A/N: 05-18-02—Well, here it is. The chapter I've dreaded writing. The last
several paragraphs are actually my second attempt to end this chapter.
Anyone wishing to see my disastrous first attempt, written today in English
class in a whirlwind of consciousness, can email me.
Feedback greatly appreciated, as ever... especially for this chapter. I'm still not sure how I feel about it.
Disclaimer: I suppose I own the nurse. Big whoop.
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8. [M]
It would have been so easy to get on that bus.
Right. Easy as life, I'm sure.
I'm kidding myself. That's just wishful thinking. It wouldn't have been easy at all, it would have been nothing but pain and regret and loneliness because I wasn't like them. I couldn't just go buy a car and drive across the country, or tear myself away from my lover for three weeks, only miles away yet so, so far... without a goodbye, without an explanation.
They were all so wrong... how could they be so wrong? I *wasn't* the strong one. I was the weakest of all of us, because any strength that may have manifested itself in me was false. It all came from *their* weaknesses. They came to me, they needed me... whether they said it in so many words or not. Usually not. And I would sit and listen and fix things and take care of them... it made me feel strong.
But I wasn't. I was only strong when they were weak.
And it's so obvious now. Where am I when they're strong again? Here. Nowhere. Unneeded.
I watched as he tore down the stairs, once more forgetting a house key, and I knew he had won. He was still in love with her, he always had been, and despite what she told me, somehow I knew she would end up with him. She loved me, that much I didn't doubt. But I was sure, once they were in a room together again, alone, with their memories and their history and their blazing chemistry... she would remember how much she loved him, how she'd cried for him, and how I'd been there to understand and support it all.
She'd go back to him.
In a heartbeat.
Being able accept that, I convinced myself, would make me strong.
And so I packed up the little stash of money I kept under my mattress, threw some clothes and a cereal box into a bag, and taped a note to the door, leaving Roger my only house key. I wouldn't be needing it anymore. I said I'd gone to work, and made some joke about him waiting outside for me again, and scribbled a smiley face at the end, and I made my way to Port Authority.
I bought a ticket.
I don't even remember to where.
And I sat on a bench for half and hour and waited for my bus, and realized I felt no stronger than I had half an hour ago.
Running away wasn't going to make me a stronger person.
Maybe it did for Roger, and for Mimi, but I couldn't run away. Maybe I was just a shameless masochist—unfulfilled unless tortured. But I was going to see this through, because no matter what happened, it would be easier than running away. It just had to be.
Except I had a sick feeling that it wouldn't.
I took the subway back to the loft, never having felt more relieved to be home, and peeled a new note off the door:
'Went shopping, we're out of tomatoes. And where the fuck do we keep that waffle maker thing??? I looked EVERYWHERE!
See ya.
R'
I actually found myself laughing at this. When I turned the note around, I found the house key taped to the back. Yes, that would probably be a safer place for it. I snatched a pen out of my pocket and scribbled a response on the bottom of the note:
'Tomatoes? Waffles? What, are you pregnant or something? It's under the stack of placemats in the cupboard.'
And, feeling marginally less miserable, I retained the key, stuck the note back on the door, and made my way inside. At sight of the '1' on the answering machine display, I hit Play.
"Mark... it's me. Call me, I need to talk to you."
Life always managed to bring me down when something had finally put a smile on my face.
Usually Mimi's voice was what effected that smile, but this time... I wasn't stupid. This was different. No one starts good news with 'I need to talk to you.'
My mouth went dry and my hands were suddenly freezing as I held the phone to my ear and listened to it ring. Once. Twice.
"Hello?"
Oh, lucky me. "Maureen, it's me, put Mimi on."
"She's not here."
Well, hello déjà vu. "What??"
Maureen offered her longest, most theatrical sigh. "I mean, she's in the shower—wait, okay, she's running out wearing a bunch of towels and gesturing wildly for the phone, so I—"
There was a muffled phone exchange on the other line as I waited, and finally... "Mark?"
I let myself relax at the sound of her voice, which now sounded somewhat less desperate than it had in her voice mail. "Hi."
"Hi. Um... hang on, Maureen's staring at me." Rustling on the other line as she dragged the phone down the hallway and into what I assumed was the bedroom. "Okay."
"Okay." I echoed quietly, anxiously tracing my finger along the phone cord. "So... did you see him?"
"Yeah. He came over." More of that dreaded silence, as I forced myself not to search the inner meaning behind 'came over'. "Mark... we have to tell him."
"What?"
"About us. We have to tell him."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"He—I—" I grasped for words that would make me look neither afraid nor inarticulate. "He's not here," I announced.
"Then, when he comes back."
I just wasn't going to get out of this. "Okay," I surrendered. But, feeling slightly more empowered by her ambition, I added one last, slim chance of a thought. "Will you come home?"
A pause, which I couldn't help but interpret as a no. For a moment I heard nothing but her soft breathing... debating... considering... and I held my breath.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I will."
Yes, I figured as much.
Wait a minute.
She said yes.
Relax, Cohen, it's not like you just asked her to marry you.
Hmm.
"You will? Really?"
"If you'll let me," she added in a small voice.
"If I'll let you?? You're nuts. Want me to come pick you up? I'll be right there."
Her voice was smiling. I suspected mine was, too, but couldn't be sure; it's a characteristic only detectable through the other line, when your sense of hearing is overworked to make up for the lack of visual contact. I was beside myself. I wouldn't have even minded eating tomatoes and waffles. Hell, at this point I probably wouldn't even be able to tell the difference between the two.
"Baby, I have to get dressed first..."
"No, no you don't!"
She giggled, the way I remembered from so long ago... but it really wasn't so long. It was remarkably recent, come to think of it. Three weeks. Just three weeks since morning would come and she'd be asleep beside me... or, more likely be tossing clothes in my direction during her daily fashion emergencies. Just three weeks since we'd turn off all the lights around 2 a.m., then spend the next hour trying to make each other laugh. Which didn't take much. I became embarrassingly giddy around her. Shameful, really. No one else had ever had that effect on me...
Just three weeks... but it felt like a millennium.
"I'll be over in about an hour," she finally concluded.
Oh, God. An hour. It was so long. So very long. Thirty minutes I might have been able to handle, but this... "I'll... be here," I replied lamely.
And we hung up, and I looked around the apartment that had been distinctly, unbearably Mimi-less in recent weeks, but now her presence was so very alive again. She always had that effect, though. When she'd be away at work, and nine-thirty would roll around, everything would light up. The empty apartment became almost welcoming. No matter how tired/furious/busy/frustrated I'd been all day, I'd perk up, knowing there was only half an hour left before I would see her again.
I'd missed being in love.
I'm not sure what deluded part of my mind was keeping me on alert for a knock at the door. Mimi hadn't knocked on this door in about two years, and this time was no exception. I was on the couch, staring at a blank, slumbering television set, counting the number of clicks the clock would make. I didn't even know where that clock was. I don't think I ever had. It was just noise... just insolent noise. And then, a much louder, tangible click from the door disturbed my daydream. I spun around, and there she was.
It took only a glimpse of her—one brief flash of that flawless, beguiling presence, imprinting itself on my mind's eye, to make me realize. It had been mere hours since I'd seen her last, but I'd missed her more than I ever had in my life.
We fell into each other's arms, and the bliss was exactly as my senses had memorized it... but the familiarity was not. She wasn't just... home. She had *come* home. There is no reunion quite like that of two lovers, torn apart by a dismal separation...
Why was I sounding like a Harlequin novel? [...said Lola to herself. /disruptive A/N]
"Hey..." I felt her warm hand against my face, guiding my gaze to hers. "Are you okay? You look all spaced out."
"Yeah," I replied dreamily, trying not to imagine how goofy my grin must have looked. "I mean... I'm just glad you're home."
She smiled, but so briefly I might have imagined it, before her face fell. "How are we supposed to do this?"
I took a few thoughtful steps toward the couch, leading this small, precious little person along with me. "This was your idea," I reminded her.
Giving up all coordination, I let myself flop down on the couch, and she was quick to follow, resting her head in my lap as I idly stroked her hair. A month ago I would have found us in the same position and not felt anything but absolute peace. Now all I could think of was when that front door might swing open again.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"Don't be. It'll be okay. I promise—"
"I'm going to lose both of you."
"Don't say things like that!"
I almost wished she'd had a rebuttal for that, too. I had so many great words on the edge of my tongue; poised for application. But all she did was sit up, put her arms around me, and rest her head against my chest.
She tilted her head upward, looking at me, only centimeters away. "What would you do if this was our last night together?"
I rolled my eyes. "Would you stop already?"
"I'm just curious. Come on, it'll take our minds off this. And I want details," she added with a wink.
Fine. I knew I couldn't escape. "Well, I..." This shouldn't be hard, Mark. It's not a hard question. You'd carry her back to the bedroom, the end. "I'd just... God, this is depressing! I don't know, I'd..."
Clueless as I always was, it took me a minute before the look in her eyes told me that she hadn't been looking for a verbal response at all. And with that in mind, I leaned over and kissed her.
Which was when the door opened.
We broke apart instantly, practically a reflex, in barely a split second. Bullets had sped through the air at a lesser speed than this. It was almost as if we'd never touched at all—like we'd just been sitting on opposite ends of the couch all afternoon.
Roger made his way through the door some seconds later, a giant paper bag in his arms blocking his view. "Hey," said a voice behind the bag. "I couldn't find tomatoes, so I got doughnuts instead. I thought we could—"
His vision was restored as he relocated the bag to the table, and he froze.
I watched as Mimi stood up, and then I stood up, and now everything felt even more awkward, if that was possible. Here we were, all three sides of the most disastrous love triangle imaginable, and only two of us had any clue. Surprisingly for once, I was one of them.
"Oh my God... hi," he whispered, crossing over to her and taking her into his arms.
Guilt struck me as I realized my jealousy. But jealousy had struck first, so that's the one I stuck with. How much easier it was, after all. How much more justifiable it felt.
Roger stood back, holding her at arm's length and beaming. "Are you... I mean, are you home? Like, officially?"
Mimi glanced at me, but I chose to find a stain on the carpet much more enthralling.
"Yeah," she answered softly, and I knew she was smiling. I didn't have to look. "I guess I am."
And then she was back in his arms, and I stood at the other side of the room with my hands in my pockets, imagining all the wonderful other places I could be at this moment, had I only jumped onto that bus at Port Authority.
"Um," she went on, pulling away from him and taking his hand in hers, "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Her composure, however artificial, put me somewhat at ease, and I looked up at her to find she was ahead of me, and already staring at me for encouragement. I stared back blankly, feeling more helpless by the second.
"Actually..." she amended, taking a few steps towards me, "we both have something to talk to you about."
Roger flashed a fleeting smile in my direction, and shrugged. "Sure, what's up?"
Well, jeez, the least he could do was act all somber and suspicious. How were we supposed to do this if he thought all we had in mind was inviting him to a movie, or planning a birthday party for Maureen, or...
I felt Mimi's hand clasp around mine, and that's when my heart began beating right out of my chest. It was the first time we had shown any signs of 'togetherness' in front of Roger, and what killed me was that he still had no clue.
At this rate, maybe he'd never have to know at all.
Roger collapsed on a chair with a bottle of Coke. Mimi gave my hand a final, reassuring squeeze, before releasing it. We started for the couch, each step an agonizing procrastination. And then, three feet from the couch, she collapsed.
I don't even know what it was—for all I knew, she'd tripped on a shoelace or something. Except I knew that wasn't it. For one thing, her shoes didn't have laces.
It took me longer to realize what had actually happened, and by the time I did, Roger had already leapt from his chair and was on the floor, by her side, his arms around her protectively. I knelt down beside them and, still in shock, took her hand.
"Baby, what happened?" he asked desperately. "Are you okay?"
She was trying to smile, but I knew it was fake. "I'm fine," she insisted, pulling herself up to a seated position and shrugging off our help. "I just tripped. I'm fine. Really."
Roger had quite taken control of the situation, so I stood back as he helped her up. For several seconds I watched, only half-aware of what was going on.
"Roger, I'm fine, you can let go," she sighed, stepping away from him slowly and reaching for a chair to support herself. "I don't need to be treated like a baby—"
She was instantly proved wrong, losing her balance again and toppling into my arms. I leapt at the opportunity to take care of her—dammit, it was my turn, anyhow—and led her to the couch as Roger trailed anxiously behind me.
"I'm calling 911," he announced, starting for the kitchen.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Roger, would you chill?!" she demanded, trying in vain to prop herself up on a pillow, despite my continuous efforts to the contrary. "I'm just tired, that's all. It's not the end of the world."
But Roger was already talking away on the phone, and for a brief moment, we were alone. "What happened?" I whispered. "Seriously, are you okay? Are you dizzy or anything?"
"No," she snapped, pulling herself up to a seated position to prove this, and then promptly plopped back down on the couch. "Maybe a little."
I nodded—a pathetic attempt to convince myself everything was fine. "Okay. I'm here. You're going to be fine, we'll get you to the hospital, and..."
"I don't *need* to go to the hospital!"
"I don't care, you're going anyway!"
She used a remaining bit of strength to pull me close to her. "I love you," she whispered.
I smiled. "I know. Now don't scare me like this again. I keep saying you need to get more sleep..."
Roger returned to us, and I pulled away. "They say it'll be an hour before they can get anyone over here." He reached into his pocket and tossed me his key chain. "Go start the car."
"It's your car, why can't you start it?" I whined. "I'll stay with her."
He raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh, and I suppose you're going to carry her downstairs too?"
I hated being the little one.
"Fine." I snatched his keys and disappeared out the front door.
It was a very long, unfulfilling wait in the car, and for some stupid reason, I waited in the driver's seat. So naturally, Roger spent the entire ride to the hospital in the back seat, with Mimi curled up on his lap as he went on whispering words of comfort and support, and every few minutes, saying something amusing enough to make her smile, but quiet enough that I couldn't hear.
I knew it was so very immature of me to be fighting petty jealousy at a time like this, but frankly, I didn't give a shit.
Collins was already there by the time we arrived, and when I turned to Roger for an explanation, he was too busy yelling at a nurse that we had an emergency, and that we weren't going to wait around for four hours. I assumed he'd called everyone in our family during my painfully tedious wait in the car.
I turned back to Collins, who glanced from Roger and Mimi to me. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah, of course, she's fine," I replied instinctively. Why wouldn't she be, after all? "She was just feeling a little dizzy, so..."
"Yeah, Roger told me."
Of course he did.
Maureen and Joanne appeared moments later, the former noticeably in tears as she rushed over to Mimi, who was now in the process of being escorted into a room that, from where I was standing, looked to have a strict no- visitors rule—Maureen had taken over for Roger in yelling at the nurse, and had quickly busied herself in whining about their ludicrous policies. I couldn't help but agree with her on that.
Roger seemed to have everything remarkably under control. He whispered something to another nurse, who subsequently opened the door to Mimi's room, into which he disappeared.
What the fuck? Why him and not me? I was the one who...
Yeah, except he didn't know that.
I found an empty chair and sat down (although I soon wished it *had* been occupied, at least by a cushion, seeing as it was about as soft as a large stack of bricks), and forced myself into distraction by observing our little group.
Maureen was standing forlornly in the middle of the deserted hallway, shrugging off any attempts at comfort from Joanne, who eventually gave up and walked over to Collins. It wasn't long before they were engrossed in some sotto voce discussion, and Maureen relinquished her independence to come sit beside me.
I looked over at her, and she offered a weak smile. "Is she okay?" she asked. Why was everyone asking *me*?
"Yeah, of course, honey, she's fine." And why did I keep answering with that?
Maureen, having no other appealing option, accepted this, and rested her head against my shoulder.
Roger broke into our moment, which had been nearing almost peaceful, as he stepped out of her room. "Mark, she wants to see you," he informed me.
"Me?" I asked. Stupid, Mark, very stupid. Of course she wanted to see you.
"Yeah."
I made my way past him, and the nurses, who eyed me suspiciously, and a sickening déjà vu of rehab began spinning through my head. When I saw her, the only spot of life and color in the starkly white, tomblike room, she was already clad in a godawful hospital gown, and hooked up to one of those beeping machines. I hardly expected myself to remember its technical term at a time like this. At any rate, those nurses certainly hadn't wasted any time.
I practically flew to her side, pulling a chair as close to the bed as I could, and took her hands. "Hey, you," I whispered.
She smiled. "I can't believe you guys are putting me through this."
"How are you feeling?"
"Well... shitty," she confessed with a chuckle.
I sighed, shaking my head in frustration. "See? This is why I hate doctors. You were fine until you got here."
She looked away. "Yeah."
I glanced around the room, and thankfully, the last of the nurses had vanished and left us to ourselves for a short, albeit highly appreciated, moment. I leaned over and nuzzled my head against her shoulder. "I love you," I whispered.
I felt her hand on the back of my neck. "I love you too."
I looked up. "Hey, I was thinking. Once you're feeling better, and... ya know, once we get all this... sorted out. We should go away together. Like, Hawaii or Paris or something. Or—ooh, how about Florence?"
Another chuckle... but weaker this time. "Right, with all our thousands of dollars."
I shrugged. "Someday."
She watched me for a moment, and I knew her mind had drifted as a single tear appeared in the corner of her eye. Nurses' faces began popping up out in the hall through the windows of the room, giving us obvious hints.
"All right, go, get out of here," Mimi instructed, a sad smile briefly illuminating her face. "People will say we're in love."
I couldn't keep from smiling. I leaned over, just barely touching her lips with mine, and stood up. "I'll see you soon."
She nodded.
I returned to my seat beside Maureen.
None of us moved for the next hour.
The next sign of life appeared when the doctor popped his head out of Mimi's room, and gestured to a nurse.
Silence. Darkness. Exhaustion. A clock ticking. Why was a clock always ticking?
The nurse popped her head out and, in turn, signaled for another nurse.
Before long, it seemed like the entire staff of the second floor was crowded into her room, until one... that first one I remembered Roger yelling at... emerged, alone, and approached the five of us.
"Are you her... family?" she asked. One of us must have nodded, because her face fell, and her hands began trembling. "I—I'm sorry," she choked.
And then a stretcher emerged from the room, surrounded by the throng of nurses and doctors who had collected behind that door, and I suspected I was the only one who noticed that there was a figure on it, some form of something, covered by a white sheet, as it was wheeled down the hallway, and disappeared around a corner.
It hit Roger first. He sprung away from the wall, where he'd been standing, motionless, for the past hour, and dashed twenty feet down the hall into her room. It hit me only milliseconds later, and I followed him.
Her room was just as dark, just as deathly white. But the bed was empty.
Roger didn't move. He just stood there, dead center in the middle of the room, staring at the empty bed.
I wasn't quite that disciplined. I fell against the wall and slumped to the floor in a silent downpour of tears, which vanished as quickly as they had come. Most of them didn't even make it down the side of my face. My gaze simply followed his, to the empty bed, and remained there, free of emotion.
Maureen wasn't far behind, and disaster inevitably ensued. She broke down into hysterics, fell into the arms of Joanne who had wisely followed her as quickly as she could. Collins remained behind them, silent, from what I could tell—which was rather limited seeing as I never tore my eyes away from the bed.
Roger did, however, just long enough to address everyone else. "GO!" he screamed suddenly. "Please, go, just go—go." And with that, he roughly ushered them all into the hall and slammed the door behind them.
We returned to our respective positions—dead center of the room; and a corner, slumped against the wall.
For half an hour, we didn't dare to breathe.
I couldn't shake the reality from my mind—she was no longer my escape.
How bitterly ironic, when the one thing we escape to in adversity finally abandons us. Where do we escape to then?
Over and over, for an hour, I would go through the pattern in my mind, unwittingly, and it tormented me. I hadn't quite grasped the fact that she was gone. All I knew was that I was very miserable, for what must be a very good reason. And then my mind would automatically turn to her, and think... what does it matter what I'm going through? I can get through anything if we're together.
And now we're not.
How was I supposed to get through *that*?
I can't imagine a darker picture than the one created by us in that empty room. Empty, even with both of us in it. Two solitary silhouettes, so apart in that moment, far unable to acknowledge how intensely connected they truly were. Connected through death and finality and total, undiluted loss. A loss cutting so deeply through reality that even our own presence went unnoticed. I don't think he even realized I was there. But somehow, on some subconscious level, he recognized me as a necessary part of this room, this scene... not one from the group he'd turned away and forced into the hall.
I'd betrayed him... but he let me stay. I was allowed to remain in that room. In his life. Part of the loss... part of his pain.
His eyes turned toward me then, and somehow I sensed it despite the fact that I hadn't peeled my gaze away from the empty bed. I looked up at him. That look on his face was so foreign—vaguely reminiscent of when we lost April. But added dimensions were seeping through now. With April, despite the shock, I think he had seen it coming for a long time. I know I had.
But the way he was looking at me now... it was only confusion. He looked like someone from another planet who had never known the concept of death. And with that came great innocence, of course. Innocence, and dependence.
He always managed to come across so mistrustful of everyone, didn't he? What an illusion...
But not now. I had always been able to read his eyes, for as long as I could remember. Usually all I got from them was one word... but it was enough. It was always enough. We'd never needed many words, anyhow.
And now that word was 'why?'
He knew...
Did he know?
Did he really know that six months ago, I'd sat on the couch with the love of his life and kissed her, and she kissed me back? Or that five months ago, on her birthday, alone in the loft late at night, behind that half- closed bedroom door, we'd shared something I never imagined could be so wonderful?
If he'd waited just one more second before turning away, I might have crumbled. I might have collapsed under the guilt and confessed it all right then. But he went back to watching the empty bed—maybe he thought if we both watched it hard enough, it would bring her back.
No, he didn't know... because I hadn't told him.
And now my chance was over. I couldn't tell him. What a perfect excuse.
...And that's how I detach from feeling alive.
A nurse walked in.
It took her at least ten seconds to take notice of us. Obviously our own self-unawareness had rubbed off on her. I felt her eyes jump between us.
"Which one of you was the father?"
Voice. Sound. Words. All foreign objects.
My mind, against my will, absorbed her words, and—how dare it?—interpreted them into a vague comprehension.
Which one of us was the father?
Was she talking to us?
I looked at her, and then at Roger, who was watching me—offering another chance? He looked at the nurse.
"What?" That was him.
The nurse caught on more quickly to this than she had to our initial presence. She knew we had no clue. And so she fixed it, with more words—more foreign objects.
"She was two months pregnant."
Feedback greatly appreciated, as ever... especially for this chapter. I'm still not sure how I feel about it.
Disclaimer: I suppose I own the nurse. Big whoop.
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8. [M]
It would have been so easy to get on that bus.
Right. Easy as life, I'm sure.
I'm kidding myself. That's just wishful thinking. It wouldn't have been easy at all, it would have been nothing but pain and regret and loneliness because I wasn't like them. I couldn't just go buy a car and drive across the country, or tear myself away from my lover for three weeks, only miles away yet so, so far... without a goodbye, without an explanation.
They were all so wrong... how could they be so wrong? I *wasn't* the strong one. I was the weakest of all of us, because any strength that may have manifested itself in me was false. It all came from *their* weaknesses. They came to me, they needed me... whether they said it in so many words or not. Usually not. And I would sit and listen and fix things and take care of them... it made me feel strong.
But I wasn't. I was only strong when they were weak.
And it's so obvious now. Where am I when they're strong again? Here. Nowhere. Unneeded.
I watched as he tore down the stairs, once more forgetting a house key, and I knew he had won. He was still in love with her, he always had been, and despite what she told me, somehow I knew she would end up with him. She loved me, that much I didn't doubt. But I was sure, once they were in a room together again, alone, with their memories and their history and their blazing chemistry... she would remember how much she loved him, how she'd cried for him, and how I'd been there to understand and support it all.
She'd go back to him.
In a heartbeat.
Being able accept that, I convinced myself, would make me strong.
And so I packed up the little stash of money I kept under my mattress, threw some clothes and a cereal box into a bag, and taped a note to the door, leaving Roger my only house key. I wouldn't be needing it anymore. I said I'd gone to work, and made some joke about him waiting outside for me again, and scribbled a smiley face at the end, and I made my way to Port Authority.
I bought a ticket.
I don't even remember to where.
And I sat on a bench for half and hour and waited for my bus, and realized I felt no stronger than I had half an hour ago.
Running away wasn't going to make me a stronger person.
Maybe it did for Roger, and for Mimi, but I couldn't run away. Maybe I was just a shameless masochist—unfulfilled unless tortured. But I was going to see this through, because no matter what happened, it would be easier than running away. It just had to be.
Except I had a sick feeling that it wouldn't.
I took the subway back to the loft, never having felt more relieved to be home, and peeled a new note off the door:
'Went shopping, we're out of tomatoes. And where the fuck do we keep that waffle maker thing??? I looked EVERYWHERE!
See ya.
R'
I actually found myself laughing at this. When I turned the note around, I found the house key taped to the back. Yes, that would probably be a safer place for it. I snatched a pen out of my pocket and scribbled a response on the bottom of the note:
'Tomatoes? Waffles? What, are you pregnant or something? It's under the stack of placemats in the cupboard.'
And, feeling marginally less miserable, I retained the key, stuck the note back on the door, and made my way inside. At sight of the '1' on the answering machine display, I hit Play.
"Mark... it's me. Call me, I need to talk to you."
Life always managed to bring me down when something had finally put a smile on my face.
Usually Mimi's voice was what effected that smile, but this time... I wasn't stupid. This was different. No one starts good news with 'I need to talk to you.'
My mouth went dry and my hands were suddenly freezing as I held the phone to my ear and listened to it ring. Once. Twice.
"Hello?"
Oh, lucky me. "Maureen, it's me, put Mimi on."
"She's not here."
Well, hello déjà vu. "What??"
Maureen offered her longest, most theatrical sigh. "I mean, she's in the shower—wait, okay, she's running out wearing a bunch of towels and gesturing wildly for the phone, so I—"
There was a muffled phone exchange on the other line as I waited, and finally... "Mark?"
I let myself relax at the sound of her voice, which now sounded somewhat less desperate than it had in her voice mail. "Hi."
"Hi. Um... hang on, Maureen's staring at me." Rustling on the other line as she dragged the phone down the hallway and into what I assumed was the bedroom. "Okay."
"Okay." I echoed quietly, anxiously tracing my finger along the phone cord. "So... did you see him?"
"Yeah. He came over." More of that dreaded silence, as I forced myself not to search the inner meaning behind 'came over'. "Mark... we have to tell him."
"What?"
"About us. We have to tell him."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"He—I—" I grasped for words that would make me look neither afraid nor inarticulate. "He's not here," I announced.
"Then, when he comes back."
I just wasn't going to get out of this. "Okay," I surrendered. But, feeling slightly more empowered by her ambition, I added one last, slim chance of a thought. "Will you come home?"
A pause, which I couldn't help but interpret as a no. For a moment I heard nothing but her soft breathing... debating... considering... and I held my breath.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I will."
Yes, I figured as much.
Wait a minute.
She said yes.
Relax, Cohen, it's not like you just asked her to marry you.
Hmm.
"You will? Really?"
"If you'll let me," she added in a small voice.
"If I'll let you?? You're nuts. Want me to come pick you up? I'll be right there."
Her voice was smiling. I suspected mine was, too, but couldn't be sure; it's a characteristic only detectable through the other line, when your sense of hearing is overworked to make up for the lack of visual contact. I was beside myself. I wouldn't have even minded eating tomatoes and waffles. Hell, at this point I probably wouldn't even be able to tell the difference between the two.
"Baby, I have to get dressed first..."
"No, no you don't!"
She giggled, the way I remembered from so long ago... but it really wasn't so long. It was remarkably recent, come to think of it. Three weeks. Just three weeks since morning would come and she'd be asleep beside me... or, more likely be tossing clothes in my direction during her daily fashion emergencies. Just three weeks since we'd turn off all the lights around 2 a.m., then spend the next hour trying to make each other laugh. Which didn't take much. I became embarrassingly giddy around her. Shameful, really. No one else had ever had that effect on me...
Just three weeks... but it felt like a millennium.
"I'll be over in about an hour," she finally concluded.
Oh, God. An hour. It was so long. So very long. Thirty minutes I might have been able to handle, but this... "I'll... be here," I replied lamely.
And we hung up, and I looked around the apartment that had been distinctly, unbearably Mimi-less in recent weeks, but now her presence was so very alive again. She always had that effect, though. When she'd be away at work, and nine-thirty would roll around, everything would light up. The empty apartment became almost welcoming. No matter how tired/furious/busy/frustrated I'd been all day, I'd perk up, knowing there was only half an hour left before I would see her again.
I'd missed being in love.
I'm not sure what deluded part of my mind was keeping me on alert for a knock at the door. Mimi hadn't knocked on this door in about two years, and this time was no exception. I was on the couch, staring at a blank, slumbering television set, counting the number of clicks the clock would make. I didn't even know where that clock was. I don't think I ever had. It was just noise... just insolent noise. And then, a much louder, tangible click from the door disturbed my daydream. I spun around, and there she was.
It took only a glimpse of her—one brief flash of that flawless, beguiling presence, imprinting itself on my mind's eye, to make me realize. It had been mere hours since I'd seen her last, but I'd missed her more than I ever had in my life.
We fell into each other's arms, and the bliss was exactly as my senses had memorized it... but the familiarity was not. She wasn't just... home. She had *come* home. There is no reunion quite like that of two lovers, torn apart by a dismal separation...
Why was I sounding like a Harlequin novel? [...said Lola to herself. /disruptive A/N]
"Hey..." I felt her warm hand against my face, guiding my gaze to hers. "Are you okay? You look all spaced out."
"Yeah," I replied dreamily, trying not to imagine how goofy my grin must have looked. "I mean... I'm just glad you're home."
She smiled, but so briefly I might have imagined it, before her face fell. "How are we supposed to do this?"
I took a few thoughtful steps toward the couch, leading this small, precious little person along with me. "This was your idea," I reminded her.
Giving up all coordination, I let myself flop down on the couch, and she was quick to follow, resting her head in my lap as I idly stroked her hair. A month ago I would have found us in the same position and not felt anything but absolute peace. Now all I could think of was when that front door might swing open again.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"Don't be. It'll be okay. I promise—"
"I'm going to lose both of you."
"Don't say things like that!"
I almost wished she'd had a rebuttal for that, too. I had so many great words on the edge of my tongue; poised for application. But all she did was sit up, put her arms around me, and rest her head against my chest.
She tilted her head upward, looking at me, only centimeters away. "What would you do if this was our last night together?"
I rolled my eyes. "Would you stop already?"
"I'm just curious. Come on, it'll take our minds off this. And I want details," she added with a wink.
Fine. I knew I couldn't escape. "Well, I..." This shouldn't be hard, Mark. It's not a hard question. You'd carry her back to the bedroom, the end. "I'd just... God, this is depressing! I don't know, I'd..."
Clueless as I always was, it took me a minute before the look in her eyes told me that she hadn't been looking for a verbal response at all. And with that in mind, I leaned over and kissed her.
Which was when the door opened.
We broke apart instantly, practically a reflex, in barely a split second. Bullets had sped through the air at a lesser speed than this. It was almost as if we'd never touched at all—like we'd just been sitting on opposite ends of the couch all afternoon.
Roger made his way through the door some seconds later, a giant paper bag in his arms blocking his view. "Hey," said a voice behind the bag. "I couldn't find tomatoes, so I got doughnuts instead. I thought we could—"
His vision was restored as he relocated the bag to the table, and he froze.
I watched as Mimi stood up, and then I stood up, and now everything felt even more awkward, if that was possible. Here we were, all three sides of the most disastrous love triangle imaginable, and only two of us had any clue. Surprisingly for once, I was one of them.
"Oh my God... hi," he whispered, crossing over to her and taking her into his arms.
Guilt struck me as I realized my jealousy. But jealousy had struck first, so that's the one I stuck with. How much easier it was, after all. How much more justifiable it felt.
Roger stood back, holding her at arm's length and beaming. "Are you... I mean, are you home? Like, officially?"
Mimi glanced at me, but I chose to find a stain on the carpet much more enthralling.
"Yeah," she answered softly, and I knew she was smiling. I didn't have to look. "I guess I am."
And then she was back in his arms, and I stood at the other side of the room with my hands in my pockets, imagining all the wonderful other places I could be at this moment, had I only jumped onto that bus at Port Authority.
"Um," she went on, pulling away from him and taking his hand in hers, "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Her composure, however artificial, put me somewhat at ease, and I looked up at her to find she was ahead of me, and already staring at me for encouragement. I stared back blankly, feeling more helpless by the second.
"Actually..." she amended, taking a few steps towards me, "we both have something to talk to you about."
Roger flashed a fleeting smile in my direction, and shrugged. "Sure, what's up?"
Well, jeez, the least he could do was act all somber and suspicious. How were we supposed to do this if he thought all we had in mind was inviting him to a movie, or planning a birthday party for Maureen, or...
I felt Mimi's hand clasp around mine, and that's when my heart began beating right out of my chest. It was the first time we had shown any signs of 'togetherness' in front of Roger, and what killed me was that he still had no clue.
At this rate, maybe he'd never have to know at all.
Roger collapsed on a chair with a bottle of Coke. Mimi gave my hand a final, reassuring squeeze, before releasing it. We started for the couch, each step an agonizing procrastination. And then, three feet from the couch, she collapsed.
I don't even know what it was—for all I knew, she'd tripped on a shoelace or something. Except I knew that wasn't it. For one thing, her shoes didn't have laces.
It took me longer to realize what had actually happened, and by the time I did, Roger had already leapt from his chair and was on the floor, by her side, his arms around her protectively. I knelt down beside them and, still in shock, took her hand.
"Baby, what happened?" he asked desperately. "Are you okay?"
She was trying to smile, but I knew it was fake. "I'm fine," she insisted, pulling herself up to a seated position and shrugging off our help. "I just tripped. I'm fine. Really."
Roger had quite taken control of the situation, so I stood back as he helped her up. For several seconds I watched, only half-aware of what was going on.
"Roger, I'm fine, you can let go," she sighed, stepping away from him slowly and reaching for a chair to support herself. "I don't need to be treated like a baby—"
She was instantly proved wrong, losing her balance again and toppling into my arms. I leapt at the opportunity to take care of her—dammit, it was my turn, anyhow—and led her to the couch as Roger trailed anxiously behind me.
"I'm calling 911," he announced, starting for the kitchen.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Roger, would you chill?!" she demanded, trying in vain to prop herself up on a pillow, despite my continuous efforts to the contrary. "I'm just tired, that's all. It's not the end of the world."
But Roger was already talking away on the phone, and for a brief moment, we were alone. "What happened?" I whispered. "Seriously, are you okay? Are you dizzy or anything?"
"No," she snapped, pulling herself up to a seated position to prove this, and then promptly plopped back down on the couch. "Maybe a little."
I nodded—a pathetic attempt to convince myself everything was fine. "Okay. I'm here. You're going to be fine, we'll get you to the hospital, and..."
"I don't *need* to go to the hospital!"
"I don't care, you're going anyway!"
She used a remaining bit of strength to pull me close to her. "I love you," she whispered.
I smiled. "I know. Now don't scare me like this again. I keep saying you need to get more sleep..."
Roger returned to us, and I pulled away. "They say it'll be an hour before they can get anyone over here." He reached into his pocket and tossed me his key chain. "Go start the car."
"It's your car, why can't you start it?" I whined. "I'll stay with her."
He raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh, and I suppose you're going to carry her downstairs too?"
I hated being the little one.
"Fine." I snatched his keys and disappeared out the front door.
It was a very long, unfulfilling wait in the car, and for some stupid reason, I waited in the driver's seat. So naturally, Roger spent the entire ride to the hospital in the back seat, with Mimi curled up on his lap as he went on whispering words of comfort and support, and every few minutes, saying something amusing enough to make her smile, but quiet enough that I couldn't hear.
I knew it was so very immature of me to be fighting petty jealousy at a time like this, but frankly, I didn't give a shit.
Collins was already there by the time we arrived, and when I turned to Roger for an explanation, he was too busy yelling at a nurse that we had an emergency, and that we weren't going to wait around for four hours. I assumed he'd called everyone in our family during my painfully tedious wait in the car.
I turned back to Collins, who glanced from Roger and Mimi to me. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah, of course, she's fine," I replied instinctively. Why wouldn't she be, after all? "She was just feeling a little dizzy, so..."
"Yeah, Roger told me."
Of course he did.
Maureen and Joanne appeared moments later, the former noticeably in tears as she rushed over to Mimi, who was now in the process of being escorted into a room that, from where I was standing, looked to have a strict no- visitors rule—Maureen had taken over for Roger in yelling at the nurse, and had quickly busied herself in whining about their ludicrous policies. I couldn't help but agree with her on that.
Roger seemed to have everything remarkably under control. He whispered something to another nurse, who subsequently opened the door to Mimi's room, into which he disappeared.
What the fuck? Why him and not me? I was the one who...
Yeah, except he didn't know that.
I found an empty chair and sat down (although I soon wished it *had* been occupied, at least by a cushion, seeing as it was about as soft as a large stack of bricks), and forced myself into distraction by observing our little group.
Maureen was standing forlornly in the middle of the deserted hallway, shrugging off any attempts at comfort from Joanne, who eventually gave up and walked over to Collins. It wasn't long before they were engrossed in some sotto voce discussion, and Maureen relinquished her independence to come sit beside me.
I looked over at her, and she offered a weak smile. "Is she okay?" she asked. Why was everyone asking *me*?
"Yeah, of course, honey, she's fine." And why did I keep answering with that?
Maureen, having no other appealing option, accepted this, and rested her head against my shoulder.
Roger broke into our moment, which had been nearing almost peaceful, as he stepped out of her room. "Mark, she wants to see you," he informed me.
"Me?" I asked. Stupid, Mark, very stupid. Of course she wanted to see you.
"Yeah."
I made my way past him, and the nurses, who eyed me suspiciously, and a sickening déjà vu of rehab began spinning through my head. When I saw her, the only spot of life and color in the starkly white, tomblike room, she was already clad in a godawful hospital gown, and hooked up to one of those beeping machines. I hardly expected myself to remember its technical term at a time like this. At any rate, those nurses certainly hadn't wasted any time.
I practically flew to her side, pulling a chair as close to the bed as I could, and took her hands. "Hey, you," I whispered.
She smiled. "I can't believe you guys are putting me through this."
"How are you feeling?"
"Well... shitty," she confessed with a chuckle.
I sighed, shaking my head in frustration. "See? This is why I hate doctors. You were fine until you got here."
She looked away. "Yeah."
I glanced around the room, and thankfully, the last of the nurses had vanished and left us to ourselves for a short, albeit highly appreciated, moment. I leaned over and nuzzled my head against her shoulder. "I love you," I whispered.
I felt her hand on the back of my neck. "I love you too."
I looked up. "Hey, I was thinking. Once you're feeling better, and... ya know, once we get all this... sorted out. We should go away together. Like, Hawaii or Paris or something. Or—ooh, how about Florence?"
Another chuckle... but weaker this time. "Right, with all our thousands of dollars."
I shrugged. "Someday."
She watched me for a moment, and I knew her mind had drifted as a single tear appeared in the corner of her eye. Nurses' faces began popping up out in the hall through the windows of the room, giving us obvious hints.
"All right, go, get out of here," Mimi instructed, a sad smile briefly illuminating her face. "People will say we're in love."
I couldn't keep from smiling. I leaned over, just barely touching her lips with mine, and stood up. "I'll see you soon."
She nodded.
I returned to my seat beside Maureen.
None of us moved for the next hour.
The next sign of life appeared when the doctor popped his head out of Mimi's room, and gestured to a nurse.
Silence. Darkness. Exhaustion. A clock ticking. Why was a clock always ticking?
The nurse popped her head out and, in turn, signaled for another nurse.
Before long, it seemed like the entire staff of the second floor was crowded into her room, until one... that first one I remembered Roger yelling at... emerged, alone, and approached the five of us.
"Are you her... family?" she asked. One of us must have nodded, because her face fell, and her hands began trembling. "I—I'm sorry," she choked.
And then a stretcher emerged from the room, surrounded by the throng of nurses and doctors who had collected behind that door, and I suspected I was the only one who noticed that there was a figure on it, some form of something, covered by a white sheet, as it was wheeled down the hallway, and disappeared around a corner.
It hit Roger first. He sprung away from the wall, where he'd been standing, motionless, for the past hour, and dashed twenty feet down the hall into her room. It hit me only milliseconds later, and I followed him.
Her room was just as dark, just as deathly white. But the bed was empty.
Roger didn't move. He just stood there, dead center in the middle of the room, staring at the empty bed.
I wasn't quite that disciplined. I fell against the wall and slumped to the floor in a silent downpour of tears, which vanished as quickly as they had come. Most of them didn't even make it down the side of my face. My gaze simply followed his, to the empty bed, and remained there, free of emotion.
Maureen wasn't far behind, and disaster inevitably ensued. She broke down into hysterics, fell into the arms of Joanne who had wisely followed her as quickly as she could. Collins remained behind them, silent, from what I could tell—which was rather limited seeing as I never tore my eyes away from the bed.
Roger did, however, just long enough to address everyone else. "GO!" he screamed suddenly. "Please, go, just go—go." And with that, he roughly ushered them all into the hall and slammed the door behind them.
We returned to our respective positions—dead center of the room; and a corner, slumped against the wall.
For half an hour, we didn't dare to breathe.
I couldn't shake the reality from my mind—she was no longer my escape.
How bitterly ironic, when the one thing we escape to in adversity finally abandons us. Where do we escape to then?
Over and over, for an hour, I would go through the pattern in my mind, unwittingly, and it tormented me. I hadn't quite grasped the fact that she was gone. All I knew was that I was very miserable, for what must be a very good reason. And then my mind would automatically turn to her, and think... what does it matter what I'm going through? I can get through anything if we're together.
And now we're not.
How was I supposed to get through *that*?
I can't imagine a darker picture than the one created by us in that empty room. Empty, even with both of us in it. Two solitary silhouettes, so apart in that moment, far unable to acknowledge how intensely connected they truly were. Connected through death and finality and total, undiluted loss. A loss cutting so deeply through reality that even our own presence went unnoticed. I don't think he even realized I was there. But somehow, on some subconscious level, he recognized me as a necessary part of this room, this scene... not one from the group he'd turned away and forced into the hall.
I'd betrayed him... but he let me stay. I was allowed to remain in that room. In his life. Part of the loss... part of his pain.
His eyes turned toward me then, and somehow I sensed it despite the fact that I hadn't peeled my gaze away from the empty bed. I looked up at him. That look on his face was so foreign—vaguely reminiscent of when we lost April. But added dimensions were seeping through now. With April, despite the shock, I think he had seen it coming for a long time. I know I had.
But the way he was looking at me now... it was only confusion. He looked like someone from another planet who had never known the concept of death. And with that came great innocence, of course. Innocence, and dependence.
He always managed to come across so mistrustful of everyone, didn't he? What an illusion...
But not now. I had always been able to read his eyes, for as long as I could remember. Usually all I got from them was one word... but it was enough. It was always enough. We'd never needed many words, anyhow.
And now that word was 'why?'
He knew...
Did he know?
Did he really know that six months ago, I'd sat on the couch with the love of his life and kissed her, and she kissed me back? Or that five months ago, on her birthday, alone in the loft late at night, behind that half- closed bedroom door, we'd shared something I never imagined could be so wonderful?
If he'd waited just one more second before turning away, I might have crumbled. I might have collapsed under the guilt and confessed it all right then. But he went back to watching the empty bed—maybe he thought if we both watched it hard enough, it would bring her back.
No, he didn't know... because I hadn't told him.
And now my chance was over. I couldn't tell him. What a perfect excuse.
...And that's how I detach from feeling alive.
A nurse walked in.
It took her at least ten seconds to take notice of us. Obviously our own self-unawareness had rubbed off on her. I felt her eyes jump between us.
"Which one of you was the father?"
Voice. Sound. Words. All foreign objects.
My mind, against my will, absorbed her words, and—how dare it?—interpreted them into a vague comprehension.
Which one of us was the father?
Was she talking to us?
I looked at her, and then at Roger, who was watching me—offering another chance? He looked at the nurse.
"What?" That was him.
The nurse caught on more quickly to this than she had to our initial presence. She knew we had no clue. And so she fixed it, with more words—more foreign objects.
"She was two months pregnant."