"Mummy?"
"Win?" Robert lies awake, listening to the swish of the fan. Wally is asleep next to him, arm thrown over her face. "What's wrong?" he struggles up as the dark shape of the girl shuffles towards him.
"I had a bad dream," she sniffs.
"Oh, come 'ere," he grabs her and lifts her up onto the bed. "You wanna tell me what happened?"
"I dreamed that you and mummy were gone."
"Well we're right here," he reassures her awkwardly. "It's okay."
Wally opens an eye sleepily. "Just go to sleep Winnie. We're right here."
"Mummy I was scared."
"Nothing's gonna happen sweetheart, I promise. I'm right here." she pulls the girl down to sleep next to her, in between the two of them. "Nothing's gonna happen."
Winnie's breathing slows as she drifts back to sleep.
The fan swirls endlessly overhead, the song of an insomniac.
"She cried a lot as a baby," Wally whispers after awhile, voice a harsh gash in the silence. "I finally just started sleeping with her in the bed; it was easier than getting up a million time a night."
"Can I ask you something?"
"It's three in the morning, I'll answer anything."
"Don't get mad," he warns.
"Too fucking sleepy to get mad."
"Why'd you keep her? I mean, I can see why now, but if you'd've told me at the time you were…you had so much to do." he's never asked her before, not so forthright.
"I wasn't exactly stable, if you'll remember. And I wasn't happy with how I was living. I just…knew that I needed her. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Robert chuckles. "I can't even imagine what you looked like pregnant."
Wally mumbles something as she drifts off, arms wrapped around Winnie.
Grey light filters through early morning leaves, combining with tired streetlights to cast faint shadows beneath Bowen's feet.
She counts as she breathes. In two three four, out two three four. Robert's neighbourhood is more fun to run through in the mornings, especially now that the trees have filled out. There's a peace to running, she leaves her worries far behind, loud rap blaring through earbuds. Robert and Winnie will be waking up soon, him stirring, confused at first until he remembers through the haze of sleep where Wally goes and why Winnie is in the bed. But lately, as she's run, her chest has been feeling tighter. Inactivity, she tells herself, not enough running during the winter. It's as if her lungs cannot expand, she can only breathe shallowly no matter how hard she tries.
I fucking hate cardio.
Her phone buzzes at her hip, breaking her rhythm as she steps to a stop, collapsing on someone's front steps. Pulling out her earbuds, she can hear herself wheezing just as it did that one day in the fall. She'll wait for it to relax before going back - it would worry Robert. Instead, she grabs her phone from her waistband and flips it open, scowling at the caller-id.
"What?"
"I need money." the voice crackles over the speaker. The accent is broader than hers and slurred from an evening of drinking.
"It's only 8.30 there," she snaps (or tries too, she's still breathing in gasps), "at least wait till ten to get drunk enough to call me."
"Ungrateful bitch. You sound outta breath. Morning delight?"
"I was out running. I'm going to go back to that now."
"How's the little bastard-child? I hear you're back to dating that doctor. Always were a gold-digging slut-"
She hangs up quickly, but not before a familiar feeling of anxiety falls into her throat. It's not the usual kind, but one cultivated through childhood, through high school and her early years boarding, through Gage calling her names, and Winnie being born. Just a slut from Lake Heights.
"Fuck!" she squeaks, trying to control her heart rate and breathe deeply. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck!"
Once her breathing has calmed sometime later, she returns to the apartment.
She hears Winnie wailing through the door, and shoves it open. "It huuuuuurts!"
"I know it does, Win, just here-" Robert looks up at Bowen in distress.
"What happened?" she asks calmly, kneeling by the two of them.
"She touched the stove when I wasn't-"
"Oh, poor lovey," Bowen croons. "Let me see."
"It hurts."
"I know, Winnie. That's why we don't touch the stove, right? The stove burns." she kisses the white blister swelling on Win's fingers. "Are you a doctor or not?" she snaps at Robert. "Get some ice."
Their utopia cracks with that statement. Bowen lives with the knowledge that her father is right; he's always been right. She should have listened to him to begin with. The next few days are tense; Bowen doesn't answer questions, just breathes to quickly and sits too often with her face in her elbows, nails curling into the back of her neck. After awhile, Robert stops asking what's wrong, and gets angry.
"It's too fucking hot for this Bowen!"
"Then fucking let it go!" They're walking to Bo's flat, Winnie trailing behind, slightly confused. It's late June, and the afternoon sun is like an oven, amplifying a bad day at work and already high tensions. A patient's dead, Robert blames himself, and House is only too happy to oblige.
"Look, Bo," he says as she unlocks the door and herds Winnie inside. The light slants onto the landing where they're standing, soaking them both in sweat.
"I'm sorry about today, yeah?" she cuts him off almost nervously. "House is a c-nt, you know it wasn't your fault."
He stares down at her; she's not even looking at him, because she knows if she does, she'll see that look of surprised irritation that makes him lick his lips and restart. "Stop trying to change the subject."
She shakes her head. "I'm just…trying to help, I'm not-"
"Well why don't you try helping yourself for once, then?"
The concrete wall is simmering against her back, and she starts closer to it at his tone. A crease appears between her eyebrows, mouth opening slightly. "What do you mean?"
He scoffs, stepping back. The words that come out of his mouth maybe something like "what more can I do to convince you that I love you?" but all Bowen hears is a glowing opportunity that fuels her need to run - from the anxiety, from the guilt of her reliance on him, from wounded pride. It's built into the soles of her feet, the need to be independent, to fly away, hands gripping her kite, feet firmly on the board. But more than that, she knows when she's holding other's back, and she hates being that kind of indebted.
She never stops to think that all acrobats have a safety net.
"Maybe you should just stop, then." leaning up, she lays her cheek on his for a brief moment before dashing inside, leaving him standing, shocked in the heat.