Chapter 24

Alone in this place with a lifetime to trace
And a heartbeat that tells me it's so
I've got these tears from a long time ago

It had been a long shift at the hospital and she had been looking forward to a leisurely dinner with her boyfriend and curling up on the couch to watch a movie but a multi-vehicle car accident scuppered her plans. Patrick had called her, full of apologies, as he reviewed a CAT scan. Knowing it would likely be a long surgery, he had told her that he would head to his place after and see her in the morning for breakfast.

Dragging the comb through her wet, tangled hair Robin flopped on to her bed and stared warily at the blue and white hat box perched on the nightstand. With an evening unexpectedly all to herself, she had soaked in a long bath after promising she would tackle her Nurses' Ball speech. The Ball was two weeks away and she had wanted to bring at least a draft of her speech to her support group for their feedback. Of course, she would actually need to have written a speech in order to do that.

Sighing quietly, she reached for the hat box and placed it in front of her on the bed. Her fingers played with the folded rim but she couldn't bring herself, not quite yet, to pull the lid off.

"I am NOT afraid of a box" she announced loudly to no one in particular. "Just the contents" she added sheepishly.

The box was as well traveled as she was. It had been to Yale, Paris and Rome before making it back to Port Charles. It was full of history and memories - both painful and pleasant. Patrick had encouraged her to tell the truth about being HIV+ and she wanted to - it was time. And the truth lay inside the box.

Swinging her feet to the floor, she padded out to the kitchen and retreived the bottle of Shiraz that she and Patrick had opened over dinner the night before. Pulling a glass from the cupboard, she carried it back to her bedroom. If she was going to go face to face with the truth, she might as well bring along a buffer.

After pouring a glass of wine she climbed back on the bed and curled her legs underneath her, indian-style. Having taken a fortifying sip of wine, she took hold of the box and eased the lid off. She held her breath as she peered inside. To any other person the contents were just papers - papers and photos - but to her they were bundles of emotions - fear, joy, sadness. Each paper, each photo had a story and she was central to each of them.

Closing her eyes she sunk her hand into the box and fishing around grabbed hold of a paper and pulled it out. Opening her eyes she unfolded the paper to see what part of her past she had found. She smiled wryly at the slightly discoloured paper in her hands. It was the information sheet the pharmacist had given her when she had filled her first prescription for AZT. It had been the only drug available for so long. It had been her lifeline and though she hated taking it then as much as she hated her protocol now she did her best to view it as steps towards a long life and away from death. She gave a small shake of her head as she read the possible side effects:

The commonest side-effects of AZT are nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, fatigue, weakness and muscle pain. These often occur in the early weeks of treatment. Medicines to control nausea and headache can be prescribed before starting AZT. Nausea and vomiting may also be reduced by making the following adjustments to diet:

Taking AZT before meals.
Eating many small meals during the day rather than three large ones.
Avoiding spicy food, fried foods and sweets.
Consuming more cool foods and drinks.
Drinking plenty of water, apple juice, flat ginger ale or cola.
Eating dry foods such as crackers.

Other side-effects occasionally reported from AZT include rashes, severe muscle pain and inflammation, nausea, insomnia, nail discoloration, and kidney disorders.

These toxicities are more severe and more common in people with damaged immune systems.

She had suffered with almost every one of those side effects. Her roommate at Yale had noticed the rash before she did. Small red bumps appeared on the side of her neck and covered her ear. She had hoped to avoid telling anyone at school about her status but there was just no way to separate HIV from her life. Her roommate had been kind, going so far to accompany her to the infirmary to have her rash looked at. Any time she came face to face with prejudice over HIV, any time she was made to feel diseased or untouchable, she thought back to the number of people who had simply accepted her for who she was HIV and all.

Smoothing out the paper she set it to the side and dove her hand back in the back. Her eyes misted over as she gazed at the photo in her hands. At the first Nurses' Ball after Stone's death, her uncle Mac had surprised her with a panel for the AIDS quilt in Stone's memory. He had wrapped it around her, enveloping her both in his love and support. Brenda had taken a photo of her on stage, wrapped in the rich blue velvet panel and many years later had sent it to her. So many feelings swirled around her as she continued to stare at the image. She looked so small in the picture and she realized she felt small then. Her first love had died, painfully and sadly. She had nursed him through his darkest hours and the evidence of her loss was so clear in her posture and in her eyes. She laid the photo by the information sheet and reached for her glass of wine.

It had been years since she had opened the box. The night she decided to come back to Port Charles and try to save Jason Morgan, she had pulled it from the shelf in her bedroom closet. Much like this night, she had stared at it but in the end she had carefully replaced it on the shelf, unopened. Taking a long sip from her glass, she leaned back against the pillows, stretching out her legs in front of her. Her apartment was unusually silent. Normally the television was on, the sounds of some all-news channel filling the void; or she kept her ipod on shuffle, singing along to the songs as they played. But there was something about looking back that required silence - or at least no distractions.

Setting her glass back down she swirled her hand around and pulled out another piece of paper. The weight of the paper - heavy - immediately gave away what it was. While never one to keep a daily journal she had, over the years, taken to writing down moments as they happened. Some times it was random thoughts or quotes, other times it was full essays. Inhaling sharply, she unfolded the thick cream paper.

April 2004.

I hate this. My stomach hurts all the time. I had finally reached a comfort level with my protocol when Dr. Lalonde felt the need to change up the drugs. And now I'm back at the beginning - nauseous, irritable and existing on crackers, soup and gingerale. Why does it always feel like I'm back at the beginning? Is there ever going to be a day when I just take a pill and not think about how long it will work for? Or am I going to reach the point where there are just no more pills left for me to take? Will I trade everything then to feel this nauseous and cranky? They say there is a cure coming and I believe them. There has to be a cure but whether or not it will ever come in time for me, I have no idea. It's funny, I almost never dream about dying - except when they change my meds. Then I spend weeks dreaming, worrying, wringing my hands raw.

I hate this.

Several tears spilled down her cheeks as she reread her words. Swiping at them, she tossed the paper to the side of the box. Writing was catharsis for her and she rarely, if ever, revisited what she had written. Her feelings on that paper were honest and raw and she had never expected to draw on them for anything. No one, not even Brenda, knew that she dreamt of death. It was too gruesome to explain to others and in any event, she wanted to pretend it never happened.

Taking a slow, steadying breath she reached back into the box and burst out laughing when she saw what she had retreived.

It was a fudge mocha ice cream bar wrapper. In fact, it was the wrapper from the fudge mocha ice cream bar that Patrick had brought her when she was recovering from the encephalitis outbreak. It had been a period of absolute madness as the town was hit by the virus and the hospital was filled to overflowing. Her father had reappeared from the dead, tracking the outbreak. And because of complications from her HIV, she had nearly succumbed to the virus. But Patrick refused to let her surrender to it. She had discovered long after the fact that he had nearly browbeaten every lab worker to find the antidote and when they couldn't, he screamed at them in frustration. She had thought herself silly at the time for saving the wrapper but for reasons that weren't necessarily clear to her then, she had slipped it inside the box. Now she knew that she kept the wrapper as a symbol of hope. She had stared down a potentially fatal virus and even then she knew she was beginning to fall for the annoying, egotistical and irresistible Patrick Drake.

Giggling, she added the wrapper to the growing pile.

Diving back into the box she took hold of another piece of paper. She gasped when she saw what she was holding. The corners of the paper were dog-eared and the creases were well worn from where the page had been repeatedly folded and unfolded. Her hand trembled slightly as she peeled back the page and tears sprang to her eyes as she gazed at the awkward, stilted handwriting.

It was a list. A simple list of things Stone wanted to do before he died.

swim with the dolphins
go bungee jumping
fly in an airplane
walk on stilts
watch a sunrise with Robin

Her vision was completely blurry and she quickly folded the paper and gently placed among the other items she had taken out. It wasn't necessary to read the rest of the list - she knew it by heart. The final months of Stone's life had been filled with as much happiness and love as his friends could provide him but none of that altered the outcome. And it was the outcome that fundamentally changed who she was.

Sucking in a breath she reached for the lid and shakily placed it back on the box. She had pulled out enough to give her what she needed for her speech. Dragging her fingers through her hair, her head snapped up at the sound of a key in the front door. Tightening the belt of her robe she walked quickly to the living room and did a double take as she saw Patrick come through the door.

"Hey" he smiled tiredly. He walked to her and cupping her face kissed her softly, nipping at her lips.

"Hey" she replied.

"It's okay that I used the key, right?"

Robin nibbled at his soft lips. "Of course it is. I thought you were going to sleep at your place tonight."

"I was. I went there and then I realized I couldn't sleep without you. You're kind of like the blankie I had when I was five-"

"Did you just compare me to a blanket?" she asked, chuckling.

"I think I did" he replied sheepishly. "But you are a sexy, desirable, hot blanket" he amended.

"I see" she grinned, entwining her fingers through his.

"That was really supposed to sound a whole lot better than it did."

"Why don't we just chalk it up to you being exhausted?"

"I'd appreciate that. Can we go to bed?"

"Absolutely." Taking him by the hand she started to lead him back to the bedroom but he pulled her to a stop and slid his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly as he left a trail of soft kisses on her neck. "You okay, baby?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

"Yeah - I just like kissing you."

Flopping onto the corner of the bed, he kicked off his shoes and with a heavy sigh, leaned back. It was only then that he noticed the box and the small pile of papers.

"Were you working on something?" he asked.

Robin gathered up the papers and tucked them inside an envelope, leaving it on her dresser. "Just stumbling down memory lane. I was looking up some stuff to work on my Nurses' Ball speech."

Rubbing his face, he sat up and held his hand out to her. "Are you okay?"

Taking his hand she climbed in to his lap and threaded her fingers through the fine wisps of hair at the back of his neck. "I am. I look back at some of those things and I just want to go back and tell that scared, sad 17 year old that it gets better. I want to tell her that there are plenty of tough days but there are just as many amazing days. And I want her to know that she's going to fall in love with the most incredible man."

He smiled lovingly at her while tracing the outline of her mouth with his fingertip. "Would you change anything?"

She shrugged lightly and looked over his shoulder before answering. "I guess there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't had to watch Stone die. Seeing him fade slowly, seeing him in pain and not being able to change it, feeling him slip from me - that is a pain I could do without."

The muscle in the side of his cheek twitched and his chest constricted as he listened to her. Swallowing down his feelings he trailed his fingers along her thigh, concentrating on the feel of her skin against him.

"But all in all" she continued, chalking his visible tension up to fatigue, "I wouldn't change any of it. However difficult the path has been, it brought me to you. And you make it all worthwhile."