A Kidney or Something

Chapter 11

Belle has accompanied Rumple as his date for a fancy party given by his ex-lover. It was a generally satisfying affair, with Belle being able to brush off unwelcome attentions from a previous date (with Rumple's assistance) and Rumple being able to share stories about Cora - painting her as an uncouth rube. A drunken Rumple attempts to kiss Belle once they are back at his apartment but she is able to dissuade him.

When Belle checks on her father before going to bed, she finds him unconscious. He has had another heart attack.

Her father had had another heart attack and the hospital was recommending immediate by-pass surgery. Belle signed forms and found herself sitting in an vinyl upholstered lounger in a sparse, darkened waiting room area. She dozed off.

It was James Whale, Ruby's latest ex, who came to get her sometime before dawn, waking her up. Her dad had made it through surgery and was doing as well as could be expected, but they wanted to keep him in intensive care. It would be a while before she could get in to see him. He offered her a blanket and suggested she settle in and someone would come and get her later in the morning to go in to see him. Belle settled in for the rest of the night.

She was startled awake and surprised to see Mr. Stiltskin sitting next to her.

"Wha-at time is it?" she asked confused.

"It's after nine, in the morning," he told her kindly. "I got your message and when you didn't call me with any updates, I got worried. I called your phone but you didn't answer."

"Oh, I must have turned it off," she checked the little device and nodded her head. Mr. Stiltskin was up at nine?

"So, how's he doing?" he asked her.

"He made it through surgery and is still in intensive care. He can't have visitors just yet. I know the resident who's helping on his case and I know they're doing their best."

"I'm sure they're doing everything they can," he assured her.

They sat quietly together.

"Why don't we get a little breakfast?" he asked her gently.

"Oh . . . but I'm not really hungry," she told him.

"It may be a while before you can get in to see your dad. Why don't I let the desk know that you're going to get a bite to eat in the cafeteria?"

Belle considered. She wasn't hungry but she was aware that she should eat to keep her energy up, to help her cope. She nodded numbly and allowed Rumple to lead her down to the cafeteria and help her pick out some food. He paid and joined her at one of the Formica-topped tables.

"Let me see your phone," he said, holding out his hand.

"It's turned off," she told him handing it over. She watched and he turned it on.

"You should let your friends know what's going on, at least Ruby – she can let everyone else know," he told her.

"All right." She was feeling numb.

"I'm going to call her for you," he told her and he put Ruby's number into his phone. "After you finish eating something."

"Thank you." She picked at her food. "They've already said," and for the first time, tears started to come, "they've said that he's going to need to be in some type of modified care unit – more than just the assisted living facility."

"Miss French, let me do this for you. I've already offered to help with the expenses," he said softly.

"Your mother made a similar offer, you know. She said if I could get you to talk to her, she'd pay for an upscale placement for him." Belle continued to be focused on her food and didn't notice Mr. Stiltskin pulling back.

"You talked . . . you talked . . . with my mother?" he finally asked.

Belle glanced up. "Ohhh, I'm sorry . . . yes . . . I did. She sounded so pitiable, and begged me to meet her for lunch, and I didn't know she was your mother, but after meeting her . . . Mr. Stiltskin, a lot of people complain about their parents, but . . . she's harsh."

"Did you agree to her terms?" he asked tightly.

"Oh, my goodness, no, of course not. I felt like I was being bribed, maybe bullied. I really didn't like the woman. She apologized for what she'd done – she told me she'd abandoned you when you were a toddler so she could get back the high life her family could give her – traded you for money and power – and now she felt sorry for what she had done."

"So, what did you tell her?" he asked curiously.

"That it was your decision to make and I would have nothing to do with it. She's not called back since."

Rumple picked at his own food. "So, she just wanted to apologize, you think? I figured she wanted a kidney or something. That was the only reason I could think that she'd want to see me again."

"She didn't mention any health concerns," Belle told him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have met with her without telling you, but I didn't find out she was your mother until I got to the lunch."

"I guess, no harm. I know you and I know my mother. She parlayed on your insatiable curiosity. It does seem to get you in trouble," he gave her a forgiving smile. "You just had to find out who this woman was."

Belle nodded, clearly embarrassed. "It was out of line, I know. I really am sorry and I haven't had any more contact with her."

"I'm all right about it all, Miss French."

"I take it she just left?" Belle asked.

"I don't remember her or her leaving, just this sense of missing something, something very important. It was different when my dad abandoned me – he left me with two very kind aunts who really worked hard to take good care of me. Maybe what my father did was crueler – he promised he'd come back and see me and get me and we'd be a family together again some day – but he never did come back."

"I guess I was lucky. I do remember my mother – she was wonderful. She was funny and creative and – she liked to cook and was always, always reading."

"Was it . . . was it cancer?" Rumple asked.

Belle nodded. "The biggest ogre of a disease ever. I was twelve. In some ways, I lost both my parents when she died. My dad was never the same, he never recovered and ended up drowning himself in a bottle. Her death changed him and took him away from me too."

"I'm so sorry," Rumple said – what else was there to say?

"The difference between us was I did have my parents' love. I never had any question of that. Even now, although it probably doesn't seem that way, my dad still loves me. He's just had too much going on in his own life to show it."

"I would say you've been more fortunate," Rumple told her. They quietly finished a little more of their food and went back to the waiting room.

It was four hours more before an older doctor, Doctor Avalon, came out to talk to Belle. She asked Rumple to come with her into the little consultation room.

"He's doing very well, Belle. He's a very strong man," the doctor explained. He was an older, confident man, with wire-rimmed glasses and a warm, kind smile. He suggested they call him 'Doc,' as everyone on staff usually did. He was Missions Hospital lead cardiologist.

"So, what's the long-term prognosis?" she asked.

"Depends. If he doesn't start taking care of himself . . . not so good. But if he can quit the alcohol and the cigarettes, start eating right and start getting some mild exercise, he could do very well."

"What would be the best way for him to get the help he needs?" Rumple asked.

"There are some recovery/rehab centers that would be ideal, but they're pricey."

"That's not a problem," Rumple told him.

"I'll get one of the hospital social workers to share some information." Doc turned back to Belle, "Would you like to see him? I can only give you about three minutes, you understand."

"Yes, please," Belle answered.

Rumple has a Proposal

Belle put the times of the ICU visiting hours into her phone. Rumple insisted on driving her back to his apartment, leaving her little car in the hospital parking lot. He would take her back in the evening so she could visit her dad again and she'd be able to drive herself back when she wasn't so exhausted.

In two days, her father was moved out of ICU into a regular room and the staff started talking with her about a specialized placement.

She was in the apartment, alone, when the phone rang. Distracted she answered it, "Mr. Stiltskin's residence."

"Hello Belle. How's your father?"

It was Miss Black.

"Belle?"

She hadn't said anything. She hadn't responded, her breath momentarily taken away.

She sat up. How did the woman know about her father? Belle quickly regrouped, "He's doing as well as can be expected," she answered.

She knew Mr. Stiltskin would have told her to just hang up the phone. She was under no obligation to talk with this woman.

"I'm glad to hear that. I just wanted to remind you that my offer still remains on the table. Anytime you are interested."

And the woman hung up.

The call unsettled Belle. How had this woman known? Was she having her watched? Was someone Belle knew acting as an informant?

She was still agitating over the call when Rumple came in. He saw something was bothering his pretty maid immediately.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Had her father taken a turn for the worse?

"Oh, nothing," she promptly told him, but he just stood and looked at her steadily. "It's really nothing," she repeated. He continued to stare her down. "It was your mother."

"Ah," was all he said. He poured himself a drink of red wine from the credenza and held up the glass to her. Belle hesitated only a moment before accepting it. He then poured himself another glass.

"I told you that she had offered to put my dad up in a nice facility if I would talk you into contacting her."

"And you were properly offended and told her to go fuck herself," Rumple said, then amended, "uh . . . you told her that you weren't interested."

"She called to make the offer again," Belle said.

"And now you're wondering . . . if you should take the offer?"

"I'm wondering how she knew about my father," Belle explained.

"Oh, well, that I can help you with," Rumple sat down and motioned for her to take a seat across from him. "I cannot impress upon you just how wealthy, how well-heeled and connected my mother is. She's got a butt load of money and she's played it all over town. No end of people are on her payroll, like they're on a retainer to get back with her on things that happen in my life and, now apparently, in your life."

"That's creepy," Belle was repelled.

"Well, yeah, that pretty much describes my mother," Rumple agreed. He took another sip considering something. "You know, I was just thinking . . ."

Belle was ahead of him. "No, no, don't you dare," she warned him.

"Let's think this through," he stopped her. "We could wait a few days, not too long, but not too soon and I could call her. I would let her know that you encouraged me to give her a call."

Belle was shaking her head as Rumple expounded.

"No, no," she told him. "I was wrong to have ever agreed to meet up with her. I'm so sorry and I just want out of it all."

He ignored her as a plan took form. "I could agree to meet with her and listen to whatever distorted crap she wanted to share with me and then . . . walk away. That would take care of your father and maybe, just maybe, get her to stop calling you . . . and maybe stop calling me."

"Oh, I can't let you do this," Belle told him. "I knew you didn't want to have any contact with her and now I know why. She's . . . she's . . ." Belle floundered trying to find the right word.

"Venile," Rumple told her. "Manipulative, spiteful, vengeful . . . evil. But if it gives your dad the best possible care – I can put up with her for a couple of hours. Small price to pay."

"I don't know about this," protested Belle.

"I know I had agreed to help pay for your father, but I think this is sooo much better. The woman owes me, Miss French, big time. I wouldn't object to her picking up on this responsibility. It's not like it's going to make a dent in her fortune – the woman's richer than the Queen."

"But you have to meet with her."

"Hell, have you not met any of the women I used to have sex with – Milah, Cora, Zelena? I think I'll be able to take care of myself having lunch with my mother," he promised.

Luncheon

In two days, Rumple had called his mother and agreed to a luncheon at the Red Stag, an upscale restaurant in Biltmore Village.

He recognized her instantly – an elegantly dressed woman, perfectly made up, impeccably dressed. She'd been waiting for him. He had intentionally dressed in old, torn jeans, a crumpled t-shirt, and well-worn Birkenstocks. He had neglected to shave. He slouched down in the seat across from her.

"I was concerned that you might not come," she told him softly.

"Considered blowing it off," he admitted.

"I'm so very glad you came. It's more than I deserve," she told him.

Rumple looked at his mother, taking in her appearance, her demeanor. She was a beautiful woman, even now. She easily looked twenty years younger than what he knew her age to be – likely due to the benefits of plastic surgery and high-end cosmetological care. She moved deliberately, no effort wasted. She was confident, with the confidence that comes from knowing you have enough money to buy yourself out of any crisis, up to and including murder. His first impression was that she was playing the pity card, like she actually regretted what she had done.

He didn't say anything. The waiter came and they placed their orders for wine and food.

"Your caretaker is very nice," she began, perhaps searching for a topic that was more neutral that the elephants that were squatting between them.

"She is and I would appreciate you not bothering her again," Rumple told his mother. "You know I wouldn't be here if she hadn't told me I needed to come hear you out." There, that ought to cement his mother's debt to Miss French. He'd be following up to be sure his mother kept her word.

"I'm very sorry for . . . for everything," she looked at him, tears welling in her eyes.

Rumple had to admit to some burgeoning curiosity. He remembered his father sharing that his mother was a consummate actress and could fake any feeling she needed to, but that she was really and truly devoid of feelings, at least the kinder, nurturing feelings. His father had talked about how beautiful his mother had been, but how she had been able to turn her back on both him and her infant son when money and power beckoned her back to the fold.

He'd always thought that his father was just angry at his mother for abandoning them – although Rumple knew his father certainly hadn't been any prize. The woman could have simply gotten tired of his tomcatting and the stress of having to care for an infant with no reliable income. If she'd been raised in luxury, as he had been told, then the allure of living on love alone would have soon lost its appeal, especially if there wasn't a lot of love to go around.

Watching his mother, however, Rumple began to sense other things. He heard the seductive notes of an oboe, like a snake charmer might use. The air was thick with the smell of sickly sweet perfume, like magnolias that had gone off. It was enough to make him sleepy, drugged sleepy, not tired sleepy. When she spoke, there was the high, crashing sounds of fine crystal breaking.

He knew he couldn't trust her.

"Were you just wanting to tell me you were sorry about abandoning me, leaving me in the care of my drunken, philandering father? Or was there something else?" he asked, getting right to the point.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness . . . or understanding . . . or even tolerance," she answered.

"What then?"

"I just wanted you to know how I felt. And to let you know that I've made some changes in my will. You stand to inherit a great deal of money."

"So, are you dying? I mean, can I expect a payoff any time soon?" he couldn't stop himself from asking sharply.

She gave him a slight smile. "I deserved that. Sorry, dearie, but I am in good health," she told him.

He snorted, "You know I was halfway expecting to find out that you needed some body part or something."

She smiled again and nodded. "I understand. If there is anything I can ever do . . . for you, you need only approach me. I can't make up for what I did, but I can start today with being there for you."

Rumple suppressed a shiver. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was conversing with a spider. His mother seemed so conciliatory, so kind, so friendly. Yet he didn't trust her, couldn't trust her. Their food came and he picked it over. He drank the wine – it was good wine.

"So, what all are you up to now?" he asked her.

"Just the usual family business," she evaded his question. "Tell me what are you working on."

"Usual stuff. Painting now . . . mostly," he gave her the short version. "Maybe a little music."

"Of course, I went to all of your plays, you know . . . when they were on Broadway. And I've got some of your art work. I can't imagine where your talent comes from. Not from me and certainly not from your father," she said kindly. "The music, the painting, the writing – you seem to have it all."

"It's been speculated that my difficult childhood played a role in generating my creative abilities," he said caustically. "I'm working out my issues."

She blinked.

"You look good," she told him changing the subject. "I've seen your picture in the tabloids. You've got my fashion sense even though sometimes, like now, you channel your father's sensibilities."

"Probably," he agreed.

"I would like to have a . . . speaking relationship with you," she confessed.

"You're not looking forward to Thanksgiving with all the family gathered around the table, are you?"

She shuddered and shook her head. "Not hardly . . . and neither are you. I'd like to meet with you once a week."

"Once every six months," he counter-offered.

"Every six weeks," she quickly negotiated.

"Just a luncheon?" he asked to be sure.

She nodded, "Just a luncheon," she confirmed. "Unless, of course, you ever want to meet sooner or more often."

"Not a chance," he told her, making eye contact.

She gave him a slow smile and he knew that whatever her game had been, she had just won. "This has been good. I'm pleased with how this went."

"Well, Mother, this has been real," he said. He finished his wine and left.

Belle was waiting for him when he got back to the apartment.

"How did it go?" she asked, her eyes wide with concern.

"It was cold and dark. I kept expecting her eyes to glint red - for additional arms and legs to come out of her body while a web dropped down on me and she wrapped it around me, so she could hang me up and suck out my life force later. But, I forgot - in many ways, she already did that."

Belle stood still while she listened.

"It was also very civilized - on the surface. She said she was sorry but wasn't expecting me to accept the apology. She wants to meet with me once every six weeks. And she let me know that, right now, I'm in the will."

"Do you think she'll threaten to take you out of the will if you don't do what she wants you to?" Belle asked.

"Perhaps, but she's got to know that I could give a flying fuck about her money, even though, even I would admit, it's a lot of money."

"Do you think she understands that someone would ever refuse money, especially a lot of money?" Belle asked.

"I doubt it. I don't trust my father's description of . . . well, anything, but he described her as devoid of feelings and . . . I think he was right," Rumple confessed.

"So do you think there is some hidden agenda?" Belle asked.

"Of course, there is," he agreed.

Follow Through

Miss Black had been true to her word. Belle's father had been able to find a placement in one of the nicest facilities, complete with trained staff, including specialists, once he was released from the hospital. It was probably the nicest place the man had ever lived in. Belle was able to get out to see him a few times during the first week and was satisfied that he had adjusted and was making progress. She'd come back from one of her visits and was combing out her hair when Rumple had come in bearing take-away boxes.

"Oh, how sweet. You got supper," she noticed.

"I thought you'd be too tired to cook. You've been running yourself pretty ragged."

"I have and," she paused. "Listen," she'd told him. "I'd made plans to connect with some of my girlfriends tomorrow night. I will let you know where we're going."

"I think it's a good idea for you to take an evening off," he'd answered. "And, if I know where you are going, I will solemnly swear not to show up there." He asked her more about her father and listened quietly while she shared how happy she was with his placement.

"Sounds like my mother came through," he said.

"Yes, I guess she did. I only hope the cost doesn't turn out to be too high," Belle told him.

The Following Night

Belle was excited. She had not had a chance to hang with her besties in a while. Plus, Mr. Stiltskin had paid her, so she had money. She put on one of her best floral patchwork dresses over a flouncy white slip, white lacy socks and brown round-toed shoes. She'd found a straw hat with a lace band to top things off.

"Sir, we're going to the Green Dragon," she told him, naming their usual bar.

"I hear you and I solemnly swear I will not enter, walk by or call the Green Dragon for the next twelve hours," he told her with a flourish and a bow.

She couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Thank you, sir."

It was just lovely. All of her friends and no erratic artistic genius with unpredictable behavior were be there.

He seemed all right with her going out with her girlfriends – it was when she went out with a man that he got all hyper-protective and generally obnoxious.

She and her friends shared a couple of drinks. They shared little things going on in their lives. They were having a good time, something Belle really needed to have at the moment.

Then, Mary Margaret stood up and shared that she had a special announcement. They all turned to look at her and, after taking a deep breath, she spoke.

She was getting married.

Again thx to all of you who are following this story and special thanks to: Grace5231973, Wondermorena, arynwy, Erik'sTrueAngel, and jewel415 for their kind (and insightful) remarks. -twyla

NEXT: Belle has a meltdown and Rumple steps up (and things heat up)