"Letters"
by Acey
Disclaimer: What makes me feel that I should've just said "This goes for all chapters" on the first one? The chances of me owning DBZ are as slim as me winning the lottery. Considering I don't even play the lottery... you get the idea.
Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took so long in the making; I've been having to study like a maniac these past few days for my last geometry tests and stuff. I've also been trying to finish up on a couple of one-shots (one is DBZ related, the other one is Yu Yu Hakusho) that have been plaguing me for quite awhile to end and post (believe me, they are really killing me). Vacation was nice though. So... I hope that this (longish) chapter will make up for my absence. Have a Merry Christmas!
They let her out of the hospital several weeks later amid cards and flowers sent by people she didn't know and people she wished she didn't know. Old coworkers, mostly, rivals in her field. A few scrawled cards likely from high school students around the city whose teachers had forced them to write sympathy notes. Even Tanner and Taylor had sent a few flowers via special deliveries.
Cook had been enthralled with the early-blooming roses and daisies and had arranged them carefully in vases as though she thought a florist might critique them while she was absent, making her mistresses' next meal. The woman had supposed that the nurses and receptionists had to know that her cook was bringing her her food every day but refrained from telling anyone about it. The smell of chicken and bread rolls was too obvious not to miss.
The woman had come slowly to realize her cook's immeasurable worth during the stay. Cook deserved more than the double pay she had given her for staying when the other maids had left after they thought their employer would not return from her trip in time. That day seemed an eon ago now, that day when she had parked her aircar by her house and seen the lone Cook there, and asked her for the letters. At that point she thought of the middle-aged cook as a worker only, a faithful worker, to be sure, but no more. The woman had not considered her a friend, had not even expected her to do any more for her than what the job description had required, to make the meals and a bit of light cleaning.
Yet Cook had done more, so much more, complaints and mutterings aside. Even before the letters, Cook had worked extra hours, Cook had made special meals at random, Cook had been a constant, large force-- one of the few people she associated, communicated with now, besides the doctors and nurses at the infirmary. The cook's visits were the only ones she looked forward to.
For the most part the hospital was dull. Nurses on double shift woke her up for vital signs on autopilot, seemingly. The woman had thought before being sent there that all of the vital signs were done via computer, surely-- but Western Capital Hospital had that luxury reserved for those in emergency situations.
"Doctor _________?"
She snapped to attention at the voice of her doctor as the television blared on about the winner of a game show or some nonsense like that. She pressed the off button on the remote with her free hand and the screen went blank.
"Yes?"
"Someone to see you, a man named Dwight Tanner."
Even when she was incapacitated Tanner would not leave her alone.
"You can let him in. Thank you."
The doctor nodded and opened the door to the other man as he left her room. Tanner nodded his thanks as he came inside, gray work hat with a burgundy brim in his hands and a matching grey suit with a pinstripe shirt. The woman looked up at him, realizing his hair had gone from dull brown with a few streaks of white to white with a few streaks of brown in the fifteen years since she had seen him in person. He was not stooped with old age; he was as invigorating and healthy as ever, ruddy cheeks proving the fact. Tanner's eyes underneath the trifocals remained hazel orbs of vast knowledge and vaster bluster. The man she had known since college only by surname, so eager to shoot down new ideas and so threatened by even the slightest hint of their being one of a higher intellect even near him, standing by her bedside.
"Hello, __________," he said, setting his hat next to a vase full of flowers, eyes bright, but definetly not in glee over her condition. "I'm very sorry I haven't seen you in so long, and I wish that I had come to see you before now. How are you feeling?"
The same voice, too, the same odd unrhythmic but grammatically correct choice of word placement. The woman hid her amusement at this.
"Excellent for someone in a near-fatal car crash where the car and I were close to being demolished," she said, trying to match his way of speaking and coming up short. He smiled wryly at the attempt.
"No, I can't say you'll ever be demolished, __________. For that you're too willful. There's too much self-preservation about you." Tanner chuckled. "But really, what I wanted to relay other than my own personal apology for your unfortunate accident--"
"Tanner, it was as much of an accident as the Pythagorean Theorem is an accident."
He raised his milky white eyebrows, causing his brow to furrow and every deep-set wrinkle in his forehead to become apparent.
"Why do you think so?"
She ignored the question. A thought had come to mind, disturbing and unrelated to Tanner, but an obvious thought, making her feel dimwitted as he continued, ever onward to his point like a mule.
"Well, regardless of what you think about that topic, my main concern is something that you might possibly be able to help with once you're back on your feet, so to speak."
"So the geneticists of today need the help of the has-been."
"Nothing like that. I'm not going to be very involved with what we're hoping that you'll be helping us understand, though, much to your pleasure, I assume."
"Yes, now continue."
Tanner started, every phrase coming out with more excitement than the last despite his attempts at solemnity, making the woman note that he looked more like a college boy now than ever, despite his white hair and aged features.
"You see, _________, there's been a great concern recently dealing with disease. Not so odd, you might say, unless you first understand the nature of this certain type of affliction; it is most certainly extremely uncommon, especially in the groups of people that it might affect..."
To the point, to the point, Tanner, she thought as he continued to try to explain, getting three times as many details as she would have if she had been speaking with another but no direction as to what the exact problem was.
"It's both strange and intriguing, this pathogen. I suppose it might possibly have come from too much. You understand?"
Her response was agitated and tired, tired of conversations that went nowhere and tire of being in a sterile hospital bed and pure tire caused by sleepless nights.
"I understand that by the time you get to the point you will have been here six hours. You refrained from clarifying what you mean by 'too much.'"
He picked up his hat and laughed.
"Only seeing if you truly were paying attention. Too much in the way of antibiotics and cures. When bacteria becomes mutated it can become--"
"Spare me the biology lesson and tell me what's--"
She stopped. A dark-haired nurse had appeared at her bedside with a new intraveneous unit and news from her doctor.
"Excuse me, sir," the nurse said shyly (an intern, pale and nervous, unused to the responsibility her position required but young enough to embrace and accept it), "but you've stayed overtime. The doctor said that she needed rest. I'm afraid that you'll have to leave..."
Tanner smiled, undeferred, as he nodded as a gentlemen ought to and picked up his hat, apologizing to both the woman and the nurse about his overstay, telling the woman he would pick up where he left off in another letter ".... and don't throw it in the garbage like I realize you likely do with my other ones-- I promise you that I have no intentions of disproving the theories you hold so dear at the moment...," and, returning his hat to his head, he left Western Capital Hospital, never to return until his death.
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Disclaimer: What makes me feel that I should've just said "This goes for all chapters" on the first one? The chances of me owning DBZ are as slim as me winning the lottery. Considering I don't even play the lottery... you get the idea.
Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took so long in the making; I've been having to study like a maniac these past few days for my last geometry tests and stuff. I've also been trying to finish up on a couple of one-shots (one is DBZ related, the other one is Yu Yu Hakusho) that have been plaguing me for quite awhile to end and post (believe me, they are really killing me). Vacation was nice though. So... I hope that this (longish) chapter will make up for my absence. Have a Merry Christmas!
They let her out of the hospital several weeks later amid cards and flowers sent by people she didn't know and people she wished she didn't know. Old coworkers, mostly, rivals in her field. A few scrawled cards likely from high school students around the city whose teachers had forced them to write sympathy notes. Even Tanner and Taylor had sent a few flowers via special deliveries.
Cook had been enthralled with the early-blooming roses and daisies and had arranged them carefully in vases as though she thought a florist might critique them while she was absent, making her mistresses' next meal. The woman had supposed that the nurses and receptionists had to know that her cook was bringing her her food every day but refrained from telling anyone about it. The smell of chicken and bread rolls was too obvious not to miss.
The woman had come slowly to realize her cook's immeasurable worth during the stay. Cook deserved more than the double pay she had given her for staying when the other maids had left after they thought their employer would not return from her trip in time. That day seemed an eon ago now, that day when she had parked her aircar by her house and seen the lone Cook there, and asked her for the letters. At that point she thought of the middle-aged cook as a worker only, a faithful worker, to be sure, but no more. The woman had not considered her a friend, had not even expected her to do any more for her than what the job description had required, to make the meals and a bit of light cleaning.
Yet Cook had done more, so much more, complaints and mutterings aside. Even before the letters, Cook had worked extra hours, Cook had made special meals at random, Cook had been a constant, large force-- one of the few people she associated, communicated with now, besides the doctors and nurses at the infirmary. The cook's visits were the only ones she looked forward to.
For the most part the hospital was dull. Nurses on double shift woke her up for vital signs on autopilot, seemingly. The woman had thought before being sent there that all of the vital signs were done via computer, surely-- but Western Capital Hospital had that luxury reserved for those in emergency situations.
"Doctor _________?"
She snapped to attention at the voice of her doctor as the television blared on about the winner of a game show or some nonsense like that. She pressed the off button on the remote with her free hand and the screen went blank.
"Yes?"
"Someone to see you, a man named Dwight Tanner."
Even when she was incapacitated Tanner would not leave her alone.
"You can let him in. Thank you."
The doctor nodded and opened the door to the other man as he left her room. Tanner nodded his thanks as he came inside, gray work hat with a burgundy brim in his hands and a matching grey suit with a pinstripe shirt. The woman looked up at him, realizing his hair had gone from dull brown with a few streaks of white to white with a few streaks of brown in the fifteen years since she had seen him in person. He was not stooped with old age; he was as invigorating and healthy as ever, ruddy cheeks proving the fact. Tanner's eyes underneath the trifocals remained hazel orbs of vast knowledge and vaster bluster. The man she had known since college only by surname, so eager to shoot down new ideas and so threatened by even the slightest hint of their being one of a higher intellect even near him, standing by her bedside.
"Hello, __________," he said, setting his hat next to a vase full of flowers, eyes bright, but definetly not in glee over her condition. "I'm very sorry I haven't seen you in so long, and I wish that I had come to see you before now. How are you feeling?"
The same voice, too, the same odd unrhythmic but grammatically correct choice of word placement. The woman hid her amusement at this.
"Excellent for someone in a near-fatal car crash where the car and I were close to being demolished," she said, trying to match his way of speaking and coming up short. He smiled wryly at the attempt.
"No, I can't say you'll ever be demolished, __________. For that you're too willful. There's too much self-preservation about you." Tanner chuckled. "But really, what I wanted to relay other than my own personal apology for your unfortunate accident--"
"Tanner, it was as much of an accident as the Pythagorean Theorem is an accident."
He raised his milky white eyebrows, causing his brow to furrow and every deep-set wrinkle in his forehead to become apparent.
"Why do you think so?"
She ignored the question. A thought had come to mind, disturbing and unrelated to Tanner, but an obvious thought, making her feel dimwitted as he continued, ever onward to his point like a mule.
"Well, regardless of what you think about that topic, my main concern is something that you might possibly be able to help with once you're back on your feet, so to speak."
"So the geneticists of today need the help of the has-been."
"Nothing like that. I'm not going to be very involved with what we're hoping that you'll be helping us understand, though, much to your pleasure, I assume."
"Yes, now continue."
Tanner started, every phrase coming out with more excitement than the last despite his attempts at solemnity, making the woman note that he looked more like a college boy now than ever, despite his white hair and aged features.
"You see, _________, there's been a great concern recently dealing with disease. Not so odd, you might say, unless you first understand the nature of this certain type of affliction; it is most certainly extremely uncommon, especially in the groups of people that it might affect..."
To the point, to the point, Tanner, she thought as he continued to try to explain, getting three times as many details as she would have if she had been speaking with another but no direction as to what the exact problem was.
"It's both strange and intriguing, this pathogen. I suppose it might possibly have come from too much. You understand?"
Her response was agitated and tired, tired of conversations that went nowhere and tire of being in a sterile hospital bed and pure tire caused by sleepless nights.
"I understand that by the time you get to the point you will have been here six hours. You refrained from clarifying what you mean by 'too much.'"
He picked up his hat and laughed.
"Only seeing if you truly were paying attention. Too much in the way of antibiotics and cures. When bacteria becomes mutated it can become--"
"Spare me the biology lesson and tell me what's--"
She stopped. A dark-haired nurse had appeared at her bedside with a new intraveneous unit and news from her doctor.
"Excuse me, sir," the nurse said shyly (an intern, pale and nervous, unused to the responsibility her position required but young enough to embrace and accept it), "but you've stayed overtime. The doctor said that she needed rest. I'm afraid that you'll have to leave..."
Tanner smiled, undeferred, as he nodded as a gentlemen ought to and picked up his hat, apologizing to both the woman and the nurse about his overstay, telling the woman he would pick up where he left off in another letter ".... and don't throw it in the garbage like I realize you likely do with my other ones-- I promise you that I have no intentions of disproving the theories you hold so dear at the moment...," and, returning his hat to his head, he left Western Capital Hospital, never to return until his death.
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