"Hello?"
"Hi." A pause. Two sets of breathing echo through the phone line. "Rachel?"
"Yes- who is this? How did you get this number?" Rachel doesn't necessarily intend the hostility which tinges her questions, but it really would be rather inconvenient if her number has been leaked on some Broadway forum site again. It would be the third time in as many months.
The voice at the other end takes a shaky breath and Rachel prepares herself to only half-heartedly listen to the awestruck ramble of some teenaged fan which is sure to follow, while simultaneously emailing both her agent and personal assistant to get a new phone number as soon as possible.
"Oh, I'm sorry… my da-… Noah… Noah Puckerman gave me your number." The jolt of the familiar name, albeit one she hasn't thought much about in a while, ceases Rachel's thoughts of whether she should use this as an opportunity to upgrade her phone. There's a slight pause again, but this time Rachel is hanging on every shaking breath. "My name is Beth. Beth Corcoran."
Rachel's hands begin to shake. She doesn't really notice until she hears the glass screen clattering repeatedly against the diamond stud in her ear. Beth Corcoran. At one point a name which reflected less a person, and more the concept of Rachel being entirely unlovable. At least in her teenage mind. It wasn't until a few years later, when she could put a shining pair of wide, brown eyes, cheeky dimples and a mess of blonde hair to the name that she even thought of Beth as a real, live being. A little girl.
A little girl who she hasn't seen since she was what- twelve? A little blonde haired girl in the dressing room at the opening night performance of one of Rachel's first Broadway shows, chattering away about the costumes and the lights and the songs. A little girl clutching onto the hand of her mother.
Her mother.
Their mother.
Well, Rachel's mother and Beth's mom.
In another lifetime, the two girls, whose stories weren't all that different, really, would have been sisters. But they weren't. Not really. Because as much as people want to believe that mother and mom are two words for the same thing, they're not. Rachel knows that. She told her mother as much not long after that opening night performance. Told her that she got it now- why the two relationships would always be so different; the dividing gulf between mother and mom.
But there's only one word for daughter.
It's Rachel's turn to take a shaky breath. "Is- Is she okay?"
Beth's sobs echoing down the phone line provide a confirmation that Rachel didn't really need. Of course she's not okay. Rachel and Beth have never interacted without her so it makes sense that they wouldn't interact unless because of her. And an unexpected weekday phone call between the two is out of place in the usual greeting-card relationship. Rachel hadn't received either a Christmas or a birthday card the previous year. She assumed maybe she'd fallen off the list.
"Beth?"
"Sh-She's sick, Rachel. Really, really sick." There's more sobbing. Rachel uses the time to take a few deep breaths and get the shaking in her hands under control. She moves across her living room, throwing a quick, cautionary glance to the quiet upstairs where she hopes her two children are still sleeping soundly, and lowers herself down to the edge of one of the red velvet sofas.
"What is it, Beth? What's wrong with her?" she asks once the sobbing has died down a little. She remembers once, back when they were closer during Rachel's first few years in New York, her mother telling her about the battle against ovarian cancer she'd had in her twenties. She'd won, of course, but still had to go for regular check ups. Rachel had updated her own family history the next time she went to her own check up with the doctor. It was the first, and only, thing she could add to the maternal side.
"Beth?" Rachel prompts again.
"I'm sorry," the shaking voice answers. "It's- She's been getting worse for a while, but I didn't want to w-worry you."
"Hey, Beth, it's okay, I promise," Rachel says, adopting the voice she uses for her own children when they come into her room after a nightmare. "Whatever it is, you can tell me and I'll be there."
Beth sniffs a few more times. "I-It's Alzheimer's, Rachel. E-early onset, a-and it was okay for a while. She seemed so okay."
Rachel tries desperately to swallow the lump growing in her throat. Alzheimer's? Her first thought is that there must be some mistake. Her mother is what, sixty? She doesn't even know how old her own mother is. But still, it's too soon. Her fathers have a good decade on her mother at the very least, and she hasn't had to even contemplate thinking about things like this with them yet.
Beth seems to take Rachel's silence as a request for more information. "She was officially diagnosed mid-way through last year, but she still seemed herself then, you know? They warned me that there might be a rapid decline in her cognitive state at some point." Rachel recognises doctor-speak when she hears it. "But it's just happened so- so fast. She's leaving me, Rachel."
A fresh round of crying enters Rachel's ears and she reaches her own hand up to wipe at her own, silent tears.
"Sh- she didn't even recognise me the other day, Rachel. She didn't know who I was. I- I've had to move her into a home, and I went to see her. She usually looks so happy, but sh- she didn't know me. I tried to remind her- that's what the nurses told me to do. To just remind her, and start talking about a favourite memory we have together, but she just got so frustrated with me. I- I've never seen her like that."
Rachel thinks about the version of her mother that she knew. Frustration was probably the main emotion. Either directed at her and their precariously balanced situation, or her students. But then she remembers the times she saw Beth interacting with her mom. She was never anything but gentle, understanding, loving.
"I- I know that the two of you have always had a complicated relationship, Rachel," Beth starts, and it takes everything in Rachel not to scoff even in this moment. Complicated is a gross understatement. "But I don't know what to do anymore."
Rachel's heart breaks a little more for the girl. She realises that, maybe for the first time in Beth's whole life, she isn't jealous of her, but rather pities her. And then Beth says something which turns the pang in her chest into a pounding ache.
"She's asking for you."
"What?"
Beth sighs. It's still shaky. "The other day, when I was there with her, I tried to tell her that I was her daughter. And sh- she said that she only had one daughter, and th-that I wasn't her."
Rachel shuts her eyes tightly as more tears pour down her face. She knows all too well what it's like to be denied by a parent, and even that, she guesses, can't be as heartbreaking as what Beth has been through.
"Then she started asking the nurses when her daughter was coming to see her, and when they pointed to me and said that I was right there. Sh-she just looked at me w-with this blank look in her eyes, and said, 'No not her. Rachel'."
In some twisted way, Rachel's heart leaps a little. She knows that she told her mother she understood that they would never have a traditional mother-daughter relationship, a mom-daughter relationship. But a part of her has always, always wanted her mother to acknowledge her that way. And now she finally has.
"She's just confused, Beth," Rachel says, finally breaking into Beth's monologue. And her heart breaks a little more. "It's the disease talking."
Beth sniffles softly. "I know. And I've tried telling myself that, and that my mom is still in there somewhere. B-but it's not the first time, Rachel."
"It's not?"
"No, she's been talking about you quite a lot. The doctors, they say that she's going to different places in her memory, and that's why she can't remember me. But she brings you up a lot. Sh- she asks if you're going to come visit her. She thinks someone is keeping you from coming to see her."
An unasked question hangs in the air.
"Where is she?"
"Rachel, you don't have to-"
"I know, Beth."
"I just thought you deserved to know."
"Thank you for telling me, I'm glad you did."
"I don't want to interrupt your life."
"You're not."
"I know you're probably busy."
"Beth," Rachel snaps, maybe harsher than she intended. "You haven't done anything wrong. Thank you for calling, okay?"
"O-okay."
"Are you two still in the city?"
It's been over fifteen years since Rachel saw her mother in New York. She knows that she moved to California for a while for work, but the affinity for the city has always been something the two shared. Rachel always kept an eye out, a flash of blonde and brunette slinking out of a cab, or a particularly strong vibrato echoing through a karaoke bar. She never saw them.
"Long Island," Beth replies. "I moved away for college, but I-I'm back now."
"Okay." Rachel mentally thinks through upcoming obligations. She's not working at the moment, having taken some time to focus on the kids while her husband is doing eight shows a week. They always try to alternate. "If it's not too soon, I'm free tomorrow. I could come over once the kids are at school?"
"Really? That would be great. We don't have to- you know- go to her tomorrow. But I can explain everything a bit more? It must be lot to have thrown on you all at once."
"Beth, it's okay. Text me your address and I can be there by midday. My husband might come too, if that's alright?"
"Of course!" A shadow of excitement traces her words for the first time and Rachel's heart bleeds for her. How long has she been doing this alone? Her mother was never a loner by any means, but from what she saw, she always got the impression that it was largely just her and Beth. "Jesse, right?"
A small smile tugs on the corner of Rachel's lips, as it does every time someone mentions her husband. "Right."
"And kids?"
Rachel can't help but grin a bit. "We have two. Isabella and Isaac."
"I'm an aunt?"
Suddenly the gulf between mother and mom doesn't seem to matter so much. Perspective is a funny thing, Rachel supposes. "You are. They'd love to meet you."
"Me too."
"Look, Beth. I'm sorry I haven't been around more. Time has a funny way of getting out of hand."
"It's okay, Rach, I promise." Beth's use of her nickname doesn't go unnoticed. "You're here now, and I'm so excited to see you. And I know Mom will be too."
Tears sting the backs of Rachel's eyes again. "I am. I'll see you tomorrow, Beth. And we'll get through this- together."
"Thank you, Rachel."
"Don't thank me." She wants to add that that's what family does for each other- but something stops her. She glances up at the clock and realises it's quickly approaching eleven. "I've got to go check on the kids and get dinner ready for Jesse now. But let me know where you want me to meet you tomorrow and I'll be there."
"Okay, bye."
"Sleep well, Beth."
"You too."
She hears the line go dead and slowly lowers the phone to rest next to her on the sofa. And then she brings her legs up to her chin, collapses her head and sobs.
They tried, a few times. They'd tried to establish some kind of relationship, but there's no guide book to help you through reuniting with a mother who was never intended to be a mother. But this couldn't have been how it was always supposed to end. With them writing Christmas cards to each other, barely adding more sentiment than the prewritten messages inside. Surely, surely one day there would have been a reunion that Hollywood writers would have snapped up to make some kind of heartwarming movie. And now, Rachel realises, as her tears begin to soak through her jeans, there never will be.
She doesn't hear a key turning in the lock, or her husband softly announcing his presence so as not to wake their children, and expecting his wife to run into his arms, as she does every other night. "Rachel?" Jesse calls out into the seemingly deserted apartment. He hangs his coat up and tentatively rounds the hallway into the living room. As his wife did earlier, he throws a glance up the stairs to see whether she's still up there, tending to their children. She sometimes is, if one of them is sick or can't sleep. He sees nothing but the dark hallway dimly illuminated by nightlights outside each of their children's bedrooms.
The living room, on first look, seems equally quiet, although all of the lamps are still on. It isn't until he gets closer to the back of the sofa that he sees his wife, curled up into a small ball crying noiselessly to herself. He quickly kneels in front of her, placing a cautious hand on one of her shuddering shoulders.
"Rach?" he whispers; he doesn't want to alarm her. "Baby, what's happened?"
She finally realises his presence and looks up at him with red, glassy eyes. Her lip trembles and fresh tears spill down her stained cheeks.
"She's sick, Jesse."
He furrows his brow. "Who, baby? Isabella?"
Rachel shakes her head sadly and pushes herself forward so she can lay her head on her husband's shoulder.
"It's Shelby. It's my mom."
A/N: This is my first time writing for a while, and definitely my first time writing these characters. Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review and part two will be up soon. This will probably be a four part story.