face twisted into a distraught expression. "No, no," he mumbled brokenly. "Come back, ma. Don't go, please don't go." He grabbed her shoulders in a tight hold, the fabric of her gown clutched in his fists. He laid his head on her chest. "Please don't leave me. Mom, please…" He sobbed into her chest, rivers of white-hot tears ran down his face, causing wet stains on the sheets. "No…"
He stayed like that, hunched over her body. Muscles protested the uncomfortable position, but he didn't feel any pain from his injuries any longer. The physical discomfort was overwritten by the anguish of losing the one person that meant more to him than anyone else in the world, whom he knew had always loved him unconditionally no matter what. At some point his knees couldn't hold his weight any longer and he crumbled, his hands slipping from their hold on his mother's lifeless form. He barely registered the searing sensation spreading through his left extremity at being bent and stretched oddly as he landed in a heap on the floor.
Strong arms wrapped around him from behind and Greg's spoke into his right ear benevolently. "I'm so sorry. So, so terribly sorry." He didn't want to hear it. Jay tried to wriggle out of the hold, tried to get his limbs under him but his legs felt like lead, the exhaustion of the last week and the reality of now hitting him full force. "Shh, it's going to be okay, Jay. It's all going to be okay." Jay shook his head in denial and weakly pushed against Mouse once more. Nothing was going to be okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. But Greg fully engulfed him at this point, effectively stilling his flailing arms. He stopped struggling, accepted the palm running up and down his spine in soothing circles and let the soft baritone murmurs of his friend wash over him. "Shh, I got you, Jay. Just let it out. I got you."
And so, he did. The cries started as whimpers but soon turned into sobs racking his whole body. He screamed and wailed until he lost his voice, wept until there were no more tears left. Jay was so out of it that he didn't even realize as Greg moved them from the cold linoleum floor onto the cot, his friend not once letting go of the tight embrace, all the while holding him and rocking him gently. Through it all, the tormented man wished nothing more than for the arms to belong to his mom, and for him to melt into her heartwarming motherly bear hug just one more time. But it would never happen again. His mom was gone, and she was never coming back.
I want to explain my portrayal of Papa Halstead a little more here. I know he's not exactly a likable character on the shows and I don't much like him either. That said, people aren't either good or bad. Between all the black and white that we want to see in people is a whole lot of grey. So, I want to convey that with Pat Halstead as well, hence the lengthy dive into his thoughts and reasons. If I managed to persuade just one of you that he has some good in him, I've accomplished what I wanted to accomplish.
Altright, that's a wrap on the first act. With the next chapter we will venture into part two, where we pick up shortly after this one. Stay tuned.
Reported cases of Covid are increasing daily all over the world, so as a nurse I really can't stress this enough: please wear masks and keep social distancing. Stay safe and healthy. Thank you!