When she slips back into the room her Dad is dozing fitfully in the plastic chair next to the bed, her Moms hand gripped firmly in his. The angle he's sat at can't be comfortable and she wonders if he wants the pain, walking around the bed she snags one of the spare blankets off the window sill and wedges it between him and the chair back. She turns and walks softly over to the other side of the bed and just stops, there are so many wires and tubes, plasters, and tape.

It's horrific.

The desire to be close to her Mom wins out and she gingerly climbs up onto the bed, ignoring the fear that she will cause her pain or make things worse. She lays down against her Moms left side and angles her limbs so they are not touching the wires or putting pressure on her Moms skin. It's less than ideal or comfortable for that matter but the slight warmth radiating off her Mom means she is alive and something inside her finally stills at the fact she can feel her breathing against her hair.

Now she is close, the dried blood under her nails and in her hairline is visible and she gulps harshly pushing nausea away. Turning she moves her Moms hair away from her face and feels the grease and how limp it is, she can't help noticing the pale, slightly yellow appearance of her skin either.

She wonders if they will let her clean her up, that is something practical she can do. She wants to be useful. As a child she remembers having nasty stomach flu, she's been itchy, sweaty, and slimy. Her Mom had washed her hair in a basin right there in bed and she'd felt so loved and safe. Maybe she can return the favour.

The silence is overwhelming and oppressive, she finds herself talking just to fill it, to bring life and light back into the darkness. She talks about work, her designs, Paris, food, and Philippe. She pauses at that, waiting for the teasing knowing smile that never comes.

Please, Mommy.

Fight!

She moves her Moms hand so it is resting in her hair and its weight is grounding, something she took for granted as a child, and the tears fall again. It surprises her she has any left. She shouldn't have stayed away for so long. She's missed so much. She searches her memory for the last time they spoke properly, and it hurts at the fact it was a few snatched words as she rushed between shows. It hurts the distance. She never meant to push them away so much, it had just felt important to find her own path. To discover who she was from under the shadow of all of this. Of them. She regrets it. The pain of it burns in the back of her throat.

What if she never gets to tell her she loves her again?

She can't remember if she did the last time they spoke.

"Noodle?"

She lifts tear-stained eyes to her father's worn face. She had grown to hate that nickname and now…. she clings to it like the last threads of a life unravelling.

"Does she know I love her?"

"Oh sweetie, of course, she does. We both do."

She looks down, twisting the bed sheet between her fingers. "I'm sorry for pushing you away."

"We are so proud of you."

She watches him under her eyelashes, as he kisses her Moms hand before getting up stiffly and walking to her side of the bed. He holds out a hand and she carefully gets up, letting him pull her into a hug. "All we ever wanted is for you to be happy. No matter how far way that takes you."

She nods against his chest, "And Grandbabies."

He laughs at that, a foreign, croaking sound that feels out of place, "Well yes, your Mom loves Grandbabies."

"I know."

"But I think Stevie will have that covered."

It's quiet after that and in her father's arms, the silence seems less scary. She moves her head, so her ear is against his chest and the steady thump of his heartbeat is soothing. If he realises what she's doing, he doesn't comment and she's gratefully for that. For the chance to be a little girl again, safe in her Daddy's arms. Even for a moment.

A strange calm settles over her and in it, she finds the courage to voice her thoughts. "Do you think it would be OK if I washed her hair?"

"Hum…"

"Dad…?"

"Sorry Noodle, what did you say?"

She looks up, smiling softly "I'm going to wash Mom's hair."

"Oh?"

She shrugs, "I thought it might help. Make her feel more herself. It's silly. I'm sorry."

"No, no…. that's not…." She sees him struggling for words "I'm finding this hard. It's a good idea. She always hates when her hair is greasy."

The strength in having a purpose propels her into action and allows her to forget, no matter how briefly the reality. She gets permission from the nurse and enlists her help. It's a less than simple process as she can't move her Mom easily even with the nurse's help but it's worth it. She cleans and dry's her hair, hiding the blood from her Dad as she does. Although the glassy look is back in his eyes, she is not sure how much he is really seeing. Next are her nails, a scrub and a lick of clear nail repair polish make such a difference. She feels slightly ridiculous as she applies it, but it helps.

She is leaving the room to find Blake as she hears her Dad whisper "Thank you." She nods without turning and gulps down the tears.

Blake is more than willing to fetch clothes and toiletries for her. She figures he needs a purpose as much as she does. No matter how superficial it all is. It gives them something else to focus on. And she can't, won't, refuses to dwell on the what next. She sees it in everyone's eyes. In the hushed voices. In the worried glances. In the damn news articles. This isn't a sideshow; this is her life.