A/N: I'm not too fond of this chapter. It's a little slower than the
others, but I have to build up for later chapters, so what can I do?
::sighs:: But the good news is that I'm all done with finals!!
This wouldn't have been done as fast as it was if it wasn't for Liss, who gave me all of two hours between posting Chapter 7 and making me start this one. So thanks, Liss, and you owe me more FMFF! It's really amazing how fluff can inspire something as angsty as this story. So read, enjoy, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa
It's not like every devastating end
Brings a new beginning
--Matt Caplan
Mark POV
My room in Scarsdale was just as I'd left it almost eight years ago, when I packed up my things for my first semester at Brown. I had been back in the years since, especially during college, but my visits had declined sharply ever since I'd moved into the city. It wasn't that I hated my family, or didn't want to see them. But I had changed so much from when I had lived here, from a naïve young boy, to someone who was, well, different. Obviously. Duh, Mark.
Dad helped me climb into bed, and brought in extra pillows to prop me up with. "Are you comfortable, Mark?" he asked. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"I'm fine, Dad," I replied. "But thanks."
He reached out and ruffled my hair. "I'll see you later, son."
He shut the door behind him. It was funny, really, the fact that I'd interacted more with my father in the last eight days than I had in the previous five years of my life. It was my fault. I was the one who didn't get around to returning his phone calls, sometimes because I forgot, sometimes because I just didn't feel up to talking to him.
He tried, I'll give him that. Always sent cards on my birthday and Hanukkah, always invited me for Thanksgiving dinner in Scarsdale, even though I never showed up or wrote to thank him. God, Mark, I thought to myself. You've been a really shitty son.
Growing up, I was always my father's pride and joy. He was the eminent doctor, chief of surgery at the local hospital, and volunteer at a nearby clinic during his free time. When I was ten, my entire family got dressed up and went down to city hall to watch my father receive an award for his service to the community. Dr. Jacob Cohen was one of Scarsdale's most beloved residents. And as his son, I was destined to follow in his footsteps, and become as important a man as he was.
My father made no secret of his desire for me to become a doctor. When I turned two, my gift from him was a toy doctor's kit, which I used to give checkups to my stuffed animals, much to his delight. By the time I was ten, Dad would take me in to the clinic after school, where I would sit in the back of the room and watch as my father administered to the sick and injured. He would introduce me when he was done, and the patient would smile at me and inquire if I was going to become a doctor just like my dad. I would nod seriously and say yes, I was, and enjoy the warm feeling I got when my father smiled proudly at me.
I honestly did think that was what I wanted to do with my life. I studied hard in school, especially science. I spent a summer volunteering at the hospital while all my friends goofed off. The day I was accepted at Brown as a pre-med was the proudest day of Dad's life.
I went off to college, and spent two years as a biology major. My grades were high, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't entirely happy. I told myself not to be stupid. After all, even if I didn't like the classes too much, they were only a necessary evil required to get me into medical school. It wasn't like I would be using organic chemistry when I was a doctor. And these classes were a small price to pay for being able to save lives one day.
At the end of my sophomore year, my advisor told me that I needed to take a fine arts class for a general education requirement. It was a new policy: Brown wanted to send well-rounded students out into the world. I grumbled a bit, to my advisor and to my roommate, Benny, and then signed up for a film class.
That class was the most amazing thing I ever experienced. I loved how the camera felt in my hands, and how people I barely knew turned to smile and wave in my direction as I was filming. I loved the late nights putting together footage in the living room, long after Benny was asleep. And I loved the feeling I got when I screened my final project for the class, and at the end, how the words "A film by Mark Cohen" flashed across the television screen.
The day after the class finished, right before I was set to go home for the summer, I returned to my advisor and changed my major to film.
Dad was upset when I told him, to put it mildly. He cited statistics on how few people actually made a living in the entertainment business, and the median salary for an average filmmaker living in New York. I stood firm in my decision, and finally he gave up and said that I was still his son, and he would love and support me no matter what.
It hurt him a lot, though. I had rejected his profession, and in turn, rejected him and everything he wanted for me. As hard as he tried, he could never completely hide his disappointment. And I could never forgive him for that.
I sighed and slumped back against the pillows. My right foot was encased in a cast, which wouldn't come off for another six weeks. I had sustained internal bleeding, so I was supposed to stay in bed as much as possible. So the stitches wouldn't tear, Dad had told me. Which made sense, but didn't change the fact that I was in for a very boring stay.
There was nothing on TV. I picked up the phone and began dialing Mimi's number, then stopped. You left that life behind for a reason, Mark, I told myself. You wanted to start over, remember?
My camera was lying on the nightstand beside me. I picked it up, flipped the on switch, and slowly panned around my room. "Well, here I am," I began. "Home sweet home."
Something about that felt funny, and I turned it off and placed it back on the nightstand. I had spent the last six years of my life behind a camera lens, and where had it gotten me? Broke, practically homeless, and lonely as hell.
Some life that I'd chosen.
I opened the nightstand drawer, and placed my camera inside. Maybe my life would be better if I actually tried living it, for once.
I shut the drawer and settled back against the pillows, yanking my blanket up to my chin and closing my eyes. After what felt like a very long time, I was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.
The next few weeks settled into a familiar, predictable routine. I would wake up in the morning, and John would help me into whatever clothes I had selected to wear that day. Dad had hired me a private nurse about three days after I got home, sensing that it was embarrassing for me to ask for his or Mom's help in getting dressed, or getting to the bathroom. I had resisted the idea at first, hating the thought of his spending all that money on me. But Dad insisted, and after two days, I was glad I'd given in.
Breakfast took place in my room for the first two weeks, until I was strong enough to use my crutches and limp out to the kitchen to eat with my parents. Then Dad would go to work, and Mom would drive John and me over to the hospital, where I had two hours of physical therapy every morning. It was long, tiring work, and frustrating, having to spend all this time and energy on relearning simple tasks that I had taken for granted for years. When I came home, I had a break for lunch, and then John would help me through my exercises designed to help speed along the therapy.
Maureen and Joanne called me every Sunday, and Collins and Angel had gotten into the habit of sending me a postcard every week. I had John put them up in my room, by my bed, where I could look at them whenever I wanted. It made me feel good, knowing that my friends still cared about me.
I didn't hear anything from Roger, though. And for some reason, I wasn't surprised. He was never very good at communicating, well, in any way. It hurt, yes, but I wasn't surprised. After all, I'd known the guy for six years. Nothing he did surprised me anymore.
Distance had softened the blow, though. Maybe it was because I didn't have to see Roger and Mimi and their sickeningly happy relationship whenever I went out. Maybe it was because for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't my responsibility anymore. I didn't have to look after him, and fret about him. Or maybe it was because Roger really wasn't the right person for me, and I was finally able to realize it.
So I was gay, so what? Roger wasn't the only man out there. Besides, I'd noticed, John didn't have a girlfriend, and he was pretty cute.
I'll say one thing for being as badly banged up as I was. It sure gave me a lot of time to lie in bed and think. About my past, sure, about New York, and my friends, and Roger. But after awhile, my thoughts always came back to where they started from, leaving me frustrated and confused. So I started thinking about the future, about what I was going to do when I got better.
At first, I assumed that this move was temporary, and I would be back at the loft as soon as I recovered from my injuries. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. I had been living there for six years, and what did I have to show for it? A drawer full of films that no one would show? A hopeless crush on my best friend? A broken leg and punctured lung?
What would happen if I just went back to everything? My friends would be thrilled, yes, for a few days. Then I would slowly begin my retreat back into oblivion, where I had been languishing for so long. Maybe what I needed was a fresh start. Maybe this accident was what I needed to finally do something with my life.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. "Come in," I called, shifting myself to a more comfortable position against the pillows.
The door opened a crack, and Dad popped his head in. "How are you doing here, Mark? Do you need anything?"
"I'm fine," I assured him. "Just trying to find something decent on TV."
"Oh." He looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he thought he should say something more. I had been home almost a month, and our conversations were still as tense and awkward as they had been when I lived in New York. "I'll just leave you to it, then."
"Dad, wait," I called. He looked back at me, slightly bemused. "I wanted to get your opinion on something."
"Of course, son." He stepped further into my room. "What is it?"
I knew how his face would light up if I said I was thinking about going back to medicine. But I also knew I wasn't sure yet, and it would crush him if I changed my mind a second time. "Uh, when's dinner?"
He gave me an odd look. "Six o'clock, same time it always is."
"Guess I'm just hungry," I said carelessly, shrugging my shoulders. "Thanks, Dad."
He started out of the room, then turned back to me. "Oh, Mark?"
"Yeah, Dad?"
"Your friend Roger called while you were napping." He paused and looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember the rest of it. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, then told myself to cut it out. "He said he has a free afternoon, and he'd like to visit. I told him it was okay. I hope that's all right."
"Of course it's all right," I insisted, proud of how cool I was being about everything. "It'll be great to see him again."
Dad smiled at me. "I'll let you know when he gets here."
The rest of the morning dragged on interminably. TV held no interest for me, I couldn't read anything, not even the mystery novel that had held me spellbound last night. One o'clock crawled by. Two. Three. What on earth was I going to say to him? What was he going to say to me, for that matter? Four o'clock.
At four thirty, I heard the doorbell ring, and my parents voices as they opened the door. This was it. Act cool, Mark, I instructed myself. He's just coming to visit his friend, that's all.
Another knock came on the door, and Dad stuck his head in for the second time that day. "Mark, your guest is here."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. It spread across my face, and then froze as the door opened all the way and I caught sight of the figure standing there.
It was Mimi, and she was alone.
This wouldn't have been done as fast as it was if it wasn't for Liss, who gave me all of two hours between posting Chapter 7 and making me start this one. So thanks, Liss, and you owe me more FMFF! It's really amazing how fluff can inspire something as angsty as this story. So read, enjoy, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa
It's not like every devastating end
Brings a new beginning
--Matt Caplan
Mark POV
My room in Scarsdale was just as I'd left it almost eight years ago, when I packed up my things for my first semester at Brown. I had been back in the years since, especially during college, but my visits had declined sharply ever since I'd moved into the city. It wasn't that I hated my family, or didn't want to see them. But I had changed so much from when I had lived here, from a naïve young boy, to someone who was, well, different. Obviously. Duh, Mark.
Dad helped me climb into bed, and brought in extra pillows to prop me up with. "Are you comfortable, Mark?" he asked. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"I'm fine, Dad," I replied. "But thanks."
He reached out and ruffled my hair. "I'll see you later, son."
He shut the door behind him. It was funny, really, the fact that I'd interacted more with my father in the last eight days than I had in the previous five years of my life. It was my fault. I was the one who didn't get around to returning his phone calls, sometimes because I forgot, sometimes because I just didn't feel up to talking to him.
He tried, I'll give him that. Always sent cards on my birthday and Hanukkah, always invited me for Thanksgiving dinner in Scarsdale, even though I never showed up or wrote to thank him. God, Mark, I thought to myself. You've been a really shitty son.
Growing up, I was always my father's pride and joy. He was the eminent doctor, chief of surgery at the local hospital, and volunteer at a nearby clinic during his free time. When I was ten, my entire family got dressed up and went down to city hall to watch my father receive an award for his service to the community. Dr. Jacob Cohen was one of Scarsdale's most beloved residents. And as his son, I was destined to follow in his footsteps, and become as important a man as he was.
My father made no secret of his desire for me to become a doctor. When I turned two, my gift from him was a toy doctor's kit, which I used to give checkups to my stuffed animals, much to his delight. By the time I was ten, Dad would take me in to the clinic after school, where I would sit in the back of the room and watch as my father administered to the sick and injured. He would introduce me when he was done, and the patient would smile at me and inquire if I was going to become a doctor just like my dad. I would nod seriously and say yes, I was, and enjoy the warm feeling I got when my father smiled proudly at me.
I honestly did think that was what I wanted to do with my life. I studied hard in school, especially science. I spent a summer volunteering at the hospital while all my friends goofed off. The day I was accepted at Brown as a pre-med was the proudest day of Dad's life.
I went off to college, and spent two years as a biology major. My grades were high, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't entirely happy. I told myself not to be stupid. After all, even if I didn't like the classes too much, they were only a necessary evil required to get me into medical school. It wasn't like I would be using organic chemistry when I was a doctor. And these classes were a small price to pay for being able to save lives one day.
At the end of my sophomore year, my advisor told me that I needed to take a fine arts class for a general education requirement. It was a new policy: Brown wanted to send well-rounded students out into the world. I grumbled a bit, to my advisor and to my roommate, Benny, and then signed up for a film class.
That class was the most amazing thing I ever experienced. I loved how the camera felt in my hands, and how people I barely knew turned to smile and wave in my direction as I was filming. I loved the late nights putting together footage in the living room, long after Benny was asleep. And I loved the feeling I got when I screened my final project for the class, and at the end, how the words "A film by Mark Cohen" flashed across the television screen.
The day after the class finished, right before I was set to go home for the summer, I returned to my advisor and changed my major to film.
Dad was upset when I told him, to put it mildly. He cited statistics on how few people actually made a living in the entertainment business, and the median salary for an average filmmaker living in New York. I stood firm in my decision, and finally he gave up and said that I was still his son, and he would love and support me no matter what.
It hurt him a lot, though. I had rejected his profession, and in turn, rejected him and everything he wanted for me. As hard as he tried, he could never completely hide his disappointment. And I could never forgive him for that.
I sighed and slumped back against the pillows. My right foot was encased in a cast, which wouldn't come off for another six weeks. I had sustained internal bleeding, so I was supposed to stay in bed as much as possible. So the stitches wouldn't tear, Dad had told me. Which made sense, but didn't change the fact that I was in for a very boring stay.
There was nothing on TV. I picked up the phone and began dialing Mimi's number, then stopped. You left that life behind for a reason, Mark, I told myself. You wanted to start over, remember?
My camera was lying on the nightstand beside me. I picked it up, flipped the on switch, and slowly panned around my room. "Well, here I am," I began. "Home sweet home."
Something about that felt funny, and I turned it off and placed it back on the nightstand. I had spent the last six years of my life behind a camera lens, and where had it gotten me? Broke, practically homeless, and lonely as hell.
Some life that I'd chosen.
I opened the nightstand drawer, and placed my camera inside. Maybe my life would be better if I actually tried living it, for once.
I shut the drawer and settled back against the pillows, yanking my blanket up to my chin and closing my eyes. After what felt like a very long time, I was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.
The next few weeks settled into a familiar, predictable routine. I would wake up in the morning, and John would help me into whatever clothes I had selected to wear that day. Dad had hired me a private nurse about three days after I got home, sensing that it was embarrassing for me to ask for his or Mom's help in getting dressed, or getting to the bathroom. I had resisted the idea at first, hating the thought of his spending all that money on me. But Dad insisted, and after two days, I was glad I'd given in.
Breakfast took place in my room for the first two weeks, until I was strong enough to use my crutches and limp out to the kitchen to eat with my parents. Then Dad would go to work, and Mom would drive John and me over to the hospital, where I had two hours of physical therapy every morning. It was long, tiring work, and frustrating, having to spend all this time and energy on relearning simple tasks that I had taken for granted for years. When I came home, I had a break for lunch, and then John would help me through my exercises designed to help speed along the therapy.
Maureen and Joanne called me every Sunday, and Collins and Angel had gotten into the habit of sending me a postcard every week. I had John put them up in my room, by my bed, where I could look at them whenever I wanted. It made me feel good, knowing that my friends still cared about me.
I didn't hear anything from Roger, though. And for some reason, I wasn't surprised. He was never very good at communicating, well, in any way. It hurt, yes, but I wasn't surprised. After all, I'd known the guy for six years. Nothing he did surprised me anymore.
Distance had softened the blow, though. Maybe it was because I didn't have to see Roger and Mimi and their sickeningly happy relationship whenever I went out. Maybe it was because for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't my responsibility anymore. I didn't have to look after him, and fret about him. Or maybe it was because Roger really wasn't the right person for me, and I was finally able to realize it.
So I was gay, so what? Roger wasn't the only man out there. Besides, I'd noticed, John didn't have a girlfriend, and he was pretty cute.
I'll say one thing for being as badly banged up as I was. It sure gave me a lot of time to lie in bed and think. About my past, sure, about New York, and my friends, and Roger. But after awhile, my thoughts always came back to where they started from, leaving me frustrated and confused. So I started thinking about the future, about what I was going to do when I got better.
At first, I assumed that this move was temporary, and I would be back at the loft as soon as I recovered from my injuries. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. I had been living there for six years, and what did I have to show for it? A drawer full of films that no one would show? A hopeless crush on my best friend? A broken leg and punctured lung?
What would happen if I just went back to everything? My friends would be thrilled, yes, for a few days. Then I would slowly begin my retreat back into oblivion, where I had been languishing for so long. Maybe what I needed was a fresh start. Maybe this accident was what I needed to finally do something with my life.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. "Come in," I called, shifting myself to a more comfortable position against the pillows.
The door opened a crack, and Dad popped his head in. "How are you doing here, Mark? Do you need anything?"
"I'm fine," I assured him. "Just trying to find something decent on TV."
"Oh." He looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he thought he should say something more. I had been home almost a month, and our conversations were still as tense and awkward as they had been when I lived in New York. "I'll just leave you to it, then."
"Dad, wait," I called. He looked back at me, slightly bemused. "I wanted to get your opinion on something."
"Of course, son." He stepped further into my room. "What is it?"
I knew how his face would light up if I said I was thinking about going back to medicine. But I also knew I wasn't sure yet, and it would crush him if I changed my mind a second time. "Uh, when's dinner?"
He gave me an odd look. "Six o'clock, same time it always is."
"Guess I'm just hungry," I said carelessly, shrugging my shoulders. "Thanks, Dad."
He started out of the room, then turned back to me. "Oh, Mark?"
"Yeah, Dad?"
"Your friend Roger called while you were napping." He paused and looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember the rest of it. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, then told myself to cut it out. "He said he has a free afternoon, and he'd like to visit. I told him it was okay. I hope that's all right."
"Of course it's all right," I insisted, proud of how cool I was being about everything. "It'll be great to see him again."
Dad smiled at me. "I'll let you know when he gets here."
The rest of the morning dragged on interminably. TV held no interest for me, I couldn't read anything, not even the mystery novel that had held me spellbound last night. One o'clock crawled by. Two. Three. What on earth was I going to say to him? What was he going to say to me, for that matter? Four o'clock.
At four thirty, I heard the doorbell ring, and my parents voices as they opened the door. This was it. Act cool, Mark, I instructed myself. He's just coming to visit his friend, that's all.
Another knock came on the door, and Dad stuck his head in for the second time that day. "Mark, your guest is here."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. It spread across my face, and then froze as the door opened all the way and I caught sight of the figure standing there.
It was Mimi, and she was alone.