Chapter Six
Couch. Lamp. Coffee table. Twirl. Coffee table. Lamp. Couch. Twirl.
Sonny Corinthos paced back and forth in the lounge before an anxious Carly. Seven steps forward, twirl. Seven steps forward. Twirl.
His Italian shoes made a scuffing sound on the cheap carpet and his black trench coat flapped with his stride. Hands shoved deep within the depths of his pockets, Sonny had nothing on his mind save one petite brunette.
On the couch, Carly clutched her growing stomach. "Sonny, please," she said softly. "Stop pacing. You're making me sick."
His wife's voice jarred the mobster out of his thoughts, and he quietly obliged by moving to sit down next to her. Carly raked a gaze over his profile. Tight. Set. Hard.
She sighed deeply, trying to think of something to say to her husband. Even though he and Elizabeth had drifted apart after her marriage to Ric, she knew the two had patched up their differences after the truth about the panic room came out. And Ric's inevitable disappearance.
Even as she struggled with her comforting words, Sonny was the first to move. He reached an arm around his wife, pulling her against his chest. She sighed softly and snuggled against him.
He pressed his chin into her soft blonde locks, wanting to say something but not knowing what, or why.
"What a shitty day."
His wife's blunt analysis made him chuckle. "Yeah, you can say that again."
"What a shitty day." She peeked up to look at him, smirking. "Just kidding."
"Good. I thought Michael's teacher was the only one to use such lame jokes," Sonny replied, laughing softly as she smacked him lightly against the chest. He pulled her closer and pressed his cheek against her hair.
"I can't even imagine what everyone must going through."
"I know," Carly nodded, her voice softening. "It's just so…wrong. I mean, it can't happen like this. First Emily, and now Elizabeth."
She could feel him staring down at her. "OK, OK," she confessed. "I may not like her very much-"
"At all."
She ignored him. "But I still feel horrible that she got hurt. And I know that she and Jason were…friends once, so…"
"Yeah."
She sighed against him, rubbing her index finger against the pale green button on his shirt. "I guess all we can do…"
"…is be there for him however he needs us to be."
Nikolas' chocolate brown eyes were trained intently on a single object for the last ten minutes. His younger brother, slumped in his little corner once more, hadn't moved since then. Sighing, Nikolas rubbed the crick in his neck before hesitatingly walking toward the young Spencer.
Next to him, Luke apparently had the same idea, and stepfather and stepson both moved into the corner next to Lucky, sitting down Indian-style on the floor.
The young blonde looked up, tears swimming in his deep blue eyes. His father quirked an eyebrow at him, offering a soft smile before sliding closer to sit shoulder to shoulder with his boy. Nikolas sat back against the wall, his eyes closed.
"Do you think it was a mob hit? On Elizabeth, I mean?"
Nikolas' eyes flew open at Lucky's voice, meeting Luke's. Both men stared at each other, mulling over the question.
"I doubt it," Nikolas replied slowly, scrunching his brow as he contemplated any possible mob motives.
"Not likely, Cowboy," Luke agreed, nodding at the boy.
Lucky wasn't so convinced. "Don't you think it's a pretty big coincidence, though? Elizabeth gets hit by a phantom driver the same day that Emily nosedives?"
"It's called fate, boy," Luke replied simply. "Ain't nothing more to it. It's Fate, and Fate's a bitch."
"Agreed," sighed Nikolas.
Lucky leaned forward, his voice growing more excited as the other two men dismissed the idea. "No, I'm serious. It's a huge coincidence. What if someone's trying to get at Sonny through Jason? Wouldn't it be totally convenient? His baby sister lands in the hospital, why not go after Elizabeth? I mean, what if they had planned a hit on her but were waiting for the right moment? This time it came to them."
Luke sighed. "Cowboy, you've been watching too many Sopranos episodes. No one is after Elizabeth."
"What do you mean?" he asked, exasperated. "Mobsters and all sorts of damn shady characters were always after Elizabeth. Do I need to remind you of the crypt, the bomb, the-"
"Lucky," Nikolas broke in. "Dude, that was because of Jason. Those guys would never have been after her had she not been connected to Jason."
"But-"
"No, seriously. Just think about it. What's happened to her since she broke up with him?"
Lucky rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, gee, let me think. She was pushed down a flight of stairs and miscarried. She was bitten by a snake. She was poisoned. Repeatedly. She was fed birth control pills through her OJ. Do I need to continue?"
Luke sighed in frustration. "That was because of that Slick Prick Ric, kid. Not because of Sonny and certainly not because of Jason. She was hurt all those times either by Ric, or by that black widow that was obsessed with him."
Nikolas snorted. "Those two deserved each other. I hope they're happy in Hell."
"They probably own the place by now," Luke quipped, snickering. Those were two homicides that Sonny Corinthos actually got right.
Lucky didn't share in his father's amusement. Instead, a spark of anger flared up in the young man's eyes. "Well, then, what?" he sneered. "What was it? Do you expect me to believe that there is no conceivable reason why my two best friends are in the fucking hospital? That there's no justification at all for what's happened to them!"
Luke sighed, looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "Yeah, Cowboy." He looked up at his son, his eyes misty. "That's exactly what we expect you to believe. Because that's how it is, and try as we might, wish as we might, there's not a damn thing we can do about it."
Nikolas watched as Lucky buried his face in his hands, letting out a muffled choking sound. "I just – I can't- I can't wrap my head around it," he got out. "I need t-to believe that this is happening for-for a reason, that they aren't j-just here for no God forsaken reason…"
Nikolas sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He didn't know how to respond to that. And judging from the defeated sag in Luke's shoulders and the glum look on his face, the older Spencer didn't either.
Monica slipped quietly out of the operating room, her white sneakers squeaking on the tiles. Breathing in the cool hallway air, she closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.
She heard the door swing open behind her, and soon felt her husband's strong hand on her shoulder. Turning to face him, she saw the same anxiety and strain etched into his face.
"Hey, sweetheart," he whispered warmly, struggling to swallow a yawn.
"Hey," she smiled. He took her hand and guided her to the quieter end of the hallway, free from orderlies and prep room nurses.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry at his wife's condition. Her normally bright blue eyes were flat and tired, with heavy bags underneath. Her skin was paler than usual, and her inner troubles made her look at least five years older.
"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm fine." She yawned before him, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm just so tired. I can't do this anymore."
"The surgery or…"
"Both. I can't stand here and face this, I can't go back in and face Elizabeth. I can't go to my daughter's room. I can't…do any of this."
Alan pulled her into a hug, her head resting on his chest. He massaged her shoulders gently when he felt them tremble, felt her shudder with exhaustion and anguish.
"No one's asking you to, dear."
She looked up at him, her eyes misty. "What are you doing out here?"
"Same thing. I couldn't handle it anymore in there. I told John I had to get out, and he asked if I could get Dr. Gandhi while I was at it."
"He's decided we do need the neurosurgeon after all?"
"Apparently so."
Monica sighed, her face dropping. "I was praying it wouldn't come to that."
"We all were, sweetheart," Alan murmured, taking his wife's hands in his own. "We did the best we could, John especially. And as much as he hated the possibility, I think he knew at the beginning that there was a possibility of brain damage."
She turned away from him, ripping her hands from his and facing the wall, arms wrapped tight around her waist. "Don't say that."
"Honey –"
"No!" She whirled on him, her tired blue eyes now blazing with a touch of anger. "Don't you dare. She's not brain damaged. She's not, Alan, no matter what they think. What does John know, after all? He just completed his residency three years ago. Medical school, what, five years ago? What does he know? He's just a baby himself."
When Alan reached out to her, she shrugged him away, jabbing a finger at his chest. "I don't want to hear it. I refuse to hear it, Alan, so if you know what's good for you, you won't even say it."
"Honey," he tried again. "She hit her head. Hard. Several deep gashes, and we've been extremely lucky there hasn't been any swelling in the cranial region. Sweetheart, it would be a miracle, a literal medical miracle, for our Elizabeth to come out of this without some sort of-"
"No!" Monica cried, her upper body trembling. She reached a hand out to press against the wall, steadying herself even as she crumbled to her knees. "I can't- I w-won't believe that she's – that my darling girl's b-brain d-dam… Damn it, I won't, Alan! I won't!"
He crouched beside her, pulling her against him as she sobbed, fisting her hands in his oxford shirt. Smoothing a hand down her golden locks, he murmured and whispered nonsensical words of comfort to her until her sobs abated to hushed whimpers.
Jason walked numbly down the hall, swinging his arms listlessly at his sides with each step. His eyes were red and burning, his throat itchy, and his nose felt as if half a dozen crayons had been shoved mercilessly into it.
He coughed and took in a hitched breath, rounding the corner slowly as his legs complained of his weight. Breathing a sigh of relief as he spied the crimson doors, Jason focused on completing his walk.
Finally reaching the doors, he pressed his palms flat against them, gathering his strength for a moment before pushing them open and entering the chapel.
His eyes took a minute to adjust to the dim light. The small chapel was illuminated only by a dozen small candles placed at the feet of the Virgin, a few more placed by the cross on the opposite wall.
As he entered, he heard muted gasps from the room. He raked a gaze through the pews and stopped when he spotted the bodyguards.
Johnny, Max, and Francis were clustered in a corner of the first pew, and were gazing back at him with a surprised look on their faces.
"Jason-" Johnny began uncertainly, rising wearily from his place on the bench. The other two men followed suit, Max hastily wiping his eyes with his suit sleeve as Francis stuffed his rosary beads into his pocket.
"Hey," Jason half-whispered, taking a few heavy steps toward the small group. "Please, don't get up." He waved a hand at the group, nodding for them all to sit down.
Francis and Max uneasily resumed their seats in the first pew while Johnny remained standing. After a brief pause, he extended a hand to Jason.
"Come on, Jason. Sit with us."
Jason nodded once and slowly shuffled toward Johnny, sitting down with the rest of the guards on the wooden bench. After a deep breath, he turned to look at them, taking in the tired sag in their shoulders and the unfamiliar aura of defeat surrounding them.
"What are you three doing here?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.
Although surprised that his boss even had to ask, Francis was the first to speak. "We've been here since we heard last night, when Elizabeth was…brought in." He paused to clear his throat, coughing quietly into his fist. "We've been sitting here the entire night." He turned to glance at his two friends, each just as tired and worried as he was. His voice trembled slightly when he continued, and he fought to get it under control.
"I know that we should probably have checked in with you and Sonny first, but…" he shrugged his shoulders. "We heard the news and just…we just ended up here. All three of us. We've just been sitting and praying and thinking…about her." He shrugged again. "I don't think any of us could leave this chapel now even if we tried to."
Next to him, Max nodded. "It's more peaceful in here." Crossing one muscular leg over the other, he proceeded to pull and stretch at the small white handkerchief in his large hands. "Out there, everything's so…bad, for lack of a better word. It's chaos out there; pandemonium. Everyone's rushing around, everyone's in a hurry, no one's even bothering to listen to anyone else. There's so much pain and turmoil out there. And I don't mean just because of…her. I mean in general. A hospital is a terrible place to be, regardless the circumstances. I mean, except if you're having a baby, I guess, but that's different."
He paused, still squeezing the handkerchief and twining it around his knuckles. He looked up from his lap, and Jason could see the wetness in his large brown eyes. "It's so peaceful in here. I, we, can sit and just…be here. I can pray for her, for Emily, for everyone who has to be here. I can pray for the Quartermaines, I can pray for the doctors and nurses that work here. But most of all, I guess I can just sit here and think about her. Sit here and be away from all the tears and anguish outside, and just sit back and reflect on my favorite little girl in this whole town. I just…I can't do that out there."
He looked away, the candlelight illuminating the hard lines of his face, his strong jaw. Jason studied his shoes, not knowing what to say and not even wanting to say anything. Next to him, he felt Johnny shift slightly.
"I guess the best thing about this chapel for me," the guard began, running a trembling hand through his wild brown spikes, "is that this place gives me a reason to believe that someone out there, someone up there, is watching over her."
He stared at the tiny candles laid out at the feet of the statue of Mary, the tiny flames winking somberly at him. "Someone is watching over her, and someone is going to make sure that our little girl makes it back to those who love her."
He sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Jason leaned back against the warm wood of the pew, studying his friend, taking in the strain etched in his face, the grief and anguish playing along his angular features. Johnny's eyes remained closed, his head bent in a reverent manner, as he opened his mouth to speak again.
"She will make it back to the ones who love her."