Setting: April 1, 1998; New York City:
Decision made, Mac nodded and hurriedly left the house on an unspoken errand. Claire gave Stella's hair another gentle stroke before standing and heading for the door. "I'm going downstairs for a moment. Keep an eye on her?" She needed to figure out what supplies they had and to unpack them.
Johnny slipped to Stella's bed and sank down beside her hip. He frowned softly at his long-time friend, watching as she hugged herself. The bedraggled brunette occasionally whimpered as she rocked back and forth, her hip brushing Johnny's leg with every movement.
Pain laced through Stella's entire body, sending spasms through her muscles and a bone-deep aching tearing at her joints and legs. She knew the painful, dangerous process of withdrawal, the long tapering off the drug and then off the secondary drugs. Second guesses roiled up from her racing, confused brain. Maybe she could ask to go to the hospital? Was keeping her condition from her boss the sanest thing to do? What if this back-fired? Pain warred with logic and logic was quickly losing.
With a sob, tears leaking unchecked down her dirty pale cheeks, Stella unclasped one arm from her middle and reached out to grab Johnny's arm with shaking fingers. "Johnny? Why'd they leave? Is this really cold turkey? How is this keeping me from getting out?" She shook her head, trying desperately to distract herself from the pain and building nausea.
As he turned sympathetic blue eyes to meet confused green ones, the redhead smiled gently and slipped his strong hand over her weak one. His voice soothed as he replied, "Mac and Claire are getting supplies to help with the symptoms. I'm here to make sure you don't leave, Stel. You feeling bad already?" Johnny carefully began untangling her clumped hair with one gentle hand, the other still laying over Stella's.
Stella half choked on her responding laugh. "God, yes, Johnny! I've been feeling like hell for two days. It's getting so I can't think straight, and my body's trying to rip itself apart. It's the only reason I stopped them, you know? So I could get some money and get a hit."
The sound of footsteps on the attic stairs interrupted the brief admission and both turned towards the door.
Mac pushed sedately into the room and strode to Stella's side. "That was quicker than I thought," he murmured, not clarifying what he meant. Rather, he held out a small paper bag to Stella, his expression neutral, his eyes unwavering.
Licking her lips, Stella reached over and took the bag, wiping her other sleeve across her nose. "What's this?" Without waiting, she opened it and stared, stunned, at the lighter, spoon, and foil pack inside. "What the hell!" Shock coursed through the narcotics officer as she saw the very familiar paraphernalia in her lap. Looking quickly at the former Chicagoan, the New York woman frowned fiercely. "I thought you were going to help me quit, not become my new supplier, Mac."
"What!" Johnny sounded just as shocked, anger coursing through his voice and stiffening his body. His hands clenched into ready fists as he narrowed his eyes on the other man.
"Actually," Mac said carefully, hands raised in a placating gesture, "this is part of the cure. Since it's going to be cold turkey, you've got to voluntarily take your last dose, with the knowledge it will be the very last time you take the drug." He kept his voice calm, his posture loose despite the raised hands, palms outward. "And, this gives us a chance to organize your supplies and activity schedule. Within a couple of weeks, you should be clean, but we'll have to work on the emotional dependency and depression as well."
A frown still on her taunt features, Stella looked to Johnny then back to Mac. Her tone came out hesitant, wary. "This makes sense so far. Keep talking."
He lowered his hands and nodded once. "We'll keep you here all summer, confined to the house or the backyard. By the fall we should have the ball rolling on cleaning the 15th as well." Mac looked to Johnny, blue eyes meeting blue. "And make a move to bust the narcs supervisor for what he's done to Starr."
"Stella."
Both men looked to her and Stella gave a shaky laugh, ending on a sob. She ignored the opening of the attic door as Claire joined them, a medium-sized box in her arms. "My name's Stella Bonasera. My cover is Starr. It's easy to remember since Stella means Star."
Claire smiled and headed to the bathroom, putting the box on the sink counter so she could start filling the medicine cabinet, drawers, and shelves there. "I've always liked the name Star, but Stella suits you much better."
With a wavery smile, Stella looked to the partially obscured woman in the other room. "I've been told I need to take another hit."
"That's right," Claire turned and smiled at Stella. "So you can know it's your last one. You need to make that decision, to help with the emotional dependency later. You need to want to quit for yourself, not just because you ran out of money temporarily. If you can make the decision, you can be confident in it later."
Johnny sighed and nodded, finally agreeing. "Fine, so Stella takes the heroin and determines it's her last. Then what? The hospital put her on a medication that took months to wean her from."
Mac shook his head. "The withdrawal goes away within a week or two, but it feels like death and hell rolled into one during the apex of the withdrawal. You need to stay hydrated, active, and busy. Even if you want to just crawl into the corner and die, you're going through mini-boot camp." A glint came to his eyes, as if he had a devilish secret. "I'm a Marine. I'll be in charge of exercise. Claire'll run KP and crying sessions."
"Boot camp?" Horror burst forth as Stella envisioned herself doing pushups in the rain as she tried not to vomit on Mac's shiny boots. In her waking nightmare, he was dressed in full camouflage complete with flak jacket and helmet.
Walking back into the room, carrying her box, Claire nodded, though she refrained from laughing at the horror on Stella's face. "Yes, basically exercise designed to work those cramps from your bones and keep your mind off withdrawal."
"You've done this before?" Johnny sounded surprised.
The former Marine nodded and turned to pull a lacy cloth from his wife's box; crystals shimmered throughout the material as the light from the waning sun ran over it. "Yes," he answered the other man. "My cousin, Keenan, was a heroin addict."
"Was?" Johnny wiped a hand over his mouth. "And, uh, what happened to him?"
Shaking the cloth out, revealing a long swatch of white lace with crystals worked into the holes, Mac nodded again. "He got clean and joined the Marines. Just after Beirut, he quit to become a musician. I haven't heard from him in years."
Relief crossed Johnny's worried face. "So he lived?"
Claire laughed softly. "Oh, yes. He was in our wedding." She walked to the window to help Mac in hanging the material, which turned out to be curtains. "So, you know what Mac and I'll be doing for you. And since Johnny's here, we'll let him handle medications. If he's serious about helping you get clean, he can administer the Nyquil and Imodium and such. Those medications will ease the symptoms without getting you addicted to something else."
The red-haired detective looked surprised but slowly nodded. "All right. I can do that. But I'll have to split my time between here and home. I'm still trying to deal with the new curve ball Laurie threw my way."
Her own problems suddenly eclipsed by worry for her friend, Stella asked, "What'd Laurie do, Johnny?"
He grinned, a self-conscious look marring his handsome features. "More like what we did together, Stella. You know we've still been together despite the divorce." At her nod, he ran a hand through his hair and laughed sheepishly. "Well, she's wants to split up and keep the kids. Sole custody." He held up his hands as if in supplication but shrugged. "I'm trying to get her to come back to me."
"Oh, Johnny," Stella murmured. She wished her mind was focusing better so she could help him. Somehow, despite her befuddled state, Stella knew Johnny and Laurie remarrying was a mistake, though Johnny was a hell of a father.
Johnny was a possessive worrier; he needed to take care of people. Laurie was too independent to let Johnny take care of her. They were wrong together from day one, but neither had seen it until too late. Johnny still didn't seem to see it. Added to that was Johnny's nymphomania, not that he'd ever hit up Stella for sex but he seemed to be more sexually driven than many women could or would handle. Stella knew that problem hadn't ended just because he became a father. Johnny needed someone far different from his ex-wife, no matter how good a friendship they still maintained. But he also needed to keep some contact with the twins. Stella's heart ached to help her friends, but she couldn't even help herself.
Wisely, Mac and Claire didn't interrupt the conversation between the old friends. Rather, they went about preparing the room for the long-term occupancy of the first person they'd met in this new city . . . a woman with a name that brought up memories of their missing daughter: Magnolia Star.
The unexpected withdrawal session might help more than Stella in the long run: Mac and Claire would be too busy taking care of their guest to brood about their loss.
Setting: April and May of 1998; New York City:
Hell became the norm for Stella.
If it wasn't the pounding headache, raging cold symptoms, or screaming, bone deep aching in her muscles, it was the daily punishment her supposed benefactors drove her through. Push ups, sit ups, running in place - - the only relief she seemed to get were the times she spent with her head in the toilet or being half drowned in the shower.
She tried every tactic she could: crying, begging, swearing . . . even threatening the three other people in her world. Nothing ended the torment. Nothing ended the driving exercises. Nothing stopped the developing military-esque routine. One day Mac even tied her to her bed while he sat and listened to her threatening to hunt down his parents and prevent him ever being born; half an hour later the bonds released as Stella begged forgiveness and pleaded for freedom . . . and a little something to take the damn edge off the pain.
Stella had been begging for something a bit more illegal than acetaminophen. She got the latter. Secretly, she hadn't wanted the illegal drugs anyway, but her surface mind rebelled and she went back to yelling at the former military man. He made her get up and start jogging and stretching
Setting: June of 1998; New York City:
The worst of the symptoms seemed to be over. So were the overly strong urges to take heroin to relieve the symptoms. Claire began to let their erstwhile houseguest out of the attic and downstairs, which had been almost completely unpacked.
For something to do, Stella began trading recipes with Claire and the pair found themselves in the kitchen often. When Claire couldn't be available due to work, Stella found herself invading Mac's territory: a weapons room and a sewing room, surprisingly. There, Stella learned the crystal embedded curtains had been designed and sewn by Mac. With those curtains, Stella awoke to rainbows nearly every day as sunlight poured through the crystals and across her walls and bedspread.
She knew she'd have to go back to work herself, eventually. Pretty sure her personal time had nearly run out, Stella continued to push the real world away as she lived in this safe haven of support and friendship she'd stumbled into. Johnny visited as often as he could, too, but Stella's world had rapidly changed to Claire and Mac, Mac and Claire.
Then she found the baby stuff.
The boxes had been placed, unpacked and neatly marked MaRo along the unused wall of the sewing room. Curious, Stella lifted the flap of one and found baby toys set neatly in an apparently new baby bath. She closed the flap, frowning, and turned just as Mac stopped in the doorway.
Both Stella and Mac seemed frozen for a long moment then the ex-Marine stepped into the room and said, "lunch is ready."
"What does 'MaRo' stand for?" Stella countered, her voice soft, gentle.
"Maggie's Room," Mac answered. He turned and left, Stella following with a soft frown.
Having heard the comment, Claire frowned too, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She watched her husband a long moment then turned to Stella. "We lost our daughter last year." The woman who resembled Stella so very much turned and moved into the kitchen.
Stella opened her mouth to say something but didn't really know what to say. She could sense the topic of Maggie was still fresh for the pair. Instead, she slipped into her chair at the small four-person dining table. "I'm sorry I brought up such a bad event," she finally settled on.
Mac walked over to Claire and laid a hand on her shoulder, meeting her suddenly sad eyes. He didn't turn to Stella as he said, "thank you." Then he leaned in and kissed Claire's cheek as his wife shut her eyes. The pair remained close, in mutual remembered grief, for a long moment.
Pulling out of the touching tableau, Mac turned to the stove and retrieved the pot there.
Suddenly the day went back to recent normal with Stella, Claire, and Mac sharing lunch before going back to the busy routine of odd jobs and minor discoveries that had become Stella's world.
Setting: July 4, 1998; New York City:
Laughing softly, placing the stack of napkins under a heavy bowl to prevent the wind tearing them away, Stella glanced over to mac working with the meat on the small backyard barbeque grill. She shook her head, vibrant brown curls shining in the sun and slipping luxuriously around her shoulders. "But why don't you like Valentine's Day?"
Mac gave a light shrug of one shoulder, throwing Stella a quick grin. "I don't not like it. I just don't celebrate it."
"Why?" Stella probed.
Claire, walking out the back door with a basket of condiments, chuckled throatily, her own equally brown curls lending to the resemblance between the women. "Why save up all your love for only one day? Why shouldn't we celebrate our love every day?" she countered. "It's silly that people need a holiday to express their love. What do they do the rest of the year?"
Laughing outright, Stella asked, "and I suppose you don't save up all the gifts for their birthday or Christmas? You just hand them out willy-nilly whenever you wish?"
"If I want to give a gift in the middle of August, I give it," Claire confirmed, walking over to give her husband an open bottle and a long kiss.
He smiled and raised the bottle in salute to the ladies before taking a drink. "Besides," Mac said after swallowing, "what if they need that thing right off? Would you actually save that for a special day or just give it to the person right when they need it?"
"You don't celebrate Christmas or birthdays?" Stella choked on her own drink, a non-alcoholic imitation beer like Mac's and Claire's. No one dran alcohol in deference to Stella's recovery.
"Of course we do," Claire laughed. She sank onto one of the outdoor chairs near the table and stretched her back a bit. "We don't make them into huge blow-out affairs. A gift or two and lots of personal time. And church for Christmas and Easter."
"Among other days," Mac chuckled, placing his near-beer on the small shelf of his grill.
Stella made a face, laughing. "You go to church for your birthday?"
"No," Claire laughed outright, a musical sound which drew a wide smile from her husband.
"Then how do you celebrate your birthday?" Stella challenged, enjoying the amount of love she saw between her new friends.
"I ignore it," Mac quipped, earning a light, teasing slap on the arm from his wife.
Claire shook her head and smiled at Stella, "we tend to have a private dinner and exchange a gift or two. No, in this household, you'll find the most important day of the year is today."
"That's very philosophical of you," Stella grinned.
"Not today, everyday," Mac corrected on a quick laugh. "Today, our nation's birthday."
Green eyes widening in feigned horror, Stella made her voice a gasp as she said, "oh, no! Not a . . ."
"Yup," Claire shot Stella a wide smile. "A true-blue, dyed in the wool, American patriot."
""And to celebrate our national's special day," Mac interjected, "we grill up some meat, drink some beer, and set off some rocket's red glare."
The three friends laughed merrily for a long moment.
"I miss beer," Stella finally sighed. "When will I be allowed a good adult beverage again? I'm used to wine with dinner." She looked towards Mac rather than Claire for the answer.
"When you feel ready, but don't rush it. You don't want to risk alcohol becoming your new go-to." Mac offered a gentler smile to Stella, encouragement shining in his blue eyes.
Nodding, Stella strived to keep the mood on the lighter note. She grinned widely, held up her own near-beer, and claimed, "well, on that day, I look forward to getting you drunk, Mac. Then we can see if you can tell Claire and I apart!" She raised the bottle again in salute to the woman who so resembled her.
Mac laughed heartily and shook his head. "Oh, don't worry, Stella. I don't need to be drunk to tell you two apart." He winked as the ladies caught onto his joke then joined his laughter.
A pager on Mac's belt went off and he checked it. With a sigh, he offered the spatula to his wife. "Be back when I can. Don't worry about saving me a burger."
Nodding, Claire accepted his claim with resignation. She watched her husband head into the house. Glancing at Stella, she shrugged and said, "the life of a cop, you know?"
Stella did know and merely nodded in response. The news that Mac was law enforcement was no surprise. She'd figured it out somewhere between April and May. It was a small miracle unto itself that she'd propositioned a copy and he hadn't arrested her. Instead, Mac had decided to give Stella a second chance.
She wouldn't let him down.