A/N: Enjoy!
2. Co-partnering
The first few months after Carl was born were the most trying months of my life. Rick slid into a deep depression, and I found myself taking care of a newborn in a full-time, all day, every day capacity.
And Lori was still gone.
The last words she'd spoken to me constantly replayed in a loop in my mind, serving as a reminder that she wouldn't be returning to her roles as wife, mother or responsible adult any time soon.
"I can't."
"I can't."
"I can't."
"I can't."
"I can't."
It was a struggle controlling the rage that those two words ignited within me, but two pairs of matching blue eyes always cut through the red Lori made me see. Rick and Carl were why I wouldn't give in to my anger. I refused to let it make me stupid.
I also refused to let that anger go.
Rick chose to bury his emotions under deceptively blissful memories of Lori. Those happier times worked wonders at keeping reality at bay, and I very quickly learned to tread lightly when bringing her up...
"Watch his head," I told Daryl as he bottle-fed Carl.
"I got it."
"Yeah, I know. Just move your hand up a little more to support his head."
"My hand is fine. His head is fine. I got it," he grumbled, giving me a look.
"'Not supporting the newborn's head and neck properly could cause whiplash or torn muscles and ligaments'," I informed him, reciting what I'd read in one of Lori's baby books. "You really want to inflict that type of pain on your nephew?"
Daryl ignored me.
"Rick! Is Carl's head ok or is Daryl paying for a baby neck brace in the immediate future?"
When Rick didn't answer, I looked over at him and noticed the faraway look on his face.
"Thinking about B.C. Lori?" I asked.
Lori's name snapped him out of his thoughts. He sat up straight in his recliner and bore his eyes into mine. "Lori what?"
"B.C. Lori," I repeated, remembering too late that he was not familiar with the phrase.
Rick stared at me blankly for a beat, tilted his head, and slowly squinted his eyes.
Shit!
A head tilting, eye squinting Rick Grimes was never a good thing. I turned to Daryl for help, but he'd already gotten up and was leaving the room with Carl. Typical.
Daryl and I had come up with "B.C. Lori" and "B.S. Lori" after observing Rick's different faraway looks. The faraway look with a smile meant he was thinking of B.C. Lori. This was the Lori he knew before Carl was born. She was the Lori who hadn't shattered his world. The faraway look with a frown meant he was thinking of B.S. Lori. This was the Lori who came to be after Carl was born. Daryl and I thought she was full of bullshit, hence...
"What does 'B.C. Lori' mean, Michonne?"
I knew by the way he asked that he'd figured it out. The head tilt and eye squint just told me he wanted to argue about it.
"She's comin' back!" he suddenly insisted, jumping up. "She'll be back."
Rick was in denial then, and he remained in denial to this day. Since he had very selfishly not let me read the letter Lori left him, I could only imagine the fantastical things she'd written to cement his faith in her return. The day after Carl was born, that letter had Rick confidently proclaiming she'd be back home within days. When days turned into weeks, he proclaimed she'd be back in a month. When a month turned into months, his verbal proclamations stopped.
Between the fatigue that came from taking care of a newborn and the fatigue that came from physically recovering from childbirth, I completely missed the signs that Rick was not ok. I'd grown used to seeing the sadness in his eyes because, all things considered, he had every right to feel sad. I was never too concerned about it because sadness wasn't the only thing there. Rick still expressed joy and excitement over being a new father. He still exuded his trademark combination of confidence mixed with bossiness mixed with charm.
But I grossly underestimated the depths of Rick's sadness. After two months, he was engulfed in it. On his good days, he was dazed and disoriented. On his bad days, he was completely despondent, making an already challenging situation that much more difficult.
Before I was discharged from the hospital, Rick and I silently discussed that I'd continue living with him to help with Carl. I wasn't prepared in any way to take on that last minute responsibility, but I wasn't afraid of the challenge. As the days after Carl's birth turned into months, the rules changed. Me helping out with Carl morphed into me being primarily responsible for him, and because Rick's concern for his own basic needs was non-existent, he became my responsibility too.
Carl's wellbeing took priority. I made sure he was fed when he was hungry, I cleaned him up after a messy meal or a dirty diaper, and I ensured he was undisturbed when he slept. Once his needs were met, I'd check on Rick. Trying to get him to eat, bathe and sleep was an exhausting undertaking, especially when I was already running on fumes by the time I got around to him. Still, I made the effort at least once a day.
As draining as my new routine was, I was glad that Carl wasn't a particularly difficult baby. He did cry a lot, though. A lot.
I had no real experience with newborns and there was a possibility that my hormones were affecting my judgement, but I was certain Carl's crying was intentionally excessive and full of vengeance. It felt like he was punishing me because he knew I wasn't his mother and could sense the animosity I had for her.
During one of his checkups, I brought up his crying with Dr. Peletier, his pediatrician. She assured me that the crying was completely normal... Likely story from someone who was sleeping through the night instead of holding a shrieking baby until the break of dawn.
When Carl wasn't punishing me, one of my favorite things to do was give him cuddles and discuss comic book heroes. I could tell by the way he gurgled during our Superman vs. Batman conversations that he agreed with me: Superman was the far superior hero.
Daryl and I weren't comfortable allowing anyone to see Rick in his depressed state, so we denied visitors, intercepted phone calls and protected him from the curiosity of others the best that we could. Glenn was disappointed that he couldn't spend time with us, but because he was such an understanding guy, he respected our wishes. He still wanted to help us out in some way, so he started leaving pizza and salad at the front door twice a week. I was too tired to chew most days, but I appreciated the support.
When I asked Daryl if we should look into getting Rick professional help, he rejected the idea.
"Nah, he'll be alright," he said, throwing a wadded-up piece of paper at me. "He's just workin' through things. And you're here. He has you."
"And what else, Daryl?" I asked suspiciously when I caught the guilty look on his face.
"And he has me, too," he mumbled with a shrug of his shoulders.
I narrowed my eyes. "And?"
"And he has a walkie-talkie now."
I gave Daryl an exaggerated eye roll and shook my head.
He'd been trying to get me and Rick on the walkie-talkie bandwagon since the beginning of the pregnancy. I couldn't think of a logical or practical reason to have one at that time, so I was out. Rick was on board, but Lori thought most of Daryl's ideas were absurd. The walkie-talkie wasn't happening.
That was then.
Now, Lori was a non-factor and I was too exhausted to care. But Daryl really could've given me a heads-up that Rick now had a walkie-talkie.
Rude.
"You trying to get put back on the Lori List?" I asked. "You just got off it."
"That hole was big, Michonne," he stated matter-of-factly.
Oh my God.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose and groaned.
I suppose I could see the usefulness of Rick and Daryl using walkie-talkies. We'd taken Rick's phone from him after we caught him making nonstop calls to Lori's friends and family at one o'clock in the morning. Rick wasn't getting his phone back any time soon, so a walkie-talkie was the best way for him to communicate with Daryl regularly.
Daryl needed that as much as Rick did. He wouldn't admit it, but I knew he felt guilty that he wasn't able to do more for us. He wanted to move in to split the responsibility of taking care of Carl and Rick, but his job as a youth correctional counselor prevented him from doing so. He worked irregular hours and frequently traveled to other youth correctional facilities within the state, and the job itself could be both emotionally and physically demanding. Moving in with a newborn baby and a depressed Rick wasn't a good idea. I did give him a key to the house, though—another change that came with Lori's absence. He was free to stop by as he pleased.
I hated that he focused on what he couldn't do because what he was able to do meant everything. Daryl, Rick, and I were family. As long as we were together in some way, we could get through anything.
Well... almost anything.
A few days after Daryl and I had the walkie-talkie talk, I was having a very rough evening with Carl. He was being especially fussy because of an ear infection. The wailing, I could handle. It was the accompanying diarrhea that was the harder pill to swallow. The smell of it... the sight of it... the sheer volume of it were enough to make my eyes start twitching.
I was in the bathroom scrubbing my hands for the third time in the last hour when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.
What...
the...
fuck...
Shell-shocked from the sight of what was in my hair, I dried my hands and walked into the nursery where Carl was screaming as loud as his three-month-old lungs allowed.
"It's ok, Nugget," I cooed as I picked him up.
I immediately cringed from the smell coming from his diaper.
I'd just changed him.
"That's it!" I said in frustration, walking Nugget over to the baby swing. "I'm getting your daddy!"
I hated to walk away from him when he was bawling his eyes out, but enough was enough. I kissed the top of his head once he was secure in the swing and gathered a package of diapers and a pack of butt wipes before heading to the master bedroom. I found Rick sitting up in his bed and speaking quietly into his walkie-talkie. Any other time, I would've been overjoyed that he was starting to emerge from his zombie-like state, but I couldn't care less at the moment.
First, I threw the diapers at him. Then, I threw the butt wipes.
"What the hell, Michonne?!" he shouted, shielding himself from the flying objects.
"What the hell, Rick!" I shouted back. "I. HAVE. SHIT. IN. MY. HAIR!" I snatched the walkie-talkie from him and shouted, "Bye, Daryl!"
"Over and out, 'Chonne," Daryl replied.
I stormed to the foot of the bed, plopped down and tossed the walkie to the side. Carl's cries filled the silence while Rick and I stared each other down. I had to close my eyes to try to center myself because Rick's blue eyes were making me more agitated.
10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...
When I was calm enough to do so, I opened my eyes.
"Rick," I said, curtly.
"Michonne," he said, defensively.
"I get it," I began. "She's not here."
Rick's jaw clenched and he averted his gaze. "She's comin' back," he mumbled.
I ignored his delusional belief.
"But the reason she's not here is because she walked away. She didn't die, Rick. She wasn't taken. She didn't just disappear. She walked away."
Rick remained silent, and I felt my frustration growing. I closed my eyes.
10...9...
"No!" I fumed, opening my eyes and shaking my head. "You owe me more than silence. Talk to me!"
His eyes drifted back to me and up to my locs piled in a lopsided bun on top of my head. I recognized the moment that he recognized his son's poop.
"A loss is still a loss," he mumbled, looking into my eyes. "Even if...even if she walked away."
"I don't disagree, Rick, but you're still here. I'm still here. After everything we went through to get Carl, he's here. And he needs you," I said, gently. "So you have to get it together," I snapped. "Not for me, not for you, not for Lori. For Carl. You can't resent him for—"
"I do not resent my son!"
"Then what are you doing, Rick? When was the last time you held him? Fed him? Got lost looking at him? Tried to make him smile? Melted from his smile? He's crying right now, and it's taking everything in me not to go to him. Can you say the same?"
"Michonne," Rick said in a pained voice, "this isn't how it's supposed to be."
I scoffed at that. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in the same boat. This isn't how things are supposed to be. I was only supposed to be the surrogate, and now..."
"And now you're more," he whispered softly.
"And now I'm more," I repeated, giving his foot an affectionate squeeze. "We don't give up because things aren't the way we think they should be. Time doesn't stop, Rick. Life doesn't stop. Living shouldn't stop... What was that your mom used to say? 'Things break, but they can still grow.'"
Rick dropped his chin to his chest as tears ran down his cheeks. As much as I wanted to comfort him, I couldn't. Not yet.
"You're entitled to your sadness, and your heartache, and every other emotion you're feeling, but you have to learn how to put your son before all of that. It's not about you and Lori anymore, Rick. Your world got so much bigger." I smiled, thinking of Carl. "So get to know your son. He's kind of an amazing kid."
Bolstered by my words, I stood.
"Carl needs a diaper change and has ear medicine that needs to be dropped, so that's what you're gonna do. No more bullshit, Rick."
He looked up at me with his red, tear-streaked face.
"He needs to come first, or this," I motioned between the two of us with my hand, "doesn't work. This co-partnership, or whatever you want to call what we're doing, it doesn't work if I'm doing it alone."
Rick wiped his face and nodded. "I hear you, 'Chonne," he said, softly.
I believed him. I still believed in him. I picked up the walkie-talkie and walked to the side of the bed to hand it to him.
"Nugget's medicine's on the counter in his bathroom. And I'm sorry for the diapers... and the butt wipes, but your kid did somehow manage to projectile shit into my hair." I sighed. "Let's just call it temporary insanity and leave it at that," I added with a shrug.
He put the walkie-talkie down to hold onto my hand.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey yourself," I whispered back, not fighting him as he pulled me into a tight hug.
"Thank you."
I hugged him a little tighter.
"Rick?"
"Yeah, Michonne?"
I pulled away slightly to look into his eyes.
"You still owe me a fancy phone and vaginal reconstruction."
He rolled his eyes, and I knew he was back.
"Go get your son." I smiled and kissed the side of his forehead.
When we walked out his room, he turned right down the hallway to get to the nursery and I turned left to get to the guest room. I closed and locked my door and belly-flopped onto the bed, feeling so much lighter now that the weight of the last two months was lifting.
After a few minutes, the sound of Carl's cries grew louder, and I figured Rick was walking towards my room, probably wanting to ask for help with the ear drops. Instructions came with the medication, so he could figure it out himself. I heard him stop outside of my door and was prepared to ignore his knock.
The knock never came.
I sighed in relief when Carl's cries started to grow fainter. Rick's long-awaited turning point almost made me smile until I remembered that I. HAD. SHIT. IN. MY. HAIR! Jumping out of bed, I made a beeline to my shower and shampoo.
I didn't speak to Rick for the next three days. I wasn't giving him the silent treatment; I just needed the silence. It had been a long year. Pregnancy... childbirth... hormones... losing my shit... Rick's depression... co-partnering...
I needed time for me.
I caught up on sleep, skimmed through baby books, and showered and brushed my teeth throughout the day. Those were the luxuries I hadn't been able to work into my day when I was taking care of Carl on my own, so I took great pleasure in being able to finally do them.
Rick gave me my space and was considerate enough to leave meals for me on a tv tray outside of my door. I finally got to enjoy my thin crust, white sauce, pineapple, jalapeno, and spicy sausage pizza.
It was delicious!
I also jumped on the walkie-talkie bandwagon. I used it to check in with Daryl to see how Rick was doing. I had to admit, it was kind of fun using a walkie-talkie. It took me back to some very happy memories from our childhood.
On the third day of my self-sequester, I started to feel an ache in my chest. I missed my little Nugget. And now that Rick was feeling something more than depressed, I longed to spend time catching up with my officially unofficial best friend. As I was getting ready for bed that night, Rick slid a notecard under my door.
I grinned as I read his terrible handwriting: "Carl's sorry about your hair. (Fun fact, he also projectile vomits)."
He drew an arrow on the bottom right corner of the card, so I flipped it over.
The other side of the card read: "I'm still here."
A/N: Thank you for reading! Please take the time to leave a review. It's appreciated!