"You did what?"
"I hit him, Woody, I gave him a right hook in the jaw," Jordan barked into the phone.
"Jordan, wha -?"
"I don't know, okay? I don't know, I don't know how it happened, I just did it. The things he was saying, and in front of everybody," Jordan snorted in frustration. "I just got so mad, you know? And before I could stop myself…" she let him figure out the rest, wedging the phone against her shoulder so she could massage her right hand.
"Great, Jordan, this is great. This is even worse than when you kicked your LA boss in the balls."
She nearly dropped the phone. "I did what!"
"Yup," Woody said. "And I believe the restraining order is still in effect."
Jordan shut her eyes in disbelief and ran a hand through her hair. This was so not looking good for her. Punching Slocum had not been her goal when she woke up that morning and went over to the morgue. Things had escalated out of control, and every feeling of frustration and injustice and anger had compressed itself into that one moment when her brain decided a sucker punch was in order.
"Where are you right now?" Woody asked her, the tension evident in his voice.
"Ummmm, I am at my apartment," she said, her words affectedly precise. "Woody, I, ah, I really have no idea how to fix this, I think I'm in real trouble here," she stammered.
"It's okay, just…come pick me up in an hour like we planned and…we'll think of something, all right?" he said reassuringly.
"I don't think I'm savable this time around," Jordan said honestly. "I'll be lucky not to get a court summons."
"I'm not going to let that happen to you," Woody said firmly. When he got no argument from her, he took it to mean the subject was finished for the moment. "I'll see you in an hour?"
"Yeah," she sighed lightly, trying not to let her aggravation seep through.
They exchanged goodbyes and Jordan hit the off button and set the phone down on the counter. She felt absolutely horrible. All feelings of satisfaction from hitting Slocum had slipped out of her about an hour after she got home. Well, almost all of them. She allowed herself a brief, smug smile before admonishing herself.
"Oh, stop it," she said reproachfully. "It's not like it did any real good."
Huffing slightly, she strode into the bedroom to organize what she needed to bring to the hospital with her. She quickly located the small travel bag that Woody had used to carry his things when he first came home. Placing it on the bed, she turned to try to find the file that had his records in it so that the check out process would be faster. Not seeing it on the bureau where it usually was, she spotted his briefcase and pulled it onto the bed, snapping it open. She shifted the papers around, not yet finding what she wanted. Wondering what on earth he could have done with that file, she absently glanced through some of the papers.
She stopped short when she realized what she was looking at. Fumbling to find the file that had been on top, Jordan flipped it open and stared down at the text on the page: Psychological Analysis of Jordan Marie Cavanaugh. Biting her lip, she looked at the date at the top of the page. It was the day she had been brought into the ER. The day she had lost her memory. They must have given Woody a copy of the information. She swallowed and began to read her own file. It became apparent that Woody had provided a detailed narrative of the traumatic events in her life. Jordan felt her heart begin to pound as she read descriptive accounts of what exactly had gone wrong in her life to cause her breakdown.
She poured her first shot of vodka when she read Woody's account of how Jordan had nearly gotten her friends fired in her desire to gather evidence in her mother's murder case. The severity of her actions to find information on any case.
She poured her second shot when she read about her fall out with her father, how he had nearly lived the life of a thief. For the first time, she read the true story of why Garret had to leave the morgue, and what a huge part she had played.
She poured her third shot when, after working her way through the interview and the ungenerous analysis, she opened another folder to reveal the case file on her mother. Not the official police file, but a private one that contained extreme information about what she had discovered. She found out about her brother. She found out that her own parentage was in question, and that the truth had been buried with her mother.
When Jordan finished reading the last page, she dropped her hand to her lap and stared into space with a lost expression. Her head ached immensely. Everyone had been so careful to tell her the truth without actually revealing everything. They had done a good job. She squeezed her eyes shut against the hot tears that were forming. God, what am I supposed to do now?
Woody looked at his watch for the tenth time in the last few minutes. One forty five. Jordan was fifteen minutes late picking him up. Normally, he wouldn't really question Jordan's tardiness, but given everything that had happened that morning he was starting to get concerned. Drumming his fingers on the edge of the bed, he decided to give her five more minutes. Just as he made this decision, his room phone rang. He stood up to go answer it.
"Hello?"
"It was all true."
"Jordan," he said, a little surprised at the thickness of her voice. "What's wrong?"
"What he said, what they all said to me, it was all true," she said rapidly, mumbling through her words slightly.
"Whoa, slow down and tell me what's going on here," Woody tried to calm her down.
"Slocum was right, I am a horrible, horrible person," Jordan's voice started to break. "I just do whatever the hell I want without thinking about other people."
"Where is all this coming from?" Woody asked. He was growing slightly suspicious about the quality of her voice. There was something familiar about the way she was talking.
"I found the files. You know, the ones in your briefcase, why did you hide those from me?" Jordan said, her voice rising all of a sudden.
"…Jordan, are you drunk?"
"No!...maybe a little."
"Oookay," Woody muttered. "All right, look, I didn't hide those from you. They were for my benefit in helping you get better, ok? Now, what I want you to do for me is stay there, and we can talk about this as much as you want when I get back. Can you do that for me?"
"How're you supposed to get back?" she asked as though she didn't really care what the answer was.
"I'm going to find out if they have a hospital shuttle that can take me," he said, then added firmly, "Do not leave, Jordan, whatever you do, do not leave."
She's gonna leave, Woody thought the whole way back to the apartment. The hospital did indeed have a shuttle system, and he was currently the only passenger in the white minivan. They weren't that far from Pearl Street, but Woody had a sinking feeling that Jordan would find a reason to bolt before he got to her. He still couldn't believe she had found all those files. It wasn't anything she wouldn't have remembered eventually, but he hated the fact that she had it thrown at her all at once. The second they pulled up outside the building, Woody hurried as fast as he could to get upstairs. The driver helped him up with his things.
"Jordan!" he called, pounding on the door. When she didn't answer, he cursed under his breath and whipped out the key she had given him. He barged into the room and fought the urge to scream when she was nowhere in sight. Looking around, he quickly found a piece of paper on the counter. He picked it up and discovered that it was her mother's death certificate.
"Hey, are you all set?" the driver asked, eager to be going.
"No," Woody answered, still looking at the paper. He scribbled something on a stray piece of newspaper and turned back towards the door. "I need you to take me somewhere else."
"Hey, look buddy, I'm not a taxi service," the driver protested indignantly. "I go to and from the hospital. I have to get back."
Woody blinked and glared at the man for a second.
"Fine," he grumbled, jamming his hand into his pocket and retrieving his wallet. "You want to be paid? Here." He shoved forty dollars at the driver. "That's twice what I would pay a taxi for where I want you to take me, including tip."
Without waiting for a response, Woody shoved past the driver and out into the hall. The driver looked down at the money, shrugged, and followed.
Fifteen minutes later, the van pulled into High Hills Cemetery. It was one of those old fashioned, colonial cemeteries that reflected the historical side of Boston. A single road curved through the green, hilly landscape, shaded generously by maple trees and poplars. It was quite beautiful for being what it was. Woody spotted Jordan's car and pointed the driver towards it. When they stopped, he opened the door and almost immediately saw her, turned away from him so that all he saw was her long, cocoa colored hair. She was kneeling in front of a grave marker, her head bowed.
Woody thanked the driver, who guiltily gave him the money back and expressed his sorrow for their loss before driving off. Shifting uncertainly, Woody just stared at Jordan for a moment. Now that he was here, he wasn't entirely sure of what to do. He felt a little bit like an intruder just walking over to her. Finally, he made his way over to the grave, sitting quietly on a bench that was next to her. Jordan didn't look up, but she must have known he was there. Woody gripped the edge of the seat and looked at the headstone.
Emily Cavanaugh
Beloved wife and mother
For perhaps the first time since he had known Jordan, Woody felt the incredible injustice of her mother's murder. As he looked at her kneeling there, he could see the innocent, ten year old girl who couldn't be convinced that God had wanted her mommy in Heaven. He connected with Jordan on a much deeper level than ever before, watching silent tears escape from her eyes every so often.
"I haven't been here since I was fifteen," she whispered, simply making a statement. Woody opened his mouth to respond, but found he was speechless. "I made her a promise that I would visit every day. I guess I shouldn't make promises I can't keep."
Her voice was not angry or sarcastic. She was just talking, sharing what was on her mind.
"You remember that?" Woody asked her gently.
"I remember everything," she stated, still not looking up at him. Then she repeated, more pointedly, "I remember everything."
At what Woody had always thought would be a moment for rejoicing, he was taken aback to see Jordan lower her head into her hands, letting the tears fall freely. Her body drooped and she wrapped her free arm protectively around herself.
"Why did they leave me?" she sobbed. Woody was knocked out of his stunned state and immediately knelt down next to her, enveloping her in his arms. He felt her sag against him, her hand gripping onto his arm. He rested his chin on the top of her head as she buried her face against his chest and wept. "Why did they leave me?"
"Shhhh, it's okay," he soothed. He rubbed her back and rocked her gently, letting her cry out the flood of emotions in her body. Some time later, after Jordan had calmed down significantly, Woody stroked the back of her head and murmured, "C'mon, let's get you home."
He helped her up and guided her to the car, placing her in the passenger seat. On the drive home, Woody held onto her hand, not wanting her to feel for a second that she was alone. Once they got back to the apartment, Woody steered a very emotionally drained Jordan towards the bed and sat her down. He removed her shoes like he would for a child, and then laid her back into bed. He pulled the covers up to her shoulders and knelt down beside the bed. She was staring into his eyes, a look of tiredness in her face. She reached out a hand and placed it on the side of his face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He grasped the hand in his and said, "Of course." Turning his head slightly, he kissed her fingers and then brushed her hair away from her face. "Get some rest. I'll be right here if you need me."
Within minutes, Jordan was sound asleep. Woody stood in the opening that led out into the living room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He watched her sleeping amongst the white linen, her face red and tear stained. He felt guilty for the millionth time at having rejected her pleas as they were wheeling him in after he had been shot. He had not missed the importance of her words in the cemetery, begging to be given answers of why she was always abandoned. Jordan had watched many people walk out of her life, some in the most horrific of fashions. All she did was beg him not to join them, not to leave her. Instead, he had forced her to walk away. He felt like the world's biggest idiot.
Sighing resignedly, he leaned over to pick up the offending briefcase before walking into the kitchen. He figured his time would be best spent doing two things: making sure Jordan had something to eat when she woke up, and trying to find a way to talk to her about what was in those files. He did not really want to think about what was going to happen to her for punching her boss. Woody just prayed that things would work out for the best…and that maybe they could pin it on her medication.