It's kinda short and it hasn't been edited because I've got class, but I wanted to get it up as soon as possible for you all. We're going places, peeps. Things are heating up. I can't believe some of y'all are still reading. It means the world to me to read your comments and reviews. My gratitude knows no bounds. Love.
It's the last Saturday before the holiday by the time Jane has an afternoon free to hang up the Christmas lights. She's managed to rope Frankie and Tommy into helping her as well, and they're both on their way over to the house, except, "But, maybe we should call Ryan." She bites her lip anxiously. "He said if anything changed."
"It's just a little fever, Jay. Really." Maura is laying on the couch with her detective sitting beside her. The doctor's hazel eyes are a bit glassy, not as clear as they normally are and her face is flushed.
"Maur. I don't know," she was uncertain. "Little isn't really a medical term." They haven't had to deal with something like this yet, and she isn't sure how far she's allowed to push the other woman without stepping on her toes. She doesn't want to come off as too overprotective. She's been trying her hardest not to turn into her mother.
"I promise," the smaller woman placed a comforting hand on the brunette's arm. "If it goes up anymore, we'll call Dr. Wilde."
"Well, at least let me call the guys and cancel."
"No!" the ME shook her head, pulling herself up on the couch so she could look Jane in the eye. "Christmas is in three days. The homeowner's society is going to start calling to complain if we don't have the house decorated soon."
Jane cocked an eyebrow. "They'd actually do that?"
But Maura was all seriousness. "You do not want to be on the wrong side of those women, Jane. They are insane."
"Clinically?" she can't help teasing.
"That was hyperbole. But, they will call. And then you'll be forced to deal with them."
"Me?!" her raspy voice cracked in mock terror. "Why me? You're the one who speaks their language!"
"Exactly. So I suggest you stop worrying about me, and start worrying about the lights."
"Mauraa," she's reduced to pouting.
"Jane," the doctor's voice was firm, unyielding, and the detective knew better than to try to argue with that tone. "Your mother is here. I promise that I'm fine. It's a low fever." She stared at Jane, urging her to agree, to give in.
Jane tapped her fingers against Maura's leg in thought. But it's the doorbell that breaks her out of her contemplative stare down with the other woman. "It's like freaking mind control," she muttered, glancing away and over her shoulder in the direction of the front door.
She heard Maura hum in satisfaction and whipped around to face her again.
"You tell ma immediately, immediately, if anything changes. And I'm telling her to check your temp every thirty minutes."
"Ja-"
"I'm serious, Maur. Ryan said not to take any chances, and we're not going to. I'm not going to." She forced herself to soften, bending at the waist to press a light kiss to a warm forehead. When she pulled away, she sent a small smile across the space between them. "I'm not taking any chances with you," it was a promise.
"I know," Maura murmured.
Jane nodded, pleased they'd come to some sort of agreement.
"Yo, Janie! Let's go!" Tommy shouted into the house, having let himself in.
"What's the rush?" she yelled back, still not looking away from her detective.
"He's got a hot date," her middle brother's voice teased loudly.
There was a muffled thud and a loud exclamation of pain. Jane rolled her eyes. Maura giggled. "I better go make sure they don't hurt each other. It shouldn't take us too long. Three hours, tops."
"I'll hold you to that, Detective," the other woman whispered in a decidedly wicked way. Jane felt a shiver travel throughout her. Even fevered and sick wrapped in three layers of blankets and with a ridiculous knitted cap her ma had made, Maura did things to her that no one else had ever managed to. She bit back the need to taste the other woman's skin. Now wasn't the time.
She stood quickly, resisting temptation. "You sure you'll be alright."
"Yes! Yes, go," and the other woman reached out to push her away.
"Alright," and as she strode away, she couldn't help muttering to herself, "Don't eat the apple, Jane."
"What was that?" Maura called after her.
"Nothing, dear!" she singsonged, high tailing it around the corner before Maura could grab a pillow to throw at her. "Let's go, boys!" she ordered, when she entered the front hall to find them still locked in a silent wrestling match. Frankie's face was turning purple. She punched Tommy as she passed and started pulling on her winter gear. "Let's get this done."
"Yeah. Tommy's gotta try and make himself look pretty by seven."
"You're just jealous 'cause you haven't gotten any in months."
"Jesus," she groaned. "Boys. I'm surrounded by a bunch of idiotic children."
She knew they were grinning at one another behind her back as she opened the door. So, she spun around, assuming the most threatening expression she could muster, the one she wore when interrogating the nastiest perps. She smirked internally when they both gulped. "Lights. They're in the garage. Let's go!" They scampered out the door. Yup. She still had it. She swaggered out after them, quite pleased with herself.
"No, more to the left," her brother indicated.
Jane huffed. "I thought you were supposed to know your directions by now. How old are you again?"
"Two more inches. One more. Yeah. There. Perfect," Frankie ignored her jibing.
She tacked the string in place and then leaned back to rest against the roof in relief. She glanced up at the sky, wiping a drop of sweat from her brow. It was starting to get dark. They'd been at it for almost two hours.
"How did Pop do this before we came along?" Tommy grunted at her from his place on the opposite ladder.
She gave him a shrug. "I'm pretty sure ma and pop's house was a bit smaller than this one. Less work."
"Ya think," Tommy groaned.
She gave him a sympathetic smile. This was harder than it looked. "Thanks for your help, brother. I know you probably had better things to be doing with your day off."
But his face relaxed at her words. "Nah," he disagreed. "Happy to help. Besides, Maura's house was looking a bit plain compared to all the other ones," he glanced up and down the block.
Jane grimaced. "You don't even want to know," she muttered.
"Hey! You two!" Frankie yelled up at them. They both looked down. "Stop gabbing. It's cold down here. And ma's got hot chocolate."
With an excited whoop that would have been more at home on elementary school playground, Tommy slid quickly down his ladder to land in a heap in the snow at the bottom. Jane scrambled quickly down her own to find a three steaming mugs on a tray held in her mother's arms. "Oh, thanks, Ma!" she mumbled, taking a giant gulp of the liquid. She nearly choked when it burned her tongue.
"Animals," her mother announced as her sons did the same thing.
They grinned at her with matching chocolate mustaches. Jane took another, smaller sip. "How's Maura?" she asked.
"Fine. Her temperature's holding steady. She's been resting for awhile with Jo."
"Good," Jane nodded.
"How's it going?" Frankie questioned carefully. Questions such as that are dangerous with Jane. "Third round started a week ago, right?"
She shrugged. She'd never managed to be very eloquent, especially with her family where gestures would get her just as far. "Alright, I suppose."
"Yeah?" Tommy this time.
"It's hitting her hard," she admitted. "They said her immune system could really suffer with this one. Just 'cause her body's not strong enough. You know?" It's a rhetorical question, but they all nod in understanding. She looks away, out into the street, over the snow banks around the mail box, across to Maura's neighbor's house, flashing gaily with delicate white lights. She feels Frankie's hand, hesitant, yet reassuring, come to rest on her shoulder. She let's it lay there for a moment, taking comfort in the gesture. The thank you goes unstated, but it's clearly perceived.
They don't often have moments like this. Quiet ones. Someone's always yelling or stomping around. There's always a running joke going or catastrophe brewing. It's strange to simply stand together, as a group, watching their breath appear as white fog. It's one of her favorite parts of winter. There's something affirming about seeing your own dispelled air take shape before you. It gives physical dimension to a force that is normally invisible, ever present yet forgotten about. The bite of the cold air in your lungs, the pain in your teeth when you take a deep breath, the ache in your throat. Combined with the hazy image of the gases your body expels, you're reminded with each inhale and each exhale that you are alive. It's thrilling in its own way. Average, everyday, but astounding.
Finally, she shifts. The pressure behind her eyes is growing stronger, and she needs to be distracted. Otherwise she'll end up crying in front of her brothers and her mother. That is not something she does. Not ever. She's the oldest, the strong one, and she still hasn't really learned how to accept their support without feeling slightly embarrassed. "We should," she clears her throat, "we should finish up."
"And I'll get dinner going!" her mother announced loudly, grabbing their, now empty mugs, and turning to go back inside.
"Thanks for the cocoa," Tommy said sweetly.
"You're welcome. Be careful up on those things," she eyes the ladders suspiciously. "I never was comfortable with the three of you climbing up so high."
"Ma," Frankie groaned, the bubble of tension that had come to lay over them all receding off into the frozen air like snow in the spring.
"I'm serious. I better not hear any screaming from out here. I know how you all like to mess around. Because I certainly won't be the one driving you to the hospital," she glared at each of them in turn. Tommy shifted under her stare like the mischievous boy he had once been, Frankie blushed even though she was hardly talking to him, Jane crossed her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes. "My children," her mother muttered as she turned smartly on her heel and disappeared back inside the house. "Ragamuffins."
"How does she do that," her youngest brother complained after the door had shut firmly behind her retreating figure. "I feel like I'm eleven and getting in trouble for using her nice sheets for the ghosts on Halloween."
"It's a gift," Frankie said hoarsely. "A very, very terrifying gift."
"And annoying," Jane growled.
"How do you live with her anyway, Janie?"
"She doesn't live with me. She lives in the guest house."
Tommy stared at her blankly. "Same thing."
"No. It isn't." She pushed him off the porch, laughing when he nearly fell into the snow. "Besides she didn't have anywhere else to go. You know that."
He sobers. "I know, but still..."
"Hey," she held up her hands. "You can blame Maura for that one. They're the ones who are best pals or whatever."
Frankie clapped her on the back, leading the way towards the lights still lying in plastic tubs on the ground. "It's a rough life," he sympathized sarcastically. "A rough life indeed."
"Shut up," she told him, handing over a carefully rolled string and moving the ladder to the next section of the roof. "Your turn," and she smirked as she watched him shimmy up the rickety metal contraption. "Let's go, Thomas. The sooner you get your ass up there, the sooner we can all be done. I, for one, need a beer."
"What do you think, Jo?" her voice comes out soft in the empty room. The little dog shifts against her. She looks around, taking in a blurry image of a space once so clearly defined. She can recall each detail with near-perfect accuracy: the name of each title, organized by subject on the shelves along the back wall, the pattern of the throw pillows on the chair, the delicate smattering of color in the blown glass vase over on the side table. She took such pride in decorating this room. Getting it just right. Perfect for entertaining company. For reading on a cold winter's night. With each item chosen for it's aesthetically pleasing nature as well as its well-defined purpose. Nothing wasteful. Nothing distasteful.
And it's become the perfect place for family gatherings. For watching baseball games and football games and all other -ball games. The couch is a bit more worn than it was three years ago. The carpet has a stain in its left corner where Jane spilled her pasta one Sunday. There is a scratch on the table from one of Frankie and Tommy's scuffles. The pillows are wrinkled because Jane had flopped down on them the week before and then fallen asleep. It feels lived in. Loved.
And although she cannot discern the individual details of the room any longer. She can still feel the warmth of it seeping into her skin. Some strange atmosphere that works on her emotions and mental state, soothing and calm, even as it disappears slowly from her sight. She shakes her head as if to dislodge an annoying filter that has landed across her eyes, restricting her vision. But the blurriness does not clear up. The muted colors and running patterns remain.
She blinks once. Slowly. And again. She wonders if she will ever get used to the way the tumor pressing slowly in on her brain changes her perception of the world. If she will ever feel like herself again. Because, although she has read the theorists, those who insist you reflect the world you inhabit, that humans define themselves by the environments they exist in, she did not fully understand the importance she herself placed on her own sensory interpretations of the world. And now, now that she is losing sight, one of the most feeble and yet most important senses, she feels cut apart from solid ground, as though she's been set adrift, floating free from the tether sight provided her with.
She sighs, scratching behind her couch companion's tiny ear. She is freezing and her head feels as though it might explode at any moment. That should be an exaggeration perhaps, but it doesn't feel like one. She should call for Angela, but the thought that she has to call for someone. That she is incapable of caring for herself completely still takes her surprise, still causes the flush of embarrassment to rise in her cheeks. Although, the burning sensation experienced there might be due more to her fever than anything else at this point.
"I don't know," she answers her own question from minutes earlier. Or was it hours. Time feels fluid in the space she is currently occupying. The only trustworthy representation of the passing of fourth dimension is her pulse. But that is pounding too loudly throughout her body. She can feel it in her fingertips. In her toes. It's not right, she thinks. It's too fast, or is it too slowly. Either way, time is passing her by and she has lost all control.
Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, heavy. She reaches blindly for the glass of water she knows is on a coaster on the table. Except she hits it with too much force, sending it careening off the surface to bounce on the carpeting, spilling its contents with all the joy of an item giving free reign to release its entropy on the universe. "Shit," she murmurs. The word feels foreign. She takes a deep breath, before sitting up, displacing the dog beside her, who jumps to the floor in consternation. "Sorry, Jo."
But she's focused on the feeling of the floor beneath her feet. It's as if the individual atoms have suddenly grown by the power of a thousand and she can feel them vibrating against her skin. Rolling in a million tiny earthquakes, causing her feet to slide this way and that. She stretches out to place a shaking hand on the table top as leverage, then she pushes up and forward. And for a moment, she is erect, standing balanced on the shifting and swaying of a sea of molecules, arms out to steady herself. Until even the blobs that make up her living room are drowned in an ocean of red. And everything goes black.
"Maura, honey? The other three should be in soon, but I made some soup and thought maybe you'd like so-" There is the clatter of a dish hitting the floor, following closely by its utensil. The liquid spreads quickly out across the wooden floor, soaking into the edge of the white carpeting.
"Last one!" she calls up to her brothers. "Thank God." Her nose is red with cold and her fingers feel like frozen sausages.
"Janie, can you toss me up that-"
But whatever Frankie is going to ask for is lost the sound of her mother's voice, terrified and high pitched reaches her ears from inside. "Jane! Jane! Oh, God, Jane!"
She's moving before she even registers that it's her name being uttered, streaking towards the house. Her heart beat is suddenly loud in her ears, drowning out all extraneous noise. She bounds up onto the porch, blowing through the door to come to a screeching halt in the living room entranceway.
"I-I don't know what happened." Her mother looks up at her from her position on the ground. "I was in the kitchen getting the food ready and I brought some soup, but when I came in..."
Jane isn't making sense of the words. She cannot process anything except for the sight directly before her. Maura is lying on the ground. Why? Why is she on the ground? Not on the couch. She should be on the couch. The detective thinks that she should be assessing the scene, studying every detail, making a mental note of the layout of the victim and the roo- Victim? This isn't a victim. It's Maura. Maura. On the ground.
"Maura?" her voice comes out sounding strangled. She has crossed the room, and drops to her knees beside her mother who is staring between her and the person on the floor in fear. The doctor is pale, and still, so still. Jane can see that Maura's chest is moving. In and out. In quick shallow breaths, but she doesn't trust her vision. Seeing is not believing.
"Janie?" her mother asks.
She reaches a shaking hand forward and presses two fingers to the doctor's pulse point on her neck. One, she says silently. Two. Three. Four. Thready and inconsistent, but the pulse is there.
It's only then that she notices the red liquid oozing gently from an open wound on the side of Maura's forehead to drip onto the carpet. Blood. She does not need the medical examiner's expertise on this one. Not when she can watch it pool on the doctor's clammy skin from within her. There's already a sizable amount. It will stain, she knows. And she feels the ridiculous need to apologize to the prostrate woman before her, because she knows how much Maura abhors stains on her furniture.
"Janie!" Frankie, rushing through the doorway with Tommy hot on his heels. "Janie, what - oh shit," he curses.
Time seems to slow as she reaches out to brush a slim finger along Maura's face. She's warm. Flushed. Burning up. Her ME doesn't react to her touch, long lashes still laying still against her cheeks. And then time is jumping forward, catching up with itself. And she's moving, and speaking, sending orders flying around the room. "Frankie, go start the car. Tommy, call Dr. Ryan Wilde. His card is on the fridge. Tell him we're coming in. Ma, call Constance and Richard. Have them meet us at Mass Gen." She scoops the smaller woman easily into her arms, cradling her close to her chest. Frankie has already dashed out, but Tommy and her mother are standing, staring at her. There are tears running down her mother's cheeks. She's crying. But, Jane cannot feel anything. Nothing except the heat radiating from the woman pressed tightly against her. "Tommy!" she barks. And it catapults her youngest brother into action. He jumps forward and grabs his mother's arm.
"C'mon, Ma. C'mon," he encourages, tugging her into the kitchen behind him.
"Follow behind us," Jane tells him, and he nods to her over his shoulder before he disappears from view. He does not look at the silent figure in her arms. She spun towards the front door, making her way quickly down the hall and outside.
Frankie has her car running, emitting putrid exhaust into the air. He is sitting behind the wheel, but he hops out and opens the back door for her. She slides into the seat, careful not to jostle her precious cargo. Then he slams the door behind her and gets back into the driver's seat, shifting the car into reverse and looking both ways quickly before backing out into the street.
"Mom and Tommy?"
"They'll follow us," she says shortly, staring down at the thin face below her. "Mass Gen," she directs him, and he gives a curt nod to show he's understood, before accelerating.
"Maur," she murmurs, attempting to put pressure on the bleeding wound. It isn't deep. "Maura. I've got you, sweet girl. We're gonna take care of you." She keeps up the reassuring dialogue the entire ride to the hospital. She doesn't see her brother's fearful looks in the rearview mirror. She doesn't notice when he runs all of the yellow lights. She doesn't feel the bumps in the road, except to hold the woman closer to her, protecting her.
"Wake up, love. C'mon, Maur. We're almost there. I love you. I love you. I love you."