Doug Witter. He stood out in Amy's mind, from her earliest baby days, as
the human embodiment of strength. He was solid, unwavering, imposing,
eternal. He was unmoving and strong-willed, he could be quick to anger and
slow to admit his mistakes. Most of all, though, Doug was Amy's daddy, just
as much as Jack was. He was the balance that struck the perfect chord to
make their lives, their family, what it was. He made them whole.
In spite of (or probably because of) Doug's fierce devotion to being a good father, he and Amy had been clashing since she was old enough to talk. At the root of their problems was Doug's authoritative tendencies and Amy's absolute resistance to them. From the moment he and Jack decided to make a go of things, Doug understood that he was going to be a surrogate dad to Jack's adopted daughter, and he knew damn well that this was one thing he couldn't afford to screw up. He felt that Jack was too easy, too much of a pushover where Amy was concerned, so he took the tougher approach, and his relationship with Amy had sometimes suffered for it over the years.
But he absolutely adored her. Now, he lay unconscious in the hospital bed, unaware of the flurry of activity around him as doctors and nurses worked feverishly to keep him from slipping away. And as his body fought to hang on to life, his dreaming mind called up images of that life with Jack and Amy.
. . . sitting on the beach with Jack the day of Jen's funeral, Amy lying peacefully in a stroller near them, sharing their first public kiss and feeling so free, so happy, so in love with this man and the life they would begin together . . .
. . .the horrible sleepless night when they had rushed the baby to the hospital with a fever of 104. Sitting in the waiting room with Jack, holding his hand and trying like hell to be a rock for him and ignore the fact that his own heart was breaking with fear and love for both of them . . .
. . . their first trip to Disney World, when Amy was four. She had insisted they ride the teacups five times in a row and then had thrown up the hot dog and grape soda she'd eaten for lunch -- all over Jack's shoes . . .
. . . her first day of school, when they had taken her into the classroom by the hand, expecting her to burst into tears when they turned to leave. They'd watched in awe and admiration as their blonde-haired princess calmly disengaged her hands from theirs, kissed each of them, and trotted off fearlessly to introduce herself to a group of kids standing shyly by the goldfish bowl. ("Hi, I'm Amy Evelyn Lindley. I'm five years old. Those are my daddies over there."). . .
. . . the heart-stopping moment when he had come upstairs to find Amy and her friend Andy, both seven years old, examining his service weapon (which he had, this ONE time, forgotten to secure in the drawer with the padlock) on the floor of the walk-in closet of his and Jack's bedroom. Amy had looked up at him with wide blue eyes, startled and terrified by the fear she saw in his face, and automatically began to cry. He felt like crying too with the force of the "what if," but had managed to hold it together as he breathlessly began the long, anguished scolding . . .
. . . the teen years (so far), with the requisite fights and tears and slammed doors too numerous to count, Amy screaming at him that he wasn't her father, Jack assuring him that she didn't mean it, she was angry, she was fifteen. The words hadn't eased the pain she'd inflicted, but he'd tried to brush it away. She was right, after all, he wasn't her father. But in his heart, that didn't matter . . .
And when was the last time he had told her that? He couldn't remember, and that bothered him. He had tried so hard to avoid the mistakes his own father had made with him and Pacey and their sisters. To make Amy feel loved. To make her feel that she could come to him with problems and find support, unconditionally. But who did she go to when she needed advice? Not him. Jack, most of the time, or Joey, or even his brother, but not him. And yes, there was regret.
He was still losing blood. Lots of it, as fast as they were putting it in to him. His body was growing weary, and the doctors were growing more and more certain that they weren't going to be able to save him.
Out in the waiting room, Amy sat next to Jack and held his hand. Andrew, her boyfriend, had arrived and was sitting on the other side of her. Joey and Dawson stood by the window, sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups and speaking in a barely audible murmur. Pacey was off by himself, his expression blank and his eyes staring, willing his big brother not to give up. He had been in there a long time. Was that good or bad? No one seemed to dare venture a guess.
Amy's thoughts unwittingly paralleled some of Doug's as she reflected on their fight the night before. Her own horrible words kept ringing in her ears: "Why don't you worry about your own life and leave me alone? I hate you, Doug!" It made her sick. It was like a knife in her gut.
Andrew looked over and saw that she had started crying again. Tears slowly welled up and over her eyelashes, spilling into her lap in fat dark blotches. He wanted to help, but he had no idea how. He squeezed her free hand and said softly, "Want to take a walk?"
Amy looked over at him, her eyes glistening. "I don't want to leave until they come and tell us something."
"Baby, why don't you go take a walk with Andy?" Jack chimed in. "It will make the time pass faster. I promise, you'll know as soon as we know anything."
"But will you be okay alone?" she asked hesitantly.
He smiled at her encouragingly and glanced pointedly over at Dawson, Joey, and Pacey. "Alone? Who's alone? I'll be fine. Go on, both of you."
Amy sighed and nodded, then took Andy's hand and let him lead her away down the chilly sanitary-white hallway and back toward the exit, where the inviting sunlight glinted in the cloudless sky and no one was worried about losing a father.
In spite of (or probably because of) Doug's fierce devotion to being a good father, he and Amy had been clashing since she was old enough to talk. At the root of their problems was Doug's authoritative tendencies and Amy's absolute resistance to them. From the moment he and Jack decided to make a go of things, Doug understood that he was going to be a surrogate dad to Jack's adopted daughter, and he knew damn well that this was one thing he couldn't afford to screw up. He felt that Jack was too easy, too much of a pushover where Amy was concerned, so he took the tougher approach, and his relationship with Amy had sometimes suffered for it over the years.
But he absolutely adored her. Now, he lay unconscious in the hospital bed, unaware of the flurry of activity around him as doctors and nurses worked feverishly to keep him from slipping away. And as his body fought to hang on to life, his dreaming mind called up images of that life with Jack and Amy.
. . . sitting on the beach with Jack the day of Jen's funeral, Amy lying peacefully in a stroller near them, sharing their first public kiss and feeling so free, so happy, so in love with this man and the life they would begin together . . .
. . .the horrible sleepless night when they had rushed the baby to the hospital with a fever of 104. Sitting in the waiting room with Jack, holding his hand and trying like hell to be a rock for him and ignore the fact that his own heart was breaking with fear and love for both of them . . .
. . . their first trip to Disney World, when Amy was four. She had insisted they ride the teacups five times in a row and then had thrown up the hot dog and grape soda she'd eaten for lunch -- all over Jack's shoes . . .
. . . her first day of school, when they had taken her into the classroom by the hand, expecting her to burst into tears when they turned to leave. They'd watched in awe and admiration as their blonde-haired princess calmly disengaged her hands from theirs, kissed each of them, and trotted off fearlessly to introduce herself to a group of kids standing shyly by the goldfish bowl. ("Hi, I'm Amy Evelyn Lindley. I'm five years old. Those are my daddies over there."). . .
. . . the heart-stopping moment when he had come upstairs to find Amy and her friend Andy, both seven years old, examining his service weapon (which he had, this ONE time, forgotten to secure in the drawer with the padlock) on the floor of the walk-in closet of his and Jack's bedroom. Amy had looked up at him with wide blue eyes, startled and terrified by the fear she saw in his face, and automatically began to cry. He felt like crying too with the force of the "what if," but had managed to hold it together as he breathlessly began the long, anguished scolding . . .
. . . the teen years (so far), with the requisite fights and tears and slammed doors too numerous to count, Amy screaming at him that he wasn't her father, Jack assuring him that she didn't mean it, she was angry, she was fifteen. The words hadn't eased the pain she'd inflicted, but he'd tried to brush it away. She was right, after all, he wasn't her father. But in his heart, that didn't matter . . .
And when was the last time he had told her that? He couldn't remember, and that bothered him. He had tried so hard to avoid the mistakes his own father had made with him and Pacey and their sisters. To make Amy feel loved. To make her feel that she could come to him with problems and find support, unconditionally. But who did she go to when she needed advice? Not him. Jack, most of the time, or Joey, or even his brother, but not him. And yes, there was regret.
He was still losing blood. Lots of it, as fast as they were putting it in to him. His body was growing weary, and the doctors were growing more and more certain that they weren't going to be able to save him.
Out in the waiting room, Amy sat next to Jack and held his hand. Andrew, her boyfriend, had arrived and was sitting on the other side of her. Joey and Dawson stood by the window, sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups and speaking in a barely audible murmur. Pacey was off by himself, his expression blank and his eyes staring, willing his big brother not to give up. He had been in there a long time. Was that good or bad? No one seemed to dare venture a guess.
Amy's thoughts unwittingly paralleled some of Doug's as she reflected on their fight the night before. Her own horrible words kept ringing in her ears: "Why don't you worry about your own life and leave me alone? I hate you, Doug!" It made her sick. It was like a knife in her gut.
Andrew looked over and saw that she had started crying again. Tears slowly welled up and over her eyelashes, spilling into her lap in fat dark blotches. He wanted to help, but he had no idea how. He squeezed her free hand and said softly, "Want to take a walk?"
Amy looked over at him, her eyes glistening. "I don't want to leave until they come and tell us something."
"Baby, why don't you go take a walk with Andy?" Jack chimed in. "It will make the time pass faster. I promise, you'll know as soon as we know anything."
"But will you be okay alone?" she asked hesitantly.
He smiled at her encouragingly and glanced pointedly over at Dawson, Joey, and Pacey. "Alone? Who's alone? I'll be fine. Go on, both of you."
Amy sighed and nodded, then took Andy's hand and let him lead her away down the chilly sanitary-white hallway and back toward the exit, where the inviting sunlight glinted in the cloudless sky and no one was worried about losing a father.
