Part One: The Pendulum
Driving away from the wreck of the day
And the light's always red in the rear-view
Desperately close to a coffin of hope
I'd cheat destiny just to be near you
If this is giving up, then I'm giving up
If this is giving up, then I'm giving up giving up
On love, On love
London, England
The grandfather clock across the room holds her eye for nearly a minute. She watches the pendulum swing, back and forth, shielded by the narrow glass door. With each swing, another lifetime passes her by. It started out merely as seconds passing her by. The seconds turned into moments, the moments into hours, the hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into lifetimes. Each swing took away yet another minuscule piece of her fading youth. She inhales deeply, as if trying to draw those lost lifetimes back in, close to her, then exhales, finally alleviating her denial and letting them go, as much as it pains her to do so.
"Dr. Bartlet"
His voice is gruff, yet strangely soothing. It is foreign to her reverie of faded youth and lifetimes lost, thus it startles her. She allows her wandering eyes to lose their fascination with the swinging pendulum and drift until they meet his own gray, melancholy orbs.
"What are you doing?" He asks, though ironically he doesn't sound the least bit curious.
"I'm trying to hypnotize myself," she replies, her raised eyebrow indicating her sarcasm.
"You like the grandfather clock, huh"
"I like the pendulum"
He balances his pen over his currently unsullied and unwritten upon pad of paper, in anticipation of her answer to his potential question.
"But not the rest of the clock"
She shrugs, dismissively. This conversation disinterests her greatly. Her time is better spent observing every movement of the pendulum.
"I haven't seen the rest of the clock yet"
He turns his head, gazing behind his broad shoulder at the grandfather clock. When he returns his attention to her, he sees that she has already lost interest in him and bestowed the honor of her attention on some other random inanimate object in his office.
"Are you ready to talk now?" He asks, tilting his head in a feeble attempt to catch her eye, and therefore her attention, once more.
"Sure," Abbey replies, blandly.
He nods, pleased with her response, however unenthusiastic.
"Shall we…cut to the chase, as they say"
"Sure," she says, just as blandly.
"All right then. Did you try to kill yourself"
She looks up; she is surprised by the bluntness of the question. He has her attention now. He has stolen it from her, despite her best efforts to preserve it.
"What did you say"
Her eyes narrow, trying to discern his words, real and important, from the trivial words effervescing in her head, clouding her vision.
"I said, did you try to kill yourself"
"No"
Her answer is definitive, her tone unwavering. He believes her, and he doesn't know why.
"You didn't"
Ever the psychiatrist, ever doubtful.
"No"
She wants to talk now. She seeks out the unadulterated honesty within her that she could only imagine still existed.
"I didn't do it with the intention of ending my life. I was looking for an escape. I wanted to forget"
Proof that said honesty existed still.
"Forget what"
Dr. Hewson is not very knowledgable for a doctor, she thinks.
"It was my thirty-eighth wedding anniversary, Doctor. What do you think"
"So you were drowning out thoughts of your marriage with alcohol," he assumes.
"Well…yes"
He's right; she won't deny it.
"Did it work"
"Does it ever"
His ears perk up, like a dog's. He is about to run from her and lunge after an ever elusive frisbee. She waits for him to pounce.
"You've done this before then"
There it is, the sudden attack. Now she remembers why she's never liked psychiatrists much. They assume. Sometimes she thinks it's their job to assume. And what a sad thing to get paid for.
"I meant in general"
"You avoided my question"
She sighs, with irritation. He is not knowledgable, nor perceptive.
"No. I have not done this before"
This woman has peaked his interest, a rare occurance, he knows. She is both knowledgable and perceptive.
"How often would you say you consume alcohol"
A boring question, yes, but a neccesary one. As a doctor, she understands this.
"Daily"
His eyebrows raise in disbelief. She quickly attempts to fix her tainted answer.
"In small doses, of course"
"What do you drink"
"Sherry, mostly. You can't get drunk on sherry," she says, almost cheerily.
"So you don't drink looking to get drunk"
"Not usually"
He values her honesty, but it stirs up suspicion inside his doubtful body.
"How about lately"
"I suppose"
Her answer is vague; it confuses him.
"Are you drinking more than usual"
"Well, I haven't been drinking sherry"
She almost smiles, but the curve of her lips stops before they can part enough to expose her perfectly straight, white teeth. Dr. Hewson is disappointed. She left him hanging, and he doesn't want to fall.
"You've been drinking the hard liquor"
Again with the assumptions; they make her uncomfortable. She wants out.
"Harder than sherry!" Is her feeble response.
"Dr. Bartlet, do you consider yourself an alcoholic"
Ah. This she can answer. This she can answer without hesitation or reservation.
"No"
"Not even now"
"Not even now"
"Why"
Damn these questions. She wants to watch the pendulum. Why this incessant questioning and inquisition?
"Because I'm not"
Abbey doesn't care what Dr. Hewson thinks. He doesn't know her. No one does.
"I don't have a dependency," she continues, with conviction now. "I don't go through withdrawal. I can control myself"
"So why didn't you control yourself on your anniversary"
"Because"
The answer is simple, though she deems it unacceptable. He won't believe her, despite her enormous integrity. And yet, she has nothing to lose.
"Because I didn't want to"
"And yet you say you didn't want to harm yourself"
"I didn't say that." She is defensive, her guard is up, the walls surrounding her conscience are rebuilt. "I said I didn't want to kill myself"
"You wanted to hurt yourself." It is a statement, not a question.
"Yes"
"Why"
"Dr. Hewson, we've been doing this for ten minutes. The answer to that question is at least three sessions from now"
Driving away from the wreck of the day And I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus 'Cuz love doesnt hurt so I know I'm not falling in love I'm just falling to pieces And if this is giving up then I'm giving up If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up On love, On love Maybe I'm not up for being a victim of love All my resistance will never be distance enough Driving away from the wreck of the day And it's finally quiet in my head Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed And if this is giving up, then I'm giving up If this is giving up, then I'm giving up, giving up On love, On love
"Dr. Bartlet"
His voice is gruff, yet strangely soothing. It is foreign to her reverie of faded youth and lifetimes lost, thus it startles her. She allows her wandering eyes to lose their fascination with the swinging pendulum and drift until they meet his own gray, melancholy orbs.
"What are you doing?" He asks, though ironically he doesn't sound the least bit curious.
"I'm trying to hypnotize myself," she replies, her raised eyebrow indicating her sarcasm.
"You like the grandfather clock, huh"
"I like the pendulum"
He balances his pen over his currently unsullied and unwritten upon pad of paper, in anticipation of her answer to his potential question.
"But not the rest of the clock"
She shrugs, dismissively. This conversation disinterests her greatly. Her time is better spent observing every movement of the pendulum.
"I haven't seen the rest of the clock yet"
He turns his head, gazing behind his broad shoulder at the grandfather clock. When he returns his attention to her, he sees that she has already lost interest in him and bestowed the honor of her attention on some other random inanimate object in his office.
"Are you ready to talk now?" He asks, tilting his head in a feeble attempt to catch her eye, and therefore her attention, once more.
"Sure," Abbey replies, blandly.
He nods, pleased with her response, however unenthusiastic.
"Shall we…cut to the chase, as they say"
"Sure," she says, just as blandly.
"All right then. Did you try to kill yourself"
She looks up; she is surprised by the bluntness of the question. He has her attention now. He has stolen it from her, despite her best efforts to preserve it.
"What did you say"
Her eyes narrow, trying to discern his words, real and important, from the trivial words effervescing in her head, clouding her vision.
"I said, did you try to kill yourself"
"No"
Her answer is definitive, her tone unwavering. He believes her, and he doesn't know why.
"You didn't"
Ever the psychiatrist, ever doubtful.
"No"
She wants to talk now. She seeks out the unadulterated honesty within her that she could only imagine still existed.
"I didn't do it with the intention of ending my life. I was looking for an escape. I wanted to forget"
Proof that said honesty existed still.
"Forget what"
Dr. Hewson is not very knowledgable for a doctor, she thinks.
"It was my thirty-eighth wedding anniversary, Doctor. What do you think"
"So you were drowning out thoughts of your marriage with alcohol," he assumes.
"Well…yes"
He's right; she won't deny it.
"Did it work"
"Does it ever"
His ears perk up, like a dog's. He is about to run from her and lunge after an ever elusive frisbee. She waits for him to pounce.
"You've done this before then"
There it is, the sudden attack. Now she remembers why she's never liked psychiatrists much. They assume. Sometimes she thinks it's their job to assume. And what a sad thing to get paid for.
"I meant in general"
"You avoided my question"
She sighs, with irritation. He is not knowledgable, nor perceptive.
"No. I have not done this before"
This woman has peaked his interest, a rare occurance, he knows. She is both knowledgable and perceptive.
"How often would you say you consume alcohol"
A boring question, yes, but a neccesary one. As a doctor, she understands this.
"Daily"
His eyebrows raise in disbelief. She quickly attempts to fix her tainted answer.
"In small doses, of course"
"What do you drink"
"Sherry, mostly. You can't get drunk on sherry," she says, almost cheerily.
"So you don't drink looking to get drunk"
"Not usually"
He values her honesty, but it stirs up suspicion inside his doubtful body.
"How about lately"
"I suppose"
Her answer is vague; it confuses him.
"Are you drinking more than usual"
"Well, I haven't been drinking sherry"
She almost smiles, but the curve of her lips stops before they can part enough to expose her perfectly straight, white teeth. Dr. Hewson is disappointed. She left him hanging, and he doesn't want to fall.
"You've been drinking the hard liquor"
Again with the assumptions; they make her uncomfortable. She wants out.
"Harder than sherry!" Is her feeble response.
"Dr. Bartlet, do you consider yourself an alcoholic"
Ah. This she can answer. This she can answer without hesitation or reservation.
"No"
"Not even now"
"Not even now"
"Why"
Damn these questions. She wants to watch the pendulum. Why this incessant questioning and inquisition?
"Because I'm not"
Abbey doesn't care what Dr. Hewson thinks. He doesn't know her. No one does.
"I don't have a dependency," she continues, with conviction now. "I don't go through withdrawal. I can control myself"
"So why didn't you control yourself on your anniversary"
"Because"
The answer is simple, though she deems it unacceptable. He won't believe her, despite her enormous integrity. And yet, she has nothing to lose.
"Because I didn't want to"
"And yet you say you didn't want to harm yourself"
"I didn't say that." She is defensive, her guard is up, the walls surrounding her conscience are rebuilt. "I said I didn't want to kill myself"
"You wanted to hurt yourself." It is a statement, not a question.
"Yes"
"Why"
"Dr. Hewson, we've been doing this for ten minutes. The answer to that question is at least three sessions from now"
Driving away from the wreck of the day And I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus 'Cuz love doesnt hurt so I know I'm not falling in love I'm just falling to pieces And if this is giving up then I'm giving up If this is giving up then I'm giving up, giving up On love, On love Maybe I'm not up for being a victim of love All my resistance will never be distance enough Driving away from the wreck of the day And it's finally quiet in my head Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed And if this is giving up, then I'm giving up If this is giving up, then I'm giving up, giving up On love, On love