PART ONE: A FEAR THEY'VE NEVER KNOWN

CHAPTER FOUR

12 PHONE CALLS (2018) - continued…

4

Tina Cohen- Chang Takes A Ride

She wants children.

She wants them so hungrily that it breaks her heart.

She can feel the pressurized cracks breaking through her chest with every day that she returns to St. Francis General. But she has no choice. She is the leading physician in the Pediatric Unit, with scientific journals and accolades to frame the pristine walls of her ornate office. And yet – with every step that she takes in the direction towards her location of work, her heart breaks just a little bit more.

Hundreds.

She's delivered hundreds of babies. Boys, girls, things, its.

And with every life that she brings forth into this cruel world, she wonders just how much good she's done? It didn't take much for her to make it in Medical School. Johns Hopkins to boot after an undergrad at Rice. And she thought that at thirty-five, successful and well provided for – that she would be happy. She deserves to be happy. And yet with each year that propels her into middle age – the truths simply continue to stack in her odds. She's single, divorced. Childless and alone – but not for lack of trying; in fact – that's what obliterated her last marriage to James Huang- Jorgensen.

They met under similar pretenses. They were both undergrads at Rice University with extremely unyielding identity issues. Hers being adoption, his being multi-ethnic backgrounds and an interracial – half Chinese, half Swedish family tree with no boundaries. They were both lost in the "Asian? Not Asian Enough" category all throughout adolescence and it was comforting for Tina to finally find someone who understood.

By the time she was twenty-six she was happily married and packing up her bags for an internship at St. Francis General in Brooklyn. James followed her blindly, seeking out pro-bono work in the city. And they were happy. They cooked and ate dinner together, drank good wine. Had sex at least once a week. Until Tina turned twenty-eight and her residency was just taking off. James was stressed – he had been laid off. And with every month that passed – Tina would cry when the cramps would start. Signaling a failure she was much too accustomed with.

They had tried fertility clinics. The "It's not you, it's me debate." And their questions were never answered. She was fertile, James was exceptionally virile – "Just bad luck" they said. "Don't try so hard, it'll happen." They said. But by the time the dawn broke on Tina and James' fifth wedding anniversary, the jig was up. And the Volkswagen was packed with all of his belongings. "I'm tired of this life, Tina." He said. And without so much as a goodbye, he sped off into the distance, leaving behind a broken marriage and tea-stained divorce papers on the coffee table.

Tina's surprised she's even made it this long without him.

If anything, she's consumed herself even further into her work. Basking in her own success at the one place that she excels. Her old stutter is irrelevant here, her failures inconsequential. All that matters is her skill, and her knowledge of medicine. But it doesn't fill the void. Now, or then, it never could. It's been a grueling week. This is already her fifth delivery and it's only Wednesday. She got the call half an hour ago and assured the anxious couple that everything would be fine. But as she sits in a Taxicab stuck in traffic in the middle of Brooklyn she isn't sure that it will be.

Stop and go.
Stop and go.

Green Light.

Hoooooooooonk!

They haven't moved more than three feet, and her time is running out. Her eyes close to all of the noises around her, she rolls up her sweater sleeves, and traces the outlines of her wristwatch. She really doesn't want to be here. It suddenly hits her as she sits in traffic on her way to a delivery that she could care less about. This is not what she wants anymore. And it takes all of the resolve that she has left not to cry in the back of this Taxicab. She settles for a loud sigh, and when she calls her office at St. Francis she informs them that she won't make it. They assign Dr. Rodriguez- Losada to the patient and that's that. Another call to the Warrens and they're crying at their insanely bad luck as she instructs the wife through contractions. "You'll be fine Mrs. Warren, I promise. Dr. Rod is amazing; you're going to have the most beautiful baby girl, even if I can't make it. Alright, now breathe."

Just breathe.

She hangs up the call and deflates against the cracking leather. The cell phone feels heavy in her hands as she blinks back all of her tears and all of her shortcomings. And before she can even let the self-pity completely swallow her whole her phone is ringing again. She pinches the bridge of her nose and collects herself, positive that this is Mrs. Warren again, calling for more guidance. Only – it isn't Mrs. Warren, and when she hears the voice on the other end of the line, her blood runs cold.

"Dr. Cohen –Chang."

"Tina? This is Matt Rutherford, I'm glad I've finally reached you."

Her voice is shallow and her heart palpitates beneath her ribcage at an alarming rate. Matt Rutherford? That name suddenly brings forth images of a time long ago, a time that she's all but forgotten…until now. She breathes heavily into the receiver and has to remind herself to calm down. But how can she? When all she sees are the fading images of David Karofsky chasing her with a switchblade? The way her feet stumbled over each other in the sewers, the way her back tingled with fear while Quinn Fabray lead the way to their deathbeds. She's here, she's alive and well – and now, she remembers the promise she made when she was ten. And she remembers hoping that it would never have to be enacted. And as the light turns green and their cab passes by a gruesome accident on the shoulder, she's positive she's never felt more afraid.

"Oh G-G-God." She can hear her own voice cracking in her skull and she buries herself into the leather, it's as if she's trying to escape her sudden reality, knowing all too well that that isn't at all possible.

"Can you come?"

"Y-Y-Yes."

"Get here as soon as you can."

And the line cuts off and her phone falls to the floor beneath her feet. She breathes heavily as she catches her breath, and then she glances up past the divider, noticing for the first time that the cab driver is staring back at her curiously. She wipes at her eyes and meets his gaze – the fear wracking her body and engulfing it in waves.

"I n-n-need you to t-take m-me to JFK."

"Miss…?"

"No – no…f-first, take me to the corner of Bushwick Avenue a-and Cooper. "

The cab driver nods and as they reach the intersection he turns right headed towards Broadway. After fifteen minutes they end up in the Bushwick neighborhood in Brooklyn and Tina is grabbing her purse and her wits as the cab pulls to a steady stop in front of her modest brownstone.

"W-Wait here, I'll be right out." And suddenly she realizes that she's stuttering. How long has she been doing that? She hasn't stuttered in years. And suddenly she can feel the trips of her tongue against her teeth and she sucks in a steady breath. This can't be happening. This can't be happening.

"Lady, you're looking at $43.52 right now, if I wait I keep the clock running."

"I-I don't care….just w-wait. I'll be t-ten minutes." She grimaces at the way the words echo brokenly against her skull. She can't for the life of her stop the broken record and it makes her want to cry all over again.

The cab driver nods as she watches him pull out a pack of Pall Malls and light one as he exits the cab and leans up against the hood. She takes this as her leave and digs her keys out of her purse as she makes her way through her front door. The first thing she sees is her and James' wedding photo. Her wedding ring sits next to it, she throws it on the ground and doesn't even blink when the glass shatters all over the hardwood floor.

Screw James.

I hate my job.

I hate my life.

SCREW LIMA.

She walks to the bedroom and grabs the first suitcase she's sees, packing it with coats and shoes and jeans and blouses. She isn't even really paying attention as she fills it. She adds her toiletries next: a toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, face wash. There are things that she's forgetting she's sure, but she doesn't care. And ten minutes later she's barreling down her stone steps with a Samsonite in her hand and her purse in the other. Her eyes are wild and bright, and the cab driver pulls her bag into the trunk before climbing back into the driver's seat. She stares at the meter, it reads $61.17 now, and she couldn't give any less of a damn. She's got at least $200 in her wallet, and thousands in her bank account.

"JFK, departures." Her voice is hollow and thin. But the driver nods his head in understanding and puts the car into drive. She closes her eyes as the wheels turn beneath her and the brownstones pass by. She isn't sure that she'll see any of this ever again – and right now. She can't find a reason to care.

She hates Brooklyn.

5

Finn Hudson Takes A Flight

The smell of manure burns his nostrils in the best way.

The muscles along his back ripple and bend as he heaves his arms into the pile with a pitchfork, slinging it over his sweating shoulder onto a rusted truck bed. His brow is sweaty and his eyes sting from the burn. His shoulders are a little red and flaky on top from the long hours in the sun. But he doesn't particularly mind. His Cleveland Browns baseball cap hovers over his brown eyes, shielding them in shadow. He's been doing this for almost ten years, and he's good at it. In fact he's more than good. If he were to turn around all that he would see for miles would be fields upon fields of produce. Organic squash, beets, carrots and parsley among other things – farming has become his life – and in all fairness, his life has become farming. On any given day, if you were looking for the leading organic supplier of beets in the United States, you'd be re-located to Hudson & Rivers Food Coalition, based right outside of Fargo, North Dakota. He's not rich in any means – but he's sustained a comfortable lifestyle, both financially wise and business wise. Most of the money he accumulates in a year goes straight back into production, and he's fine with that anyway. Rivers Gordon is probably his best friend nowadays – and also his business partner. They met during their undergrad at Purdue at a frat party. And since then – they've basically gotten by on their own means. Rivers with a degree in Agriculture Economics (he's the brains), and Finn with a degree in Agriculture Production, which sounds a lot smarter than it, actually is.

And today, Rivers sits in their shared office at the base of their farmland making orders and calls nationwide for supply and production. Finn is out on the fields, assisting their farmhands with the new crops for the season. He has on a flannel button up that hangs openly over a white wife beater. The sleeves are rolled up over his dirtied forearms. And his jeans and boots scuff against the soil as he continues to haul fresh manure into one of the trucks. His father would be proud of how far he's come along – he never intended to even make it to college, let alone graduate and make something of himself. He almost wishes his dad where alive now to see. Almost. And with another heave of his shoulders he slings a fresh wave of horse dung into the carrier. Stopping briefly to catch his breath as his arms settle on the handle of the pitchfork.

He's a handsome guy. At least that's what the women tell him down at the local brewery just out of Fargo, and he's not sure if it's a widely held opinion, or just people humoring him. But nonetheless he's had his share of flings over the years. He's pushing thirty-five but he still holds some of that boyish charm. Add to the fact that he's tall and roughly built from years of amateur football and hard labor. He isn't too shabby. He's no six-pack of course, but he's also no beer belly – a nice handsome in between – and he's absolutely content with that. He brings a water bottle to his lips and takes a large swig, chilling his throat. And it's at this precise moment that Rivers Gordon pages him on his walkie. The beeping attracts his attention as he unclips it from his broad waistband.

"What's up Riv?"

"Nada mucho Hud, how's it going out there?"

"Good, I think we're making good time. We'll probably be set for the rototill by Friday, if we keep this pace."

"Sounds good. Anyway I was paging cause you've got a call. Said it's urgent. I've got it on hold for you."

"Thanks, I'll be there in ten."

The truck hums loudly as Finn revs up the old F450, making his way down the dirt pathways and past their fields. He can see the office and headquarters off in the distance and takes another swig of water as he hits the accelerator. When he arrives, he jumps down and walks into the front door, immediately exhaling at the feel of the churning A/C. He sets his walkie-talkie down in the charger base and walks into the back office, grabbing a Coors out of the mini-fridge on his way there. Rivers is sitting down at the desk in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt with boots. His desk is covered with paperwork and file work and the phone buzzes with lines. Rivers waves him over with the black telephone sitting between his neck and collarbone as he points to the back room for Finn to take his call. Finn nods and ruffles the blonde hair on Riv's head before walking to the back room of the office and taking a seat in the small chair. He picks up the phone and hits the HOLD button just as he takes his first swig of beer. He almost spits it out when he hears who's on the other end of the line.

He hasn't heard from Matt Rutherford in almost twenty-two years much less remembered him. And as he nods and grunts to the formalities taking place over the phone, too many memories are flooding back beneath his eyelids – and he doesn't like it.

"Finn? …It's Matt. Matt Rutherford." The line is silent for almost an entire minute as Finn downs his entire beer and lays his dirty hand on his forehead. Why does that name bring back so many memories? He can vividly see his ten-year-old self, still a little chubby from the baby fat and the Twinkies, building forts and biking with Noah Puckerman, Sam Evans…Quinn Fabray. He remembers things from that period in time that he'd rather not. The St. Evan's overflowing, the foul taste of sewage and decay in the air; the feel of warm mucous running down his face as Azimio Adams punches him in the gut. It all sends a cold shiver down his spine and he clears his throat.

"You there?"

"Yea, yea…I'm here."

"I'm sorry that I'm even having to call in the first place. But we need you."

"I…understand."

"The promise."

"I know…"

"Can you be here in the next couple of days?"

"Count me in."

And as the phone disconnects and Finn puts it back into its cradle he can feel his body buckling in his chair. He wants to yell and scream and take everything back. Fuck promises he made when he was no more than a kid. But then he remembers the turtle; and the house on Griffin Street. He remembers werewolves in the night, and blood in the drains. He remembers bodies floating in the St. Evans, and evil clowns with rotting pointed teeth luring him under the bed. And he realizes, that he has to go. This was never an option. And just as he begins to compose himself he can see a shadow darken the doorway to the backroom where he's seated himself. He looks up to see Rivers staring at him curiously. There's a trace of worry behind his kind eyes.

"Hey Finn, important call?"

"You could say that Riv."

"Something wrong?"

"A lot of things are wrong… look, I need a favor." And Rivers nods his head immediately; wary at the look his best friend is giving him. It makes him feel uncomfortable, and scared all at the same time – which in itself is a ridiculous notion because Finn Hudson couldn't hurt a fly. Or could he?

"Ok, Shoot."

"I have an emergency sort of. But I need to take a flight as soon as I can book one into Ohio. I'm going back home."

"Ohio? I thought you were from Indiana?"

"I grew up in Indiana, after I moved there when I was eleven. But I was born and raised in Lima, Ohio first."

"Oh, you never talk about it."

"Because up until right now…there was nothing to talk about."

"You're creeping me out, bud."

"Get in line." And Finn laughs humorlessly as he rests the dirty palms of his hands on his eyes – pressing in firmly. "Look, I don't know how long I'll be gone but I trust you Riv. We're almost done with the rotation and we've got a great team. You already know our order information, and you're our business guy anyway. But I need this. I need some time."

"Alright, alright. I've got it Finn. I'll take the reigns. And I won't ask any questions if you don't want me to…just get whatever it is that you're dealing with sorted out. I'm here for you if you need me."

"Thanks Rivers."

"You're my best friend Finn. You shouldn't even have to ask." Finn nods, before removing his Browns baseball cap to run a hand through his wild brown hair. He's in need of a haircut, but that seems almost inconsequential now.

"I'm gonna take the truck and get outta here."

"Good luck brother."

And with a swift goodbye, Finn grabs another beer out of the cooler and hops back into his truck. The gravel spews out behind him as the tires drift away from the farm. He can see Rivers watching him go from his side-mirror, he's got his hand in his pockets as he stares at Finn's departure. And Finn pushes the mirror to the side, knocking the reflection out of perspective as he drives on. His first stop: Hector International Airport. By the morning, he won't even be able to look back.

6

Mercedes Jones Takes A Standing Ovation

"I believe in you and me, I believe that we will be,

in love eternally…"

Her voice is controlled and calculated in this small jazz club. Her hands cup the microphone stand confidently as she closes her eyes, letting the keyboardist follow along behind her on the small, dimly lit stage. Her eyes close as the ascension begins in the chords, and she can feel the vibration of her vocal chords as they reverberate with a steady thrum of sound. Her eyelids are closed but she can sense all eyes on her. Captivated, enthralled. It's just another work night for her.

"You will always be the one for me, oh yes you will.

I believe in dreams again, I believe that love will never end…"

She opens her eyes now and settles on the audience huddled around the stage in small two and three-seater tables. Their eyes are glazed, and she can feel them following her voice like it's a divine ascension. She wants to laugh at their naiveté, she wants to pause the music and point at every single one of them and their foolishness. Because, they are nothing more than fools – but she sings on – enrapturing their devotion around the pad of her tongue with every syllable, every word that falls from her painted lips like a lover's caress.

"And like the river finds the sea-aaaaa,

I was lost, but now I'm fr-eeee.

Cause I believe in you and m-eeeee."

It's been fifteen years of hard, ass-kicking work, and all that Mercedes Jones has to her name is a small apartment off of Bourbon Street, and a mediocre credit score. "You'll make it in Atlanta," they told her after high school graduation. "You're voice is one of a kind, you'll get that record deal," others promised. "Baton Rouge is where the producers are," they brainwashed her. And as the months and years have ticked by, all that has been left for her is an empty sack of broken promises and dreams, and a two a night gig at Lorenzo's Jazz and Dance Club in New Orleans, Louisiana. It's a steady paycheck and a loyal audience – but she's tired. So tired, of having to sacrifice so much – for so damn little.

Her hands caress the mic stand with confidence as she switches her hips to the rhythm of the music. She's in her own world when she sings – it's otherworldly and freeing like no other thing could possibly be. But it's all she has. And she can't do this forever.

It hurts impossibly too much.

And so she rolls with the punches. She watches her audience sway with the music that she provides as they acquiesce to the continual flow of spirits. She lets them flatter her and tell her that she's meant for so much more. She knows they pity her. How could they not, when she in turn pities herself?

"Maybe I'm a fool,

To feel the way I do.

But I will play the fool forever,

Just to be with you forever."

And here is the crescendo they've all been waiting for. The note that officially classifies her in a league all her own – she can belt it like the best of them, and she can feel her chest expanding with the large intake of air. The world around her stops, and she can only feel her body – the lilt of her tongue, the heaviness of her lungs. And she knows, surely – this must be what heaven feels like. That millisecond of peace when the audience stares transfixed, assured of a divine occurrence where talent eclipses everything around them. She can feel it, and she wishes that her whole life could be spent in the beauty of a crescendo. Riding the tranquility with grace and eternal peace.

"I believe in miracles!

"And love is the miracle.

And yes, baby you're my dream come true.

I was lost, and now I'm free.

Cause I believe, I do, believe in you and me.

See, I was, lost.

Now I'm free.

Cause I believe in you,

…and me."

But all perfect things must come to an end. And as the music fades to a whisper, her reality is brought back to life as a standing round of applause reel her back in. She smiles politely, and she bows her head in "thanks." But she's secretly saddened that all of this has come to an end. A tally mark on her wall of nights spent wasting away at Lorenzo's. And she wishes she never settled in New Orleans. She walks off stage and heads towards the bar, shaking hands with awed fans and drunken applauders. She needs a stiff drink, she always does after a set – it seems to make the burn and the heartache much more bearable than it would be otherwise. Jackie is behind the counter, he smiles at her as he slides over her regular Vodka and lime – he knows her too well. She's grateful for his understanding.

"Nice song selection tonight Toyota." He knows that she hates his jokes and jabs on her name – but he does it every night. And today, she can't find it in her to chastise him for it.

"Thanks Jack." The drink is perfect for her senses. She closes her eyes as she feels it hitting her throat – chilling it and burning it all at the same time.

"By the way, you got a phone call lady. You were in the middle of your set and boss didn't want me to disturb you. Shit, you were singing Whitney, and I wouldn't have disturbed you regardless. But there's a call back number on a post-it note sitting by the phone out back, just for you babe." Mercedes nods and smiles at him before downing the rest of her drink to an ostentatious whistle by one of the other bar patrons. She winks at him suggestively before making her way to the Employee Entrance at the side of the bar – her dress sashaying behind her as she reaches the telephone in the back. The number sitting on the bulletin board looks unfamiliar but something about the area code - sends a jolt through her. There's a familiar unease settling in the fog, and for a second she can swear that she sees a visible cold mist leaving her lips as the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. But the thermostat reads a comfortable 68…and the chill doesn't seem right. She shoulders her strength despite the unease and picks up the phone, dialing the number slowly with measured pause. It picks up on the third ring – and as Mercedes stares into her reflection in the nearby window, for a split second she swears she can see a werewolf, with bloody claws and bright orange buttons down his letterman jacket coming for her. She almost screams – but when she blinks again, it's gone. And she's left with a racing heart, and a heavy soul. Because, she knows who's calling – she knows before he even says a word.

"Matt. I hoped I would never have to get this call." Her voice is shaky and her eyes dart around her periphery in fear. She's known fear like this before, and it's terrifying how easily it's managed to seep back in to the cracks, laying a firm foundation on moldings that were already there.

"You and me both Mercedes. You and me both…can you come?"

"I don't want to…but do I have a damn choice?"

"We promised." She sighs heavily as she rests her forehead against the cool wall, shutting her eyes to all of the things that are suddenly flooding from the depths. From a time that she for so long hadn't remembered – as the seconds tick by, more and more begins to float to the surface, and her fear knows no bounds.

We all float down here Mercedes. Even fat lard twats like you! I bet you float, I bet you float better than all the rest.

You fat piece of shit.

I'm coming for you…

"I'll be there."

And when the line cuts off, all she can do is sink to the floor, resting her heavy head on her knees. The tears come despite her will to keep them at bay. And she just hates New Orleans so damn much. Her mouth opens to words that can't escape, and she shakes against the concrete wall. Her ears dying out to a silence that is anything but peaceful as the outer lobby reverberates with the excitable small crowd. Their chants and cheers are nothing more than a means to an end. And Mercedes trembles, as Lima, Ohio has become her reality. She cowers to the cacophonous sounds of an "Encore" beckoning her back onto a stage where she's never belonged.

Whitney Houston's lyrics won't be able to save her now.

Not where she's going.

It's not as if they ever could.

"I will play the fool forever."