2004
"W-what happened to him?" Chandler breathed, his entire body frozen.
Megan sat down on top of the picnic table, leaning over her knees unhappily. "It was a car wreck. You were screwed up pretty bad, too... cut up and hurt, I think you had a concussion?"
"How -- how old?"
"You were eight, I think. He was six. You'd been playing in the backseat... you'd both unbuckled your seatbelts, you were wrestling or something. You thought it was your fault. Because of that."
"How in the hell... how in the hell did I just... *forget* something like that?"
"That day... that day I fell in. You didn't just rescue me, Chandler... you went apeshit, totally nuts, you were like a... kamikaze pilot. Like it absolutely didn't matter whether *you* died or not, as long as no one else did. I think maybe... maybe you *wanted* to die doing it. Like it would reverse what happened to Faulk."
Megan tipped her beer back. "At any rate, you got what you wanted... you died. For about a minute, anyway. Hypothermia and water inhalation and everything else... they got you breathing again, but you were in a coma for a month."
"I don't understand..." Chandler searched his memory, coming up with nothing but white space.
"The doctors thought it might have been the two brain traumas so close together... or shock... but when you got back from the hospital, you were... weird. Blank. Vague. Happy... or maybe a better word is 'content'... and you hadn't been anything, anything even resembling happy, for a second, since Faulkner died."
Megan snapped her fingers. "No, no, I know what you were like. You were like one of those lobotomy people. Walking around aimlessly with that creepy half-smile on their faces. That was you."
"I just..." Megan rolled her beer bottle between her hands, "Wow. I never thought you'd be this old and still not remember."
"I didn't remember then?"
"No, you didn't. Well, you kinda did... it's hard to explain. It's like... it's like if you'd never been hungry before, right? And one day, you don't eat, and you're all, 'What's wrong with my stomach?' You'd see things that reminded you of him, and you'd get confused and angry, but you wouldn't know why."
"Damn," Chandler muttered, at a loss for any other words.
"Yeah. So your parents got you out of here. Too many things making you upset, too many things confusing you. Your shrink... he said it was a blessing in disguise, said you'd remember when you were ready to deal with it, said not to push you."
Megan sighed. "That's when the boarding school thing happened. It was your shrink's idea. Whole new environment, no triggers."
"And I didn't remember anything? Even later?"
"I dunno," Megan replied, sighing softly. "The last time I saw you before tonight was the night before you left for New York. And seeing me... set you off again. They had to separate us."
"I'd talk to your mom about you from time to time," she continued, "But by then, even your mom didn't really know how you were or what you were doing."
"But..." Chandler said, pain in his eyes, "Why'd they just... *leave* me there?"
Megan looked up sharply, heart breaking, hearing in Chandler's plaintive voice the boy she had known, hearing him homesick and confused, far away from everything, nursing an internal vacuum of memories and pain on the bottom half of a strange bunk bed.
"Because things at your house *sucked*, Chandler," she said gently. "They were trying to keep you out of it. They were destroyed, too. Between Faulk dying and what happened to you... missing you both... it ripped them apart. They were so angry at each other. Your dad started drinking, your mom... started acting completely different."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, at first... 'Nora Bing', y'know, 'The Passion Queen'... she was someone your Mom put on when she had to. Like a character, for book signings and stuff. Your Mom didn't like it, really... c'mon, I'll show you something."
Megan pushed herself off of the table, and Chandler followed her back into the living room. Megan selected a photo off the mantelpiece.
"That's your mom," she smiled, handing the photo to Chandler.
"No way," Chandler breathed, running his fingertips over the glass. The woman in the picture was mousy, intellectual, with huge, Gloria Steinem-esque glasses eating her face.
"Apparently, that's what she looked like on the first stop on her first book tour, too. And her publicist bitched her out royally... said no one wanted to buy romance novels from Donna Reed. She was all upset, so your dad, he hauled her out and made her over. I guess you can imagine, he was pretty good at it."
"Dad *can* accessorize," Chandler admitted.
Megan smiled. "Your dad told me once that 'Nora Bing' was his first draft of 'Helena Handbasket'."
"How do you know all this stuff?" Chandler asked suddenly.
Megan blushed. "Um. Well. When I was a kid, you were, y'know, older. From the city. Cool. I, well... kind of idolized you. Then you saved my life, which really didn't help with the prepubescent crush thing, y'know? And, uh, the disappearing mysteriously, never to return, thing. I had a really huge crush on you for a long time... so I kinda, y'know, pestered your parents for all the info on you I could get. And they didn't really get to talk about you much, I think, so they liked doing it."
"I did get over it eventually," she said a little defensively, holding up her engagement-beringed left hand.
"So Dad made Mom over?" Chandler mercifully changed the subject.
"Yeah," Megan sighed, the tension flowing out of her body. "He did. And your mom, right before a book tour or something, would have him do it again... the hair dye, the dresses. You know. But until Faulkner died, she sort of viewed it as a stupid chore."
"And... after Faulkner died?"
"Well, your mom's life was sorta crap. You were gone, Faulkner was gone, your dad was drinking a ton, just going through this total breakdown. He blamed himself too, and he had other stuff going on... I'm getting off topic. Anyway. The main thing was, 'Nora Bing'... her life *wasn't* crap. Her life was *fabulous*. And anywhere your mom went, where she showed up as 'Nora Bing'... she was fabulous, too. People threw activities at her... constant distractions... parties and benefits and lalala."
Megan picked at her beer label. "I guess it'd be like if you had multiple personality disorder, y'know, and one personality's life blew big-time, and one was on top of the world... which one would you wanna be?"
"Never really had that option," Chandler laughed.
"Okay, but say you did. Y'know, all you had to do was basically put on a costume, and women would fall at your feet... people would beg you to come to their parties... hang on your every word... would you ever take that costume off?"
"I'd have it sewn into my skin," Chandler admitted.
"Your mom..." Megan added, "With the *possible* exception of your dad... was the most insecure person I've ever met."
"I'm hearing you, but it's just... it's just a little hard to buy, right? I *know* insecure, okay? I live there. I have a mortgage. It does not involve getting up on a Vegas stage, o-or telling Jay Leno about my sex life."
Megan fixed him with a sardonic glance. "So you've never, ever, done anything over-the-top to hide how bad you felt on the inside?"
A thousand embarrassing memories tried to squeeze themselves at once into Chandler's brain. "Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe..."
"And then there was your dad," Megan continued, taking down another picture... this time of Charles... and smiling at it. "God, I adore your dad. But he was *so* screwed up back then."
"Go on," Chandler said, gently setting the picture of Nora back on the mantelpiece.
"He knew he was gay. Had known for years, sort of quietly figured it out for himself. But he loved you guys, didn't want to lose you or hurt you. And he'd basically made this deal with himself, or god, or something, y'know? He'd stay in the closet, deal with a certain level of unhappiness, for the tradeoff of this family that he adored. And he wore the suits, and pretended, and did all the 'manly' crap he thought he was supposed to do... and then lost it all anyway."
Megan smiled at Chandler. "God, you remind me so much of them."
"Hey, thanks!" Chandler replied, sarcasm dripping.
"I mean that as a compliment," Megan said seriously.
"Yeah, I..." Chandler scratched his nose. "It's just not the most reassuring way to end a story about how screwed-up they were."
"Well, you were screwed up too," Megan said simply. "And you did the exact same thing they did."
"Yeah, okay, y'know... I think if I had a show in Vegas, I'd know, okay?"
"That's not what I mean. I meant the character, y'know, that you put on when you're feeling insecure. Charles had Helena, Nora had Nora, and you... whenever you were feeling bad, or nervous, or whatever... out came this... Dennis Miller guy. Joke-joke-joke-joke-joke, everything deflected, nothing allowed to be serious for even five seconds."
Chandler froze, and Megan touched his arm. "Hey, I'm not insulting you, I do the same thing. Got it from you, in fact."
She considered. "Maybe... maybe *that's* why your parents liked having me around. I guess I was their... Chandler patch."
She sat down on the coffee table. "Hmm, that's depressing."
"Yessssss..." Chandler hissed playfully, sinking into the chair next to her. "Join me in the tarpit of self-loathing... it's so warm and gooey in here..."
Megan looked up at the clock and blinked. "Oh, damn."
"Why?" Chandler swiveled to follow her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Two a.m.," Megan groaned. "I have to be up in four hours. Dammit."
She launched herself off the coffee table and out the door. "I'm gonna get you stuff. Hang on."
She reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of boxes. "This stuff will explain better than I ever could." She set the boxes down.
"What's in these?" Chandler asked, tapping the top one with his finger.
"Videos. Your mom had a bunch of film transferred a few years ago. There's some photo albums in that top box, too. And this one... this one's the gold mine."
"What's that?"
"Your mom's diaries. All of them, I think."
Megan grabbed her purse, stuck the dead cellphone into it, and grabbed her keys... then thought again and rummaged in the purse for a card.
"Look, your phone should be hooked up tomorrow. Here's my number. Call me or something. And if you have questions, you should totally talk to my mom. She spent years with your parents. Hang on, I'll write her number on the back."
She did so. Chandler rose and stuck out his hand. Megan capped her pen and took it.
"Well, hey," Chandler said. "It was nice to meet you... again."
"Same here," Megan grinned.
***
Chandler closed the front door, waiting for Megan to drive away before he killed the porch light.
He paused for a moment, leaning against the door, taking it all in, letting the shock seep into his bones.
He turned, sliding the bolt home, locking the door of the house.
"My house," he thought, and a little thrill went through him.
"My house," he said out loud, experimentally.
It seemed like the house smiled back at him.
Megan had left the sliding door cracked, and the sounds and smells of rain and river filled the air, blending with the warm pastry-smell of the casserole she'd left to cool on top of the range. There were other, softer smells: old leather, lemon cleanser, and an undertone he associated with wet leaves.
In a way, it was the smells that pulled hardest at the lock of his memory.
Well, that would change. He crossed to the kitchen table and opened the first box Megan had brought him.
The videotape was on top, right where she said it would be.
He swiped another beer from the fridge as he passed, popping the tape in and settling back on the worn, soft couch.
The TV flickered to life, and his own face filled the screen.
"I'm Chandler Bing!" his six-year-old self announced proudly. "And this is me *singin*."
Young Chandler stepped back from the camera, flickering on a Super 8 transfer, revealing himself to be clad in Underroos and a large beach towel cape.
"Theeeeeee sunnulcommout... too-morr-oww!" he bleated, waving his arms dramatically. "Betcha bottom dolla, that too-morr-ooooooo! They'll be sun!"
"C'mon, dad!" the boy he had been called, running off the camera and dragging Charles Bing into the frame.
"Just thinkin' about... tomorrow... clears away the cobwebs and... the sorrooooooow..." they sang together, trapped in the faded pastels of aging film.
Chandler shook his head disbelievingly... and then his eyes bulged as a smaller boy of about four ran onto the television.
"I wanna sing too," the little boy insisted.
"Yeah, okay," Chandler replied. "But you need my cape, F-man. Ya gotta dress the part."
"Okay," Faulkner said aimiably, sticking out his arms so that Chandler could attach the towel to him. "I only know the middle words."
"We'll start there," Charles replied, swinging him up into his arms. "Okay? You start."
"Toooooomorrow," Faulkner mumbled into Charles' neck, and Charles and Chandler joined in loudly.
Chandler and Charles finished flamboyantly, with jazz hands. Faulkner tried, bowed, and hurled himself offscreen, towel-cape blazing behind him, on a mad quest for offscreen cookies.
A dam broke inside Chandler's mind, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.
***
Chandler stepped out onto the deck, coffee cup in one hand, wincing a little at the still-new feel of his bare feet on wet wood. He leaned against the railing, watching the water foam over the rocks, and sipped, rubbing his tired eyes.
He'd stayed up all night again, lost in the past. Reading his mother's diaries, leafing through photo albums while home movies played in the background. Filling in the holes, one by one... connecting threads springing up, the small mysteries of his life sliding into place.
Chandler Bing, meet Chandler Bing.
He's not who you thought he was.
He ran his fingers over the deck of the railing. His railing. His house.
He'd been born here, he'd discovered in the depths of his mother's notebooks. In the kitchen. His brother had died not too far away, was buried even closer. Megan had taken him to see the gravestone two days ago.
It had been very, very small... nearly obscured completely by the flowers he'd laid down.
His memories were growing, merging, forming a more coherent whole. Sometimes flashes, sometimes floods. He'd had more talks with Megan, begging for details, drawing stories out of her... and then out of Delores when Megan ran dry.
He'd run the gamut of human feelings, sometimes inexplicably, bursting into tears or laughter without provocation. Buried deep within him, thirty years of bottled emotions were boiling up to the surface like lava, making their own channels through his reeling brain.
He'd been loved. That was the revelation.
He'd been loved, ferociously, passionately, by two people just like him, screwed-up and confused.
But he'd been loved.
It had been a hell of a week.
"Dude, what'd you do, mug the Marlboro Man?"
Chandler whirled. "Joe?"
Joey stood wearily on the deck, red-eyed and clutching a duffel bag. "I don't know whether to yell at you or hug you, man, you had us all worried sick. C'mere!"
Joey held out his arms and Chandler sagged into them, glancing nervously behind Joey.
"They're not with me, ok? They think I'm at an audition in Chicago."
"How in the hell did you find me?"
Joey grinned mischeviously. "Called your slimy bastard agent from the DOOL office. Told him I was an NBC executive, just dyin' to buy the broadcast rights to your book... provided I could get the go-ahead from the author within the week, right? I put so many zeros on the end of my number, he fell all over himself telling me how to find you."
"Reason number two why he could not be more fired," Chandler groaned.
Joey sighed in relief. "That thing on the TV, that wasn't your idea?"
"Hell, no," Chandler sighed. "C'mon in, man. I know how you feel about airplane food, I'll make you a sandwich."
"Look," Joey said, following Chandler inside and setting his bag down on the couch, "I came down here to tell you somethin'. Monica didn't mean to erase your book, seriously. It was a total accident. She didn't even know that was why you were mad until she saw the TV."
"She *accidentally* got on my computer, that she's always refused to touch, and *accidentally* overwrote my book with a note that said 'I Hate You'? Sorry, Joe... not buying it."
"No, really, okay? She was trying to, y'know, write you a letter on the thing, and the clip-thingey got her confused. See, I don't really understand the story myself, but green squiggly lines were definitely involved. I mean, Monica's worse on a computer than I am, she can't even look up porn!" He looked around appreciatively. "Is that a picture of you in the bathtub?" He walked over to the mantlepiece. "Check it out, Chandler's little thing!"
"Green squiggly..." Chandler mused, pouring Joey his own cup of coffee. "The... grammar checker?"
"Whatever. She was trying to write you, and it kept tryin' to help and screwin' her up. She doesn't hate you, man, she got mad at the clippy thing and told it she hated *it*. She tried to save her letter thing, it threw up a bunch of crap, and she was so frustrated... she just hit the button until everything went back to normal, you know?"
"Okay, that makes *some* sense," Chandler admitted, handing Joey his coffee. "But *why* was she writing me a letter?"
Joey sighed. "Okay, Pheebs says you know about Brian, but look. Monica read your book before it got erased. Rachel cleared it all up for her last night, so that's good, but at the time, man... Monica thought you'd made her the serial killer."
"Oh, god," Chandler said in horror.
"And she was at work, all upset, and she ended up talking to Brian and drinking a lot." Joey replied. "That's when they kissed for like, a nanosecond. Monica was really upset. Then she went home and tried to write you a letter about it..."
Joey shrugged, then turned serious. "Man, you have *got* to do something about the TV stories."
"I stopped watching them after the first one," Chandler confessed. "I've been... kinda preoccupied, I guess."
"Well, they're mean!" Joey said indignantly. "They're making Monica feel awful."
"How's she doing?"
"How do you think she's doin'? Your apartment's so clean, you could have major surgery in your toilet."
Chandler winced.
"Okay, Chandler, here it comes: your Joeymatum. We'll call the networks while you pack. I've got two tickets back to New York. Put your real clothes back on, and let's get the hell out of here."
"I don't want to go," Chandler said softly.
"What?"
"I don't want to go," Chandler repeated, louder.
"Whaddya mean, you don't wanna go? Chandler, you *have* to go. Your wife's there. Your friends are there. Your *Joey's* there, hello!" He paused. "Well, normally."
"It's just..." Chandler sprang out of his chair and began to pace nervously. "Joey, I... something happened to me, the night I got here. The caretaker's daughter, her name is Megan..."
"Oh no, no, no," Joey said in horror. "Don't even be sayin' this shit to me, man, you are *married*!"
"It's nothing like that!" Chandler snapped. "Let me finish my sentences, okay? She started telling me stuff... stuff about my parents, stuff about my family, stuff about my past. Did you know I had a little brother? That I actually died once? I had amnesia, Joe, honest to god *amnesia*, like you get every other week on your show! I'm... I'm sort of sorting through my childhood... I'm finding my family, Joe, a family I never knew."
"*We're* your family," Joey said firmly.
"Yes, you guys are my family too," Chandler said carefully. "But Joe... there's a *reason* psychologists don't start off saying 'tell me about your friends'. I've been so screwed up over my childhood... you of all people know that... and here is where I'm... unscrewing up."
"You can unscrew up in New York."
"No, I *can't*, Joe. I *need* to be here. I've been reading my mother's diaries, did I mention that? She has years and years of them. I didn't know her at all, Joe. Not one tiny bit. And my Dad... god... I've been talking to him on the phone. We've never talked like that, ever. It was... amazing, ok?"
"Chandler, I love ya, but you're gettin' on that plane with me. Get your diaries and your whatever, even that lumberjack shirt if you've gotten attached, but you're coming home, okay? We need you."
Chandler looked around the room in desperation, already feeling it sliding away from him. "I've never... felt this way about a *place* before..."
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it. Get on the plane. Look, dude, bottom line... no amount of you makin' nice with Monica is gonna mean squat if you don't come home. You know it's true."
"I know," Chandler admitted.
"That's better," Joey cried, clapping Chandler on the back. "Now... where's my sandwich?"
***
"What time is it *now*?" Monica asked, pacing near the door.
Rachel sighed, gently pulling a piece of cracker out of Emma's hair. "It's four-seventeen, Monica. Just like it was when you asked me thirty seconds ago. They're on their way! Calm down."
"Sorry," Monica said, straightening a picture that was already straight.
"Domedo," Emma added, and Rachel nodded, pushing the open box of cherry tomatoes towards Emma's hands. Emma reached for one and grinned a seed-smeared smile at Rachel. "Wubbooo."
"I love you too, honey," Rachel smiled. "You ready for Teletubbies?"
"Tubbeed!" Emma shrieked in delight, sliding out of the kitchen chair and bolting for the couch.
Rachel caught her under one arm. "Emma, who's house are we at?"
"Aunmonnifa."
"And what does that mean?"
"White couch," Emma sighed long-sufferingly, sticking out her hands and face to be cleaned with baby wipes.
Monica crossed and stood behind Rachel, regarding the cute scene with a look of sadness. "See... this, this is what I need."
"Well, stick out your hands," Rachel quipped, brandishing the baby wipe.
"Rachel," Monica snapped as Rachel slid the video into the VCR, "You know what I mean. I need a baby. Chandler and I need a baby."
Rachel sighed inwardly. At least Chandler's disappearance had *temporarily* stopped this broken record.
"Don't you want a little cousin?" Monica asked Emma.
"Tubbied," Emma replied firmly.
"Here you go, sweetie," Rachel said, pressing "play" and pulling Monica into the kitchen by an arm.
"Look, Monica. Do you really think this is the best time to be getting pregnant?"
Monica wrapped her arms around herself uncomfortably. "I realize that things aren't the greatest between Chandler and I right now... but we've already lost almost three years! We can't afford to waste any more time."
"Is that what you consider marriage to Chandler without kids? A waste of time?" Rachel asked carefully.
Monica glared. "Are your three months as a psychology major going to keep popping up forever?"
"I'm serious, Mon," Rachel sighed, sliding Emma's crackers back into the box. "And I'm warning you -- having a kid isn't going to magically fix your and Chandler's relationship."
"I don't think that," Monica said defensively, while Rachel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, okay, maybe I do, but... how could it not?"
"Monica, look," Rachel said sadly. "Look at this table, okay? Look how much mess I made, just giving Em a snack that I didn't even cook."
"So? I like to clean."
"No -- you like things to *be* clean. Big difference. If you liked to clean, you'd jump up and down and scream with joy every time someone made a mess. And this is *one* snack, we've been here what, two hours?"
Monica shrugged, and Rachel pressed onwards. "And it's not just the mess. Having a child doesn't magically fix relationships -- it puts strain on them. How many times have I moved in and out of Ross' place?"
"A lot," Monica admitted.
"You say Chandler's bored with his real life, bored with talking to you, escapes into his books?"
"Yeah."
"Hey Emma," Rachel called. "Who's got the hat?"
"Dipsy hat!" Emma shrieked happily.
"Is that so? Who's got the scooter?"
"Po!"
Rachel turned back to Monica. "The days I don't go out... this will be the most intellectually stimulating conversation I have. Do you really think Dipsy's *hat* is going to enthrall Chandler?"
Clearly, Monica wasn't hearing a word she was saying. "Monica... Mon. You know what? I *don't* go out a lot. I can only go out when Emma's having a good day. The bad days, the screaming days, the nothing-makes-her-happy-and-I-don't-know-why days... you don't see those, okay?"
"But Emma's such a little sweetie," Monica replied.
Rachel lowered her voice to a whisper. "Monica, do you know what the 'little sweetie' did yesterday?"
"What."
"She wrote on the wall," Rachel whispered.
"Kids do that, Rachel. Don't overreact."
"She wrote on the wall with what was in her diaper when she woke up from her nap," Rachel finished smugly, savoring Monica's dawning horror.
"She wrote with --"
"Yup. A real masterpiece. She pretty much covered every square inch she could reach from her crib."
"Why weren't you watching her?" Monica asked in shock.
Rachel let out a snort of frustration. "Because she was *napping*, Monica. Normally, she cries when she wakes up. Yesterday, she felt artistic. If I watched her sleep, I'd lose the one hour a day I get to shower and clean and cook and make snacks and just generally deal with the wreckage."
"Well, no offense, Rachel, but... you're *you*, okay? I'm *me*. Maybe if you were a little more organized..."
Rachel held up a hand. "Never mind, Monica. Y'know what? Have kids. Have *lots* of kids. 'Cause I, I cannot *wait* to re-have this conversation with you once you do."
"Thanks for kicking me when I'm down," Monica muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets.
"I wasn't -- oh!" Rachel cried, hearing footsteps on the stairs.
Monica whirled, brushing her hair into place with her hands.
The doorknob turned. "Look what I brought!" Joey cried, slapping Chandler on the back.
"Hey, guys," Chandler said quietly. "Hey, Mon."
He moved towards her, but was stopped violently as Emma careened across the room and attached herself to his knees.
"Uncablammber!"
"Hey, kiddo," Chandler laughed, reaching down and picking her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Monica felt frustrated tears spring to her eyes. Dammit -- why couldn't he look like that at a daughter of their own?
"Pull my feefer," Emma demanded, sticking out her finger.
"Hey, now," Chandler grinned, smoothing back her curls, "Mommy's not supposed to know I taught you that."
"Well, Mommy figured that one out a while ago," Rachel grinned, crossing to take Emma from him. "Hey Ems, why don't we go across the street and say hi to Daddy?"
"Dadddeee!" Emma shrieked joyously, arms still around Chandler's neck. Monica swallowed a rising lump in her throat.
"Yup, Daddy. So let's go see him, huh?" Rachel took Emma from Chandler and grabbed the diaper bag. "Glad you're back, Chandler. See you guys later."
Rachel headed for the door, her hand clamping onto Joey's arm and dragging him with her.
"Hey, what the -- um, yeah, bye, guys..." Joey called, as Rachel shut the door firmly behind them.
"So, hey, I didn't quite get to finish this," Chandler said, crossing and kissing Monica on the lips.
Her mouth never opened, and Chandler stepped back. "Mon? Look, I'm sorry I worried you, but under the circumstances, you gotta understand..."
"Who's 'Megan Mitchell'?" Monica snapped.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"She's the caretaker's daughter."
"You called Phoebe from her phone," Monica pointed out, rearranging a fruit bowl that didn't need it.
Chandler set his backpack down with an angry thump. "Well, welcome home to me."
"Well, what do you expect?" Monica said, putting hands to hips. "You run off, you end up with some *woman*..."
"Monica, the caretaker sent her over to check on me. She did my laundry, made me a casserole, and yes -- let me borrow her cellphone. None of which was particularly erotic the last time I checked, and hey -- none of which compares to gettin' smoochy with the waiters at work!"
"You know about that?" Monica stiffened.
"Well yeah! Phoebe told me!"
"Oooh, I am going to *kill* her!"
"Not helping your case, Mon," Chandler drawled.
"You really didn't do anything with that Megan girl?"
"I helped her load the dishwasher! Does that count?"
"No," Monica sighed, dropping into a chair. "I'm sorry, sweetie, it's just that I thought... and then Richard told me..."
"Hey-hey, *what*?"
"Oh, god," Monica groaned. "Don't get all Richard-y. My dad called, and he was at the house. No big deal."
"No big -- so you felt compelled to have a heart-to-heart chat with *Richard* about our marital problems?"
"Well, it's not like they weren't all over the *news*," Monica snapped.
Chandler rubbed his head. "Look, Mon, I'm sorry about that... you have to understand, that wasn't my idea."
"You could have cleared it up with one phone call, Chandler. Instead, you let me spend a *week* as the Most Hated Woman In Publishing."
"Because you erased my book! Which hello, Monica -- you *did*!"
"By accident!"
"I didn't know that! What the hell were you doing on my computer anyway?"
"Oh *god*!" Monica cried. "Here we go again. It's all about your precious computer, your precious book."
"Well, yeah, Mon, it *was* pretty precious! How would you feel if you spent months and months on something, and I destroyed it?"
"I've spent years on this *marriage*, and you're destroying *it*!"
"Oh-ho, you're helping!"
"You know what?" Monica snapped. "Since you love your computer so much, maybe you'd like to sleep with it!"
Chandler picked up his backpack and marched into the guestroom.
***
Dammit.
Chandler threw his backpack across the bed, sending papers flying, and dropped onto the bed after it.
The open window blew the curtains inward with a blast of sound. It was never quiet here, never. Horns, noise, music, neighbors, cars and more cars.
And so damned New York humid sticky pavement concrete hot.
In his bed at the house, there had been no sound but the river rushing by, nothing coming through the window but the cool breeze off the water and the smell of the green.
How in the hell could he be homesick for a place he'd spent a week at?
Oh, yeah. And no one *yelling* at him.
That might explain it.
He pulled one of his mother's journals out of his backpack, flipped it open, and closed it again.
Reading his mother's words in her house, surrounded by her things, had felt... almost holy, like a ritual. Reading them here felt... well... weird. Blasphemous. Robbed of the magic. Like a baptismal font in a McDonald's.
He slid the journal back into his backpack and put his chin in his hands, wishing like hell he hadn't let Joey talk him into coming back down here so soon. He should have called Monica first, worked something out while he was still in the womblike safety of the house, where his mind seemed to work better, where he didn't feel like he was under attack every second.
The house had been an instant home, had wrapped itself around him, seducing him with sense-memory of a time when he'd been really, truly happy... welcoming him back with open arms. He'd fallen in love with it, hopelessly and helplessly.
It was projection and he knew it... the house and his mother had become entwined in his mind, the house a manifestation of all the maternal feeling he had, until a few days ago, consciously believed her to be without.
The house was an avatar of something he'd never had... and always, always, desperately wanted... running through life blindly searching. And he'd found it there.
This apartment... would always be Monica's and Monica's alone. He could pay the rent until he died, and it would always be her kingdom. Her rules, her furniture, her unique stamp on everything.
Once, he had loved this place for that very reason.
Now, he felt like the visiting team, stepping up to bat amidst a chorus of boos. The sterile perfection, the 'charming clutter' that wasn't either, the faint, never-fading undersmell of soap and bleach mixing with the charred tar scent rising from the streets.
He realized he was starting to see Monica in those terms. Angry. Cold. Sterile.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to lie in the big bed underneath the window, watching the light reflected from the river as it danced across the ceiling. He wanted to drink coffee in his kitchen, beer on his porch. Megan had invited him to a potluck tomorrow, and he wanted to go. His father had promised to come down for a visit, and he wanted to taste his famous chocolate chip cookies.
He wanted the sound of the rain, and the smell of the grass, and the silken feel of the air, and the overwhelming sense of gothic mystery that seemed to hang in the humid air, potential on the wind, pure fuel for his romantic imagination.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it," Joey's voice repeated in his head.
Chandler sat upright, mind suddenly swarming with inspiration.
Write a book about it.
Well, hell. Maybe he just would.
***
Monica rolled over, fluffing her pillow for the fifth time.
Chandler's homecoming hadn't gone at all the way she'd wanted. Why had she had to bring up that girl right off the bat? It had just sent them careening into a new fight.
She sighed. Maybe she should go in the guest room, crawl in with him, try to talk.
And then she heard the noise start.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
Monica grabbed Chandler's pillow, put it over her ear, and went to sleep.
"W-what happened to him?" Chandler breathed, his entire body frozen.
Megan sat down on top of the picnic table, leaning over her knees unhappily. "It was a car wreck. You were screwed up pretty bad, too... cut up and hurt, I think you had a concussion?"
"How -- how old?"
"You were eight, I think. He was six. You'd been playing in the backseat... you'd both unbuckled your seatbelts, you were wrestling or something. You thought it was your fault. Because of that."
"How in the hell... how in the hell did I just... *forget* something like that?"
"That day... that day I fell in. You didn't just rescue me, Chandler... you went apeshit, totally nuts, you were like a... kamikaze pilot. Like it absolutely didn't matter whether *you* died or not, as long as no one else did. I think maybe... maybe you *wanted* to die doing it. Like it would reverse what happened to Faulk."
Megan tipped her beer back. "At any rate, you got what you wanted... you died. For about a minute, anyway. Hypothermia and water inhalation and everything else... they got you breathing again, but you were in a coma for a month."
"I don't understand..." Chandler searched his memory, coming up with nothing but white space.
"The doctors thought it might have been the two brain traumas so close together... or shock... but when you got back from the hospital, you were... weird. Blank. Vague. Happy... or maybe a better word is 'content'... and you hadn't been anything, anything even resembling happy, for a second, since Faulkner died."
Megan snapped her fingers. "No, no, I know what you were like. You were like one of those lobotomy people. Walking around aimlessly with that creepy half-smile on their faces. That was you."
"I just..." Megan rolled her beer bottle between her hands, "Wow. I never thought you'd be this old and still not remember."
"I didn't remember then?"
"No, you didn't. Well, you kinda did... it's hard to explain. It's like... it's like if you'd never been hungry before, right? And one day, you don't eat, and you're all, 'What's wrong with my stomach?' You'd see things that reminded you of him, and you'd get confused and angry, but you wouldn't know why."
"Damn," Chandler muttered, at a loss for any other words.
"Yeah. So your parents got you out of here. Too many things making you upset, too many things confusing you. Your shrink... he said it was a blessing in disguise, said you'd remember when you were ready to deal with it, said not to push you."
Megan sighed. "That's when the boarding school thing happened. It was your shrink's idea. Whole new environment, no triggers."
"And I didn't remember anything? Even later?"
"I dunno," Megan replied, sighing softly. "The last time I saw you before tonight was the night before you left for New York. And seeing me... set you off again. They had to separate us."
"I'd talk to your mom about you from time to time," she continued, "But by then, even your mom didn't really know how you were or what you were doing."
"But..." Chandler said, pain in his eyes, "Why'd they just... *leave* me there?"
Megan looked up sharply, heart breaking, hearing in Chandler's plaintive voice the boy she had known, hearing him homesick and confused, far away from everything, nursing an internal vacuum of memories and pain on the bottom half of a strange bunk bed.
"Because things at your house *sucked*, Chandler," she said gently. "They were trying to keep you out of it. They were destroyed, too. Between Faulk dying and what happened to you... missing you both... it ripped them apart. They were so angry at each other. Your dad started drinking, your mom... started acting completely different."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, at first... 'Nora Bing', y'know, 'The Passion Queen'... she was someone your Mom put on when she had to. Like a character, for book signings and stuff. Your Mom didn't like it, really... c'mon, I'll show you something."
Megan pushed herself off of the table, and Chandler followed her back into the living room. Megan selected a photo off the mantelpiece.
"That's your mom," she smiled, handing the photo to Chandler.
"No way," Chandler breathed, running his fingertips over the glass. The woman in the picture was mousy, intellectual, with huge, Gloria Steinem-esque glasses eating her face.
"Apparently, that's what she looked like on the first stop on her first book tour, too. And her publicist bitched her out royally... said no one wanted to buy romance novels from Donna Reed. She was all upset, so your dad, he hauled her out and made her over. I guess you can imagine, he was pretty good at it."
"Dad *can* accessorize," Chandler admitted.
Megan smiled. "Your dad told me once that 'Nora Bing' was his first draft of 'Helena Handbasket'."
"How do you know all this stuff?" Chandler asked suddenly.
Megan blushed. "Um. Well. When I was a kid, you were, y'know, older. From the city. Cool. I, well... kind of idolized you. Then you saved my life, which really didn't help with the prepubescent crush thing, y'know? And, uh, the disappearing mysteriously, never to return, thing. I had a really huge crush on you for a long time... so I kinda, y'know, pestered your parents for all the info on you I could get. And they didn't really get to talk about you much, I think, so they liked doing it."
"I did get over it eventually," she said a little defensively, holding up her engagement-beringed left hand.
"So Dad made Mom over?" Chandler mercifully changed the subject.
"Yeah," Megan sighed, the tension flowing out of her body. "He did. And your mom, right before a book tour or something, would have him do it again... the hair dye, the dresses. You know. But until Faulkner died, she sort of viewed it as a stupid chore."
"And... after Faulkner died?"
"Well, your mom's life was sorta crap. You were gone, Faulkner was gone, your dad was drinking a ton, just going through this total breakdown. He blamed himself too, and he had other stuff going on... I'm getting off topic. Anyway. The main thing was, 'Nora Bing'... her life *wasn't* crap. Her life was *fabulous*. And anywhere your mom went, where she showed up as 'Nora Bing'... she was fabulous, too. People threw activities at her... constant distractions... parties and benefits and lalala."
Megan picked at her beer label. "I guess it'd be like if you had multiple personality disorder, y'know, and one personality's life blew big-time, and one was on top of the world... which one would you wanna be?"
"Never really had that option," Chandler laughed.
"Okay, but say you did. Y'know, all you had to do was basically put on a costume, and women would fall at your feet... people would beg you to come to their parties... hang on your every word... would you ever take that costume off?"
"I'd have it sewn into my skin," Chandler admitted.
"Your mom..." Megan added, "With the *possible* exception of your dad... was the most insecure person I've ever met."
"I'm hearing you, but it's just... it's just a little hard to buy, right? I *know* insecure, okay? I live there. I have a mortgage. It does not involve getting up on a Vegas stage, o-or telling Jay Leno about my sex life."
Megan fixed him with a sardonic glance. "So you've never, ever, done anything over-the-top to hide how bad you felt on the inside?"
A thousand embarrassing memories tried to squeeze themselves at once into Chandler's brain. "Yeah, yeah, okay, maybe..."
"And then there was your dad," Megan continued, taking down another picture... this time of Charles... and smiling at it. "God, I adore your dad. But he was *so* screwed up back then."
"Go on," Chandler said, gently setting the picture of Nora back on the mantelpiece.
"He knew he was gay. Had known for years, sort of quietly figured it out for himself. But he loved you guys, didn't want to lose you or hurt you. And he'd basically made this deal with himself, or god, or something, y'know? He'd stay in the closet, deal with a certain level of unhappiness, for the tradeoff of this family that he adored. And he wore the suits, and pretended, and did all the 'manly' crap he thought he was supposed to do... and then lost it all anyway."
Megan smiled at Chandler. "God, you remind me so much of them."
"Hey, thanks!" Chandler replied, sarcasm dripping.
"I mean that as a compliment," Megan said seriously.
"Yeah, I..." Chandler scratched his nose. "It's just not the most reassuring way to end a story about how screwed-up they were."
"Well, you were screwed up too," Megan said simply. "And you did the exact same thing they did."
"Yeah, okay, y'know... I think if I had a show in Vegas, I'd know, okay?"
"That's not what I mean. I meant the character, y'know, that you put on when you're feeling insecure. Charles had Helena, Nora had Nora, and you... whenever you were feeling bad, or nervous, or whatever... out came this... Dennis Miller guy. Joke-joke-joke-joke-joke, everything deflected, nothing allowed to be serious for even five seconds."
Chandler froze, and Megan touched his arm. "Hey, I'm not insulting you, I do the same thing. Got it from you, in fact."
She considered. "Maybe... maybe *that's* why your parents liked having me around. I guess I was their... Chandler patch."
She sat down on the coffee table. "Hmm, that's depressing."
"Yessssss..." Chandler hissed playfully, sinking into the chair next to her. "Join me in the tarpit of self-loathing... it's so warm and gooey in here..."
Megan looked up at the clock and blinked. "Oh, damn."
"Why?" Chandler swiveled to follow her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Two a.m.," Megan groaned. "I have to be up in four hours. Dammit."
She launched herself off the coffee table and out the door. "I'm gonna get you stuff. Hang on."
She reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of boxes. "This stuff will explain better than I ever could." She set the boxes down.
"What's in these?" Chandler asked, tapping the top one with his finger.
"Videos. Your mom had a bunch of film transferred a few years ago. There's some photo albums in that top box, too. And this one... this one's the gold mine."
"What's that?"
"Your mom's diaries. All of them, I think."
Megan grabbed her purse, stuck the dead cellphone into it, and grabbed her keys... then thought again and rummaged in the purse for a card.
"Look, your phone should be hooked up tomorrow. Here's my number. Call me or something. And if you have questions, you should totally talk to my mom. She spent years with your parents. Hang on, I'll write her number on the back."
She did so. Chandler rose and stuck out his hand. Megan capped her pen and took it.
"Well, hey," Chandler said. "It was nice to meet you... again."
"Same here," Megan grinned.
***
Chandler closed the front door, waiting for Megan to drive away before he killed the porch light.
He paused for a moment, leaning against the door, taking it all in, letting the shock seep into his bones.
He turned, sliding the bolt home, locking the door of the house.
"My house," he thought, and a little thrill went through him.
"My house," he said out loud, experimentally.
It seemed like the house smiled back at him.
Megan had left the sliding door cracked, and the sounds and smells of rain and river filled the air, blending with the warm pastry-smell of the casserole she'd left to cool on top of the range. There were other, softer smells: old leather, lemon cleanser, and an undertone he associated with wet leaves.
In a way, it was the smells that pulled hardest at the lock of his memory.
Well, that would change. He crossed to the kitchen table and opened the first box Megan had brought him.
The videotape was on top, right where she said it would be.
He swiped another beer from the fridge as he passed, popping the tape in and settling back on the worn, soft couch.
The TV flickered to life, and his own face filled the screen.
"I'm Chandler Bing!" his six-year-old self announced proudly. "And this is me *singin*."
Young Chandler stepped back from the camera, flickering on a Super 8 transfer, revealing himself to be clad in Underroos and a large beach towel cape.
"Theeeeeee sunnulcommout... too-morr-oww!" he bleated, waving his arms dramatically. "Betcha bottom dolla, that too-morr-ooooooo! They'll be sun!"
"C'mon, dad!" the boy he had been called, running off the camera and dragging Charles Bing into the frame.
"Just thinkin' about... tomorrow... clears away the cobwebs and... the sorrooooooow..." they sang together, trapped in the faded pastels of aging film.
Chandler shook his head disbelievingly... and then his eyes bulged as a smaller boy of about four ran onto the television.
"I wanna sing too," the little boy insisted.
"Yeah, okay," Chandler replied. "But you need my cape, F-man. Ya gotta dress the part."
"Okay," Faulkner said aimiably, sticking out his arms so that Chandler could attach the towel to him. "I only know the middle words."
"We'll start there," Charles replied, swinging him up into his arms. "Okay? You start."
"Toooooomorrow," Faulkner mumbled into Charles' neck, and Charles and Chandler joined in loudly.
Chandler and Charles finished flamboyantly, with jazz hands. Faulkner tried, bowed, and hurled himself offscreen, towel-cape blazing behind him, on a mad quest for offscreen cookies.
A dam broke inside Chandler's mind, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.
***
Chandler stepped out onto the deck, coffee cup in one hand, wincing a little at the still-new feel of his bare feet on wet wood. He leaned against the railing, watching the water foam over the rocks, and sipped, rubbing his tired eyes.
He'd stayed up all night again, lost in the past. Reading his mother's diaries, leafing through photo albums while home movies played in the background. Filling in the holes, one by one... connecting threads springing up, the small mysteries of his life sliding into place.
Chandler Bing, meet Chandler Bing.
He's not who you thought he was.
He ran his fingers over the deck of the railing. His railing. His house.
He'd been born here, he'd discovered in the depths of his mother's notebooks. In the kitchen. His brother had died not too far away, was buried even closer. Megan had taken him to see the gravestone two days ago.
It had been very, very small... nearly obscured completely by the flowers he'd laid down.
His memories were growing, merging, forming a more coherent whole. Sometimes flashes, sometimes floods. He'd had more talks with Megan, begging for details, drawing stories out of her... and then out of Delores when Megan ran dry.
He'd run the gamut of human feelings, sometimes inexplicably, bursting into tears or laughter without provocation. Buried deep within him, thirty years of bottled emotions were boiling up to the surface like lava, making their own channels through his reeling brain.
He'd been loved. That was the revelation.
He'd been loved, ferociously, passionately, by two people just like him, screwed-up and confused.
But he'd been loved.
It had been a hell of a week.
"Dude, what'd you do, mug the Marlboro Man?"
Chandler whirled. "Joe?"
Joey stood wearily on the deck, red-eyed and clutching a duffel bag. "I don't know whether to yell at you or hug you, man, you had us all worried sick. C'mere!"
Joey held out his arms and Chandler sagged into them, glancing nervously behind Joey.
"They're not with me, ok? They think I'm at an audition in Chicago."
"How in the hell did you find me?"
Joey grinned mischeviously. "Called your slimy bastard agent from the DOOL office. Told him I was an NBC executive, just dyin' to buy the broadcast rights to your book... provided I could get the go-ahead from the author within the week, right? I put so many zeros on the end of my number, he fell all over himself telling me how to find you."
"Reason number two why he could not be more fired," Chandler groaned.
Joey sighed in relief. "That thing on the TV, that wasn't your idea?"
"Hell, no," Chandler sighed. "C'mon in, man. I know how you feel about airplane food, I'll make you a sandwich."
"Look," Joey said, following Chandler inside and setting his bag down on the couch, "I came down here to tell you somethin'. Monica didn't mean to erase your book, seriously. It was a total accident. She didn't even know that was why you were mad until she saw the TV."
"She *accidentally* got on my computer, that she's always refused to touch, and *accidentally* overwrote my book with a note that said 'I Hate You'? Sorry, Joe... not buying it."
"No, really, okay? She was trying to, y'know, write you a letter on the thing, and the clip-thingey got her confused. See, I don't really understand the story myself, but green squiggly lines were definitely involved. I mean, Monica's worse on a computer than I am, she can't even look up porn!" He looked around appreciatively. "Is that a picture of you in the bathtub?" He walked over to the mantlepiece. "Check it out, Chandler's little thing!"
"Green squiggly..." Chandler mused, pouring Joey his own cup of coffee. "The... grammar checker?"
"Whatever. She was trying to write you, and it kept tryin' to help and screwin' her up. She doesn't hate you, man, she got mad at the clippy thing and told it she hated *it*. She tried to save her letter thing, it threw up a bunch of crap, and she was so frustrated... she just hit the button until everything went back to normal, you know?"
"Okay, that makes *some* sense," Chandler admitted, handing Joey his coffee. "But *why* was she writing me a letter?"
Joey sighed. "Okay, Pheebs says you know about Brian, but look. Monica read your book before it got erased. Rachel cleared it all up for her last night, so that's good, but at the time, man... Monica thought you'd made her the serial killer."
"Oh, god," Chandler said in horror.
"And she was at work, all upset, and she ended up talking to Brian and drinking a lot." Joey replied. "That's when they kissed for like, a nanosecond. Monica was really upset. Then she went home and tried to write you a letter about it..."
Joey shrugged, then turned serious. "Man, you have *got* to do something about the TV stories."
"I stopped watching them after the first one," Chandler confessed. "I've been... kinda preoccupied, I guess."
"Well, they're mean!" Joey said indignantly. "They're making Monica feel awful."
"How's she doing?"
"How do you think she's doin'? Your apartment's so clean, you could have major surgery in your toilet."
Chandler winced.
"Okay, Chandler, here it comes: your Joeymatum. We'll call the networks while you pack. I've got two tickets back to New York. Put your real clothes back on, and let's get the hell out of here."
"I don't want to go," Chandler said softly.
"What?"
"I don't want to go," Chandler repeated, louder.
"Whaddya mean, you don't wanna go? Chandler, you *have* to go. Your wife's there. Your friends are there. Your *Joey's* there, hello!" He paused. "Well, normally."
"It's just..." Chandler sprang out of his chair and began to pace nervously. "Joey, I... something happened to me, the night I got here. The caretaker's daughter, her name is Megan..."
"Oh no, no, no," Joey said in horror. "Don't even be sayin' this shit to me, man, you are *married*!"
"It's nothing like that!" Chandler snapped. "Let me finish my sentences, okay? She started telling me stuff... stuff about my parents, stuff about my family, stuff about my past. Did you know I had a little brother? That I actually died once? I had amnesia, Joe, honest to god *amnesia*, like you get every other week on your show! I'm... I'm sort of sorting through my childhood... I'm finding my family, Joe, a family I never knew."
"*We're* your family," Joey said firmly.
"Yes, you guys are my family too," Chandler said carefully. "But Joe... there's a *reason* psychologists don't start off saying 'tell me about your friends'. I've been so screwed up over my childhood... you of all people know that... and here is where I'm... unscrewing up."
"You can unscrew up in New York."
"No, I *can't*, Joe. I *need* to be here. I've been reading my mother's diaries, did I mention that? She has years and years of them. I didn't know her at all, Joe. Not one tiny bit. And my Dad... god... I've been talking to him on the phone. We've never talked like that, ever. It was... amazing, ok?"
"Chandler, I love ya, but you're gettin' on that plane with me. Get your diaries and your whatever, even that lumberjack shirt if you've gotten attached, but you're coming home, okay? We need you."
Chandler looked around the room in desperation, already feeling it sliding away from him. "I've never... felt this way about a *place* before..."
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it. Get on the plane. Look, dude, bottom line... no amount of you makin' nice with Monica is gonna mean squat if you don't come home. You know it's true."
"I know," Chandler admitted.
"That's better," Joey cried, clapping Chandler on the back. "Now... where's my sandwich?"
***
"What time is it *now*?" Monica asked, pacing near the door.
Rachel sighed, gently pulling a piece of cracker out of Emma's hair. "It's four-seventeen, Monica. Just like it was when you asked me thirty seconds ago. They're on their way! Calm down."
"Sorry," Monica said, straightening a picture that was already straight.
"Domedo," Emma added, and Rachel nodded, pushing the open box of cherry tomatoes towards Emma's hands. Emma reached for one and grinned a seed-smeared smile at Rachel. "Wubbooo."
"I love you too, honey," Rachel smiled. "You ready for Teletubbies?"
"Tubbeed!" Emma shrieked in delight, sliding out of the kitchen chair and bolting for the couch.
Rachel caught her under one arm. "Emma, who's house are we at?"
"Aunmonnifa."
"And what does that mean?"
"White couch," Emma sighed long-sufferingly, sticking out her hands and face to be cleaned with baby wipes.
Monica crossed and stood behind Rachel, regarding the cute scene with a look of sadness. "See... this, this is what I need."
"Well, stick out your hands," Rachel quipped, brandishing the baby wipe.
"Rachel," Monica snapped as Rachel slid the video into the VCR, "You know what I mean. I need a baby. Chandler and I need a baby."
Rachel sighed inwardly. At least Chandler's disappearance had *temporarily* stopped this broken record.
"Don't you want a little cousin?" Monica asked Emma.
"Tubbied," Emma replied firmly.
"Here you go, sweetie," Rachel said, pressing "play" and pulling Monica into the kitchen by an arm.
"Look, Monica. Do you really think this is the best time to be getting pregnant?"
Monica wrapped her arms around herself uncomfortably. "I realize that things aren't the greatest between Chandler and I right now... but we've already lost almost three years! We can't afford to waste any more time."
"Is that what you consider marriage to Chandler without kids? A waste of time?" Rachel asked carefully.
Monica glared. "Are your three months as a psychology major going to keep popping up forever?"
"I'm serious, Mon," Rachel sighed, sliding Emma's crackers back into the box. "And I'm warning you -- having a kid isn't going to magically fix your and Chandler's relationship."
"I don't think that," Monica said defensively, while Rachel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, okay, maybe I do, but... how could it not?"
"Monica, look," Rachel said sadly. "Look at this table, okay? Look how much mess I made, just giving Em a snack that I didn't even cook."
"So? I like to clean."
"No -- you like things to *be* clean. Big difference. If you liked to clean, you'd jump up and down and scream with joy every time someone made a mess. And this is *one* snack, we've been here what, two hours?"
Monica shrugged, and Rachel pressed onwards. "And it's not just the mess. Having a child doesn't magically fix relationships -- it puts strain on them. How many times have I moved in and out of Ross' place?"
"A lot," Monica admitted.
"You say Chandler's bored with his real life, bored with talking to you, escapes into his books?"
"Yeah."
"Hey Emma," Rachel called. "Who's got the hat?"
"Dipsy hat!" Emma shrieked happily.
"Is that so? Who's got the scooter?"
"Po!"
Rachel turned back to Monica. "The days I don't go out... this will be the most intellectually stimulating conversation I have. Do you really think Dipsy's *hat* is going to enthrall Chandler?"
Clearly, Monica wasn't hearing a word she was saying. "Monica... Mon. You know what? I *don't* go out a lot. I can only go out when Emma's having a good day. The bad days, the screaming days, the nothing-makes-her-happy-and-I-don't-know-why days... you don't see those, okay?"
"But Emma's such a little sweetie," Monica replied.
Rachel lowered her voice to a whisper. "Monica, do you know what the 'little sweetie' did yesterday?"
"What."
"She wrote on the wall," Rachel whispered.
"Kids do that, Rachel. Don't overreact."
"She wrote on the wall with what was in her diaper when she woke up from her nap," Rachel finished smugly, savoring Monica's dawning horror.
"She wrote with --"
"Yup. A real masterpiece. She pretty much covered every square inch she could reach from her crib."
"Why weren't you watching her?" Monica asked in shock.
Rachel let out a snort of frustration. "Because she was *napping*, Monica. Normally, she cries when she wakes up. Yesterday, she felt artistic. If I watched her sleep, I'd lose the one hour a day I get to shower and clean and cook and make snacks and just generally deal with the wreckage."
"Well, no offense, Rachel, but... you're *you*, okay? I'm *me*. Maybe if you were a little more organized..."
Rachel held up a hand. "Never mind, Monica. Y'know what? Have kids. Have *lots* of kids. 'Cause I, I cannot *wait* to re-have this conversation with you once you do."
"Thanks for kicking me when I'm down," Monica muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets.
"I wasn't -- oh!" Rachel cried, hearing footsteps on the stairs.
Monica whirled, brushing her hair into place with her hands.
The doorknob turned. "Look what I brought!" Joey cried, slapping Chandler on the back.
"Hey, guys," Chandler said quietly. "Hey, Mon."
He moved towards her, but was stopped violently as Emma careened across the room and attached herself to his knees.
"Uncablammber!"
"Hey, kiddo," Chandler laughed, reaching down and picking her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Monica felt frustrated tears spring to her eyes. Dammit -- why couldn't he look like that at a daughter of their own?
"Pull my feefer," Emma demanded, sticking out her finger.
"Hey, now," Chandler grinned, smoothing back her curls, "Mommy's not supposed to know I taught you that."
"Well, Mommy figured that one out a while ago," Rachel grinned, crossing to take Emma from him. "Hey Ems, why don't we go across the street and say hi to Daddy?"
"Dadddeee!" Emma shrieked joyously, arms still around Chandler's neck. Monica swallowed a rising lump in her throat.
"Yup, Daddy. So let's go see him, huh?" Rachel took Emma from Chandler and grabbed the diaper bag. "Glad you're back, Chandler. See you guys later."
Rachel headed for the door, her hand clamping onto Joey's arm and dragging him with her.
"Hey, what the -- um, yeah, bye, guys..." Joey called, as Rachel shut the door firmly behind them.
"So, hey, I didn't quite get to finish this," Chandler said, crossing and kissing Monica on the lips.
Her mouth never opened, and Chandler stepped back. "Mon? Look, I'm sorry I worried you, but under the circumstances, you gotta understand..."
"Who's 'Megan Mitchell'?" Monica snapped.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"She's the caretaker's daughter."
"You called Phoebe from her phone," Monica pointed out, rearranging a fruit bowl that didn't need it.
Chandler set his backpack down with an angry thump. "Well, welcome home to me."
"Well, what do you expect?" Monica said, putting hands to hips. "You run off, you end up with some *woman*..."
"Monica, the caretaker sent her over to check on me. She did my laundry, made me a casserole, and yes -- let me borrow her cellphone. None of which was particularly erotic the last time I checked, and hey -- none of which compares to gettin' smoochy with the waiters at work!"
"You know about that?" Monica stiffened.
"Well yeah! Phoebe told me!"
"Oooh, I am going to *kill* her!"
"Not helping your case, Mon," Chandler drawled.
"You really didn't do anything with that Megan girl?"
"I helped her load the dishwasher! Does that count?"
"No," Monica sighed, dropping into a chair. "I'm sorry, sweetie, it's just that I thought... and then Richard told me..."
"Hey-hey, *what*?"
"Oh, god," Monica groaned. "Don't get all Richard-y. My dad called, and he was at the house. No big deal."
"No big -- so you felt compelled to have a heart-to-heart chat with *Richard* about our marital problems?"
"Well, it's not like they weren't all over the *news*," Monica snapped.
Chandler rubbed his head. "Look, Mon, I'm sorry about that... you have to understand, that wasn't my idea."
"You could have cleared it up with one phone call, Chandler. Instead, you let me spend a *week* as the Most Hated Woman In Publishing."
"Because you erased my book! Which hello, Monica -- you *did*!"
"By accident!"
"I didn't know that! What the hell were you doing on my computer anyway?"
"Oh *god*!" Monica cried. "Here we go again. It's all about your precious computer, your precious book."
"Well, yeah, Mon, it *was* pretty precious! How would you feel if you spent months and months on something, and I destroyed it?"
"I've spent years on this *marriage*, and you're destroying *it*!"
"Oh-ho, you're helping!"
"You know what?" Monica snapped. "Since you love your computer so much, maybe you'd like to sleep with it!"
Chandler picked up his backpack and marched into the guestroom.
***
Dammit.
Chandler threw his backpack across the bed, sending papers flying, and dropped onto the bed after it.
The open window blew the curtains inward with a blast of sound. It was never quiet here, never. Horns, noise, music, neighbors, cars and more cars.
And so damned New York humid sticky pavement concrete hot.
In his bed at the house, there had been no sound but the river rushing by, nothing coming through the window but the cool breeze off the water and the smell of the green.
How in the hell could he be homesick for a place he'd spent a week at?
Oh, yeah. And no one *yelling* at him.
That might explain it.
He pulled one of his mother's journals out of his backpack, flipped it open, and closed it again.
Reading his mother's words in her house, surrounded by her things, had felt... almost holy, like a ritual. Reading them here felt... well... weird. Blasphemous. Robbed of the magic. Like a baptismal font in a McDonald's.
He slid the journal back into his backpack and put his chin in his hands, wishing like hell he hadn't let Joey talk him into coming back down here so soon. He should have called Monica first, worked something out while he was still in the womblike safety of the house, where his mind seemed to work better, where he didn't feel like he was under attack every second.
The house had been an instant home, had wrapped itself around him, seducing him with sense-memory of a time when he'd been really, truly happy... welcoming him back with open arms. He'd fallen in love with it, hopelessly and helplessly.
It was projection and he knew it... the house and his mother had become entwined in his mind, the house a manifestation of all the maternal feeling he had, until a few days ago, consciously believed her to be without.
The house was an avatar of something he'd never had... and always, always, desperately wanted... running through life blindly searching. And he'd found it there.
This apartment... would always be Monica's and Monica's alone. He could pay the rent until he died, and it would always be her kingdom. Her rules, her furniture, her unique stamp on everything.
Once, he had loved this place for that very reason.
Now, he felt like the visiting team, stepping up to bat amidst a chorus of boos. The sterile perfection, the 'charming clutter' that wasn't either, the faint, never-fading undersmell of soap and bleach mixing with the charred tar scent rising from the streets.
He realized he was starting to see Monica in those terms. Angry. Cold. Sterile.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to lie in the big bed underneath the window, watching the light reflected from the river as it danced across the ceiling. He wanted to drink coffee in his kitchen, beer on his porch. Megan had invited him to a potluck tomorrow, and he wanted to go. His father had promised to come down for a visit, and he wanted to taste his famous chocolate chip cookies.
He wanted the sound of the rain, and the smell of the grass, and the silken feel of the air, and the overwhelming sense of gothic mystery that seemed to hang in the humid air, potential on the wind, pure fuel for his romantic imagination.
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Whatever. Write a book about it," Joey's voice repeated in his head.
Chandler sat upright, mind suddenly swarming with inspiration.
Write a book about it.
Well, hell. Maybe he just would.
***
Monica rolled over, fluffing her pillow for the fifth time.
Chandler's homecoming hadn't gone at all the way she'd wanted. Why had she had to bring up that girl right off the bat? It had just sent them careening into a new fight.
She sighed. Maybe she should go in the guest room, crawl in with him, try to talk.
And then she heard the noise start.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
Monica grabbed Chandler's pillow, put it over her ear, and went to sleep.