#Pray4USA
And I think I remember reading something about ravens in JW lore while doing my initial research. While ironic, not accidental.
Crossed legs hanging off the edge of the examination chair, Chloe shuddered from the icy front of the stethoscope's metal chest piece pressed against her back inside her shirt, prickling goosebumps in her skin. The cool and clinical timber of baritone instructed her to take a big, deep breath, and though the muscles in her chest felt like stretching leather, she pushed herself to inhale through her nose before exhaling through dry lips.
Stationary nearby in a stackable chair with arms crossed tightly against his chest, Clark's expression was tight with half anticipation and half dread, helpless as the general pediatric practitioner continued his physical evaluation by monitoring the sounds of his daughter's heart and lungs. Hours prior, Chloe had eventually come to, and though she had kept insisting that she was fine, Clark's unease of her abnormal episode in the kitchen could only be soothed once she was seen by a medical professional.
White lab coat draped over his blue button up and khakis, Dr. Ward's age dyed streaks of grey in his chestnut combover as brown eyes studied the subtle stiffness in his patient with every breath she took. As he moved the diaphragm to the sides of Chloe's ribs, he didn't need the stethoscope to note the strain in her lungs and the elevation of her heart rate. Even as she sat unnaturally still, he could practically see her heart beating through her chest, as if trying to escape.
"Have these episodes happened before?" Dr. Ward's question was intended more towards the parent than the child.
"No…this is the first time." Clark answered based on his truth, and Chloe bit the inside of her cheek, unsure whether to be forthcoming of her previous seizure-like episode. Fairy Councilwoman Treebelle had called it…'psychogenic'; an overblown panic attack. Overblown, indeed…she had the sore pangs in her chest and the dull ache between her ears to prove it.
"And no other known mental disorders or mental conditions?"
"No, sir."
"I see." Lifting the diaphragm and removing the earplugs of his stethoscope, Dr. Ward scribbled his findings into Chloe's clipboard chart with a pen. "Though not a huge concern, her lab work from earlier came back slightly abnormal in terms of her Hgb and the ketones in her urine…" he then referred to the section of Chloe's chart where Clark had listed her medication history. "Is Chloe still on Lexapro?"
"…she had stopped taking it abruptly a while ago…not by choice." hesitancy coated Clark's response, masking the recoil in his stomach. He could recall his late wife coercing their daughter into flushing an entire bottle of Lexapro down the toilet. A mistake that ended up biting both him and Chloe both in the butt.
"Albeit a bit delayed, her seizure could be an adverse reaction to stopping an SSRI cold turkey." Dr. Ward diagnosed based on educated guess. "Due to the extremity of Chloe's anxiety, I highly advise placing her back on medication, if not Lexapro."
Clark scrunched his lips together, and Chloe couldn't speak through the lump in her throat. Just hearing the word 'medication' felt like a sucker punch to the gut.
The side effects are so egregious; they would just make things worse!
…maybe her mom had a point. When did meds ever make things better?
"Does Chloe attend regular sessions with a child psychologist?" Dr. Ward's question made Clark shift uncomfortably in his chair.
"Life sort of got in the way…"
"Therapy coupled with medication may eliminate the chance of her seizure happening again, which, I presume to be non-epileptic." Dr. Ward advised, writing more notes into Chloe's chart. "Of course, you could air on the side of caution and have her PCP order an MRI just to check for abnormal brain activity but…otherwise, Chloe seems to be in pretty good physical health overall."
While Clark's shoulders could relax for the first time in hours, Chloe's brows tipped up.
"I'm going to print a copy of her evaluation, and then you'll be all set."
Clark watched Dr. Ward excuse himself out of the examination room, and once the door was shut, Clark turned his gaze towards Chloe's fingers bunching the hem of her dress.
"…what do you think?" he spoke in a tone that seemed to also question himself. "About…going back on medication?"
Thinning her lips with eyes downcast, stress lines formed across her forehead. Chloe could only muster the meek voice to mutter "…I know what mom would think…"
Clark let out an exhale that carried the weight of not only his sadness, but his guilt. Left as the sole provider, he did what he could, and he knew that was no excuse. Juggling a million plates at once had inadvertently came at the cost of not addressing just how sick his daughter truly was…
As a Carmichael, he had failed.
Standing from his seat, he approached his daughter. He kneeled to her, and her fretful blue met his solemn hunter-green. "Chloe…" he spoke gently. "…everything your mother has ever said about you, about your anxiety…is not true."
Confliction furrowed in her brow.
"She would have never told a cancer patient to just get over it, or a person with a leg broken in five places to just stand up and walk…" Clark continued, the assurance etched in his brow also coating his words. "She had no right to say nothing is wrong with you, because it's been so clear that you're not okay..." his expression softened "…you never really have been…"
Her head bowed diffidently, bunching more fabric of her dress into a crumpled wad.
"I know I was ignorant before, just like your mother…" guilt briefly diverted his eyes "…but I'm not anymore."
Ever so carefully, he drew her from her own troubled mind by taking her hands to cup between his palms, and this prompted trepid eyes to look on to his gazed fixed in genuine compassion. "I know now that mental illness is very much real." He took a long, steadying breath. "Your brain is sick, and we both need to start treating it as such."
In her contemplative stare, the center of her brows twitched subconsciously. Echoes of negative, destructive thoughts flooding her headspace, blurring the line between her own self-deprecating beliefs and her mother's haunting hurl of insults.
She could remember all the times she was unseen, unheard. All the times her pain was invisible to them, all the times she was left to put a band aid on a gunshot wound. She could remember wanting so badly for her parents to see the crush of their unrelenting pressure, to see the glue of sanity barely holding all the shattered pieces of her spirit together. Her mother never bothered to understand…
Then there was her father; had his mind remained closed, he would have chided her for being so dramatic as she shook uncontrollably on the floor. Instead, he took no chances and rushed her to the hospital. He showed such concern, expressed such compassion…
Compassion she felt undeserving of.
Father and daughter turned their heads towards the clink of the door's handle opening as Dr. Ward returned. Releasing Chloe's hands, Clark returned to his feet as the GP approached with a copy of Chloe's paperwork.
"Here you are." the GP handed the papers to Clark with a professional grin as Clark accepted the papers with a simple thank you. "And this," reaching into his pocket, Dr. Ward warmed his smile as his hand revealed a pink lollipop, holding it out within the young patient's reach "is to help little miss feel better."
At first, Chloe was frozen in her stare, the gears in her mind spinning in attempts to process how a lollipop could fix all the many things wrong with her. Sugary candy can't cure a sick brain. But then, she blinked in a subtle jerk when she felt a fatherly hand brush the back of her hair, looking to her father's comforting smile that nodded for her to accept the thoughtful sentiment of the gesture.
Apprehensively, Chloe reached with meek fingers, accepting the lollipop as she squeaked "…t-thank you…"
First rays of Saturday sunlight shone softly, parting cotton curtains of white clouds. At just 7:30 am, the large ship of the Buxaplenty mansion was alive with its crew members already busied in their respective morning duties. Maids dusting and cleaning, butlers running mundane errands and overseeing the chefs in the kitchen, guards securing the property, and other hired staff doing their part to keep the ship afloat.
The captain, Orvy, voyaged into the foyer, passing underneath the silver chandelier with his traveling mug of dark roast as the captain's wife, Frances, came into view, exiting the formal dining room into the grand hall.
"Good morning, my dear." he greeted the love of his life with a fond smirk. His day had started well before Frances couped in his home office, going over what was left on the to-do list to complete for the country club's special event that evening.
"Good morning, my love." she smiled, heels clacking across the sheen of checkered white and grey tile towards her husband. Meeting him in the middle, she held out the hand ringed with the band of their union, and just as he'd done since the day they'd first met, he gently took her fingers and gave the back of her hand a short yet saucy smooch.
"Have you seen Remy?" Orvy thought to ask, and Frances coolly huffed as she took back her hand.
"I'm afraid not; he has yet to come down for breakfast." Frances reported. "The last I saw him was the last you saw him; yesterday after school."
"There is no plausible way that this behavior of his is normal." Orvy opinioned, having taken note of how often their grandson isolates himself since becoming his legal guardian. Sure, their full schedules kept them busy, but it would sometimes be a full day before they'd catch a second's glimpse of Remy passing by. Almost as if he had no intentions or expectations on being seen.
"Well, he won't have the luxury of being a hermit today." Frances remarked, handing her cocked hip. They were expecting two extremely special gusts for tonight's event, and it was important for all Buxaplentys to be active and welcoming hosts.
They had a reputation to uphold.
Meanwhile within the confines of a young billionaire's bedroom, the Hispanic fairy hovered above with arms folded. Facing the godchild slouched on the edge of his queen bed, rubbing at baggy eyes that took more effort than it was worth to keep them open. Remy had jumped out of his sleep throughout the night which, admittedly, worried the godfather greatly.
"These nightmares have been happening more times than I like…"
Though there was an empty distance in his stare towards the floor, Remy proved his mind was still present when he muttered "I know…"
"And only you know the crux of what troubles you…" Juandissimo probed from a place of concern, and Remy lifted his flat brow to his godfather.
"My parents are dead and that creep's gone from my life..."
"That does not mean you have no wounds."
Slitting between his brows, contempt pursed Remy's lips. "You're saying I'm damaged?"
"I am saying that these nightmares may stem from trauma stress." Juandissimo ensured to tread lightly.
"Traumatic stress…" Remy tapped his chin with a diverted gaze, recalling where he'd heard that term used before. "As in…post-traumatic stress?" he looked back up to his godfather. "Like what Gary has?"
"Potentially…"
With little energy to refute, Remy slouched further as rigid arms crossed over his lap. "I guess…" he huffed sullenly. Unwilling to grapple nor disclose the truth of his nightmares of which…were not just nightmares. He was highly aware of his mind manifesting just how much it hated him, torturing him with reoccurring recollections from the depths of horrid memories once stored deep below…dragged back to the surface.
Memories from when he was much younger, much weaker. Trapped in his eight-year-old self, vividly facing the living-room fireplace. Cuddling on a white, Victorian couch beneath a wool blanket with the nanny he used to trust…
A nanny that was not only much younger at the time…but much, much stronger.
The dark-blue raven had perched herself along the slim section of the rustic counter next to the black makeup bag, watching her godchild lean on her toes over the rounded sink chipping at its ceramic coating. Looking at her reflection slightly fuzzed by dirty streaks and dried splashes, Molly used the mirror to apply her eyeliner on the lids of her heather eyeshadow, already dressed for the day.
"How ya like it here so far, kid?" Swizzle made conversation as her godchild steadied her eyeliner pen.
"Kinda cramped…" Molly drew a finishing black streak along her lid, evening out any uneven lines.
"Yeah, but…still a step up from a group home?" Swizzle tried.
Planting her feet to the tile in a momentary break, Molly wrinkled her brooding chin. She had other grievances, but she didn't want to sound ungrateful. Instead, she leaned back on her toes, moving on to line her other eye. "Sure…"
Dressed in her oversized black tee with a skull and crossbones, Vicky reset the bench seat that had been jackknifed into a two-person bed she shared with her uncle, waiting on Molly to finish freshening up so she can take a much-needed shower. Chet Ubetcha reported the morning news as TV background noise while Vic poured his brewed dark roast into his mug filled with a sugar and two creams, still lazing in his KISS band tee and blue-and-white plaid pajama pants.
"Hey, Vicky…you babysittin' today?" Vic used a plastic spoon to stir his coffee, leaning his back against the edge of the counter.
"I would, but I chose to take the weekend off." Vicky replied, folding the bedsheet and mattress sheet.
"Ah…" Setting the spoon back on the folded napkin beside the coffee maker, Vic then took four steps across to take a seat at the table booth, facing the TV as he looked in Vicky's direction. "Well…I was thinkin'…" he paused to sip his coffee. "How 'bout…startin' Tootie's birthday a lil' early and makin' a day out of Mike E. Mozzarella's?"
Folding the last crease into the bedsheet, she gazed at him quizzically. "…for real?"
"Yeah…" he shrugged casually. "Get us all out tha house for a bit."
"…I hear that place is like, really loud and crazy crowded. 'Specially on weekends…" Vicky commented, keeping her sheltered little sister in mind. "You think Tootie'll like it?"
Considering Vicky's slight apprehension on the idea, Vic drummed pensive fingers along the sides of his mug. "We can always leave if it gets too much, but it'd be nice for her ta be a normal kid, for once…"
Behind the navy curtain blocking off the bedroom that the younger girls now shared, the teal cat was nestled atop the black-and-white plaid of the duvet. Watching the raven-haired girl seated on bent knees as she brushed out both sections of her middle part with a soft paddle brush through the wished-up mirror mounted on the nearest wall.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about, sweetheart?" Rose asked courteously. Seeing as how they had the room to themselves, Rose figured now was a good time to pick her godchild's brain.
Quietly brushing out tangles in her hair, Tootie simply shrugged.
"…what about your birthday tomorrow?"
Lowering the brush to her side, Tootie then fingered through the section of her hair that she would not be working on, twisting it and using a hair clip to tie it out of the way "…what about it?"
"Are you excited?"
Splitting a section of her untied hair in the front, Tootie shrugged again.
"Does something about it bother you?"
Starting her French braid by grabbing hair to add with her tuck strand, Tootie repeated the process with the other two strands of her part. "The whole idea just feels weird…"
"Why is that?"
"I dunno…" Tootie brunched between her brows in a subtle frown "…I don't like a lot of attention on me…"
"I know, but it's your special day! The anniversary of your arrival into the world." Rose tried, hoping she wasn't coming off too pushy. "A reminder that you've made it another year, through all the hardships."
Continuing her braid past her left ear, Tootie worked her way down the length of her hair. "I still don't get why it has to be this big thing…"
"Because you get to celebrate with the people that love and care about you."
With no more hair to add, Tootie began braiding the rest of her hair as a normal braid as a knot of discomfort tightened in her stomach. Was her birthday even worth celebrating? She's gone this long without making one day of the year some big spectacle…why start now?
In the line of view through the mirror, Rose furrowed when she noticed the subtle downturn of Tootie's lips "…do you not want to celebrate?"
Hearing her godmother's disappointment, Tootie grimaced involuntarily, hesitant in what to say that would not make her sound ungracious. Reluctant to state her qualms as to why birthdays are not as special as everyone makes them out to be. "I know you want me to feel special, and I appreciate that. It's just…" she let her tight braid loosen when her fingers let go, the deepness of her frown dimpling her chin through the mirror towards Rose.
"…aren't you worried about me getting older?"
Crestfallen, Rose's lips pulled down at the corners. "Of course, I am…" she admitted honestly, but after a breath, sadness mustered a weak grin "…but I can't stop you from growing up."
Purple eyes drooped glumly.
"You shouldn't worry about that right now, anyway." Rose attempted to steer the conversation back in a more uplifting direction. "We have a loooooooong time before we'd have to cross that bridge."
Lips pressed tightly, Tootie's dire need for distraction returned to tightening her braid. Yeah, sure, it's not like she was turning eighteen tomorrow. That felt like lightyears from now. Still...she wasn't getting any younger. She knew that every year added to her life only subtracted the time she had left with her beloved godmother…
Drawing closer to losing Rose forever.
Shamrock-green fluttered as they blinked, squinting in their adjustment to the dim ambience of darkness. At first assuming it was still night, a tiny spark in the back of his mind remembered the lack of windows along the walls. Blinking a few more times before the blurry haze disappeared from the purple bricks facing him, his arms poked from beneath the artistic swirls of sage green and salmon pink of the duvet. Stretching out the stiffness from one of the hardest sleeps of his life, sleep that was totally needed.
Green shag messy and disheveled lolled off his right side against the soft plush of his pillow, rubbing the last of slumber from his eyes before he blinked a few more times towards the white frilly overhang of the yellow canopy. Duvet still drawn across his bare chest, his head tilted to the right, catching a glimpse of the framed photo propped on his purple nightstand. A photo of their older son seated in a chair with a small smile to the bundled ball cradled in his arms, the day their newborn was finally strong enough to be taken out of the incubator.
Cosmo reached for the photo for a closer look, taking the time to admire the first brotherly moment between human child and fairy baby captured on camera. The first of many, he hoped, as a weak grin lifted in his cheeks before lowering the photo carefully next to his wand atop the nightstand's surface.
Shifting to his other side, Cosmo blinked again as he laid eyes upon the angelic beauty sound in slumber. Rosette curls lolled to one side, a rhythmic rise and fall in her chest with each rhythmic breath through parted lips. The serene sight curved a wider grin across his face, but when it took all of five seconds to spot how even her dark circles had bags beneath her eyes, his grin withered in a soft sigh.
It was a dead giveaway; she'd been up all night with Poof…again. They normally alternated in shifts, but she must've taken it upon herself to turn off all of his alarms and bear the brunt of nighttime diaper changes and bottle feedings on her own.
Taking in the still silence, he quietly observed his wife. His finger itched to caress her cheek, yet he restrained himself from disturbing her with a small pout in his bottom lip. He hated when she did that, though he understood why. When he's tired, he's cranky, and when he's cranky, he's not very pleasant. Perhaps it was his snappiness with Timmy yesterday that'd given it away...
He hated himself for that.
The fairy couple were both off duty, which meant no magic build up while Timmy's probation prevented him from making wishes for two months. Adversly, Cosmo was left without the mate to his soul while she recovered from her cesarean, leaving him to figure out how to alleviate Timmy's dark moods all by himself without magic. The hardest part was during the Turners' funeral; no amount of hugs of comfort, words of encouragement, an ear to listen, no amount of effort could make his godchild crack even one smile.
He'd assumed that once Wanda was healed enough, they could put their heads together on what would be best for Timmy in his time of need. But when Wanda and Poof were discharged from the hospital, the first-time parents hit the ground running. With no guard rails of hospital staff to fall back on, they became solely responsible for keeping their little miracle alive. All the advice books in existence couldn't have possibly prepared them on how to care for a little ball of unpredictable magic that was not only completely dependent on them but had no capacity to care about the struggle of balancing their own needs with the demands of parenthood.
As if to prove this as fact, whimpers of the baby monitor cut through the silence from Wanda's nightstand, whiny stirs buzzing in the compact speaker beside a framed photo of a baby's stubby fingers held by a child's palm. However, just as the fingers placid against her pillow twitched, Cosmo rushed to reach over and grab the monitor, pushing the off-switch right before whimpers amplified into full blown cries.
He feared she might have woken up anyway when her body stirred beneath him, his heart thumping as she faced away from him and towards the nightstand that his heated palm held the baby monitor above. When she shifted onto her other side and her shoulders returned to small ebbs and flows under the covers, Cosmo exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
Slow in his float out of bed sporting white pajama pants, he kept a watchful eye on his sleeping wife as he reached for his wand. Trying his hardest not to make too much noise as his fingers fumbled before they found their grasp around the wand's stem. Monitor still in hand, he figured he should take it with him. That way, Wanda doesn't wake up, and he doesn't forget to turn it back on. Wanda had nearly ripped him a new one the last time he did something that stupid…
Giving one last glance at his wife, his wand poofed him away in a cloud of green.
The walls were vibrant in an explosion of a colorful cosmos, a collection of white stars swirling within aquas, purples, pinks, and yellows among the backdrop of indigo. Floor fluffed in carpet of the lightest lavender, helpless cries of a baby wailed from the yellow crib centered in the room among the changing table, clothes hamper, rocking chair, and a glowing nightlight the shape of a crescent moon.
Windy static of the white noise machine beside the crib did little to sooth the large droplets streaming from deep-lilacs, flushed in his heated cheeks as his little arms and legs squirmed and flailed for immediate attention. Walls vibrating from throat-scratching screeches, nicknacks of toys and various stuffed animals hovered from the ground. Surrounding the crib as if summoned in an unintended séance.
A puff of green entered the nursery, and Cosmo gasped in a panic. "Poof, it's okay! Daddy's here!" Cosmo pleaded as he zoomed to the crib, shoving the baby monitor into his pocket before reaching down to scoop his son by his armpits. "Please, stop crying!"
Screeching cries quieted to trembling sniffles in a finger snap. Vibrations in the walls settled, and the séance of toys and stuffed animals dropped like dead weight in scattered heaps along the ground.
Holding his son with outstretched arms, Cosmo blinked slowly in his surprise. "Wow, that was easy."
Shifting to cradle his son with one arm, watery eyes gazed innocently at his father as Cosmo began soothing his pouty fusses with gentle bounces. "Yeah, see? It's okay…" Cosmo cooed, brushing a soft thumb to wipe away drying tears. Poof squirmed at his touch and turned his agitated frown away, on the verge of kicking up a fuss all over again when Cosmo held his wand and materialized Poof's bottle directly into his mouth.
Brows shot up in surprise, Poof's expression soon settled into a state of content as he sucked away at his formula. Cosmo steadied the bottle between two fingers to avoid potential choking in Poof's ravenous feeding, and a warm smile beamed, proud of himself for correctly guessing what his son needed.
As his newborn son slowly satiated his hunger, his godson grimaced from the ferocious growl of his empty stomach, a brutal reminder of skipping out on last night's dinner.
Knees bunched to the chest of his pink pajamas, Timmy squeezed his eyes as another furious rumble gurgled through the quiet. Resisting the itchy urge to scrap his nails at his arms to sooth his mental pain as well as the physical twinge twisting his stomach. He could call on Cosmo and Wanda's aid, but it's not like he'd be able to wish for anything. Besides, if they weren't out of the fishbowl by now, they were probably busy with Poof.
Hollowness ached in an all-too familiar void in his chest. No use disturbing them for his sake…
A shiver shot through his spine when unexpected knocks startled him like loud bangs behind the shed's door. "Yo, Tim, time for breakfast."
"'Kay…" he grumbled in acknowledgement to his cousin's announcement, scrunching his chin when his stomach responded with a growl more boisterous than the last. Shifting from the shelter of his bed to find a coat to throw on over his pajamas (putting on clothes without magic was such a chore,) he reconciled with himself. Maybe if he just kept his head down, Grandma Gladys won't be such a colossal she-devil. Then again, all he had to do was blink for her to breathe fire down his neck…
Shoving bare feet into blue sneakers next to his bed, Timmy shoved arms into his pink winter coat before trudging to the headboard of his bed to grab his signature pink hat. Sluggish fingers combed his wild shag with little effort and tamed it with his hat. Pivoting, drab feet dragged him towards the only entrance and exit.
[Aren't you gonna tell Cosmo and Wanda you're leaving?] Sophia asked when she noticed Timmy give no announcement of his departure to the occupants of the fishbowl.
"I'll be back before they even realize I'm gone…" Timmy groaned with one hand in his pocket as the other unlocked the door, and without a second glance, exited the shed and carefully shut the door from behind.