Chapter 5

Heavy.

That was how C.C.'s body felt: heavy.

And yet, at the same time, she felt as frail as a glass figurine; almost like the smallest movement or disturbance in the air could shatter her tired and battered body into a million little pieces.

Ever since she'd found out she had cancer, C.C. had known she'd need chemo to get better. She'd had time to digest the news, dissect it and, she'd believed, accept it. It was a necessary evil, wasn't it? She'd been certain that she would push through it – that it would be hard and painful, but that she'd ultimately come out the other side…right?

Wrong.

It had only taken going through one miserable chemo cycle for her to realise that she had grossly underestimated just how gruelling this process was going to be.

One of the first side effects she'd experienced, was the nausea. Post-chemo puking was a thing, and one that C.C. had found out almost immediately after receiving her first dosage. Not even limiting her food intake had helped – she'd spent hours kneeling in front of the toilet, with Nurse Cameron and Dr Wilson by her side. It had gotten so bad that she'd had to be given fluids through an IV line to rehydrate her. The process had only repeated itself yesterday, after getting her second infusion, and would continue to happen throughout her treatment. The bright-ish side to it was that at least she now knew what to expect.

More importantly, it meant that Wilson and Cameron knew what to expect – they knew they had to hook her up to an IV bag from the moment her infusions were over in order to avoid dehydration.

Then, there was fatigue. The ever-present, soul-crushing, fucking fatigue that hadn't left her side ever since she'd started her treatment. Wilson had warned her that debilitating fatigue was one of the hallmark side-effects of chemo, but C.C. had never imagined it would be this bad. She, a woman used to work 14-hour long shifts while running only on coffee, cigarettes and energy drinks, simply couldn't bring herself to do anything else but rest for days on end.

Each chemo cycle consisted of two infusions given two weeks apart, with a "rest week" in between the treatments. The first few days after her infusions were always the worst – the tiredness and weakness were so bad, that she'd often have to spend most of the day lying in bed. Even the simplest tasks – eating, going to the toilet, even having a shower – were a struggle, and her recurrent fevers (a normal side effect after the chemo as long as they didn't last for over 48 hours post-infusion, Wilson had said) made the problem much, much worse.

Cameron had been a Godsend in that regard, helping her with anything and everything.

C.C. usually got a small reprieve of her fatigue around the last few days before the next infusion. That didn't mean her energy levels were back to normal (nothing could be further from the truth), but it did mean she felt well enough to take short walks around the clinic, visit the library or the music room.

Nausea and fatigue (plus anaemia and an array of other delightful chemo-related crap) had also brought with them more unwanted weight loss. She'd lost another ten pounds in barely a month. Being 5'9" and now weighing a meagre 106 pounds meant that she was on the verge of being severely underweight. Wilson had said they'd have to keep an eye on that, otherwise her recovery could be jeopardised.

To cap it all off, C.C.'s hair had been falling in clumps for the last month or so. It had started suddenly – she'd woken up one morning and found her pillow was covered in her own hair. She'd tried – she knew, in vain – to put off doing anything about it. Something in her mind had told her she couldn't try getting rid of all of it yet; that having her hair fall in clumps, going gradually in her bed and in the shower, or even just where she sat sometimes, was better than getting rid of it all at once. Like it was better to have some hair, rather than no hair at all.

Besides, even trying to bring anything as remotely heavy as an electric razor up to her head hurt like hell. Just like everything else did, those special couple of days after her infusions. The fever was a doozy; an unbearably hot, pained headache that spread outwards over her whole body, making it an effort to lift anything heavier than a toothbrush, when all she wanted to do was lay in her bed and feel miserable.

She'd ignored her falling locks as best she could, anyway, sweeping the discarded hair into the trash can when she'd been able to, but eventually it had become noticeable. Too noticeable. So much so that both Cameron and Wilson had begun (gently) hammering home the message that, in the long run, it would be worse for her mental health to see her own hair falling out randomly throughout the day than to just cut it all off.

They'd tried to soften the blow by explaining that, this way, she got to control part of what was happening. Saving herself from added stress. And, eventually, she had relented. There was nothing else to be done…

A knock on her bedroom door in the present moment told her that the time had come, too. She'd known that Cameron was on her way to do the dubious honours, but she'd been so consumed by her own thoughts that the moment seemed sooner.

Trying very slowly to sit up without letting her head spin – ugh, and failing; trying to move like that might have been a mistake, when she was dizzy enough already – she called out to her waiting nurse.

"Come in...!"

Cameron didn't hang around; she pushed open the slightly ajar door and quietly wheeled in a small table. It was almost a refreshing change of pace to see that it held instruments for cutting hair, rather than medication, needles and other assorted treatments.

"Hi, C.C.," the nurse said with a smile clearly trying to make her feel as at ease as possible, even if they both knew it wasn't really going to happen. "How's your fever doing?"

Being controlled by the meds they'd put her on and a few rounds of Tylenol, C.C. thought of replying, but between that, the fluids they had been pumping into her for the puking and the fact that she was still dizzy and unwell from both, it didn't add up to much. She was still having the worst time of her life, even if it could, theoretically, be even more terrible.

But she didn't answer that. As bad as she felt, Cameron didn't deserve the sharpness. It was obvious to anybody who had eyes that the nurse loved her work. Seeing a patient brought down under the weight of such an awful disease probably got to her more than she ever said while tending to anybody. She could use a little bit of good news, rather than more bad.

Staying positive was probably necessary here, anyway. And it wasn't as though the fever was going to last forever – it was already better than it had been earlier...

"It's coming down, slowly," C.C. replied, trying to hold herself still to see if it calmed the last little bit of reeling sensation she'd brought upon herself by sitting up. "It'll be gone again soon, I think."

She just about stopped herself from thinking of the next time, when it would be back again. She couldn't get too far ahead of herself, and besides, she was already upset enough now, so why bother scheduling any more and filling up the calendar?

Cameron, of course, was completely oblivious to the internal argument. She just smiled brighter and brought the table closer to the bed.

"That's great! But we'll still keep a close eye on it for a few more days, just in case," she began arranging the hair cutting implements, like she was deciding which one to start off with. "Anyway, are you ready for this? Everything is good to go when you are..."

C.C. felt the bottom of her stomach dropping out, her attempt at being positive inches away from flying out the metaphorical window. She wasn't ready for what was about to happen – she knew she wasn't ready. But what choice did she have? Her hair would fall out, whether she liked it or not, and she would most likely look a lot better than she currently did with a shaved head and a headscarf. Not that she'd admit it out loud, but she almost looked as if she were suffering from mange! Her hair wasn't falling evenly, so there were huge bald spots mixed in between thinning hair. It looked disgusting, so the best thing she could do was to nip this in the bud (no pun intended).

If only it weren't so difficult…

Letting go of her hair meant having to accept that this nightmare was real and that there was no going back. She'd known it would come, not to get her wrong, but she hadn't expected to get to this point this quickly…

"Ready as I can be in this situation," C.C. eventually replied, giving the nurse a sad smile. "Are we doing it here, on the bed?"

Cameron shook her head, "I thought we'd go in the bathroom, to make it easier. I have a wheelchair for you outside – sit tight a moment and I'll get it and we'll...get moving."

C.C.'s smile – as much of it as hadn't dissolved in the first few seconds – dropped, along with the middle and top of her stomach, as well as all the other organs that were piled on top of that. It was really getting to that stage, then? The time when she couldn't even walk somewhere less than twenty feet away by herself. The time when she'd have to rely on somebody else, for one of the most basic acts an able-bodied, independent person could do.

A previously independent person, anyway.

It was something she'd feared as much as having her head shaved. Another sign that she was as weak and helpless as the disease was already making her feel. And now, it had arrived; a wheelchair being pushed by her nurse.

Said nurse was obviously trying to be as tactful as possible about it all, which C.C. appreciated even if she couldn't bring herself to feel anything more than dread and despair at the entire scenario.

She was too upset to speak, but managed to nod, which was enough of a sign to Cameron that she was ready to go.

That didn't stop her wanting to burst into tears the moment the nurse left the room and came back with the chair, though. Especially when Cameron parked the thing in front of her, ready to help her sit down on it.

"Here you go – we'll get this done in no time."

The cheerfulness in the nurse's voice didn't make C.C. feel any better, but she knew she was right. The sooner she got into that chair, the sooner they'd get the whole damned thing over and done with.

So, lifting herself up, she went to turn and seat herself in the chair––

Only for a loud ring to cut through the air, making them both start.

The phone, on C.C.'s bedside table.

C.C. suppresses a frustrated groan. Now just who the hell was that calling?! Who did they want to speak to – her or Cameron? And why did it have to be now? She was so close to just getting it all over and done with, and now it was all about to be set back by somebody else needing something...

Cameron looked between her and the ringing device, "Take a seat, I'll get it."

C.C. just about caught herself before telling Cameron to just let the darn thing ring – as much as she disliked delayed plans, the call could be important. For all she knew, Noel could be calling. It was a long shot – he was usually in class at this time – but the possibility was there.

With a huff, C.C. collapsed into her chair, taking care not to disturb the long plastic tube that connected her port to the IV bag that was dripping much-needed fluids into her system. If it weren't for everything else going on, she would've probably grumbled aloud about how even doing that made her feel like she could collapse on the floor.

She'd never once let it cross her mind how exhausting anything like this could be. For God's sake, she was catching her breath back simply from moving two feet from her bed to her wheelchair! And even when she managed it, it made her want to dry heave! How could it possibly ache so much?

It made her even more melancholy than before, like somebody was rubbing salt into a gaping wound. Between this and Wilson already putting her on softer foods to make all the vomiting easier, she couldn't have felt more like an old person if she'd tried.

And what came after that? What was honestly going to come next; another worrying sign of her condition, or another slightly humiliating indignity that she'd never live down if...certain people...found out about it?

That was a thought that had to be discarded immediately, so she made more of an effort to tune back into what Cameron was saying to the person on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, this is the right place. Who is calling, please?"

Yes, just who was calling right at that moment? The question had been swallowed up in her gloom and hadn't managed to resurface until she'd...thought about the wrong thing. But now she could finally pay attention to what was important, and that didn't involve anything from her past.

Right now, it involved whomever Cameron was talking to.

"Oh, I see. Yes. Well then, I will be happy to pass you over to her. My apologies for the delay – we do have to follow a protocol."

C.C. felt her eyebrow quirk of its own accord. That little speech Cameron had just made told her one obvious thing and one not-so-obvious; first of all, the call was for her, which set off its own kind of curiosity. Second, the hospital's policy on unlisted (or unmentioned) relatives or friends meant going through a number of security questions anytime somebody new appeared. She supposed, in a place crammed with some of the wealthiest people that side of anywhere, it stopped spurned relatives or lovers forcing their way in to demand will changes, or something.

This person definitely wasn't Noel. Who else could possibly be calling her for anything?

Cameron turned to her, pulling the receiver away so she could speak.

"It's Marcelo – your doorman, apparently?"

C.C.'s eyebrows shot up in (pleasant) surprise. Apart from Noel, Marcelo was the only person who knew she was there, and quite honestly she liked him enough to actually want to have a conversation with him. Besides, he'd promised to keep an eye on her mailbox and let her know if anything important got there, so even if she hadn't been in the mood to talk to him she would still have had to pick up the phone.

"Pass the phone over," C.C. said, actually starting to smile a little.

She didn't know how he did it, but Marcelo had a way of making a person happy even during their darkest days. He might not get the biggest smile out of you, but talking to him always made things a little bit better.

"Right away," Cameron said to her.

Momentarily laying the phone down next to the receiver, Cameron quickly made her way to C.C. and wheeled her over to her nightstand. The producer picked up the phone as soon as it was at arm's length – after weeks of practically no social interaction (apart from those with Wilson and Cameron, that was) she longed to hear a familiar, friendly voice.

"Hello, Marcelo," she said into the phone. "How are things over there?"

"I should be asking that question, Miss Babcock!" replied the doorman, sounding as chipper as ever – C.C. could almost see his smile in her mind's eye. "How are you doing?"

Her slight smile nearly became a chuckle. She couldn't help it – even in the depths of her unhappiness, with a fever she knew wouldn't be going away for hours and the sensation that she could re-introduce her last meal to the room at any moment, the man still knew how to cheer her up.

It was just something that came naturally to him, she supposed.

"As peachy and rose-coloured as I can be," she replied – he knew her enough to know how much of that would be sarcasm. "Anyway, I asked you first; how are you? Is there anything going on at home that I should know about?"

She hadn't been expecting his call so quickly, to tell the truth. She knew there wouldn't be any hospital bills to pay yet, and she hardly ever got any actually important mail. Apart from the stuff to do with her work, of course, which she no longer did. And that only left her feeling heavier and less...well, less like she'd been talking to a person who only ever seemed to make people happy.

"Oh, no need to worry about me. I'm doing just fine," Marcelo replied, as dismissive of his well-being as he always was when he believed someone had it worse. "I have some mail here for you, though. I was wondering what you wanted me to do with it."

"If its bills, burn them," she said, chuckling. "Just kidding – is it anything important?"

"Let me see…" Marcelo replied, and C.C. could hear him fumbling with what sounded like several papers (most likely her mail) on the other end. "Okay, there are some bills – electricity, heating, and whatnot – there's a letter from the Broadway Guild, and there's a rather large package from your mother. Apparently she's in France and has sent you some gifts – there's a note attached to it that says so."

"Ah, yeah, she always sends me stuff when she travels," C.C. said, smiling sadly. It was somewhat depressing that her mother would send material gifts to her but didn't deign call her…

"I'll send everything over then," Marcelo said. "Ana will probably want to add some of her homemade goodies – maybe some alfajores, too?"

C.C. wanted to say that she was salivating a little even thinking about them. Normally, she would – Ana's cooking was to die for anyway, but her alfajores were something special. She just had a knack for them, it seemed, because it had been Marcelo who'd taught her how to make them (he'd told the former producer this when she'd first tried them). It was like a top-secret, unbeatable recipe that his family had kept for generations, and they both knew how much C.C. loved them. It was enough to make sure she always got a box of them on her birthday, and at Christmas.

But as things stood, she couldn't imagine eating anything at all. Not even the most delicious alfajor in the entire world.

Not that she'd hurt either Marcelo's or Ana's feelings by telling them that. They'd already both done more than they had to, and she wanted to show them that they were appreciated. They were good people, simply trying to help, and she wasn't going to deny them that.

Besides, she was sure the alfajores would keep for a while, as long as she could keep Wilson's grubby, sweet-loving paws off them. The guy would eat anything covered in sugar that wasn't physically glued or nailed to a table!

In good terms, it was almost like being treated by Nanny Fine. But that was as far as she could go with that thought – she wasn't going back to the past now.

"That sounds wonderful, thank you," she said, trying her best to sound as enthusiastic as she ordinarily would. "I'll be looking forward to those in the mail. I could do with some excitement you know?"

"I can imagine," Marcelo replied. "You must be a bit bored cooped up in there."

"Out of my mind, Marcelo, out of my mind. But I guess it's a matter of biting the proverbial bullet, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is – but I'm sure you'll be back with us soon. You're missed around here, Miss Babcock!" said Marcelo.

C.C. let out a "pfft". She was more than certain that that wasn't true – it held up there with facts such as "the sky is blue" or "water is wet".

"Oh, puh-lease, Marcelo; if I know Maxwell's – and I do – he's probably pissed off at me, which isn't surprising considering when and how I quit. We were about to open a new show – he's probably buried under piles of paperwork and has no one to pick up the slack now that I'm gone, so he'll be acting like a huge drama queen and trying to convince everyone under the sun that his anger is completely justified. Nanny Fine and the children will all have moved on without me being there to clutter up their space, and as for Niles..."

She'd been on kind of a roll, up until she'd hit the butler-shaped wall. But it was a minor blip, obviously. She knew what would be going on in Niles' head, and it followed her certainty to the letter.

That let her continue without any trouble, "Well, he'll probably finally be shifting that butler behind of his in order to do some backflips of celebration!"

Marcelo made a noise that could only be described as the way the phrase "I'm not so sure about that" felt.

"He's been shifting, alright," he told her. "But nothing quite like how you described, and probably not at all how you would be imagining."

C.C. blinked, screwing up her face. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why would Niles not be acting the way she was expecting? There was no other way for him to act! They had a rhythm to their interactions, and she knew that wouldn't have gone away just because she had!

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "If he's not doing that, what is he doing?"

Marcelo chuckled.

"Well, he's uh...been coming around here quite a bit, actually," he said.

Wait a minute, what?

What was Niles doing, going to her old building? What was the point in that? Didn't he have better things to be doing, like throwing the never-ending party he'd probably been planning in light of her sudden disappearance?

"What the hell for? Did he not have enough cleaning to do at the mansion so he's had to resort to taking on some of the workload in the lobby?"

"Not exactly," the doorman replied, his smile somehow coming through the phone. "He's been cleaning up around your penthouse."

...What?!

What did he mean, Niles was cleaning up around the penthouse?! But...but why?!

It didn't make any sense – what good would that be doing for him? If anything, it was more of a favour to her, and he'd never do a favour for her willingly or knowingly!

"That he's what?!" she cried out, making Cameron jump, too. "Niles Brightmore, perennial domestic pain in my butt, is cleaning my penthouse?!"

"Yes ma'am; he's been doing it every day since you left," replied doorman, cheerful as ever. "He comes in through the parking lot – I believe he has a magnetic key of his own. I checked what he'd been up to several times and found your apartment squeaky clean! He even got some flowers, and changes them every couple of days."

If C.C. hadn't already been feeling like she was about to pass out due to her illness, the information that had just been relayed to her would have most likely knocked her out. Daily cleaning? Flowers?! In what universe did those things go together with Niles Brightmore?! Niles Brightmore being the same man who'd always get a kick out of preparing her darn coffee with dirty dishwater! The same man who'd made it his goal to make her days just that little bit harder. The same man who had called her his home entertainment system several times over!

The idea was ludicrous…

Was she hallucinating? It could be – fevers were known to do that to a person (and that wasn't taking into account the shitload of other noxious chemicals currently running through her blood…).

It was either that, or she'd stepped into some weird alternate universe when she'd taken that short nap before Cameron's arrival.

"Marcelo, are you sure we are talking about the same Niles? British, about six feet tall, blue eyes, usually smells of Lysol? And if we are, are you sure he hasn't booby-trapped the hell out of my apartment?"

"The very same, Miss B," Marcelo replied. "He comes every day, like clockwork, and just cleans up. I don't know what you think, but that looks like a pretty big sign that he misses you to me…"

Misses you.

That felt like a jolt of electricity through her chest, and a blunt kick in the stomach at the same time.

But Marcelo couldn't have been right! It wouldn't be as straightforward as Niles going in, cleaning the place, freshening it up with flowers and then leaving again! And it definitely wouldn't all be happening because he "missed her" or anything in that ballpark!

No, there had to be some other reason the butler was going there every day. Probably to set up some kind of master plan, in preparation for her return. Either that, or he'd already finished setting up but kept having to go back to check on it every day that she didn't arrive home...

Whatever it was, she knew Marcelo was wrong. She knew Niles better than he did, and the butler would never miss her in the first place, let alone tell the whole world by going to look after her apartment while she wasn't there.

And that was something she was going to have to explain quite carefully to her doorman. If she didn't, he might just keep insisting that he was right and that was the last thing she wanted on her mind.

"I don't think so," she told him with a light chuckle. "I know Niles – he would never miss me. I could be gone for a million years, and the thought would never even enter his head...! No, he has to be going there to do something else, so just be careful when you walk around the place; any of it could probably go off at any moment. It's not like he knows when I'm actually coming back..."

There was a small silence at the other end of the phone (although C.C. could almost swear she heard Marcelo give a small sigh).

"Alright then, Miss B, if you say so – would you like me to ask him to stop coming?" said the doorman.

C.C. hesitated then – her first instinct was to say yes, have the man stop coming to her home, but there was another part of her that was…unsure? She didn't understand his actions (they weren't like him in the slightest), but what if little routine really mattered to him? Whether that was because he was setting up the Sistine Chapel of pranks or because he missed her, however unlikely that might be, she didn't feel like she could put an end to it.

As much as she groused about him and his endless set-ups, she had to admit that they'd been a staple of both of their lives for well over a decade. Niles had probably been finding himself itching for a part of his routine that simply wouldn't go back to normal. Maybe this was his way of dealing with it – like how smokers used nicotine patches when they were trying to drop the habit.

If she didn't know better, she'd almost feel bad for the guy.

"No…no, it's alright," she eventually said, sighing. "He just needs some time to find a new hobby. It will wear off soon, trust me. But for now, I don't see why at least one of us can't have fun. Thanks for letting me know anyway. Is that all for now? I have a rather pressing appointment with an electric razor."

Marcelo seemed to catch on to what she meant rather quickly.

"Oh, for your...uh…yeah…" he trailed off, sounding like all the happiness and energy had been sucked out, the moment he'd been reminded of where she was. "I am sorry, Miss B."

C.C. shook her head a little, like she might've done if he'd been there in the room.

"Don't be; it's been a long time coming, really," she said, not really bearing the thought of leaving him down. "Anyway, I'll either see or talk to you when I can. Bye for now, Marcelo."

After the doorman had bid her farewell, she hung up the phone. But, while turning back towards Cameron and trying to forget what the man had said, the thing rang again.

Marcelo had probably forgotten to tell her something. As long as it wasn't more about...what he'd said before...

She picked it up again anyway, just in case it was actually important.

"Hello?"

But she didn't hear the voice of the doorman come back to her. In fact, she didn't hear anything. Apart from, maybe, some distant shuffling down the other end of the phone.

She tried again, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

But after a few more seconds, the line went dead. The other person had hung up.

C.C. stared at the phone for a moment, thinking the whole situation was odd, before she shrugged and put it back down. They probably had a wrong number and were too embarrassed to say, or something.

"Everything okay?" Cameron piped up.

"Yeah, everything's fine – wrong number," C.C. replied, now turning fully away from the phone. "Let's get down to it; the most drastic hairdo I've ever had. Apart from maybe one time, when I got locked in a basement for a while..."

Cameron laughed, coming to take the handles of her wheelchair, "Well, you understand that you've got to tell me about that now, right?"

C.C. laughed a little as the nurse wheeled her towards the bathroom, settling in as much as she could to talk about literally anything than either of the phone calls she'd just had. Maybe sharing some happy memories with Cameron would help see her through this hellish experience.

She just needed to do that for a little while. Just long enough to see her through the necessary hurt that she had been avoiding for so long.