For the Awesome Ladies Ficathon. Prompt was "Martha Rodgers; there are no small parts."
The quiet of the apartment is both morose and exhilarated. The air conditioner grinds slowly and loudly, as though put-upon and determined to let her know it, while the refrigerator hums excitedly, asking a thousand questions per second, mostly pertaining to when Richard and Alexis will be home.
Martha always shakes her head when she pulls the milk out for her morning coffee or evening tea; it's only fitting that the appliances are as mildly schizophrenic (but wholly entertaining) as her son.
She's been thinking a lot about family lately, now that they're separated by geography as diverse as their personalities. Each morning, she leans against the breakfast bar and studies the photos Richard has taped to the fridge; some of him and Alexis, a photo booth four-square print of Alexis and Martha goofing off, and, intriguingly, a photo of Beckett playing softball at the annual NYPD/FDNY grudge match, Richard cheering madly in the background like it's the World Series.
This is the center of her universe. They are her sun and she's the fashionably dressed (with matching gloves and coordinated business cards, natch) moon, hovering protectively. She affects outcomes only slightly, but has been there since the beginning of time, and is ready, willing and able to pass on her hard won expertise.
The tectonic plates of her life have shifted violently, and an emotional tsunami is threatening to capsize the boat of her history - and she doesn't give a damn. She has always been an actress first and a parent next - very much like Meredith, Alexis' mother, for whom the English language has not yet invented a word to fully describe the level of ire Martha has. But moving out of Richard's apartment - away from him and her precious girl - was like acid to her soul, churning and eating her from the inside out. There was no salve for her wounds, no end to the torture until Richard's front door was in her sight line and her key was in her hand.
Then she could finally breathe, and take stock of her situation; reassess her priorities and find an epiphany with the enthusiastic help of her kitchen friends (and a bottle or two of wine.)
She doesn't want to make a name for herself. She already has a name. Martha. Mother. Gram. Mrs. R, as deemed by the boys of the 12th. That is the greatest role of her life; the triumph that garners the most acclaim and makes her proudest. It is an improvisational challenge to the fullest extent, as exhilarating as any opening night on any stage.
She is one of the leads in this story, which is an actor's dream; she gets to read the thesaurus (or the DSM IV, if it's that time of the month) cover to cover, because any emotion she chooses is the right one. She can do anything without fear of reprisal; she can go big and not go home, because here, in this moment, there are no small parts and she is in her element.