Joanne
The buzzing of florescent lights is the soundtrack to death. Blue-gray is the color of death. Hospitals are the harbinger of death.
Mark is really starting to hate hospitals.
He waits patiently in the ugly industrial room designed for waiting. He has a magazine because his hands, so used to carrying and fiddling with a camera, need something to do. He flips disinterestedly through the pages, squinting at the tiny text. He needs new glasses. He knows he needs new glasses. Maureen and Joanne tell him all the time that he's getting old and his eyesight is going. But he doesn't listen. He only scowls at them, which makes them laugh.
Next to him, Maureen bounces in her chair. She does not wait patiently. She heaves long exaggerated sighs, and her eyes roam restlessly around the room, touching on everything but seeing nothing.
"Mark," she says finally.
"Hmm?"
"Pookie!"
He closes the magazine and turns to face her. She is older too, but age has been kind to her. There are some lines around her eyes and mouth, and a few strands of gray through the hair she's kept long throughout the years, but when she smiles, she is forever nineteen. Mark feels old when he looks at Maureen, feels even older than when he thinks about how he needs new glasses.
She cocks her head at him. "Mark, what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Idly he wonders if he's still in love with her a little. Maybe. But probably not. "I was thinking about how old I am," he tells her.
She laughs at this, and he grins. He can still make her laugh. Then she leans in close, faux-serious, eyes crinkling with the smile she's holding back. "You are old," she whispers, "and you need new glasses."
He scowls, right on cue.
She laughs again, then cuts to the chase: "I'm bored."
"Chemotherapy takes a while. She should be out soon, though."
"This sucks, Mark."
He opens the magazine again. His hands crave movement, any movement. "I know, Maureen. It sucks a lot."
He feels his thoughts drift back to the time, so many years ago, when nobody knew where Maureen went. Back to when, before she came back, they all thought she was dead. He shivers a little at the memory.
She doesn't see the shiver and continues, "Not just the waiting-in-hospitals bullshit, but also … I mean, Joanne … " Maureen's voice teeters on the edge.
Mark gently touches her wrist. "I know."
Maureen pats the hand on her arm, as though he's the one who should be comforted. She forces a smile. "So! It's been ages since we've had a nice chat," she begins.
"I had dinner with you and Jo yesterday."
She waves away his words, as if she's swatting at flies. "Same difference." She is unflappable. She is Maureen Johnson. "Talk to me. Tell me all about your new film."
"Sure. Okay."
He sets down his magazine, ready to oblige, then smiles at something behind her. Without Mark having to say a word, Maureen twists around in her chair to see Joanne coming through the waiting room doors. Though the smile she offers them is shaky, Joanne still looks pretty good. Still tall and strong-looking. Fierce eyes. The lawyer even still has her hair, as the chemo hasn't taken it quite yet, and it shines as black as it ever has. As Maureen rushes over to cuddle and smother her long-suffering lover, Mark scratches his chin and wonders if Joanne dyes her hair. Maybe. But probably not.
Over Maureen's shoulder, Joanne catches Mark's eye and mouths the words "thank you."
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Author's Notes: Thanks for the kinds words about Roger's chapter. I've got nothing against the scenes where Roger dies in the hospital or with a confession, but it's been done a lot by others and I wanted to write something that was a little different. Next chapter is Mark's chapter.