AN: I'm going to put a warning for subject matter on this part. Read on at your own disgression...
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See part 1 for disclaimer
Part 3
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Jen
"Have you spoken to your little sister lately, Ma'am?" I ask my Superior Officer, one day as I help her with filing all of the case files she has worked through over the past week.
"I spoke to Carol-Anne a little over a week ago," she nods, "She's doing a little better. Her Mom's still undergoing treatment, but she's able to go and see her more often."
"Any news about when she's going to be discharged?" I ask.
"Not so far," The Colonel shakes her head, "but Carol-Anne is really hoping that she'll be home in time for her birthday, in three weeks time. I'm trying to warn her not to get her hopes up, but I don't want to get her any more down than she already is. She's just starting to get things together again."
"It's hard, Ma'am," I sympathize, "But hopefully things will turn out for the better."
"I hope so," she nods as we finish the filing, "Thanks, Jen. That would have taken me twice as long without your help."
"Whatever I can do to help, Ma'am," I smile, as she dismisses me to get back to some work for other officers and for the general.
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Harm
"I can't wait to get home to a nice hot bath and a warm bed," Mac sighs as we disembark the military plane that has brought us home.
It's been nearly two weeks and Mac has been getting very antsy as the days have counted down to her little sister's birthday. We are still five days away, but it's becoming just too close for comfort for Mac. She really wanted to plan the day down to the last detail, before we got our orders to report to a carrier in the Adriatic Sea. We've been so far away and busy as well that she's hardly had any chance to speak to Carol-Anne. But the girl seems to be keeping her spirits up, so that's encouraging.
"Is it still okay to get a ride home?" I ask with a smile.
"Of course it is," Mac replies with that patented 'Mac look,' "I'm sure I can wait another hour or so to get home. Your house?"
"Actually, if it's okay, could we drop by Bud and Harriet's?" I ask, remembering the files I need to get from Bud, to read over the weekend. I'm sure that I'll have a bad case of jet-lag, so why spend all of those sleepless hours doing nothing?
"You want to get case files to read?" Mac asks, incredulously when I explain my reasoning.
"Hey," I object, "As an insomniac, I'd think you'd understand the problem."
"I'm sorry, I do," she tells me, "but if you have any trouble sleeping, why don't you take some sleeping tablets?"
"I don't like putting that sort of stuff into my body, Mac," I explain to her, "I don't often have trouble sleeping, but when I do I try to get through it without medication."
"Suit yourself," she shakes her head, "I have the feeling that I'm not going to need anything to help me sleep."
I must agree with her, the case we've just gotten finished with (her prosecuting and I defending) has been a nasty one, one that I'm sure has kept her awake at night. I feel a little sorry for her, because her last case was just a nasty (I murder case involving of petty officer murdering his wife, and as she later discovered, in front of their own children.
I really hope that Mac manages to catch some easier-going cases over the next couple of weeks, because the past few have been disturbing and draining, physically and mentally.
"Do you mind if I borrow your cell phone?" I ask, "Mine is dead."
It was really stupid to bring the wrong charger for my cell phone with me on this investigation, the one that only works intermittently and has the temperament of a teenager.
"Sure," she hands it to me and I switch it one.
"You've got voicemail," I tell her, checking the screen before I dial Bud and Harriet's number.
"Thanks," she says and concerns herself with getting the car started and maneuvered out of the parking lot.
I speak to Bud and find out that it is no problem to drop by their house to collect those files I handed over to Bud before we left.
Fifteen minutes later, we are parked in their driveway. I decide to quickly drop in, while Mac waits in the car, for it really is too late to impose on their hospitality and all of the children will be in bed. I leave Mac checking her voicemail and I exit the car and make my way to the Roberts' front door.
After a quickly conversation with them both and getting the case files from Bud, I return to the car. Mac is sitting silently in her seat, staring at her cell phone. But regardless of her silence, I can tell instantly by her pallor and her general demeanor that everything is not okay.
"I need to go to Georgetown Hospital," she tells me, quietly, looking at me with grave eyes, "Paula's been trying to get a hold of me all evening…"
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"The ICU is up on the seventh floor," the nurse tells us when we tell her Carol-Anne's name at the main reception desk, "Just check in with one of the nurses on the desk and they'll bring you to the unit waiting room."
The elevator ride is silent, until I reach over and take Mac's hand in mine. Then, as if she's only just realizing that I'm there with her, she breaks out of the shock and looks me straight in the eye.
"Oh, I'm sorry Harm," she begins to apologize, "You need to get home…"
"Hey," I tell her firmly, squeezing her hand within mine, "I'm don't need to be anywhere but here, with you."
With that issue settled, the elevator arrives at the seventh floor and we head out and to the left.
Once we get to the nurse's desk we are met by Paula, who has been taking a break from the dull waiting room, to get a cup of coffee. The poor woman looks extremely sleep-deprived and I remember Mac telling me earlier in the week that Paula's just gotten back from a trip to care for her elderly mother in Wisconsin.
"Paula," Mac asks, careful to remain sensitive, "can you…could you tell me what happened? Please…all you said was that Carol-Anne is here and that she's very sick…"
Paula takes a sip from her coffee, which looks scalding hot, judging from her steam coming off it, but the woman seems to be working on auto-pilot and doesn't seem to notice if it is burning her. With a deep breath, she steels herself and begins;
"I had to get Kev and some of the other boys to break down the bathroom door…"
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Six hours earlier…
Paula
"Kev," I sigh for what seems like the fiftieth since I have arrived home, "Please could you turn that music down?"
Usually I'm quite good at communicating with the kids, even the boys, but today I really can't find the energy. Thank goodness the rest of the kids have been so quiet, because I really couldn't deal with any other dramas today.
"Is Carol-Anne home?" I ask Kev, but he shrugs.
"How about Jimmy?" I ask.
"No," he shakes his head this time, "he stayed at the skate park when I came home. I offered him a ride, but he wanted to hang out with the 'dawgs' for a while longer."
I can't help but laugh at Kevin's choice of words. James or 'Jimmy,' as he prefers to be known, is at an extremely sensitive age just now that he has to fit the precise mold dictated by the rest of his peers. Kev is wont to tease him about it and often picks up some of the lingo that Jimmy and his friends use. Kev is into skateboarding himself, but is very much his own person and won't be defined by anything or anyone, abounding in self-confidence. I hope some of his self-confidence rubs off on the other kids; goodness knows some of them could use it.
"Okay," I nod, trying not to let my stress levels rise any more at Kevin's news about Jimmy, "did he say what time he'd be home?"
"I got him to promise that he'd home before dinner," Kev tells me, with a smile. Despite the age-gap, we do get on quite well and he's really a good kid at heart, despite the (mostly petty) trouble he gets into at school.
"PAULA!" my new-found peace is shattered, "Tell Carol-Anne to get out of the bathroom!"
Jenny appears from the direction of the bedrooms off of the living room, looking fit to be tied.
"What's up, Jen?" I sigh, trying to get the girl to calm down.
Jenny is sixteen, a year younger than Kev and she has very little patience for those younger than her. She and Carol-Anne have butted heads on a couple of occasions, but the younger girl was rarely the instigator and it seemed that she had never purposely meant to annoy Jen.
"She's hogging the bathroom," Jen complains, "I need to get in to color my hair, or I'm not going to be ready for Cal picking me up."
"What time is Cal picking you up?" I ask, taking a look at my own watch to see what time it is.
"Six-thirty," she tells me, "but I've still got to have dinner first."
"Well, how about giving her ten minutes?" I suggest, trying not to show how weary I sound, "I'm sure she'll finish what she is doing and then leave the bathroom for you to color your hair…what color is it this time?"
"Electric blue," she tells me, with a sneer on her face and it takes me a second to figure out that she's teasing me.
Damn, I'm tired.
"Alright, alright," I hold my hands up in surrender, 'It's your hair and your prerogative to walk around looking like a piñata, but don't come crying to me when it starts falling out…"
I don't get the chance to say anymore, because I'm cut off by Jeremy, who's fourteen, charging into the fray.
"Paula!" he complains, "Where's my shirt?"
"What shirt?" I ask, humoring him.
"The 'Krows' one," he asks, "It's black, with a hood…."
"Did you put it in the laundry hamper?" I ask him.
"No…" he states, as if it's logical that I can just sniff out every piece of dirty laundry in this house, like a sniffer dog and magically have it washed and pressed (or in his case not; he hates it when I iron his clothes,) ready for him to use.
"Then it's probably in that pig-sty called your bedroom," I tell him, holding my finger up to silence him when he goes to complain, "If you expect anything to get washed, you either put it in the laundry hamper, or if it is really important, wash it yourself…You know how busy I've been. I don't have the time to slave around after you all. You're all big enough ("And ugly enough," Kev jokingly drops in.) to operate the washer and dryer."
Jeremy gives a huff and stalks off towards his room.
"Is she still in there?" I hear him exclaim as he passes past the bathroom, "She's been in there for hours!"
"Jeremy," I tell him, "Stop exaggerating. Just find yourself another shirt to wear. Goodness knows you've got plenty of other black ones."
He seems to think that there is no need to dignify this with an answer, for the slamming of his bedroom door is the only reply I get. I give a sigh and set about beginning the preparations for dinner, but am glad when Kev comes and gives me a hand with peeling the vegetables.
"Thanks Kev," I thank the almost fully-grown man.
He just gives me a non-committal grunt, but seems to display no hostility, so I think he may actually be empathizing with my near-exhausted state.
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