Disclaimer…I don't own anything

Author's Note…I must have rewritten this chapter at least five times before I finally got it right. Finally, something clicked. I hope you enjoyed reading as much I enjoyed writing--when I finished Shawn's part, I totally squeed. (And yes, I do love astronomy. It's just so…honestly, when we learned about it in Earth Science, I took two sets of notes; one for studying and referencing for my homework, and the other was a list of metaphors and such I could create! Don't laugh.)

"There shall be wings! If the accomplishment be not for me, 'tis for some other."

-Leonardo da Vinci

Shawn

Hilary didn't want to leave Megan, and James didn't want to leave Johanna, so, in the end, it was me who was sent to Seattle to pick up 'Allison' at the airport. From what the two have told me, they had a series of three cell-phone conversations with her, and that's how many it took for Allison to decide to come here.

As I wait in the terminal, I find myself wondering about this woman that has been raising Johanna for the past couple of years. There is this image of her in my head--she has slits for eyes; pale, gray skin with veins spreading out under it like a map; and thin hair that hangs lank around her pointed face. It strikes me that she bears an uncanny resemblance of the antagonist of the Harry Potter series I read to Megan a lifetime ago, but I cannot remember his name, and I hope this is no reflection on my personality.

Johanna has always reminded me of the asteroid belt that hangs between Jupiter, named after the Roman god who was, quite simply, the father of the set, and Mars, whose namesake is the god of fertility. The belt, lying between the two givers of life, is the destroyed remains of a planet. Millions of years ago, it was terrestrial, whole, intact. Now it is only the broken fragments of what once was, but still; it keeps on circling the sun, even though it was something in the gravitational pull that got it hurt in the first place.

But maybe for Allison, Johanna isn't the asteroid belt. Maybe she's Pluto. It has been speculated that Pluto was once a moon to a mother planet, but somehow, some catastrophic event hit it out into space. The planet never wanted it to happen, she wanted to keep her moon, she loved it, but what choice did she have?

Pluto never returned to its original home, but Johanna went back to Allison. And now, it seems, she's left. Why do I feel like I kidnapped her?

A cool voice announces that Flight 0191, coming in from New Jersey, has arrived. A welcome-wagon of about ten people, all wearing loud, Hawaiian print shirts, rush towards the small portal where the passengers will emerge from. The couple beside me roll their eyes but drift towards the door, as do the rest of the people in the terminal. I stand apart from them, though, because I am sure that Allison would rather see her boss that Hilary described to me during a rare moment of marital normalcy than myself.

Suddenly, she is before me. Although there is no logical way she could have realized who I was, it makes absolute sense that she sought me out. Some parents are interchangeable, I think, and it strikes me that the reason Johanna was able to transition back to us so fast is not because she has spent the last two years living in the past, but because the present was just a variation of it. Family, I realize, is chronic.

"Allison?" I say with a hint of questioning mingling with my tone.

She nods. "But it's easier if I'm 'Allie'. And you're…?"

"Shawn," I say promptly and privately agree that everything is easier if we're all under aliases. "Is this all your luggage?" I ask, gesturing towards densely-packed bags on either side of her.

Allie looks at them as if she forgot they ever existed, mutters an "uh-huh," and picks one up. But it's too heavy; she wobbles a bit and I hurry forward to take it from her before she collapses.

"Thanks," she says appreciatively, and I take a good look at her.

Allie has reddish-brown hair that is a little limp today, and wide eyes that I can tell change color. She wears tattered jeans, and a ratty old shirt I bet she bought when she was in college. There's not a lot of color in her cheeks, but she has a certain aura around her that I can't quite identify. Allie is slim, except for the very slight pudge in her belly that she is trying to hide with the shirt. This is obviously our first meeting, but I feel like I know her, and not through Johanna.

Finally, I realize it; this is the mental image I have of the girl from Billy Joel's Vienna.

With me holding one bag, and Allie shakily holding the other, we walk out of the airport and towards the car. As we drive to the hospital, the only place open at 7:30 in the morning, I realize the other woman she reminds me of: Hilary.

She is the Hilary from fifteen years ago, at Senior Prom, guarding a secret from herself

Call it instinct, ESP, or arrogance, I don't care, but somehow, I am sure that Allie has the exact same one.

I have never been one to beat around the bush, to avoid dramas. It's not that I'm confrontational--but why put something off until tomorrow if you can just as well do it today? Plus, I am sure that while this secret won't make an appearance for a while yet (but those months really fly by if you're still a teenager, and far from prepared, which is how I remember it), somehow, it will come to head here in good 'ole Augusta's Bridge.

"So," I say conversationally, my head heavy with the knowledge that I am losing any chance of making an ally with Allie, "when are you due?"

She doesn't bat an eye, but she doesn't look at me either. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replies evenly.

"Yeah, ok," I scoff. Maybe she hasn't been examined by a doctor yet, but she sees one every day when she looks in the mirror. And, for that matter, into the eyes of her oblivious boyfriend.

We pull into the parking lot and sit there for a little. "Listen," Allie finally says, "now's just not a good time."

"For this conversation?" I ask as she opens the door. "Or for this baby?"

Half-way out, she freezes. "I haven't even taken a test yet," she tells me slowly as she sits back down in the passenger seat, suddenly looking very small.

I smile and wrap a friendly arm around her stiff shoulders. "We are at a hospital."

She nods quietly, and wipes her eyes. "I don't want to do it alone." There is an uncomfortable silence. "The test, I mean," Allie clarifies.

This isn't exactly what I imagined we would be doing. "I'll…wait with you," I volunteer, regretting it even as the words leave my mouth.

"You don't have to."

There is a correct response to this, I know there is. If there's a wrong, there has to be a right, right? "I'll do it anyway," I try.

Apparently, this is at least a semi-correct answer, because twenty-five minutes later, I am pacing like an--haha--expectant father outside the ladies bathroom, waiting for Allie to come out. I'm never good at things like this; the entire way to the restroom, I prattled on and on about how convenient it was that the pharmacy carried home-pregnancy tests.

Allie walks out of the bathroom, carrying a thin, white stick. "You hold it," she says. "I don't want to know first." She waits a beat. "Blue if I'm pregnant. The clearer it is, the more knocked up I am."

A moment passes, and a bold, brazen line appears on the stick. "Blue if you're pregnant?" I ask, just to make sure.

She keeps her eyes trained in front of her. "Blue if I'm pregnant."

I wait a beat, and I can swear that the soft rhythm I hear is Allie's heart, thumping against her chest.

Then I congratulate her.

XXXxxxXXX

Wilson

After a grand total of seven hours of unconsciousness, Johanna has finally come to. I have always hated that saying; come to. Come to what? This world that Johanna's reentering, it's not so great. And judging from the look in her eyes when she asks what's going on, she knows it.

Johanna sits up in the hospital bed, and pulls her knees to her chest. Gingerly, she rubs the large bump that rests just above her forehead.

"You got hit with a door," I answer before she even asks.

Johanna blinks, and I can tell her thoughts are fuzzy. "A door?" she echoes.

I nod. "It swung open and bam. Right to the head," I tell her, making wild gestures with my hands in an effort to make her laugh.

"Must have been kinda funny," she says, a tinge of embarrassment creeping into her voice.

"Oh, it was very funny," I assure her. "Once we knew you were going to be ok, we laughed and we laughed."

"Oh." She pauses for a moment. "We?"

"The three of us," I lie. "Me, myself, and I."

Johanna blinks, disbelieving. "There are three of you?"

"I thought that one just wasn't enough." Maybe it's true. If there were three of me, I could be with here with Johanna, trying to make her forget all these obligations; at the airport with Allie, trying to regain the trust she surely doesn't have in me anymore; and in the past with Bryan, trying to make up for lost time.

Johanna smiles, a real, genuine smile. "I don't believe you."

She is giggling a little bit now, but I know she has caught me. I'm wrapped around her little finger and, while I could lie to the three individual women who I vowed to spend the rest of my life with, I cannot find it in me to weave tales to Johanna and let her believe them. Maybe it's because she's Bryan's daughter, maybe it's because she's Allie's daughter, maybe it's because she's better than that, but I just can't do it.

The door opens suddenly, and Shawn walks in, holding two suitcases I vaguely recognize. "Johanna, are you going to let this guy lie to you?" he asks, his voice reverberating pleasantly in the bland room.

"No," she tells him, and giggles more. "But I need help getting the truth out of him!"

"You? Need help? I don't think so!" Shawn raises a joking eyebrow, and I realize that he is different around Johanna--and Megan too, I guess--than he is around Hilary and me. It's a façade every caregiver puts on for children, even when all parties involved know the hard truth. It makes me wonder; who are we putting the show on for? The kids--or ourselves?

"I do," Johanna insists, really laughing now.

"Nah, I don't believe it."

Johanna quiets down and looks at the two bags. "Those look like the ones we have at home," she observes, and I see a dejected look flash across Shawn's face so quickly that I have to second-guess whether it was really there at all. "But I decorated them once," Johanna continues. "I painted the handle--"

"Orange?" Shawn interrupts, holding up the handle with a turtle's shell of cracked orange coating on the surface.

Allie suddenly emerges from behind him, and she only has to look at Johanna once before she pushes past Shawn and me to get to her. Although her rush is clumsy and awkward, she sits on the hospital bed very carefully, as so not to rattle Johanna, who is staring slack-jawed at her mother. "Mommy," she whispers, as if uttering the name too loudly will make her go away. But I'm guilty of this too, which is why I can only stare without saying anything.

"Honey," Allie answers. "Johanna." And I feel like I'm part of an audience, watching an oft-repeated scene in my favorite movie.

I suppose this is how I know I've changed; my favorite movie used to be Rambo, and I don't recall any mother-daughter scenes.

A half-smile creeps across Shawn's face at the image, then he gives me a brief nod and leaves, yesterday's fight forgotten.

A doctor with skin the color of coffee walks in before Allie even glances at me. "Dr. Webster!" Johanna exclaims happily.

He smiles at the three of us, not so much seeing the classic big, happy family, but more the potential for one. "How are you doing today, Johanna?" he asks with a faint Southern accent.

Unconsciously, Johanna rubs the large bump and winces at the touch. "Fine," she says untruthfully.

Dr. Webster smiles and crosses his arms. "Johanna, why do you insist on lying to me today?"

Suddenly, I realize the answer: Johanna thinks that if she's not in perfect health, then she won't be able to do the bone marrow harvest. She is partially correct; a real ailment would prevent the immunocompromised Megan from receiving the bone marrow, and some doctors--including myself--would doubt how wise it would be for Johanna to undergo such a draining procedure while recovering from a concussion. But it's not as though we have time to spare.

"James," Allie suddenly says before Johanna can answer, "can we talk? Outside?"

This is far from the time and place, but Allie has not made eye-contact with me at all, and a nagging feeling tells me that putting this off will only hinder our relationship.

Almost immediately after we are safe in the hallway, Allie hugs me, her arms meeting each other across my back. It's really only been a couple days, but it feels like a lifetime since we've last done this. I try to kiss her, but she moves her head at the last moment, so my lips only meet her hair, but for some reason; I really don't care.

When we break apart, the first thing Allie does is slap me across the face. "Don't you ever do that again. Ever."

"I won't," I promise. "Ever."

This time, I hug her and I can feel her hot tears soaking their way through my shirt and onto my skin. I can swear it's burning me.

As if alerted by a silent timer, we sit down onto the stiff orange chairs that really aren't half as close to each other as they should be.

"What are we going to do?" I ask after a few moments of comfortable silence.

It takes her a while to answer. "I don't want Johanna to do this."

"I don't either, but--"

"Let me finish," Allie cuts in, her voice as sharp and startling as a knife. "I don't want Johanna to do this. But…but what if it was the other way around? What if it was Johanna who needed bone marrow? I couldn't…I couldn't lose her, especially if there was someone who could have helped. And I know we can't go back to the way we were, especially with this new baby, but…we can still be happy, right?"

Allie waits for an answer, but she's lost me. What baby?