Title: Temporary Fixes
Author: Nicky
E-mail: NickyM96@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keywords: J/MP, MP/B, Angst
Summary: Miss Parker makes a choice that forever changes the
lives of those around her. Sequel to Coming Home.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like it, these characters don't
belong to me. I'm just using them for fun. Although, I don't
think they have much fun in this story :-) I'll be sure to send
them to therapy before returning them.
Choices IV - Temporary Fixes
By Nicky
The glare of the sun is what wakes me up. Not so much because
it's annoying. But because it's unexpected. Broots keeps the
blinds shut and the curtains drawn in the bedroom because we both
like to sleep in complete darkness. So why is the sun peeking
through today? I open my eyes and look around. That's when I
notice that I'm not in my bedroom. I'm not in my home. I'm in
the hospital. And the memories of how I got here suddenly come
rushing back.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two days earlier . . .
I walk around my office, rubbing my stomach unconsciously with
one hand while flipping through the files in my file cabinet with
the other.
"Hi Honey," I hear as the door opens. Broots walks in holding a
tray from the cafeteria.
"Hi," I say, making a point to add a smile. Over the past three
months, it's become automatic. I don't even have to force it
anymore. "What do you have there?"
"Lunch," he grins as he sets the tray on my desk. He walks over
to where I am and places a kiss on my cheek before leading me
over to my desk and helping me sit. I don't even have to try not
to cringe whenever he touches me. I just don't feel it anymore.
"I hope you're hungry," he says. He separates the food on the
tray. A burger and fries for him. A large chicken salad, fruit,
and a glass of milk for me.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I sip slowly on the glass of milk as he
rambles on about something I'm not really paying attention to.
Every few minutes he'll look up to watch me take a bite of food.
When I've eaten what he considers a sufficient amount, he
suddenly realizes that lunch time is over and that he has
something he has to get back to. We've played this game for
three months now. It annoys me, but it's really sweet of him to
be this caring and watchful of me. I indulge him whenever I can
because I really don't think to eat any other time.
As I stand to walk him to the door, the room starts to spin. I
hold onto the edge of the desk but it doesn't stop the pull of
gravity on my body. My rubbery legs can no longer support me and
everything goes black before I feel myself hit the floor.
That happened two days ago. I've been in here since then. I'm
shaken from my memories by the sound of the door opening. It's
yet another nurse with yet another tray of food. They keep on
bringing me these trays of food that go back barely touched. I
wish they would stop.
"Here's your breakfast, Mrs. Broots," the nurse says, setting the
tray in front of me.
"Thank you," I say politely, waiting for her to leave before I
push it away. But she doesn't leave. She sits next to me and
pulls out a notebook. Uh oh. Something tells me she's not here
to take my order.
"I'm Dr. Westfield," she says. "Your husband was concerned about
you. He asked that I come in and talk with you."
"About what?" I ask innocently, picking off a small piece of
bacon and popping it into my mouth. The doctor makes a little
noise in the back of her throat and writes something down on her
pad.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" she asks, glaring curiously at
me. "You know what people expect from you. So when they start
to question you about an uncomfortable topic, instead of
answering, you do something to distract them. For instance, you
know that I'm in here to talk with you about your eating habits.
So to throw me off guard, you take a small bite of your
breakfast. I doubt you've even swallowed it yet, have you?"
Normally, an accusation like that would put me on the defensive.
But today it doesn't. For one thing, I know she's right. For
another thing, I really don't care to defend my actions anymore.
She can think whatever she wants to think about me. I just don't
care.
"Why are you doing this, Marisa? May I call you Marisa?"
"Please, do," I nod. I know that I am 'Mrs. Broots', but I still
don't like to think of myself that way.
"Can you tell me why you won't eat, Marisa?"
"I just forget," I say truthfully.
"You forget?" she repeats. She looks puzzled for a second before
jotting that down on her little pad as well. "Do you forget a
lot of stuff? Do you forget to get up every morning and go to
work? Do you forget how to drive to work? Do you forget what
you do here at work? Do you forget how to take care of your
husband and stepdaughter? Do you forget how to keep your house
immaculate? Your husband tells me that you seem to have all that
in control. Plus you have time every night for him in the
bedroom. You remember all that, yet you forget to eat."
"I'm not trying to hurt my babies, if that's what you're
implying," I tell her, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she says. "Your husband says that you
also faithfully remember to take your prenatal vitamins and get
plenty of rest and exercise. You make it to all of your doctor's
appointments and you two have signed up for Lamaze. I believe
you're doing your best to take care of your babies, Marisa. But
that includes taking care of yourself as well."
I just look at her, unable to say anything. So she takes that as
a sign to continue.
"You've been to the hospital a lot during the past few months,
Marisa. Burns. Bruises. Can you explain those?"
"My husband doesn't touch me," I say rather vehemently. I hope
she's not implying he's abusing me. He doesn't need that kind of
trouble. He's been nothing but kind to me.
"Calm down. I'm not saying that," she says, giving me another
curious stare before writing in her book again. "You seem very
protective of him. Almost as protective as he is of you. You
can relax. I'm not here to accuse him of hurting you. I think
someone else is responsible for that - you."
"What?" I wasn't expecting that.
"Not on purpose. At least, I hope not. In talking with your
husband, he's told me a few things that you may not realize,
Marisa. You may not be able to account for the burns and
bruises, but he can. That burn on your hand? He said you and
Debbie were baking cookies for a bake sale at her school. You
took out the pan without an oven mitt. You didn't seem to feel
the pain. The burn on your neck? Do you remember how you got
that?"
"I dropped the flat iron on it when I was straightening my hair,"
I explain.
"They were second degree burns, Marisa. Didn't you feel them?"
I just shake my head, looking down at my lap. I see a few tears
fall onto the blanket covering my legs.
"You went to see your doctor the other day. They drew 3 vials of
blood. Your husband said it took them 4 tries to find a vein,
but you didn't even flinch whenever they stuck you." She turns
my arm and examines the bluish bruise on the inside of my elbow.
I also notice with a bit of shock how the skin was barely
stretched over the bone. When had it gotten so thin?
"I didn't feel it. I don't feel anything," I admit in a whisper.
"You recently lost someone very special to you," Dr. Westfield
says, this time only looking into her book and not writing
anything in it. "That must have been painful to you."
"Too painful," I cry. "It was too much for me to bear. I didn't
want to feel pain like that."
"So you shut down so you wouldn't feel the pain. But as a
consequence, you can't feel anything at all. No emotions. No
pain, physical or mental. Not even hunger. That's why you
haven't been eating. It may have seemed like it worked, but that
was just a temporary fix, Marisa. You ended up doing more harm
than good. By not eating, you not only hurt yourself, but it
hurt your family to see you wasting away like this. You put your
babies in serious jeopardy by not eating. That's how you ended
up in the hospital."
"I'm sorry," I begin to sob. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not me you need to apologize to, Marisa. Take a good look
at what you've become." She hands me a mirror and I gasp at the
reflection of myself. My eyes, once blue and expressive, were
more like a dull gray color. They were sunken into my head,
which only further accentuated my hollow cheeks. I looked like
death. It's a miracle me and my babies are still alive.
"I'll be here to talk to you when you're ready to deal with your
pain. But I'm not the one you've hurt. I'm not the one you have
to make this up to. You've hurt yourself and you've hurt your
family. You can't hide from the pain anymore. Look at what it's
done." She takes my hand and gives it an encouraging squeeze
before leaving me alone.
I sit there, crying silently at my sickly reflection for what
seems like hours. When my stomach rumbles, I look down at it,
unaccustomed to the ache of hunger. My poor children have been
in there the entire time, calling to me for months and I've just
ignored them. They've kicked and punched and rolled all around
inside me and I don't remember once feeling them. I've given up
all the good feelings in order to ignore the bad. I've lost
months that I can't get back. But I can try to make them up.
With determination, I wipe my face dry and pull the tray of food
that Dr. Westfield left behind towards me. I eat the whole thing
without a second thought.
By the end of the day, the nurses who brought me lunch and dinner
were a bit shocked to be picking up empty food trays. I continue
to be the model patient because I have to get out of here. Dr.
Westfield gave me a lot to think about. I hurt a lot of people
with my choices. And now, there's so much that I have to set
straight. I pick up the phone and make a phone call. It's just
a small step, but hopefully it's one in the right direction.
I've spent the past few months making a mess of my life and the
lives of those around me with my temporary fixes. It's time now
for something more lasting.
To be continued . . .
Author: Nicky
E-mail: NickyM96@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keywords: J/MP, MP/B, Angst
Summary: Miss Parker makes a choice that forever changes the
lives of those around her. Sequel to Coming Home.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like it, these characters don't
belong to me. I'm just using them for fun. Although, I don't
think they have much fun in this story :-) I'll be sure to send
them to therapy before returning them.
Choices IV - Temporary Fixes
By Nicky
The glare of the sun is what wakes me up. Not so much because
it's annoying. But because it's unexpected. Broots keeps the
blinds shut and the curtains drawn in the bedroom because we both
like to sleep in complete darkness. So why is the sun peeking
through today? I open my eyes and look around. That's when I
notice that I'm not in my bedroom. I'm not in my home. I'm in
the hospital. And the memories of how I got here suddenly come
rushing back.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two days earlier . . .
I walk around my office, rubbing my stomach unconsciously with
one hand while flipping through the files in my file cabinet with
the other.
"Hi Honey," I hear as the door opens. Broots walks in holding a
tray from the cafeteria.
"Hi," I say, making a point to add a smile. Over the past three
months, it's become automatic. I don't even have to force it
anymore. "What do you have there?"
"Lunch," he grins as he sets the tray on my desk. He walks over
to where I am and places a kiss on my cheek before leading me
over to my desk and helping me sit. I don't even have to try not
to cringe whenever he touches me. I just don't feel it anymore.
"I hope you're hungry," he says. He separates the food on the
tray. A burger and fries for him. A large chicken salad, fruit,
and a glass of milk for me.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I sip slowly on the glass of milk as he
rambles on about something I'm not really paying attention to.
Every few minutes he'll look up to watch me take a bite of food.
When I've eaten what he considers a sufficient amount, he
suddenly realizes that lunch time is over and that he has
something he has to get back to. We've played this game for
three months now. It annoys me, but it's really sweet of him to
be this caring and watchful of me. I indulge him whenever I can
because I really don't think to eat any other time.
As I stand to walk him to the door, the room starts to spin. I
hold onto the edge of the desk but it doesn't stop the pull of
gravity on my body. My rubbery legs can no longer support me and
everything goes black before I feel myself hit the floor.
That happened two days ago. I've been in here since then. I'm
shaken from my memories by the sound of the door opening. It's
yet another nurse with yet another tray of food. They keep on
bringing me these trays of food that go back barely touched. I
wish they would stop.
"Here's your breakfast, Mrs. Broots," the nurse says, setting the
tray in front of me.
"Thank you," I say politely, waiting for her to leave before I
push it away. But she doesn't leave. She sits next to me and
pulls out a notebook. Uh oh. Something tells me she's not here
to take my order.
"I'm Dr. Westfield," she says. "Your husband was concerned about
you. He asked that I come in and talk with you."
"About what?" I ask innocently, picking off a small piece of
bacon and popping it into my mouth. The doctor makes a little
noise in the back of her throat and writes something down on her
pad.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" she asks, glaring curiously at
me. "You know what people expect from you. So when they start
to question you about an uncomfortable topic, instead of
answering, you do something to distract them. For instance, you
know that I'm in here to talk with you about your eating habits.
So to throw me off guard, you take a small bite of your
breakfast. I doubt you've even swallowed it yet, have you?"
Normally, an accusation like that would put me on the defensive.
But today it doesn't. For one thing, I know she's right. For
another thing, I really don't care to defend my actions anymore.
She can think whatever she wants to think about me. I just don't
care.
"Why are you doing this, Marisa? May I call you Marisa?"
"Please, do," I nod. I know that I am 'Mrs. Broots', but I still
don't like to think of myself that way.
"Can you tell me why you won't eat, Marisa?"
"I just forget," I say truthfully.
"You forget?" she repeats. She looks puzzled for a second before
jotting that down on her little pad as well. "Do you forget a
lot of stuff? Do you forget to get up every morning and go to
work? Do you forget how to drive to work? Do you forget what
you do here at work? Do you forget how to take care of your
husband and stepdaughter? Do you forget how to keep your house
immaculate? Your husband tells me that you seem to have all that
in control. Plus you have time every night for him in the
bedroom. You remember all that, yet you forget to eat."
"I'm not trying to hurt my babies, if that's what you're
implying," I tell her, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she says. "Your husband says that you
also faithfully remember to take your prenatal vitamins and get
plenty of rest and exercise. You make it to all of your doctor's
appointments and you two have signed up for Lamaze. I believe
you're doing your best to take care of your babies, Marisa. But
that includes taking care of yourself as well."
I just look at her, unable to say anything. So she takes that as
a sign to continue.
"You've been to the hospital a lot during the past few months,
Marisa. Burns. Bruises. Can you explain those?"
"My husband doesn't touch me," I say rather vehemently. I hope
she's not implying he's abusing me. He doesn't need that kind of
trouble. He's been nothing but kind to me.
"Calm down. I'm not saying that," she says, giving me another
curious stare before writing in her book again. "You seem very
protective of him. Almost as protective as he is of you. You
can relax. I'm not here to accuse him of hurting you. I think
someone else is responsible for that - you."
"What?" I wasn't expecting that.
"Not on purpose. At least, I hope not. In talking with your
husband, he's told me a few things that you may not realize,
Marisa. You may not be able to account for the burns and
bruises, but he can. That burn on your hand? He said you and
Debbie were baking cookies for a bake sale at her school. You
took out the pan without an oven mitt. You didn't seem to feel
the pain. The burn on your neck? Do you remember how you got
that?"
"I dropped the flat iron on it when I was straightening my hair,"
I explain.
"They were second degree burns, Marisa. Didn't you feel them?"
I just shake my head, looking down at my lap. I see a few tears
fall onto the blanket covering my legs.
"You went to see your doctor the other day. They drew 3 vials of
blood. Your husband said it took them 4 tries to find a vein,
but you didn't even flinch whenever they stuck you." She turns
my arm and examines the bluish bruise on the inside of my elbow.
I also notice with a bit of shock how the skin was barely
stretched over the bone. When had it gotten so thin?
"I didn't feel it. I don't feel anything," I admit in a whisper.
"You recently lost someone very special to you," Dr. Westfield
says, this time only looking into her book and not writing
anything in it. "That must have been painful to you."
"Too painful," I cry. "It was too much for me to bear. I didn't
want to feel pain like that."
"So you shut down so you wouldn't feel the pain. But as a
consequence, you can't feel anything at all. No emotions. No
pain, physical or mental. Not even hunger. That's why you
haven't been eating. It may have seemed like it worked, but that
was just a temporary fix, Marisa. You ended up doing more harm
than good. By not eating, you not only hurt yourself, but it
hurt your family to see you wasting away like this. You put your
babies in serious jeopardy by not eating. That's how you ended
up in the hospital."
"I'm sorry," I begin to sob. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not me you need to apologize to, Marisa. Take a good look
at what you've become." She hands me a mirror and I gasp at the
reflection of myself. My eyes, once blue and expressive, were
more like a dull gray color. They were sunken into my head,
which only further accentuated my hollow cheeks. I looked like
death. It's a miracle me and my babies are still alive.
"I'll be here to talk to you when you're ready to deal with your
pain. But I'm not the one you've hurt. I'm not the one you have
to make this up to. You've hurt yourself and you've hurt your
family. You can't hide from the pain anymore. Look at what it's
done." She takes my hand and gives it an encouraging squeeze
before leaving me alone.
I sit there, crying silently at my sickly reflection for what
seems like hours. When my stomach rumbles, I look down at it,
unaccustomed to the ache of hunger. My poor children have been
in there the entire time, calling to me for months and I've just
ignored them. They've kicked and punched and rolled all around
inside me and I don't remember once feeling them. I've given up
all the good feelings in order to ignore the bad. I've lost
months that I can't get back. But I can try to make them up.
With determination, I wipe my face dry and pull the tray of food
that Dr. Westfield left behind towards me. I eat the whole thing
without a second thought.
By the end of the day, the nurses who brought me lunch and dinner
were a bit shocked to be picking up empty food trays. I continue
to be the model patient because I have to get out of here. Dr.
Westfield gave me a lot to think about. I hurt a lot of people
with my choices. And now, there's so much that I have to set
straight. I pick up the phone and make a phone call. It's just
a small step, but hopefully it's one in the right direction.
I've spent the past few months making a mess of my life and the
lives of those around me with my temporary fixes. It's time now
for something more lasting.
To be continued . . .