She got home a wreck—Joan, I mean. It was a particularly hard night at fencing, apparently, and she's sporting a few new bruises. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was being hurt like I was—but she wears these marks with pride, and there's not a hint of fear about her when any kind of conflict might be involved. I wish I'd had that kind of courage, but maybe I wouldn't have met you then, Elsa. I wordlessly direct our daughter to the shower, holding my nose with one hand, and as she walks past she sticks out her tongue. So very lady like. Kristoff's wit and my sense of humour, which is surely a dangerous combination when we add your brain power in there.
She takes forever in that shower, I swear to god. I'm glad we got a recycler unit for the thing, the power and water savings are insane. You'd have liked that technology too, because apparently it came from a NASA project. I guess that's one regret we'll always share… we never did get to that weightless dancing, though I'm sure I would have had the tact and grace of a baked potato. What? You know how, uhh, 'well', I danced those few times. At least you were a good sport.
I can hear the shower hissing away, and the water suddenly stops. It's like that, actually; no post-flow. We're big on saving the environment here—with the exception of my bike, which only comes out on weekends and special occasions. And I'm rambling in my thoughts because I've never been good at waiting and now Joan is walking past me, still dripping, towel wrapped around her middle. Her left arm isn't just bruised; there's a gash six inches long running from her shoulder to her elbow.
"Joan, baby, are you alright?" I couldn't help myself. "Who did this to you?!"
"Mom, fencing. It happens."
I can only nod. It has happened before, but not this bad. "It doesn't happen to you."
"It does mom, why do you think I spent three weeks last summer not wearing tank tops?"
"I just thought you were getting cold," which was a lie, because I'd seen the marks, but I'd managed to put two and two together before calling the cops. Before telling Kristoff about it, even. But this was new, it meant something had obviously gone wrong. Badly. And I tend to get concerned when she gets hurt because she's all I've got left of you. Well, I've got the videos and the pictures, but she… she has your essence, Elsa. That bright spark that was your soul, she's got a fraction of it. I don't want to lose you again. A hand was waving in front of me.
"Mom?" She's smiling, hand on my shoulder. "You just zoned out there for a second. I'm fine, okay?"
"No. Wait, yes. No—" I sigh, because I know I'm not gonna be happy until I get to the bottom of this, even if it is an accident. "Will you tell me what happened, please?"
"Can I at least get dressed first?" Oh, right, she's still only wearing a towel, dripping onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. Well, at least she avoided the rug this time. I let her go. She'll be back shortly. Well, she'll invite me in, because there's nowhere really to sit and talk in the upstairs hall. Speaking of which, you remember the time we were… with just our socks, racing up and down this hall? I loved your laugh so much that day; because you were happy like a child, and so was I, and we didn't have to worry about cancers or ex-husbands or even extra shifts at work the next day. It was always the little things, wasn't it?
"Mom, you can come in now," and Joan's head disappears back behind the frame of her door. She's actually under the covers by the time I get there, but I can hear her computer humming in the background, music playing quietly as we begin to talk. I didn't know she liked Cat Stevens, but there it is. Or maybe she's playing it because she knows I like this one, and it's to set me at ease. It's working too, the soft, subtle guitar melodies. I still take her arm in my hands, inspecting the cut. It doesn't look very deep, but it is kind of rough.
"You sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine mom, it just stings a little. We disinfected it properly at practice. Phil said it was good practice to learn how to treat cuts like this." Phil's her fencing instructor. Good sort of guy, not that you'd know just by looking at him. He's Greek, but rather portly, and if you hadn't seen him handle a sword you'd have no idea what he was supposed to do in life. He can also play the pan pipes, and the lyre. He's apparently a big name in the SCA community too.
"You should probably bandage it up anyway, baby. Just in case."
"We don't have any bandaids big enough." I could see her winking at me. She's playing the tomboy card again. She doesn't do it too often, but when she does, I generally let it slide. Mostly because it means she's taken after me a little bit too. I'll take what victories I can get.
"Okay, but we're wrapping it up in the morning. You could always wear that sleeveless dress Tina bought you that you think no one knows about."
"Mom!" I can't help it sometimes, I tease everyone. And that's your fault, for rising to the bait so many times. I never dared do anything like that with Hans, but with you, with Kristoff, even with Joan here, it's worthwhile. They tease me back of course; I expect no less from my family. But she's smiling, so I guess it's not that bad of an idea. "Hey, if I start wearing a big bandage like that, people are gonna ask about the story behind it." Oh no. "So I can tell them my story." Here we go. "Or your story." Yup. "Or someone else's story…" why did I let her read Flynn Rider? "And I can change it every time." Maybe she's been reading tvtropes again. Multiple choice history, there. Too smart for her own good.
"You still haven't told me how this happened." I'm curious, because injuries like this do happen sometimes, just not to my baby girl. Phil did have us sign a liability waiver though, understanding that people might get hurt, and it that it might not be avoidable. I'll help her bandage it in the morning. Joan takes a deep breath, and when she speaks she's actually rather quiet.
"My gambeson tore. Adam got me with a high strike, and it caught the shoulder of my gambeson, ripped the laces, and went down my arm. It was an accident, and it was my fault."
"How was it your fault?" Because accidents aren't meant to be anyone's fault. That's why we call them accidents. But she seems pretty convinced this one was hers.
"I got there late, remember?" And I do remember, because I dropped her off, after we hit every red light on the way there. Five minutes had become fifteen by the time we arrived. I hate cross-town traffic. "I armed up, but I didn't check my gear. I would've seen how badly frayed that loop was if I'd have checked my gear. If this was a real fight I'd be missing an arm."
"That's not funny," because I suddenly saw a vision of her going through the rest of her life with only one arm. How difficult would that have been, even with modern prosthetics? She might actually have taken to one of the new interfaced models, but it would have been a life changing event—like nearly killing someone you never knew.
"I know mom, it's not funny—but it's true. I'm glad we don't live in that kind of time."
"It wasn't all bad," I slip her a wink as she slips her arms under the covers, shuffling slightly to get comfortable. "Remind me to tell you about the time me and Elsa tried on corsets…" Well, did her eyebrows shoot up at that. You remember that little boutique store, don't you? I still have that forest green piece we decided on—still wear it sometimes too. What, I like to feel sexy, and sometimes Kristoff's not around. Don't judge me. But you know that's not why we bought it, we bought it because it was a present to myself, for that christmas, and ever since you'd showed me those pictures, I'd wanted one. I'd never treated myself to that kind of reward before. I hadn't felt worthy. The leafy design around the edges hasn't faded either.
"Maybe later," Joan winks at me. "But you promised me a bedtime story."
She's right, I did. I keep my word, but I still have to ask: "Aren't you a little old for bedtime stories?"
"No…" Her voice is playfully whiny, but there's anxiety there too. She wants to know, and she's afraid I won't tell her. "But I gotta know—what happened after you hit auntie Elsa with your bike. You just got taken to hospital in the same ambulance, and…" Well, that's as good a lead in as anything, so I begin my story the next day. I leave out what happened that night, how Hans punished me for nearly killing someone, and what he promised to do if I failed to apologize to the young woman whose name I didn't know at the time. I still let her know about my injuries though, because they're integral to the story, much as I hate being reminded of them and how I got them.
—∞—
It was the next day, and I was sporting a black eye that had nothing to do with the crash. Apparently I had been a stupid little bitch riding far too fast for the wet roads. The protest that she'd jumped out in front of me had just earned me gut punch hard enough to double me over. I had to lie to the doctors, tell them it was from the crash—even though they'd seen me just yesterday. But doctors are smart. I wandered down clean, white halls, hearing monitors beeping and ventilators hissing. It sounded just like a movie hospital, even with the pagers and the conversations held just outside patient's rooms.
There was one patient in particular I was looking for. I had to apologize if I wanted to not get hurt again. An orderly helped me hobble in on crutches—my ankle had been broken. I asked why they'd let me in, and they explained that the woman lying in that bed had no next of kin. At all. No parents, no siblings, no children, no friends, not even an I.C.E. contact. I blinked back tears. She was alone in the world, and I'd nearly killed her—I would have been the only one to know she was gone, carrying her death on my conscience for the rest of my life. It was a sobering thought. My jacket lay next to her on the bed, and the orderly explained that they'd been unable to take it from her, no matter how hard they'd tried—she'd gone ballistic every time, and when they took it while she was asleep, when she woke, she was so panicked they'd had to sedate her. The orderly told me it indicated underlying psychological issues, so if she woke up, I had to be careful what I said.
I sat softly in an uncomfortable chair next to the blonde goddess's bed. My crutches resting between my legs and against my shoulder, because I wasn't sure I'd be staying long. Two hours later, she woke up. Her eyes were a piercing, crystal blue. I still didn't know her name, and apparently she'd been admitted as a Jane Doe because the only ID she'd had was the bank card in my jacket pocket. She coughed harshly, and I offered her the water from the bedside table. She pushed my hand away so hard I nearly spilled the drink.
"You nearly killed me," she croaked out, and it took me a long time to figure out the emotion behind her words. Because she wasn't angry, or worried, or anything a normal person would feel. She was disappointed. She was disappointed to be alive. Underlying psychological issues my ass—she was suicidal. I don't know why I hadn't seen it then; maybe I was just blindsided by everything that had happened. It only clicked on the taxi ride home how she'd said what she did.
That was pretty much the totality of our first conversation. Not the most auspicious of starts, but people have done more with less. I asked for a name, got stonewalled. Asked if she was okay; stonewalled. Asked if she minded if I visited again in a couple of days. She froze me out, completely. Not a word, not even a raised eyebrow. She just looked blankly ahead, like a deer in the headlights. But every time I asked something, she would scowl at me. She didn't answer, but I got the feeling I wasn't welcome. I can't say I blamed her either.
I made it home safely, and as I was walking up the porch steps I realized I hadn't taken the time to apologize. I doubted she would have listened anyway. I lacked a number to call her on, and her phone had been all but destroyed by the crash anyway. Yeah, great plan Anna, call the phone you ran over, it'll work brilliantly. I still have plans like that, even today.
—∞—
"Geez, mom, auntie Elsa sounds like she was kind of a bitch," and a shocked hand covered an equally shocked mouth. Joan didn't curse much, so when she did, it had an effect—usually on her. I smiled before answering her.
"She was, honestly, if I hadn't forgotten to apologize, I don't know if I'd gone back for another visit."
"I guess you did though, or I wouldn't be here." She's smart, although that one is blindingly obvious. She wants me to continue the story, I can tell, because she's trying to predict where it went. Well, some of it's going to be easy to figure out. And for some points I have visual aids, because we made a few videos, and tried to take lots of pictures. Until you dropped your phone in the lake—we got the pictures back though, you'll be happy to know.
"You're right—now if you'll let me continue the story?"
—∞—
I didn't make it back the next day, but I did see Kristoff. Told him I'd be off for some time with my broken ankle. He suggested I just work from a chair, or lying under everything, just like I always do. I couldn't, of course, because the painkillers were dulling my mind as well, and I needed to be sharp for work. He still asked for a medical certificate—for the company's records, because he could quite clearly see how injured I was. He tried brushing my hair out of my face, and I flinched. I didn't want him to see what Hans had done. I didn't want to get Hans in trouble. I was afraid if anyone found out he'd hurt me worse—or leave.
"Stop." I had to. Kristoff has a voice that urges you to obey. I held stock still as he approached, frozen in place while he tenderly brushed my hair aside. He frowned and shook his head, and I could tell he was both angry and disappointed. My fault for being careless. I was told that so many times I believed it. He let my hair brush past my eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was concerned. "You have to stop letting him treat you like this, Anna. It's not right."
"He's a cop—what can I do?"
We didn't know. Back then, we didn't. It was my excuse; my fear; my whatever; it was the reason I couldn't do anything about the situation I was in. Why people couldn't help me. I remember it was lunchtime, so Kristoff offered to drop me home, because I didn't live too far from our workshop. I told him I'd walk it off, and he laughed.
"Alright, feistypants. Take it easy." I did, making it about a block before urgently looking for something to sit on. No parks nearby, but there was a bus stop, so it had a seat. That was all I really cared about. The rest of the day was a blur, but I cooked something nice for Hans, and hoped he wouldn't ask about the woman in the hospital. To my great surprise he didn't ask anything, and he virtually collapsed when he came in the door. It was the weakest he'd ever let me see him. A moment later I knew why.
"Lieutenant Gaston didn't make it."
The news, the sirens, the bulletin at about 4:45. Everything came crashing together. I'd never really liked Gaston—he was, honestly, a vain, arrogant bastard—but I hadn't wanted him to die. I'll admit, I was sad. Probably sadder than Hans was, because I was thinking about his friend, Inspector Lefou—a bumbling sort, but good at the paperwork side of the job, and a solid forensic analyst. Lefou was my friend too, and I knew this would hit him hard. I was torn now—did I go see my bitchy Jane Doe, or did I comfort a grieving friend?
—∞—
"So, what did you do?" Joan yawned widely. Any night she spent fencing I knew she'd sleep soundly. Exhausted people do that. I don't say anything, I just tuck her in, and she doesn't even protest this time. I pat her uninjured arm softly, and kiss her forehead, sweeping platinum bangs out of the way. She smiles sleepily at me and shifts under the covers. I pause at her vanity, and flick on the radio. It's playing The Fray — How to save a life, and I'm tempted to stay and listen, but she closes her eyes, and smiles again. I turn out the light and close the door to her room.
I'll tell her tomorrow.
