This chapter ventures slightly into the M-rating
I
"You okay?"
"Not particularly."
He loses his rhythm and lifts his head from the crook of her pale, slender neck. She is turned away, her brown eyes fixed on the panoramic view of Upper East Side Manhattan, its obnoxious midnight glow drawing her attention from him like a loud roommate impressing on his privacy. He asks, "What's wrong?"
Silence stretch out between them. He waits, hovering above her, following with his eyes the convex curve of her cheek bone down to the profile of her swollen lips. She doesn't belong here, he realizes. In a city full of hard edges, in a bedroom filled with everything shiny and synthetic, she lays beneath him, soft and organic, her vibrant red hair strewn atop his white pillowcases.
He can't help but move inside of her again, pressing his hips to hers, desperate to make up for lost time. "Donna?" He tries to sound soft despite his labored breathing.
She turns and looks into his eyes. A sharp spasm of euphoria courses through him—the very same emotion that scared him away the first time they slept together. It's that first sip of Scotch at the end of the day, a Porsche with the top down—ocean-side on the 95, a home run with the bases loaded, Harvard acceptance, the first case he ever won; it's every good feeling he's ever known and it rips through him.
He dips down and kisses her, begs with his tongue to be let in, but she pulls away, tells him, "This isn't enough."
Jerked back from the edge, her words make him feel small. He's not sure he understands. "What more do you need?" he asks.
"Does it matter?" She whispers into the darkness, words that seem to spread outside the bedroom walls and echo throughout the city. "This is all you had left to give me, Harvey, and it's not enough."
His heart skips, a slipping fault line, it quakes and cracks. That spasm of euphoria spoils like a fruit that's overripe. It rots inside of him. He doesn't know how to respond. There are sentences and syllables whirling around inside his head but they're all the wrong ones.
She slips out from under him with unreal dexterity. Like a hologram or ghost, she mists between his fingers as he tries to reach for her. "Donna, please."
He fumbles naked out of the bed and chases after her. His bedroom gives way to a long hallway, white walls and white floors. He's dressed in a full tuxedo and she's wearing a beautiful white dress that clings in places and cascades in others; skin like milk, hair on fire. She grabs his hand and pulls him down the hall to a room which she enters but he does not. There's some kind of invisible force holding him back.
The room beyond is packed with medical staff operating in organized chaos. Donna stands beside a hospital bed looking over something Harvey can't see. Someone yells "Clear!" Harvey feels the electricity surge through his head and light up behind his eyeballs.
"Save her, Harvey!" Donna is screaming.
But he can't move. He's frozen in place. The arrhythmic beep of heart monitor dives into a flat line and Donna falls, lifeless. Dead eyes staring out at him.
No. Not her. This isn't right...
This isn't right, this isn't right...the dream is so horrifying that Harvey wakes, with sweat clinging to his chest and an erection. He lays there, breath heavy, trying to shake the unpleasant feeling sinking into his gut. Then the headache hits him, a hammer at his temples. He sits up, woozy and delirious.
On his bedside table is some kind of electrolyte drink, a bottle of pain killers and a note that says Take two ONLY. He obeys, takes two, swallowing them down with the sugar water left for him. A few minutes later he vomits them up and takes two more, the unintended disobedience giving him some kind of perverse satisfaction.
No more than ten minutes pass and he's walking into the living room, bracing himself for the destruction following last night's frenzy and what he finds is…well, nothing. It's as if it never happened. The bar cart is by the dining table, same as always: decanter, glassware, Scotch bottles, everything intact. The cactus is re-potted on the coffee table. The dent he left in the dry wall when he threw the damn thing has even been plastered in and painted. The condo is pristine and he can't help but feel there is a crisp "fuck, you" in the repairs. It infuriates him. He wants to break everything all over again. He was meant to wake up and witness what she made him do. He needed this and she took it from him.
Maddened by his rage, he works himself up into another vomit session and then promptly pulls himself together. He shaves, showers, puts himself in a suit - three-piece Sharkskin, navy, with a maroon monogramed Gucci tie - and calls for his town car.
II
When Rachel arrives at the law firm, she finds Donna sitting on the break room counter reading over Anita Gibbs' Bill of Particulars. Her long, flawlessly styled red hair falls around her face in lose waves, partially hiding a look that Rachel can only term as oddly amused.
"Five accounts of withholding information," Donna says without looking up. "Why can't they just lump it all into one?"
"Each act of withholding is separate and thus separate sentencing is due," Rachel explains. She approaches her friend hesitantly, waits for her attention, but Donna is too preoccupied reading to notice. "How are you?" Rachel asks, sounding awkward even to her own ears.
Donna graces her with a glance. "I didn't sleep at all last night, but other than that," she shrugs. "All is well."
Rachel presses, "Is it?" She is searching for some kind of emotion in Donna's expression, just a hint that everything they've discovered in the past few days is true. Unsurprised, she comes up empty, seeing the same Donna she's always seen: a snarky, fiery redhead with everything under control. Could they be wrong? Surely someone who lost a daughter would have some sort of tell. It's like hearing about a horrendous car wreck, but the car in question is staring Rachel straight in the face, undented and functional. It doesn't make sense.
Before she can stop herself, Rachel blurts out, "I know about Alice."
Donna hops off the counter, straightens out her gray sleeveless mini dress, and offers Rachel a small smile. "I should get back to work."
Rachel knows she should let it go—obviously Donna's apt to ignore the situation—but she feels she has to let her friend know that she's there for her, at the very least. "Donna, I understand if you don't want to talk about it," she says, following her friend out of the break room, "but I just want to—"
Donna stops and turns on Rachel, her eyes hot with annoyance. "You just want to what? Express your condolences?"
There is an unexpected coldness in Donna's tone that startles Rachel. "Donna…"
"Save it, Rach. There's a reason why I never told you, and this"—with her index finger, Donna traces a loop in the air around Rachel's face—"is exactly why."
"Because I'm heartbroken for you?"
"Because you've come to me all weepy, wanting to have some sort of grievance session, and I'm not willing to talk about it. Ever. So either walk away or change the subject."
"I'm not trying to pressure you into talking about it," Rachel says. "I'm being a friend."
"Are you sure that's what this is?" Donna's eyes are blazing now. "Because it seems to me that you're trying to apologize to me about my dead daughter. And I get it. You get to walk away feeling like you did your part, but what the hell does that apology do for me?"
Rachel opens her mouth to defend herself—Donna's anger has confused her, and so has her accusations—she says, carefully, "My only agenda here is to make sure you're okay."
"Well, I'm fine," Donna says and turns to leave, adding as she goes, "and I would be a whole lot better if everyone just stayed the hell out of my business."
III
14 years ago, August
She wakes to an unfamiliar man's voice, speaking softly words she cannot quite decipher. When she lifts her lids, her daughter, Alice, is in full view, wide-awake in her hospital bed, grinning in a way Donna never thought she'd see again. The last twenty-four hours had been hell; first respiratory distress and then kidney failure, the doctors put a neck line in and started emergency dialysis, and Alice had been in a state of inconsolable terror, pain and tears since. Donna thinks she must be dreaming because the image before her is just too beautiful: big blue eyes, freckled face, happy smile. She burns it into her memory, holds on to it white knuckle tight, like a lifeline. She wants to go to her, scoop her up, take her in, but that deep voice breaks the frame—
"You missed our date."
Donna sees him now, standing at the far side of the room, across from the couch she's curled up on. He's well-dressed and tall, with a classic handsomeness that reminds her of Marlon Brando. There is confidence about him that probably pushes the boundary of arrogance. She doesn't recognize him, and he can't be one of Johnny's friends because Johnny doesn't have friends. So who is he?
"That's three times now you've stood me up."
"I didn't mean to," Alice tells him, stopping to take a heavy breath as if the single phrase wears her out, but she grins through it. "I'm just hooked up"—another gulp of air—"to all of this junk."
The man has the decency to check the cannula in her nose. He follows the tubing to the oxygen saturation monitor and stares at it. It's okay. Donna wants to tell him. She's just excited. But she refrains, afraid she'll scare him away.
"This is a lot junk," he agrees, satisfied enough with the reading on the monitor to undo the button of his suit jacket and relax back into the chair next to Alice's bedside. "I'll let you off. But just know my feelings are hurt."
They share a smile. Alice says, "I thought Harvey Specter didn't have feelings."
Harvey. Of course. Her daughter only talks about the man constantly. He has become her idol. Donna's gone through weeks of Harvey-this and Harvey-that: law, Harvard, baseball, Jazz; not exactly things a little girl typically invests herself in, but Donna figures Alice is trying to fill the void brought on by the absence of her father.
Donna fights the urge to jump up and thank him; this stranger who has taken an initiative that her own husband never would and that he absolutely didn't have to take, but she knows from experience the best thanks she can give him is to keep quiet and pretend to be asleep. Being the mother of a dying child makes you into a pariah. No one really looks you in the eyes anymore and no one truly knows what to say. It's awkward and painful and best left avoided.
"Did you win the cop killer case?" Alice is asking him. Her breathing is better. Normal.
"What do you think?" he says.
She smiles. "You crushed him."
"Made him cry on the stands. Two life sentences. No parole." He grins at her. "God, I'm good."
"I wish I could've seen."
"Next time."
Alice turns away from him, eyes staring straight ahead at the muted TV screen beside Donna.
"What's wrong?" Harvey asks.
"I won't be here next time."
Harvey's dark eyes narrow, an expression Donna feels is too severe to be giving a child. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She turns to him, furious that she has to say the words: "I'm dying."
Donna's heart thuds heavy in her chest. It's too much. A mother should never have to hear her child say these words. It's not fair. She wants to scream, but at who? Where does she direct her anger?
Harvey shakes his head, tells Alice, "Quit being dramatic. You're not dying."
"I'm not being dramatic."
"So what?" He says, "You're just going to lay here and give up?"
Alice's lips begin to quiver and turn down at the corners. Her eyes fill up with tears until they spill over and run down her freckled cheeks. He's upset her now, and Donna thinks maybe she'll direct her anger at him.
"Listen to me. We don't give up. What did I tell you you're supposed to do when you're getting beat?"
Alice sniffs and wipes a tear away with a clenched fist. "Play harder."
"That's right. You play harder."
"But I can't play any harder, Harvey, and I don't want you to be mad at me when I lose!"
He stands up and Donna thinks he's going to walk out and she's ready to bolt after him. Please, don't leave her like this. But he walks toward her on the couch, stops in front of the TV and stares out into space, angry and teary-eyed. Donna closes her eyes and lets him have his moment, imagining his mind reeling with the thoughts that tear away at her every second of every day: How do I fix this? A better hospital? A miracle cancer trial? A second opinion? Can I give her my kidneys? Cryopreservation? How do I fix this? How do I fix this? How do I fix this?
"Please, don't be mad me," Alice says into the growing silence.
Donna hears Harvey sigh. "I'm not mad at you, Alice."
"You are!" Alice cries out. "You're mad!"
Donna opens her eyes to see Harvey take her crying daughter's head into his hands. She's putting up such a wail for him that she has to gasp for breaths between her sobs. "Look at me," he says gently. "I'm not mad. Do I look mad?"
"But you called me Alice and you never do that," she tells him in a high pitched croak. "It's always Pipsqueak or Peewee or Smalls or Dwarf."
Harvey laughs and Donna shuts her eyes again, talking in the sound of it. She doesn't know how, but it seems to remove all of the weight from the room, like a gentle breeze on a hot day. "Hush, Peanut. You're going to wake your mom."
Alice gasps, mood flipping a 180, elated. "We should! She wants to meet you."
"No—that's okay." He's abrupt. It's just as she suspected, he's terrified to face her. "I'm sure she's exhausted. Let her sleep."
Harvey stays and talks with Alice for a long time. They go over his cases and her goals list. He even lets her draw a mustache on him—handlebars with a goatee—and Donna thinks the addition of her child's messy scrawls on his face makes him look even more handsome.
At some point Donna falls back to sleep, and is woken up some time later by the oncologist with news of Alice's blood work. The doctor looks grave. Bad news, that's all it's been. She wishes she wasn't alone to hear it, but when your child fights cancer as long as Alice has that support system you had in the beginning dwindles. Maybe people think it gets easier to deal with: a sick kid, the bad news. But it never does.
Alice is asleep and Harvey is still there, his attention blatantly honed in on the TV screen. Donna stands up and tells the doctor, "Let's talk about this in the hall."
As she walks out, Harvey's eyes slide over and brush against her, and it surprises her how shy and soft his glance is. It sends goose bumps up her arms as if he's reached out and caressed her, and when she expects him to look away he boldly holds on. Maybe he'll stay, she thinks. Maybe this stranger will take her face in his hands like he did for Alice and hold her while she sobs. Maybe she doesn't have to be alone after all.
But then he looks away, pulling himself out from beneath her oppressive rain cloud, and that's okay. This is her nightmare, not his.
IV
Harvey can't seem to concentrate. His fight with Donna from the night before replays in his head, stuck looping on all the worst moments: the hatred in her expression after he threw the cactus, the breathless feeling when she accused him of being in love with her, the moment when their rage clashed and he wasn't sure of whether he want to strangle her, weep in her arms, or kiss her. There is turmoil inside of him, rage at the surface, pain underneath, and at his center something that he refuses to analyze but which has him wanting to rush to her cubicle and beg for her forgiveness, even though he's the one who's been wronged in this circumstance.
He sits at his desk staring down at a list of financials from one of the subpoenaed companies. None of the numbers make any sense to him and he's pretty sure he's looked over the same column five times already, and he wishes she would just walk into his office and hand him something to sign so that he can glare at her. Thirteen years a traitor, he thinks, he'll fire her and that could be the title of her memoir. It'd be interesting read: psychotic ex-husband, dead kid, defrauding the US and how she hid it all for thirteen goddamn years. She's a fucking expert. He'd buy it.
He tell himself, I hate her, and gives up on the financials—he'll pass the workload to Louis; it's more up his street anyway—and picks up the phone, deciding to give an old friend a ring. He needs a distraction.
"Hello?" Her cool voice rouses the attorney in him. His mind miraculously clears. Who would have thought Anita Gibbs would be his savoir. He'll have to phone her up more often.
"Hey, Sweetheart. Guess who?"
"Harvey." He can almost hear the smug smile curl around his name. "How is your firm of frauds and criminals holding up?"
"Top class. Thanks for asking. How is Hell this time of year? Is it bathing suit weather yet?"
"Oh, spectacular! I'm not sure if you've heard but I have a new witness in the Duke-Sanger case. Really seals the deal. I don't want to give too much away, but if Donna has any special requests before she's hauled off to prison, do let me know. Bottom bunk rather than top, that sort of thing. I'm no miracle worker, but I do have some pull."
"Gibbs, cut the shit. You don't want Donna. You want Jonathan Martell, and given her history with him I'm sure she has enough information for us to work out some form of immunity in exchange for testimony."
"Do you even speak to your clients? I already offered her immunity in exchange for testimony. She refused."
He grows rigid, inwardly cursing Donna for her stupidity. "She's changed her mind," he lies.
"Doesn't matter. I don't need her."
"It will give you a solid case."
"My case is bulletproof and dragging your secretary out from beneath you is just a bonus."
"You sure you want to take me on again, Anita? You won't win."
"You're too sure of yourself, Harvey. It makes me wonder if you have all of the facts."
"Do you really think I need the facts? Mike was a fraud and now he's a lawyer. I get what I want and you would do well to remember who you're up against. Let's keep in touch."
He hangs up abruptly, cutting Gibbs off mid-sentence. There is no moment to let any of it sink in, he's up and out of his office, shouting at Donna's back, "Gibbs offered you a deal, why didn't you take it?"
Donna's brown eyes look up at him and he's immediately hit with an assortment of conflicting emotions. There's his Donna; the Donna in his dreams; the Donna at the hospital. It's a whirlwind.
"She wanted me to testify against Jonathan."
"And he's worth going to prison for?" he asks, outraged.
She stares at him, her face carefully blank.
"Why the hell didn't you testify?"
"Because she's scared of him," Mike says coming up behind Harvey, and then to Donna he adds, "Now are you going to tell him about the man you married, or should I?"