Just Another Day: Chapter 16
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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3:37 p.m. on May 14, 2012, in the Cafeteria at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital in Chinatown
The hustle and bustle of the cafeteria is in full swing here at the San Francisco Chinese Hospital, with staff and those visiting patients pressing through the buffet line. Another shorter line is forming in front of the grill, where food is being prepared on-demand. There are enough people – in their own conversations – to cause a loud buzz of white noise throughout the cafeteria.
Enough noise to shelter the conversation being held at a particular table next to the window.
Sam Carlos is sitting with Dr. Teresa Argento. Both are momentarily quiet, each lost in their own thoughts for the moment. Two more men have shown up here at the hospital, and sit at the table across from Carlos and Argento. Argento has no doubt the intentions of these men, and their willingness to do whatever is necessary to protect the man across the table from her.
Finally, as he gazes out the window at pigeons perched on the balcony, the San Francisco businessman speaks.
"Thank you," he says quietly, not taking his eyes off the gray birds outside.
"You are always welcome, Mr. Carlos," Dr. Argento replies, as she takes another bite of the salad on her plate.
"And you are always someone I can count on," he remarks, his gaze not changing.
"We have known each other a long –"
"Today was important, Teresa," he interrupts. "She is once again, taken aback by his tone, by his demeanor.
"Willie is more than my . . . colleague," he continues. "Willie is a dear friend. He is . . . family to me."
It is a rare moment of reflection, of vulnerability that she sees so infrequently – if ever – from the man across from her. So, Dr. Teresa Argento remains quiet, allowing her benefactor to speak his mind.
"I do not know what I would do if somehow, he does not –"
"He will be fine, Mr. Carlos," she finally interrupts. "His spleen is damaged, but it will not require replacement. Dr. Santos is confident he can repair it with stitches and antibiotics. I trust him implicitly."
"And I trust you implicitly, my friend," Carlos tells the chief of staff. "I just am not accustomed to be in such a position to be depending on so many people who . . . who are not Willie."
The doctor simply nods her head in understanding, likely for the first time realizing the deep connection between the businessman/mobster and his fearsome enforcer.
"And Jennifer," he says so softly, she almost does not hear him. In this moment of rare transparency, she takes a chance to go deeper with this man.
"She is . . . more than a friend," the doctor states. It is not a question.
"She is," he nods.
"And this is a recent revelation?" she asks.
He finally turns his gaze from the window, now facing the good doctor. His piercing eyes almost cause her to turn away.
"It is a revelation. It is a re-revelation, if there is such a term," he responds. "She is a longtime friend, a longtime something."
"A longtime something that you have avoided," the doctor risks.
His chuckle gives her continued strength, clearly not the response she is used to receiving from this man. Who is she kidding . . . she has never had such a conversation with Sam Carlos.
"Yes," he answers. "But that has been changing."
"You are changing," she offers. "For the better, if I may be so bold."
He smiles at her, then gazes away again, his eyes searching for the birds outside the window. There is comfort there.
"And I suspect that this change is due less to your relationship with Detective Blackard – who, by the way – will also be fine," Argento remarks. "I suspect it is due more to a former patient here, and his girlfriend."
"Fiancée, now," he smiles.
"Really?" she smiles with him. "I am clearly out of the loop."
Both laugh at the absurdity of the conversation, and without knowing it, both cautiously glance around at the roomful of people coming and going.
"It has been a day, for certain," Argento tells him, brushing imaginary lint from her shoulders.
"Actually," he smiles wistfully, "it is just another day, Teresa. For me, it is just another day."
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3:45p.m. on May 14, 2012, back at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California
Alexis Castle sits outside in the courtyard, at a small table for two. It is the same enclosed courtyard where – just weeks ago – Elena Markov tried to get a kill shot off on Sam Carlos, only to be startled by birds that exploded from the trees that line the side of the courtyard.
Next to her sits her father, Richard Castle, who holds her hand.
"Thank you for coming, Pumpkin," he tells his daughter.
"Uh, Dad . . . 'Pack your bags quickly, I'm sending Ron to pick you up' didn't give me a lot of choice in the matter," the redhead laughs, mimicking her father's words, bringing a smile to her father's face.
"I am taking no chances," he replies without fanfare.
"And I get that, Dad," she replies. "And believe me, I appreciate it. I love our home, but somehow today, after the quake . . . well, let's just say by the time Ron got there, I was ready to scram, believe me," she laughs.
The worried expression on her father's face, however, ends the laughter for the moment.
"I'm safe, Dad," she reminds him. "I'm here. I'm safe. You don't have to worry."
His silent, distant stare almost disarms the daughter of the ex-author. It is a look she hasn't seen often grace his face.
"I do have to worry, Pumpkin," he tells her. "That's just it. I do have to worry."
She begins to speak, then stops herself, remembering that she is sitting down with a storyteller. Clearly there is something on her father's mind, and he is putting the words together in his mind. She recognizes this moment.
She gives him this moment.
Then he begins to speak.
"This drug I was given," he begins, then changes course.
"Because of what has happened to me, the chances are too great that I will relapse again, Alexis. Truth be told, I am stunned – and grateful – that I didn't collapse again during the earthquake."
"The antidote will be ready soon, Dad," she tells him, her naïve positivity bringing a chuckle to his lips. She pushes back against his lack of . . . faith.
"I have to believe this, Dad," she tells him, squeezing his hand. "Because the alternative is too hard for me to think about. So, I don't think about it. Every morning when I wake up, I am expecting Mr. Carlos to call you with good news, with an antidote. Every morning, Dad. That is my mindset. It is the only way I can deal with this."
"It is a good mindset, Alexis," he agrees. "I just am not there yet. I don't know that I ever will be. I just have too much to lose."
"But Dad –" she begins, but he interrupts her, now fully immersed in the story brewing in his writer's mind.
"Each time I go under, I forget," he continues. "Each time I go under, I have to read about what has happened in my diary. I have to watch videos to recapture what was lost. You don't understand it this way, Pumpkin, but each and every time this happens, and I recover – and I am thankful for this, don't get me wrong. But each time, I have to refill my mind with artificial memories. They aren't real to me. They are words I have written, that I don't remember, but I am forced to believe."
She nods her head, tears forming in her eyes, as she is – once again – confronted with her father's reality. And today, in this courtyard, she is finally – for the first time – getting a realistic glimpse of what this actually means for Richard Castle.
"I don't want to forget what Sam and Willie did for you, Pumpkin," he tells her, and the tears are now forming in his eyes, which cause a waterfall to explode from hers.
"I don't want those to ever become artificial," he continues. "I never want to forget what Willie did, how he did it . . . who he did it for."
He brushes away a tear, as he continues.
"I never want to forget proposing to Kate," he chuckles through his tears. "The ring box falling from my hands, hurtling down the walkway at the Cliff House."
"Only you, Dad," she smiles through her tears.
"I never want to forget Kate's face that night," he continues. "I never want to forget the conversation we had in the restaurant, as newly-formed fiancé and fiancée."
He gazes at a bird that as just landed on the brick wall surrounding them, before continuing.
"I never want to forget her reaction," he tells her, smiling as he remembers the moment. "She was so surprised. She was so happy," he speaks, still staring at the bird on the wall.
He turns his face back to his daughter as he continues.
"I don't ever want to forget watching Mike and Lindy become more than friends," he tells her. "I don't ever want to forget Colin and Dawn, and what is happening with them. They are my friends. I get to see them grow together. I don't want to forget these things."
"I don't want to forget how you walked into my chest when Willie got you back," he continues. "I don't want to forget Ryan and Jenny's wedding. I don't want to forget Mother's face when we got back to the loft with you. I don't want to forget Elena Markov. I don't want to forget how – right under my nose – danger could be lurking right in front of me."
"There's the writer," his daughter chuckles.
"I'm serious, Alexis," he counters.
"I know you are, Dad," she replies.
"I just don't want –"
"These are a lot of things you don't want, Dad," she interrupts. "But what about the things that you do want. If nothing else, our time out here has shown us that – despite the best laid plans – things happen. We can't control some of them. We can only respond. But we can't live a reactive life. We have to keep moving forward, toward what we do want . . . not what we are afraid of."
He smiles, squeezing her hand once again.
"Tell me, when exactly did you grow up and get so wise," he asks, staring into her eyes.
"A month or so ago . . . lying on a bed on a cruise ship out at sea . . . wondering where I was . . . wondering if I would ever see you again . . ." she offers.
"A month or so ago . . . when a hood was placed over my head," she continues. "When I was thrown into a car. When a needle was jabbed into me."
The tears are flowing easily now, for both father and daughter, as suddenly, the daughter becomes the storyteller and the author becomes the reader . . . or, in this case, the listener.
"When I got out of the car and saw Willie, and for the first time thought to myself, 'Damn, I may actually get out of this alive.'"
"I forget sometimes," he tells her knowingly, "that I am not the only one who has gone through the ringer since we came here."
The two are quiet for a moment, when he asks the question that she has been expecting. In reality, she has been expecting this question for weeks now. She is surprised that it took this long.
"Do you regret it, Pumpkin?" he asks, the hurt so clearly visible in his eyes. "Do you regret coming here. You gave up so much, I know that. Do you regret it."
"Not for a minute, Dad," she tells him. "And I mean this sincerely. Not for a minute. You are my North Star, remember? I trust my North Star. This move has made me grow in ways I could not imagine. And it has given me new friends – better friends, Dad – than I ever imagined. And someday, this place where we sit – it will be mine, right?"
"It will be yours," he nods.
"Then what better time for me to learn that it isn't easy," she asks. "What better time for me to learn that this 'safe place' isn't always safe. That there are people who will see this place as a bad thing. That there are people who will see us as enemies. I am learning these things now, Dad. I am watching – my eyes are wide open."
"Again, when did the daughter surpass the father?" he asks, smiling broadly.
"Oh, she has been doing that for a while now," she laughs, leaning into his shoulder. They are quiet now, just listening to the birds. Listening to nature. Taking advantage of a moment of peace that is being offered to them.
"I love you, Dad," she tells him. "And thank you."
"Thank me?" he asks, quizzically.
"Thank you for trusting me with this place," she tells him. She feels his chin nodding above her head.
"I love you, too, Pumpkin."