Of course the shock couldn't last forever, much as she might have wished
it. Yet even as she paced the apartment with dilated eyes and trembling
hands, even as she placed the letter in the stainless-steel sink in the
kitchen and touched the lit match to one corner, watching the flames lick
up and consume it with surprising swiftness - even as, moments later, she
hurled a harmless crystal knick-knack she'd picked up the other day at the
wall, watching it shatter with one sharp noise before the pieces sank
soundlessly into the rug - there was a sort of detachment to it all.
Because this couldn't be about her, really, could it? It couldn't be she,
Daphne Moon, the endearing British sweetheart with the soft accent and the
devoted almost-fiance? It couldn't be she who'd been condemned to death
this way, by some indiscretion in said almost-fiance's past, by a tiny
virus multiplying quickly but passively in her veins even now? This
couldn't have anything to do with her. People like her didn't get AIDS.
It was a gay disease, wasn't it? How could this happen?
The feeling of detachment stayed with her, even as she picked up the phone and dialed Frasier's number and heard herself demanding loudly, too loudly, to know where Niles had gone. She drew Martin instead of Frasier, something she failed to notice in her agitation, and managed to alarm him thoroughly before he consented to pass the phone to Frasier (interrupting him in the middle of a bubble bath, she gathered from the heated conversation just before Frasier took the phone - how could he be bathing at a time like this?)
The answer to that last question was simple: Frasier had no idea anything was wrong. Apparently, for the first time in his life, Niles had not consulted him on the brink of making a major life decision, had not confided in him when he found himself confronted with a major problem. Frasier quite clearly had no idea that Niles had HIV, and so of course had no idea what Daphne was talking about. When she realized this, when she realized that her loud pressured speech was on the verge of giving her away, she stammered something about having something in the oven, hung up, and pulled the phone cord out of the wall. She couldn't let him know what was wrong and she didn't know why. Perhaps telling him would have made it seem too real, would have shattered the detachment that enabled her to watch her own ongoing crackup coolly and dispassionately from some remote corner of her mind.
She watched it. She watched her hands shaking as they held the detached phone cord, watched those hands fling the cord as far as it would go, before it was reined it by its own length and rebounded a few inches before falling to the floor. She watched her feet begin to move again, first pacing around the apartment, then pacing a little faster, then faster still, till she was practically running in circles around the smashed coffee table under the fan, feet crunching on the glass. She felt her face begin to crumple and she tried to step a little further outside herself to watch, as the tears began streaming down her cheeks and she slid bonelessly into the cushions of the sofa, scrunching her hands against her face to try to quell the sobs. She pressed her face against the smooth material of the sofa back, so cool against her hot skin, as the tears flowed faster and she began to lose the detachment. "Oh, no, no, please," she murmured, breath hitching over her sobs, and whether she meant the AIDS or Niles' departure or the fact that she was starting to feel it all she couldn't have said.
The doorbell rang, making her jump. Quickly, she realized it had to be Frasier and Martin, coming to make sure she was okay. But since she absolutely wasn't, she couldn't let them in, couldn't face them now. She ached for their presence, for Frasier's fraternal embrace, for Martin's awkward pats on her shoulder. But she could never have gotten the words out that would have explained what was wrong. Could never have said: Niles left me. Could never have said: I have AIDS. These were impossible words, so instead of going to answer the door she jumped up, crunching more glass beneath her feet, and ran for the bedroom. There she hid, curled under three blankets, cowering away from Niles' side of the bed, until the doorbell stopped ringing. There she stayed for a good long time.
But of course our lass Daphne is a practical soul, not given to nurturing such hysteria for very long. It did last the rest of that day, a day which she could only partially recall later. More pacing, more crying, more screaming, a burned dinner, a very long shower. When she dropped off to sleep that night she was completely exhausted, and when she woke the following day it was past noon and she was due at the Cranes' for a physical therapy session in an hour.
She lay there a long time, staring up at the ceiling, thinking it all through. She was able to think more or less clearly now, which was a welcome change. Not that there was really very much to think through. Just a sort of refrain, running through her head, which she tried to grasp and pull into herself: I have AIDS. I am dying. I have AIDS. I am dying. There were no tears now, just a forlorn attempt to accept the inevitable: I am dying. I am dying.
I am dying alone, the refrain varied once, and she winced, bit the inside of her cheek. The blood she tasted did nothing to soothe her nerves. No, she wasn't ready for that yet. She went back to pondering what it meant simply to be dying. That didn't seem to make her head buzz that way, didn't start her furiously blinking back tears.
Eventually she glanced at the clock and noticed she had to be at the Cranes' in ten minutes. She stood and began to dress mechanically, with no question as to whether or not she would go. Of course she had to go. She had to Keep Up Appearances. She knew she wouldn't tell them what had happened today. It was still too fresh for that. She wondered if it would ever get any better. She wondered if she would ever tell them. She walked out of the house in clean clothes but without having set foot inside the bathroom; halfway there in the car she recollected herself, popped a mint in her mouth and ran her fingers through her hair.
Of course Frasier and Martin knew something was wrong, but they knew better than to question her, and Daphne was not forthcoming. She went through Martin's exercises mechanically, her mind clearly elsewhere, rumpled hair hanging in her face. They watched her with puzzled eyes, certain she'd open up to them eventually. She'd never been the secretive sort before.
If she keeps on this way I think I'm going to call Niles and find out what's going on, Frasier thought.
I bet all this has something to do with Niles, Martin thought.
What Daphne was thinking nobody knew.
She finished Martin's exercises with precisely the same abstraction with which she'd begun them. Throwing a casual goodbye over her shoulder, she went to leave the apartment. Frasier stopped her. "Oh, Daphne," he said hurriedly, mainly just to keep her there a moment longer, "what are you doing this afternoon?"
"Oh," she said, stopping, her eyes focusing in on him a little. "Yes, that is a puzzle, isn't it?" she said, sounding genuinely puzzled and not much else. She came back in and sat on the couch. They watched her wordlessly. "Hmmm," she said. Then, suddenly, her features resolved, cleared, and she almost smiled. "Actually," she said, "good thing you asked. I think what I need to do today is to find meself a new car."
They stared. She smiled brightly.
"Daphne, what -" Frasier began.
She waved him off, with a sunny, hard grin. "I'll see you two boys later. Those dealerships aren't open all hours, you know!" And she was gone.
Frasier and Martin looked at one another.
"What the hell was that?" Martin asked.
The feeling of detachment stayed with her, even as she picked up the phone and dialed Frasier's number and heard herself demanding loudly, too loudly, to know where Niles had gone. She drew Martin instead of Frasier, something she failed to notice in her agitation, and managed to alarm him thoroughly before he consented to pass the phone to Frasier (interrupting him in the middle of a bubble bath, she gathered from the heated conversation just before Frasier took the phone - how could he be bathing at a time like this?)
The answer to that last question was simple: Frasier had no idea anything was wrong. Apparently, for the first time in his life, Niles had not consulted him on the brink of making a major life decision, had not confided in him when he found himself confronted with a major problem. Frasier quite clearly had no idea that Niles had HIV, and so of course had no idea what Daphne was talking about. When she realized this, when she realized that her loud pressured speech was on the verge of giving her away, she stammered something about having something in the oven, hung up, and pulled the phone cord out of the wall. She couldn't let him know what was wrong and she didn't know why. Perhaps telling him would have made it seem too real, would have shattered the detachment that enabled her to watch her own ongoing crackup coolly and dispassionately from some remote corner of her mind.
She watched it. She watched her hands shaking as they held the detached phone cord, watched those hands fling the cord as far as it would go, before it was reined it by its own length and rebounded a few inches before falling to the floor. She watched her feet begin to move again, first pacing around the apartment, then pacing a little faster, then faster still, till she was practically running in circles around the smashed coffee table under the fan, feet crunching on the glass. She felt her face begin to crumple and she tried to step a little further outside herself to watch, as the tears began streaming down her cheeks and she slid bonelessly into the cushions of the sofa, scrunching her hands against her face to try to quell the sobs. She pressed her face against the smooth material of the sofa back, so cool against her hot skin, as the tears flowed faster and she began to lose the detachment. "Oh, no, no, please," she murmured, breath hitching over her sobs, and whether she meant the AIDS or Niles' departure or the fact that she was starting to feel it all she couldn't have said.
The doorbell rang, making her jump. Quickly, she realized it had to be Frasier and Martin, coming to make sure she was okay. But since she absolutely wasn't, she couldn't let them in, couldn't face them now. She ached for their presence, for Frasier's fraternal embrace, for Martin's awkward pats on her shoulder. But she could never have gotten the words out that would have explained what was wrong. Could never have said: Niles left me. Could never have said: I have AIDS. These were impossible words, so instead of going to answer the door she jumped up, crunching more glass beneath her feet, and ran for the bedroom. There she hid, curled under three blankets, cowering away from Niles' side of the bed, until the doorbell stopped ringing. There she stayed for a good long time.
But of course our lass Daphne is a practical soul, not given to nurturing such hysteria for very long. It did last the rest of that day, a day which she could only partially recall later. More pacing, more crying, more screaming, a burned dinner, a very long shower. When she dropped off to sleep that night she was completely exhausted, and when she woke the following day it was past noon and she was due at the Cranes' for a physical therapy session in an hour.
She lay there a long time, staring up at the ceiling, thinking it all through. She was able to think more or less clearly now, which was a welcome change. Not that there was really very much to think through. Just a sort of refrain, running through her head, which she tried to grasp and pull into herself: I have AIDS. I am dying. I have AIDS. I am dying. There were no tears now, just a forlorn attempt to accept the inevitable: I am dying. I am dying.
I am dying alone, the refrain varied once, and she winced, bit the inside of her cheek. The blood she tasted did nothing to soothe her nerves. No, she wasn't ready for that yet. She went back to pondering what it meant simply to be dying. That didn't seem to make her head buzz that way, didn't start her furiously blinking back tears.
Eventually she glanced at the clock and noticed she had to be at the Cranes' in ten minutes. She stood and began to dress mechanically, with no question as to whether or not she would go. Of course she had to go. She had to Keep Up Appearances. She knew she wouldn't tell them what had happened today. It was still too fresh for that. She wondered if it would ever get any better. She wondered if she would ever tell them. She walked out of the house in clean clothes but without having set foot inside the bathroom; halfway there in the car she recollected herself, popped a mint in her mouth and ran her fingers through her hair.
Of course Frasier and Martin knew something was wrong, but they knew better than to question her, and Daphne was not forthcoming. She went through Martin's exercises mechanically, her mind clearly elsewhere, rumpled hair hanging in her face. They watched her with puzzled eyes, certain she'd open up to them eventually. She'd never been the secretive sort before.
If she keeps on this way I think I'm going to call Niles and find out what's going on, Frasier thought.
I bet all this has something to do with Niles, Martin thought.
What Daphne was thinking nobody knew.
She finished Martin's exercises with precisely the same abstraction with which she'd begun them. Throwing a casual goodbye over her shoulder, she went to leave the apartment. Frasier stopped her. "Oh, Daphne," he said hurriedly, mainly just to keep her there a moment longer, "what are you doing this afternoon?"
"Oh," she said, stopping, her eyes focusing in on him a little. "Yes, that is a puzzle, isn't it?" she said, sounding genuinely puzzled and not much else. She came back in and sat on the couch. They watched her wordlessly. "Hmmm," she said. Then, suddenly, her features resolved, cleared, and she almost smiled. "Actually," she said, "good thing you asked. I think what I need to do today is to find meself a new car."
They stared. She smiled brightly.
"Daphne, what -" Frasier began.
She waved him off, with a sunny, hard grin. "I'll see you two boys later. Those dealerships aren't open all hours, you know!" And she was gone.
Frasier and Martin looked at one another.
"What the hell was that?" Martin asked.