Title: Rites of Purification (2/?)
Rating: R
Summary: Post-RENT. Events begin the morning after the show's timeline ends.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of the Jonathan Larson estate.
I think I must have vocalized this thought I keep having—that time has gotten a little slippery lately—because Mark went out today for an hour and came back with a little day calendar for me, among other things. "Other things" including, of course, a small container of take-out wonton soup from that super-cheap place on 6th that he loves so much.
"Cross days off, if you think it'll help you keep track," he said. "I think it might help. And eat some soup…please?" And when he's making those eyes at you, it's hard to say no. So I grunted and made an effort at sitting up in bed and trying to waive him away when he plunked down into the chair that seems to have permanently moved to my bedside. I was still trembling pretty visibly, though, so my efforts to shoo him away were half-hearted. I sipped some of the soup and handed the container back to him so I could look at the new daybook. Flipping through, I found the date—December 27th—and put a large "x" through all the preceding days. Day three, if you can count that first awful afternoon and evening, watching Roger hastily pack and finally curling up on the couch with his old blue blanket and bawling my eyes out, at the confusion and the growing ache in my legs and the sadness at knowing he wouldn't be here to hold me and the scariness of not being able to form coherent thoughts and hold them in my mind for very long. Mark just retreated to his room with the phone for a while, and then I could here him messing about in our bedroom, and then he came out and started wiping down stuff in the kitchen for a while with the Lysol Joanne had brought him when she came to pick up Roger. I couldn't believe how goddamn calm he was being about everything, even though his jaw was set far more firmly than it usually is. When I finally calmed down enough to stop wiping my eyes and nose, he came and sat down on the couch next to me for a minute.
"Mimi, can we talk for one minute?" I must have vaguely nodded, because he kept talking. "I just wanted to get some things out there before this gets as ugly as it's gonna get. You know that we're doing this for your own health, right?" I nodded. "And that I'm doing this because you want to, right? But I also want you to understand that we're not backing out. We're gonna stay here till the worst is over. And you may think that you've changed your mind a few times between now and the finish point, but once you're signed up, you're signed up, okay?"
"Mark, we've been over this. I'm not going to change my mind." He looked vaguely troubled, as though remembering something upsetting, and said nothing. He did, though, reach down and grab my hand for a second, and, I guess noticing how my tiny manos make even his non-rock-star hands look particularly masculine and strong, smiled.
"I'm just glad you're actually my size," he said with a small grin. "But we may have to do something about those nails. We'll see."
When I open my eyes from a strange sleep filled with dreams of musical instruments that fly around the city, Mark is leaning out the window, filming. The sun is almost set—must be about 4:30—and I feel like someone has taken my body and just squeezed, like I were a damp cloth. I have to pee, and with a massive amount of effort, I push the blanket onto the floor. Mark turns around quickly, smiles to see me awake and coherent, and turns off his camera, placing on the table.
"Can I help you, Meems?" he asks, squatting next to the couch, tentatively offering an arm for me to lean on.
"No," I growl, embarrassed by his proximity, embarrassed by my own smell, tormented by half-memories of the night before, darkness, sweat, a fever, can't find Roger, howling for him, clawing at the walls. I force myself to the edge of the couch, dangling my feet over the edge. Deep breath, Mimi chica. There you go. I'm barely standing when the wobbling begins. I mean to grab at the couch, at the nearby chair, but I end up grabbing Mark instead, and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't wrinkle his nose in disgust—I had some pretty bad sweats earlier—just helps me straighten up and asks almost cheerily, "Where to?"
"The bathroom," I whisper, and off we go. Mark opens the door and pauses; this is the first time he's actually had to help me all the way here.
"Um…I'll just wait outside?" he manages, and this actually elicits a giggle.
"Okay, Mark," I say, winking at him, making sure to leave the bathroom door a crack open. Everything is close enough in this tiny room at I can maneuver and support myself at the same time. The phone rings, and I expect to hear some movement, but then I remember that only in normal homes do people respond to the sound of the telephone with action. Then, a voice is audible on the machine: "Hey, you guys, I'm pretty sure there's a good chance that somebody's home, 'though I'll understand if your indispo—" That deep baritone could only be one person, and I can hear Mark cursing and scrambling. Serves him right; they need to learn to answer that damn thing.
"Hey, hey, Collins!" I can hear Mark shout into the receiver, jubilant as a little kid. "Yeah, we're—yeah," he says, he voice full of his smile. "No, I don't think—Hey, Mimi?" he shouts. "Feel like having a visitor?"
"Absolutely, but I need time to clean up first!" I shout back, one hand on the sink to control the wave of dizziness that accompanies the effort of raising my voice. Whenever I was illing, I always got the feeling that my sweats were somehow toxic, something ugly and nasty oozing through my skin. Now, I can't help smelling myself and thinking that this is the stink of addiction. I'd rather rub some of that off before I have to deal with anyone other than Mark.
"Don't worry about that, we'll get you all scrubbed up. What? Oh, fuck you, Collins, get your mind out of the fucking gutter. Yeah. Well, what about six o'clock?" After a moment's pause, he says something else, but he lowers his voice, and I can't make out the words. In the meantime, I finish my business, savoring the feeling of sitting upright, and am propped up by my hipbones on the sink, washing my hands, when Mark taps the door and gently nudges it open. I'm dizzy as shit, but I manage a small smile at him.
"So," he says, running a hand through his hair, "let's figure out how to get you cleaned up." He disappears again, bringing back one of the only pots we have in the loft, something Collins apparently liberated years and years ago from one of those restaurant-supply places on the Bowery. Roger told me that Maureen used it in one of her performances as a drum, or maybe a hat…maybe both. Mark fills it with water and sets it down in the bathtub, laying a bar of soap next to it, and a towel that I can only hope is clean. "Now, you really need to sit and stay seated, but if you're careful about it, you should be able to do it on your own." He looks me in the eye, blushing, and then he shrugs. "Anything's gotta be better than having me sponge-bathe you." He came up with this plan just a little too quickly, and suspiciously, I ask, "Mark, did you ever sponge-bathe Roger?"
When I finally make it out of the bathroom, what feels like a long time later, it's as if I've shed an old skin. I've always been an enjoy-the-small-good-sensations kind of person anyway, but damn if that half-ass little pseudo-bath didn't make me feel better than I would have thought possible. I found fresh sweatpants and one of Roger's old shirts piled politely next to the bathroom door, and managed to get into them without falling over. The loft has obviously been aired, making it smell fresh, even if it's a little bit cold. Mark is wiping down the table with that Lysol shit again, and I grin with delight, because I see he's laid a new blanket on the couch for me.
"Hey," he says, smiling at me, that quiet smile. "Feel better?"
"Oh, man," I say, sinking gratefully back onto the couch. "You have no idea." And, because the words are already out of my mouth, I have to wonder if he does have an idea. Roger prefers not to talk too much about his own detox experience, and Mark almost never mentions it, at least not when I'm around. There were a few incidental details I picked up from Maureen, but all of them seem pretty tight-lipped about it, which makes me think it wasn't a good time in the "family history".
"Mark?" And I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I really can't help it—my whole self is suddenly feeling exhausted from the efforts of bathing and the fatigue is creating some sort of emotional liability. "If you were to speak, um, comparatively, am I—" The phone blares suddenly, and we both jump. Mark, without even bothering to pick it up, leans out the window, waves, and drops his key. Turning quickly to get the door, he says, "Meems, you're a hundred times easier than Roger. For more reasons than I can even explain. Don't worry about it." He smiles at me, the quiet Mark smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. I don't think I'll ask anymore today.
When Collins sweeps in the front door, I want to cry with happiness. It's so good to see friends, real friends, people who love you and care for you and—most importantly—aren't going anywhere.
"Hello, querida," he says, kissing my forehead and using Angel's pet name for me, as Mark relieves him of the bouquet he's got in one hand, exclaiming mockingly, "For me? Aw, honeybear, you didn't!"
"Hey, let the lady see her flowers before you shove them in water! Were you raised in a barn, sir?" Collins asks, mock-indignant, while Mark bows remorsefully and sticks the flowers in my face.
"They're lovely," I say in a small voice, closing my eyes. Mmm, roses. "Have they recently…uh, achieved freedom?"
Collins laughs outright, exclaiming, "Yes! Newly liberated and zealous about living life!" Mark grins wryly, shakes his head, and disappears out of my line of sight. I hear water running, and he calls out, "Guys? Tea?" Collins nods enthusiastically, but I shake my head emphatically no, which makes him laugh.
"Has Mark been forcing onto you our shared philosophy that tea can heal the world? That boy will never learn. Oh, and before I forget—these are also for you," and he places in my hands a small box of very nice candy—all dark chocolate, which is my favorite. I look up at him, confused, whispering my bewildered thanks. I'm about to ask him, but he saves me the effort by saying, nonchalantly, "I ran into an old comrade, and, when I explained where I was going, he insisted on sending something along for my sick friend." His voice is just a hint too controlled, and suddenly, I remember in a flash why I recognize this brand: standing with Benny, somewhere in midtown, somewhere I'd normally have no business being, pausing before a window, candy shop, "Pick your favorite", mouth watering at the smell, indicating the box and leaning in towards his ear, whispering "I like them dark" and feeling his small shiver.
"Um…thanks," is all I can manage. Collins sits down next to me and gives me such a compassionate look that I don't feel guilty—I'm not even as confused. Mark brings his tea around from the other side of the couch, and as they pass the steaming mug, they lock eyes. I'm not even sure whose protecting who from what, at this point. I don't like these secrets, but I'm comforted by knowing that at least their purpose is to protect others, each other, and not ourselves. It makes a difference, like Roger's leaving the loft to protect us, to give us more time. Motives, and not necessarily the actions that result from them. Mark keeps reminding me that healing is a long process, that even after these first few days of agony, I may still have periods of physical weakness. That even after my physical addiction is cracked, there is healing left to do. I think this strange family is in the same position right now—the moment of tragedy has passed, but they—we—still need to heal. I think it might take a while. But Collins is leaning back on the couch, one arm slung amiably around me, laughing as Mark tells some story about our mailman, hands flying as he speaks. So, there's work to be done. I can live with that.
The best part is, I will live with that.