Part One Hundred And Twenty Five
John had slept very fitfully on the Tuesday night, constantly thinking about George, and about Jo, and wanting them both to be sleeping safely and soundly beside him. But George was in hospital, attached to god knows what, and Jo was in her own house, in her own bed, likely still fuming about what he'd told her that evening. He'd had to tell her about Connie, because so much of that was tied up in why George had been so scared of losing a breast, but that hadn't made his confession to Jo any easier. She had been rightly angry with him, and she would probably have even more questions for him once she cooled down enough to think logically about it. So, when he finally rose on the Wednesday morning, it was not with a feeling of brightness and wellbeing. He felt as though he had been spread very thinly, like not enough butter on a slice of bread, and he knew that it was only going to get worse. From what Ric Griffin had said last night, George's battle had only just begun. She would have to go through the emotional trauma of a course of chemotherapy, and that was probably nothing compared to seeing what she now looked like for the first time. But what his mind kept coming back to was the question of how he was supposed to help her through it. He knew almost by instinct that she would try to push him away, not wanting him to see what she looked like, not wanting to see the revulsion that she was currently sure would appear in his eyes. Never, he vowed to himself, never would she see such a reaction from him. He loved George, and nothing, absolutely nothing was going to change that. He had managed to still love her after the fiasco with Charlie, and that was a thousand times harder to deal with than a change in her sexual attributes.
Coope was more than a little surprised to see him when he appeared before her, as she had thought he would be closeted at Warwick University for at least another week. "Judge," She said, looking up in surprise. "What're you doing here?" "Warwick is being deprived of my legendary wit and sense of humour," He told her bleakly. "Now, please could you find me the papers of the most boring trial you can lay your hands on, and bring them to my chambers?" "Of course, judge. But…" "Thank you," He said, cutting off what he knew to be a further enquiry as to his presence in London instead of Warwick. As he traversed the corridor to his chambers, he reflected that whilst a very boring and predictable trial wasn't exactly going to lighten his mood, it would give him ample thinking time, something he badly needed right now if he was going to get all three of them through the coming months.
George had slid sluggishly into consciousness on the Wednesday morning, feeling sore, tired and miserable. She didn't want to see or speak to anybody, feeling the need to slink into a hole and hide, possibly forever. She barely acknowledged Tricia's presence when she came in to check the monitors and she certainly hadn't spoken. Tricia had seemed to feel her need to be incommunicative and had simply decided that it was easier to leave her be than to try and persuade her to talk. But at around ten that morning, Ric had appeared, accompanied by Tash and Zubin. George turned her face away from them, not wanting them to see how unhappy she was. "George, how are you feeling this morning?" Ric asked, having noticed the removal of her gaze as soon as they'd entered the room. She didn't answer, she couldn't answer. If she did, the anger, tears and wracking sobs would all be torn from her without any restraint, not something she wanted any of them to witness. Seeming to take her lack of response in his stride, Ric moved towards the bed, him and Tash standing on one side, and Zubin on the other. "Do you have any objection if we take a look at the wound?" Ric asked, still getting no hint that George had even heard him. No, she thought violently, she didn't want him to touch her, let alone remove those dressings and reveal her ugliness to their penetrating eyes. "Are you not talking to us this morning?" Zubin asked her directly, but still receiving no response. "It's quite all right, Zubin," Ric intervened for her. "George will start talking again just as soon as she is ready." As Ric and Tash gently lowered the top of her gown and began removing the dressings, being especially careful not to move the chest drain, George maintained an unwavering gaze on the vase of flowers on the windowsill. But once her skin was entirely uncovered, she visibly flinched, and they were all convinced that had she been able to do so, she would have curled into the tightest ball possible, and pushed them all away with every ounce of energy she currently possessed. She gasped and tried to turn away as Ric's delicate fingers came into contact with the scar he had created yesterday. Observing her distress, Zubin took hold of her right hand, gently chafing it between the two of his. It hurt him beyond measure to see this woman, who had been so professional, so pragmatic during the Barbara Mills trial, now flinching away from their touch, and clearly unable to voice the feelings that were raging about inside her head. When Tash had put a clean dressing over the wound, and they'd covered her up, Zubin put her hand under the covers. He tried to exchange a look with George, to tell her that they were all there for her when she wanted them, but her eyes were so full of fear and emotional lifelessness that he wondered if she'd taken any notice of him at all.
When the three of them had emerged from George's room, and Ric was standing at the desk writing in her file, Tricia asked, "Did she give you lot the silent treatment as well?" "Yes," Zubin said bleakly. "Something I never would have expected to see from Mrs. Channing, but there you are." "She's just had a pretty huge emotional shock," Ric said as he wrote. "So it's hardly surprising that she wants to hide, whether that be from any one of us, or the reality of her situation. However she chooses to start dealing with it, is absolutely her decision. Do I make myself clear?" "Perfectly," Tricia replied. "But she can't stay silent for ever." "Who can't?" Came a familiar voice as Connie approached their little group. "George Channing," Zubin told her. "She's refusing to speak to any of us." "As might I if I were in her position," Said Connie smoothly, though she did have a thoughtful look on her face. "Just give her time." "However," Ric put in, taking the conversation back within his control. "In view of her little addictive quirk, I want her to be kept an eye on. I'm not taking any chances." "Only another addict would call Anorexia a little quirk," Said Zubin in disgust. "You think she might try to harm herself?" Connie asked, her look becoming extremely serious. "In this game, Connie, nothing surprises me any longer," Ric told her sombrely. "And in her case, I suspect I shall be surprised if she doesn't. So, Tricia, fifteen minute obs until I tell you otherwise." "That'll keep me busy," Tricia said ruefully. "But you're the master."
At around eleven o'clock, when Coope laid a cup of tea down on his desk, she saw that although John's gaze was focused on a page of the trial papers she had found for him, he wasn't reading a single word. His eyes were full of something she very rarely saw in him, worry, concern, and maybe even a little fear. "Are you going to tell me what's happened?" She asked without preamble. John looked up at her, as though surprised at her sudden appearance. "Sorry, Coope," He said, automatically reaching for the mug of tea. "Did you say something?" "Judge, this isn't like you," She told him gently. "You're not taking in a word of what you're reading, though with that trial I'm hardly surprised. What's happened?" John just stared back at her, not having the faintest idea of how to put this catastrophe into words. How could he tell her that one of the women he loved was currently fighting for her life? No, he mustn't start thinking like that, not yet anyway. "It's George," He told her in a slightly hoarse voice, all his emotion rising unbidden to the surface. "She's in hospital, with breast cancer." Instantly, Coope's face saddened. "Oh, Judge, I'm sorry," She said quietly. "Is that why you came back from Warwick?" "Yeah," He said a little bitterly. "Because no one thought to tell me until yesterday, or should I say that I purposefully wasn't informed until yesterday, the day of her operation." "How much did they take away?" Coope asked, seeing the all-consuming pain lurking in his eyes. "The whole of her left breast," John replied sadly. "Which isn't exactly going to help the severe lack of confidence she has in me, is it?" "How does Mrs. Mills feel about this?" Coope asked, immediately taking note of the closed expression that appeared on his face. "What's Jo got to do with anything?" He replied, knowing that he had to be careful here. "Do you think I'm stupid, Judge?" Coope asked with half a smile. "Not usually, no," He replied, still trying to mask his expression. "Then did you really expect me not to work it out?" "Work what out?" John asked, not having wanted the details of his relationship with Jo and George to be discovered by anyone he worked with. "You, Mrs. Channing, and Mrs. Mills," Coope said confidently. Then, when he didn't immediately respond, she added, "Come on, Judge, I usually know more about your women than you do." John laughed, perhaps having needed this slight emotional release all morning. Coope just smiled. "I can't keep anything from you, can I," He said ruefully. "Not often, no, you can't," She agreed with him. "I know you too well, Judge." Then, turning serious again, she said, "You're not getting anywhere with those papers, are you?" "I don't think I've taken in a single word," he admitted sheepishly. "Being here, it feels somehow wrong." "If spending time with Mrs. Channing is what you feel you should do, then do it," Coope told him matter-of-factly. "It's not as if you were expected to be here this week anyway." Knocking back the tea and getting to his feet, John said, "You're right, I shouldn't be here, I should be with George."
As he drove to the hospital, John tried to formulate what he might say to George. He wanted some answers, that was for sure, but he didn't know if this would be the right time to go seeking them. George would still be weak, still feel very vulnerable, and probably not be in the right frame of mind for his particular brand of cross-examination. Jo was in court being overseen by Monty today, or John would have sought her out to come with him. But then, if he was going to have a difficult conversation with George, he knew that Jo really shouldn't be there. When he arrived, he walked up to the ward where George was, and encountered the nurse he'd seen yesterday. "I've come to see George," He said when he approached the desk. Tricia looked up in mild concern. "How is she?" John asked, perhaps seeing something in Tricia's face to put him on the alert. "She's a bit, quiet this morning," Tricia replied, hesitating over a tactful way to describe George's complete lack of communication with any of them. "What does quiet mean?" John asked a little suspiciously. "George is refusing to speak to anyone," Tricia told him honestly. "Me, Mr. Griffin, Professor Khan, we've all tried, but she just won't talk. It's as though she's hiding from what's happened to her," She added sadly. "Can I see her?" John asked, wondering if he could help. "If anyone can get her to talk," Tricia said thoughtfully. "It'll be someone she loves. But try not to be too concerned if she doesn't. She'll come out of it when she's ready.""
As John traversed the corridor to George's room, he reflected that his questions on why she'd done what she had done would have to wait until another time. George was obviously hurting, and it was his job to try and get her through it. When he quietly pushed open the door and went into George's room, he took in the fact that the oxygen mask was gone, showing that she didn't at least need this any more. Well, any improvement was a good one, he thought as he sat down in the chair by her bed. "I'm told that you're not speaking to anyone," He said quietly, gently brushing some hair back from her face. "Care to tell me why?" When she didn't answer, but simply lay there looking at him, he realised that she wasn't about to talk to him either. He softly stroked her cheek, noticing that she definitely leaned into his touch. She craved his touch, his embrace, his reassurance, but she felt entirely unable to tell him this. "It's not a crime to be utterly terrified of this, you know," He told her. "I have been, ever since Jo told me yesterday. I can't bear the thought that I might lose you, and neither can Jo. I love you, and nothing, no matter what happens, is going to change that."" He sounded so sincere, so true in what he was saying to her, that George desperately wanted to believe him. But she couldn't, because he didn't yet know what he was really agreeing to. Turning her face away from his gentle gaze, she struggled not to cry, her throat feeling constricted from the emotions that would bury her if they were ever let loose. "Hey, don't stop looking at me," He said, gently turning her face back to meet his. "I know that you don't believe me, and that you think I won't be able to still find you attractive when I see what you look like, but until I do, I don't really know how to assure you that I will. You and Jo make my life whole, both of you make it worth living. Somehow you both manage to stop me from going completely off the rails. Well, most of the time anyway, and if I ever lost either of you, I would totally disintegrate." When her soft, warm hand reached out for his, he held it, gently running his thumb over her knuckles. This was the first sign she had exhibited that she wanted him to stay, and he took it as a good one. They sat there in companionable silence, George slightly happier to have him here with her, and John content to provide her with this type of quiet support. But she so badly wanted to be in his arms that it almost hurt to be maintaining this level of distance from him. Seeming to sense her need for him, John leaned over and rested his head on the pillow beside hers. Their noses were almost touching, and they could see deeply into each other's eyes. John wasn't at all happy with what he saw there, the lifelessness scaring him immeasurably. All George saw in his was the worry and concern he felt for her, coupled with the love and sincere and lasting affection that he had so eloquently expressed. She brought her hand up and gently ran a finger along his cheek, feeling the smooth, clean-shaven skin that she knew so well. "I feel terrible that you couldn't talk to me," He admitted to her quietly. "I've known you for nearly thirty years, George, and I know everything there is to know about you, from your occasional need to starve yourself, to what you like in bed. Despite all odds, we've successfully managed to raise a child together, no matter how hard that might have been in the beginning. You've been a part of my life since I was twenty-seven, and if there was one thing I wish you hadn't kept from me, it was this. Part of me is incredibly angry with you for leaving it so long before doing something about it, but the rest of me is saddened by the fact that after everything we've been through, you couldn't tell me about it." He knew that his words were having the desired effect, when she tried to turn her face away from him, the tears flowing silently down her cheeks. But laying a gentle hand on her cheek, he forced her to look at him. "I know that what happened with Connie hurt you immeasurably," He continued. "And I am more sorry about that than I can say." When her voice finally came, it was in a hoarse, slightly strangled whisper. "I love you," She said, not ever wanting to be parted from this man again. Her self-imposed exile from him over the last few weeks had weighed heavily upon her, because she knew that in the last couple of years, as their relationship had begun to rebuild itself, she had grown to need him in her life more and more as time went by. "I know," He said, softly kissing her. "And I love you too." When her tears had dried and she was lying quiet again, he asked, "Would you like a cup of tea?" And at her nod of acquiescence, he rose from the bed, stretched the crick in his neck and walked towards the door.
As Tricia had been bound by Ric to look in on George every quarter of an hour, she had intermittently observed this conversation, just popping her head round the door and retreating when she saw that any disturbance from her would ruin the magic the Judge was obviously working on her. But when said man appeared, and asked her where he could lay his hands on a cup of tea, she looked up at him speculatively. When she herself had gone through the trauma of losing a breast, Carlos had been frightened, both for her and himself, and had retreated from her with possibly the worst timing imaginable. But here this man was, bestowing such love and affection on the woman he loved, well, one of the women he loved, and meaning every single word of it. "She's lucky to have you," Tricia told John thoughtfully. "Very lucky indeed." "I don't always live up to her expectation," John said a little gloomily, though he appreciated the sentiment. "You try, and that's what's most important," Tricia assured him. "Is she talking yet?" "A little," John informed her. "But I wouldn't bank on getting any real response out of her at the moment. She's still extremely fragile, and that's going to take its own time to heal."