A/N: It's been a long week (and it's only Wednesday), but I needed a break from reality to write this for a while.
I hope you enjoy.
TW: continuation of abuse discussion, grief, miscarriage, gaslighting
August 15, 1988 | Henry
Being back at the coffee shop those last few days of summer was good for him—the abruptness of Elizabeth's alarm clock going off at 6:00 for her 8 A.M. class this morning wasn't so terrible. Well, not as terrible as it could have been.
They'd agreed over the weekend that he would get up with her whenever she did, even though his earliest class each morning didn't start until nine-thirty at the earliest.
"It's going to be difficult," Elizabeth had reminded him, standing by their new-to-them kitchen table—they'd found a better one at a yard sale that morning than the plastic one they'd been using, "I know we've both held jobs and done school at the same time, but we'll also be living together now. It's just going to be a lot of change, Henry, and I need us to keep this in mind."
"I know, babe, I got it." He had replied nonchalantly, still foggy from the grief events that had unfolded so recently.
He groans a little when she rolls out of bed, moving to roll onto his side and watch her as she walks to the bathroom. After a moment, he flops one foot over the side of the bed, then another, slowly coming to a stand as he rubs his eyes and yawns. "Good morning," he murmurs, walking into the bathroom.
She's standing by the counter while brushing her hair, and he takes the opportunity to watch this magnificent scene unfold in front of him. How'd I get so lucky? He thinks to himself, watching as her strokes take her hand almost halfway down her back—her hair had gotten so long this summer.
"Good morning," she replies, looking at him briefly through the mirror, then turning her attention back to her hair. Once she finishes with that utensil, she sets it in the drawer and grabs her toothbrush, moving on to brush her teeth.
Henry just stands behind her, watching her move in the mirror. When she gives him a look, he laughs awkwardly and opens his mouth to defend himself, but then he catches a mark on her skin. "What's that from?" He asks, gesturing toward a purple and green bruise just below her elbow.
She glances at it in the mirror, then tilts her head down to look at it before continuing to brush her teeth, "Oh, it's nothing." She says, her mouth full of toothpaste.
He frowns, recognizing that tone was one that she uses whenever something is not nothing. "Babe, what happened?"
Leaning over, she spits her toothpaste into the sink and rinses it off before putting it in the cup, staying silent the entire time. She finally turns around, her body between him and the countertop, but he isn't pressing her. She leans against the counter behind her, looking him in the eyes and taking a deep breath, "It's where you grabbed me the other day, Henry." She says softly.
Before he answers, he takes a moment to stare at the bruise again. Surely not, he thinks, I couldn't have grabbed her that hard. He reaches for her fingers to move her arm, hoping to get a better look at the bruise and argue against her explanation. When his fingers move to take hers, she flinches a little and moves them away, but then quickly moves to meet his once more.
The shock of that tiny moment makes his eyes dart up, straight to hers. She had been looking down, her chin was still tilted downward, but her eyes met his shyly. "I didn't do…" his voice trails off as he tries to think of a more logical explanation, but he just shuts his eyes when she sees hers starting to tear up.
"You didn't mean it." She quickly interjects, reaching out for his shoulder as he turns away from her, walking into the bedroom.
He leans against the bed, letting out a loud sigh, "That's what my mother always said about my dad, too." He murmurs, looking down into the pattern of the blanket. His own vision starts to blur, and he blinks quickly, watching a tear fall from his eyes and stain that blanket below him.
"You didn't." Elizabeth says, and he's unsure when she got so close to him.
He moves away out of her grasp, "I—no." He whispers, shutting his eyes and turning away from her shamefully, "I told myself I'd never be like him." He continues, shaking his head and looking back at her. "This is Patrick McCord made over, Elizabeth. I'm not him. I'm not the person who hurts women. I'm not…I'm not John. I'm not Patrick. You're not my mother. You're—"
She stops him by reaching out for his hand and giving it a squeeze with both of hers, bringing it up to her mouth and pressing a kiss to it. "Henry," she says, that calm voice immediately making him feel like he could melt, "You're not Patrick. You're Henry, who, admittedly, acted a lot like Patrick that day." She explains as she's blurring in his line of sight again, "All that was playing through my head was the days after I lost my parents. Remembering how it felt to feel as though I were being ripped open and numbed all at the same time because of how much I could've said to them or how much I could've done for them. It's not just the missing the person that comes along with grief, Henry, it's all the 'what ifs' that haunt you." She says, squeezing his hand once more, "I didn't like it at first. I'm still not completely sure I can say I liked it," she says, looking down in between them, "But I let it happen. I let it because you…" She starts fumbling, trying to find the words to say.
"Because I demanded it." He finishes for her.
She shakes her head, "That's not what it felt like to me."
"It's what it was."
"No."
"Then what was it?" He asks, "What else could it have possibly been other than you doing some terrible act of submission to me? That's not what I want us to be, Elizab—"
"That's not it." She says more sternly, looking up at him again. Her eyes were getting that dark blue rim around the brighter blue, and he knows that she's getting upset with him. "I did it because I know what it's like to feel like you need to control one aspect of your life—whether that's something as tiny as being able to change a light bulb or as big as what you did to me that night." She states.
"That's not something I want to do, Elizabeth. That's not how I want to act. This," he pauses and points to her bruise on her arm, "This is not what I want to do. I never—I never imagined hurting you, and the very thought that I did…"
"Yes, you hurt me." She interjects, "And I hope you never do that again. In fact, if you do it again I don't think I'll be around after that," she warns, looking him in the eye for that statement, then looking back down and swallowing hard, "This part hurt," she says while still referring to the bruise, "I'm not happy that I let myself give in to you for that next part. Am I—do I…do I regret it?" She asks, looking up, "No. I don't." She says and shrugs, "But I can't say that I'm happy about the entire situation. All I can say is that I want it behind us, and that if you hurt me again…"
"I wouldn't want you to be with me if I hurt you again, Elizabeth. You deserve…God, you deserve someone way better than that." He murmurs, bringing his hands up and out of her grasp, covering his face with his palms for a few moments before scrubbing them downward and letting them rest on his neck. "I refuse to become my father."
"Then pay more attention, because what you've told me about him—you're becoming him." Elizabeth warns, looking at him seriously, "And I won't be with someone like that, Henry. I won't." She says, taking his wrists in a light grip and bringing them down, putting his hands on her hips before she wraps her arms around his neck. "I love you," she whispers, "Let's get ready for class."
August 15, 1988 | Elizabeth
While driving to class, something uneasy set over her—he never apologized this morning.
Had he not noticed the bruise on her arm that she now had covered with a three-quarter length sleeve, he never would've felt remorse, she thinks. Even when he did notice, all he could talk about was how he's not like his father and doesn't want to be. As she walks from her parking spot to her first class of the day, she grips onto her backpack as she thinks how different he has been this past month and how much he has acted like Patrick and even like Maureen. He's said some pretty out-of-pocket things to her aside from the whole debacle the other day.
By the time she's rounding the corner to see her building, she's fuming. Her face is red, but it's only partially from the August, Virginia heat. "Bess," Isabelle calls out from behind her somewhere.
It takes her a moment to recognize the voice because she was so deep in thought and anger, but she finally stops and turns around to see Isabelle walking at a faster pace to catch up with her. She waves at her, blocking the sun from her eyes with one hand as the other still digs into the backpack strap, "Hey," she calls out, "You've got Chem II this semester too?" She asks.
Isabelle nods as she gets closer to Elizabeth, "Yep," she says, quickly catching her breath and shooting a smile at her, "Looks like we'll be together again."
Elizabeth smiles a little, then just continues her walk into the building.
"Hey, wait," Isabelle says, following her and grabbing the door when Elizabeth lets it slam on her. "What gives?"
"I'm just—I'm in a bad mood." She answers.
"Who isn't? It's the first day of class."
"No, not that." Elizabeth says, still walking fiercely. She was going to be early if she kept going at this pace—too early even to be acceptable. It was only 7:40. "Henry and I got into a fight—kind of."
"Again?" Isabelle asks, frowning and grabbing Elizabeth's backpack to stop her from walking.
Elizabeth stops abruptly, whipping around to glare at her friend.
"We're going to be way early if you keep sprinting to class and avoiding this conversation," Isabelle says, letting her eyes drift to a bench before she walks over and sits, patting the spot beside her. "Spill."
Elizabeth groans and walks over reluctantly, plopping down and tossing her backpack between her feet as she thinks for a moment of where to start. She finally just dumps everything from start to finish—from the moment she saw Tori on the sidewalk talking to Henry outside the coffee shop to the moment right before the raunchy bits.
"Oh," Isabelle says, her eyes wide, "You're going to stop there? I listened to all that and don't even get to hear the good part?"
"Isabelle," Elizabeth says, her voice low and serious.
"Fine, fine," Isabelle says, sighing as she looks down at the floor. "Let me see the bruise." She says. Elizabeth raises her shirt sleeve with a sigh and extends her arm, and before she can speak Isabelle has gasped and is already talking, "Elizabeth Adams!" She exclaims, "I thought it was a little bruise. How hard did he grab you?"
"Hard enough." She replies, tucking her sleeve back down her arm and putting her face down in her palms as she thinks. "I don't want to be mad at him. He's gone through a lot. I can't ask him to not feel sad over the loss of a friend and the loss of someone he thought he once loved. I just don't want his sadness to hurt me, too, not in this way."
Isabelle stays quiet for long enough that it makes Elizabeth pick her head up and glance over, but she finally is starting to speak when Elizabeth is about to say something, "Have you talked to anyone about it?"
"About what?"
"This."
"About the bruise?"
"About Henry's behavior." Isabelle corrects.
"I'm talking to you now." Elizabeth shakes her head, "His mom warned me about the McCords." Her mind drifts back to that time at the McCord house when Elaine pulled her into the kitchen.
"Well, I want you to know that I'm quite proud of my boy." Elaine began "And I think he's made a pretty good choice. But I also want to tell you what this family is like."
"Henry has told me quite a bit." Elizabeth answered sheepishly.
Elaine smiled sweetly, "I'm sure he has." She answered, then shook her head, "No, I'm telling you my side of what this family is like because I know—well, I see a little bit of you in me. This family—oh, I love my family, Elizabeth, I would do anything for them in the whole world. All of them. However, people like you and me, they like to run over us sometimes. I let it happen more than I should, maybe, especially with Patrick," she said, shaking her head.
Elizabeth had thought of all the times over spring break that she'd heard Patrick raise his voice at her for no reason, or even the times that Henry had mentioned when things got a little out of hand. "You're not saying Henry would ever…"
"Oh! Henry rarely raises his voice. He is still a McCord, but Henry has some kind of calmness about him. I like to think he got that from me. I'm not saying anything of the sort. I'm saying if you are going to be in this family, a true part of this entire family, that you'll have to stick up for yourself sometimes."
Elizabeth frowned, "I'm no pushover, Mrs. Elaine."
"I don't believe you are." Elaine answered, "No, I believe that, from what I've observed and from the little bit Henry has told me, that you would do anything to keep this family happy. Is that right?"
Elizabeth had thought for a moment, "Well, maybe you're a little right, yes."
She wants to throw up at the fact that Elaine had literally warned her about the McCord family, but Elizabeth had been naïve enough to think it somehow just skipped Henry. This wasn't how genetics worked, she knew that. She had enough scientific knowledge to know that. Aside from genetics, that's what Henry grew up with—that's how he always saw women treated. Even if somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it's wrong, it's still not something that he can necessarily just avoid absorbing. She quickly fills Isabelle in on the exchange with his mom all those months ago, and she laughs sadly, "That's exactly what I was doing that night, Isabelle. I was keeping him happy. Somehow, in that twisted up way, I was keeping him happy."
"It sounds like you kept him very happy." Isabelle smarts off.
Elizabeth playfully smacks her friend's leg, letting out a sad excuse of a laugh, "That would be funny if it weren't so vulgar."
"It's my specialty." Isabelle replies.
Elizabeth sighs and looks up at the clock on the wall, knowing they should be making their way into the classroom before everyone else does. "Maybe I should talk to her about it."
"And rat her son out to her?"
"What else should I do, Isabelle? She knows how bad Patrick can get. I want to know the warning signs before it happens again."
"You think he'll do it again?"
"I never thought he'd do it in the first place." She says, twisting her lips up before standing and nodding toward the classroom, "Let's go before Brittany Johns gets our front row seats."
She'd paced around the phone for ten minutes now, holding the piece of paper in her hands all wadded up with the McCord's number on it. Henry was still in class and wouldn't be home until much later, so she had the perfect opportunity—she was just scared out of her mind to do it. She hadn't even talked to Elaine much since Easter, just that once when she called the house and asked for Henry.
Finally, she picks the phone up and actually dials the entire number. She'd gotten through most of the numbers a few times prior to that, but each time she'd hung back up before it started ringing. This time, she puts it to her ear and closes her eyes, trying to steady her breathing by settling her arm over her diaphragm, counting the breaths she was taking while it rang.
"McCord residence," Patrick answers, and Elizabeth is taken by surprise when he answers the phone.
"Oh," Elizabeth says, "Hi, Mr. McCord, this is Elizabeth. I was hoping to speak with Elaine?"
She hears the phone slip away from his face before he yells, "Elaine! Elizabeth is on the phone for you!"
It's a few more moments before she hears another line pick up and an eager Mrs. McCord on the other end, "Elizabeth? Oh, it's so good to hear from you. How are you doing? How's Henry?"
"We're alright, Mrs. McCord." She says, not sure if she can still call her Elaine after all that's happened.
"Please," Elaine says, "None of that Mrs. McCord business."
"Okay," Elizabeth says quietly, taking a deep breath and sitting down, "Do you have a minute to talk?"
"Is something wrong?"
"I just—I needed to follow up with you about something you once told me."
It takes a moment for Elaine to answer, but she finally says, "Okay, what's the matter?"
Elizabeth takes another breath and shuts her eyes, explaining the PG version of what happened with Henry and her the other day, stopping at the bruise part and not delving into what happened in the bed. "It's a Henry I'd never seen before, Elaine, and all he could do was say how much he doesn't want to be like Patrick. He never could bring himself to apologize."
A long silence was on the other end, and finally Elaine just clears her throat, "Where is he now?"
"He's in class."
"I'll be there soon."
"No!" Elizabeth almost shouts, almost jumping off the couch and straight into Pittsburgh to keep her boyfriend's mother from knowing they're living together, "No, it's okay. I don't need that much of a drastic response," she blurts, then kicks herself mentally for saying that out loud. "I mean, I don't want him to really know that I told you."
"Oh, he's going to know." Now she can tell that Elaine is fuming, "I didn't raise him like that."
"I know you didn't—"
"No, Elizabeth, I didn't raise him to be that way. I'm coming right now."
Before Elizabeth could even argue, she hears the click of the phone. Her mind goes into overdrive, first panicking over the fact that her things are in this house along with his. She jumps to her feet and rushes to the closet (why the rush? If she were logical at this point, she'd know it takes hours to get from Pittsburgh to Charlottesville, but she's not). She scoops all her clothes into her arms and throws them on the bedroom floor, scooting them underneath the bed in a panic. She takes all her bathroom things and puts them underneath the cabinet in a hurry, stuffing them in drawers and anywhere they'd fit. Thankfully she didn't have much else to her name, so she didn't have to do anything else other than sit and panic over what Elaine was going to do and how Henry was going to react.
August 15, 1988 | Henry
"Dr. Mitchell," Henry stops at the door in this long hall, seeing that it was open next to a sign that says Dr. Jonathan Mitchell, Chair of Religion Department, "Hey, I just wanted…I wanted to thank you for a really great summer class. I never got the chance to." He says, thinking back to the last few days of the summer semester when the chaos with Tori was happening. "I really enjoyed it, and I'm looking forward to this one."
"Henry McCord," Dr. Mitchell says, looking up from his notebook in front of him and smiling, "Why don't you come sit for a minute? I would like to discuss your paper on Saint Augustine."
"Oh," Henry says, walking in a little further and frowning as he sets his backpack down beside the dramatically large chair in Dr. Mitchell's office. "Was it bad?" He asks, recalling that he got an A, even with some feedback for improvement.
"Oh no," Dr. Mitchell says, closing his notebook and folding one hand on top of the other, his entire forearm resting on his desk as he stares at Henry, "This paper," he starts, then digs through his desk drawer for a moment and takes out what Henry recognizes as his own paper, "'Respecting the Imago Dei: Augustine's Teachings on Human Dignity and its Implications for Interpersonal Relationships,' such a powerful title, Mr. McCord." He says, and Henry wants to cringe a little at being called Mr. McCord like his father. "This paper must have taken a great deal of self-reflection, and if I'm being truthful, a good bit of honesty, too. Am I correct?"
Henry squirms in his seat a little and smiles sheepishly, shrugging, "I mean," he starts, shrugging once more, "It's not uncommon to face challenges in any relationship," he says, thinking back to his original thought when writing this paper: John. He had tried for so long to be a good person to John, even when it was so hard to be, and he had written this with him in mind. Now, all he can think about is Elizabeth as he thinks of his words he'd written.
Dr. Mitchell smiles a little, looking back down at Henry's paper and nodding, "If I had to guess, Mr. McCord, something was on your mind when you wrote this, no?"
Henry laughs a little and looks down at his hands that had been twiddling around too much, "Well," he says, "I actually did."
"You say that in the past tense, but I don't believe it's because you're finished with the paper. I won't pry, but Henry, I can tell something changed in you the last few weeks of the semester, and you were different in my class today." He says and closes the paper again, gently shoving it back into his desk drawer and closing it before assuming his same position—elbows up, fingers folded over one another. "If you need someone to talk to, just understand that I am here for any guidance I can give."
Henry looks down again, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath. "I'm not quite sure I've treated everyone the way I wrote about in that paper, Dr. Mitchell," he says, looking up at him and pausing, "I know Augustine's teachings require…they require a lot of self-reflection and honesty, but like you said in class, they also require the courage to do that. I don't have that courage, Dr. Mitchell." He admits quietly.
Dr. Mitchell stands and walks over to the door, shutting it quietly before walking to the window and looking out, tucking his hands into his pockets. Henry takes this moment to look around his office, seeing pictures of a woman and some children, and his heart aches. He might have ruined it all with Elizabeth. Every thought he ever had of this fairytale vision that he's seeing in Dr. Mitchell's office right now.
"The values we profess must match up to our actions, this is true." He says after a while, turning around and sitting in his chair again, taking a breath before looking at Henry, "We all have the courage somewhere in us, and it's usually being smothered by our own pride." He says, "I'm not accusing you of being a prideful person, Mr. McCord, I hardly know you. However, I know what I was like at your age, and what my sons are like at their ages—close to yours, I presume, at seventeen and nineteen. We are prideful people, and Saint Augustine considered pridefulness to be the root of all sin, if you remember from chapter three of our text." He says, "Instead, we must practice humility—and that's no easy task. It's something I still have to regularly remind myself of each and every day." He explains, his tone remaining soft and gentle, yet serious. Something that made Henry feel about two-feet tall, yet like he was being hugged at the same time.
Henry stays quiet for a few moments, absorbing all Dr. Mitchell's words, "Thank you, Dr. Mitchell," he says, "I've been going through a rough patch, but I'll keep reminding myself of that." He says genuinely, standing up and taking his bag with him before extending his hand to shake Dr. Mitchell's.
"It's been a pleasure talking with you, Mr. McCord." Dr. Mitchell says, standing and shaking his hand.
When Henry arrives at home, Elizabeth meets him in the driveway. She looks incredibly frazzled, and he thinks the worst has happened, "Please don't tell me the roof is leaking or something like that."
"Worse," Elizabeth breathes, swallowing hard while she stands next to his truck, "I may have told your—oh, there she is."
"You what?" Henry asks, then looks in the direction she was looking and sees his mom's hatchback rolling its way up the street. "Oh—Elizabeth."
"I didn't tell her we were living together. I just told her what had happened because I wanted advice."
"Advice?" Henry asks, trying to not get angry. He lets his head fall back as he sighs, "Okay, fine, I deserved that." He breathes, thinking of the humility aspect of what Dr. Mitchell had just reminded him of. "If she kills me, I'm blaming you."
Elizabeth shakes her head, stepping away, "She's not going to kill you," she says, "She'll let me do that."
Henry stares at her for a moment, then realizes she's serious. He opens the door and greets his mom as she's walking up the drive, talking to her as if nothing were wrong, "Mom!" He says happily, "And to what do I owe the surprise?"
"Oh, you know good and well, Henry James McCord." Elaine says, grabbing her suitcase from the backseat of the car and slamming the door shut.
Elizabeth had decided to just leave after greeting Elaine—she wanted Henry and his mom to be able to talk privately. But really, Henry was afraid his mother really might kill him if Elizabeth left, so he had been fearful the entire time after Elizabeth had driven away.
"So," Elaine says, plopping herself down on the couch and looking around briefly. She'd already told Henry that it was a nice place, but the tone of her voice said she was saying it just so she wouldn't immediately have to start yelling at him.
"Let's just get it over with." Henry says, sitting down on the lawn chair.
She glares at him, "Oh, you want to just 'get it over with?'" She asks mockingly, leaning forward and leaning onto her knees with her elbows, "That's not how this is going to work, Henry."
"Mom," Henry breathes.
"No," she says, "I raised you better than to become Patrick McCord made over." She hisses, "I raised you better than to ever hurt anyone, especially a woman. I set aside the fact that you'd be hurting people in the military when you joined the ROTC. I compartmentalized for that and that only because I knew, somehow and some way, it keeps our country safe. I can't think too hard about it or my conscience eats away at me." She continues, "But to hurt a woman? I never, ever imagined you doing that." She says, "I am so disappointed in you, and I hope you know I genuinely mean that." She declares, her voice dropping to a dangerously quiet tone.
He always preferred her yelling at him much more than this quiet voice.
"I told Elizabeth when we first met that you weren't that much like Patrick. She caught on quick, that one. She knew pretty quick into this relationship that your father—that he's not a nice man. He has good qualities, and he's good to some people, but he's not great to all people." She says, "And you of all people know that. As much as I tried to shield you kids from it, I know you and Maureen always heard the worst of it!" She says, raising her voice briefly. "I know you and Maureen were old enough to see the bruises on my arm and the bruises I'd try to cover up on my face whenever your father had a 'bad night.'" She says, "I know you know what I went through, even if you don't know all of it. So why, Henry? Why would you ever?"
Henry's looking down at his hands now, his eyes filled with tears as some of them escape onto his skin and onto the floor, "I don't know." He whispers, "I really don't. It's not some stupid excuse or copout, I truly don't know." He admits.
"That's not good enough, Henry," she says, "I raised you better than that. I know I did."
"Don't you know what it's like losing people?" He asks, looking up at his mom with tears streaming down his face, "Even if it's people you didn't necessarily love, it's people who I should've helped—people who—"
"You couldn't have helped them any more than you already did, Henry," she says, her voice back to being that dangerous calm, "Elizabeth told me what happened. I'm not sure I got the entire story, but I believe I got the gist, and you did everything you could. That's the Henry I raised you to be, not the one who hurts his girlfriend—or any woman, especially, for that matter—and yells at her and all those sorts of things."
"What all did she tell you?"
"Enough," Elaine replies, "Enough to know that I had either failed in raising you or that you have lost your mind." She says, "And yes, to answer your question, I do know what it's like losing people. If you remember correctly, I lost a child, and that's the worst pain I believe one can ever feel." She says solemnly, looking straight into his eyes, "Did I want to jump off a bridge? Yes. Did I want to scream at the top of my lungs at you kids and at Patrick every day for absolutely nothing? Yes. Did I want to sit on the couch while also dousing myself in fire? Yes, I did Henry, but I didn't do any of it because I couldn't. Its not who I am, and it's not who you are either." She says, standing up and folding her arms over her chest. "Grief is hard, and you haven't had much experience with it yet, but that's no excuse to act the way you did." She scolds, then walks over to him and takes his cheeks in her palms, bending over him a little, "And I'm sorry you've experienced it now, I'm sorry you got a taste of it. But losing her—losing her over something so stupid—all because you couldn't control your anger—that would be the real tragedy." She says, kissing the top of his head before walking to the kitchen and rummaging through to start dinner.