DISCLAIMER: The M*A*S*H characters are
the property of Twentieth Century Fox, and a bunch of others no doubt. The story
contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2003 by
Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Under the Influence
by Djinn
It's eleven o'clock in the
morning and you're already buzzed. But
it's okay, because you're just one more nurse at a medical conference and you
can disappear into the crowd. Nobody's
going to know that this is how you usually are at this time of day. Nobody's going to lecture you on how you're
throwing your life away, or tell you that what you're doing is dangerous. Nobody will try to pretend that they
understand what you're going through, what you've been through, all the while
giving you that slightly superior look that says that they'd never fall into
such a state. No, here you can just be
one more conference attendee who's had a little too much to drink with
lunch. Nobody needs to know that for you
this is a steady state.
You walk to your room, down
the long hallway of the once luxurious hotel and speculate on how good a deal
someone on the organizing committee must have gotten from the owners and how
they couldn't possibly have checked the place out before they signed on the
dotted line. The carpet smells and it's
torn and pulling up in places, and the wallpaper's peeling. You think maybe you need another drink so
that you won't notice things like that.
There's plenty to drink in your room.
A door opens and a man you
don't want to see pops out.
"Margaret, sweetheart. I
thought I'd eat lunch in. Why don't you
join me?"
Doctor Callaway is shit faced
again. Every time he gets drunk—usually
at the Christmas party and on one of these junkets—he hits on you. And every time you make a scornfully amused
sound and keep on walking. You may be a
lush, but you have your standards.
"Hey, baby, come
on. I just want to get to know you
better. I'm a really nice guy. Give me a chance."
You don't even dignify that
with an answer, just keep walking. Your
room is at the end of the hall, where all the cigarette and pipe smoke
congregates. At night, when people are
having parties in their rooms, the smell makes you gag. You never go to the parties, even though you're
invited. You'd rather drink alone. You know that's not a good sign, but it's
better than going home with someone new every night, which you used to do when
you still thought you shouldn't drink by yourself.
There's a note stuck under
your door and you pull it out. You can
predict what it says. "I noticed
you in the radiology lecture. Join us in
room 211 at 6 pm for a party." Or
at least that's what the last note you found said. Funny thing though. You didn't attend the radiology lecture—it
was just the latest in a long line of come-ons.
And not a very clever one. You
wadded it up and threw it away. You know
this note won't be any different. You don't even unfold it, just set it on the
table and reach for the bottle of vodka.
Vodka is good, doesn't leave
a smell on your breath, or so you like to pretend. But you know all alcohol smells. Reeks, in fact. Reeks like Korea did. The scotch in the officers' club, the gin
from Hawkeye's still, the cognac Charles used to break into when he couldn't
stand it anymore. Booze...booze was the
smell of Korea. The good smell, or at
least the less bad one. It beat the
smell of blood and guts in the O.R. Was
a hell of a lot more pleasant than the smell of urine and shit from the latrine
when the wind was blowing the wrong way.
Or of rotting garbage from the dump when the wind blew the other wrong
way. Sometimes they burned the
garbage. That was worse. The smell got in your head, lingering for
days after they stopped burning.
Your phone rings, bringing
you back to a present that doesn't include burning garbage and latrines. You ignore the ringing. There's no one you want to talk to here, no
one that matters. You left anyone that
mattered back in Korea. Not that you
knew it at the time. You were looking
forward to getting home, even excited about your next posting. And stupidly happy to get away from the
people you'd just spent the worst years of your life with.
You thought you wanted
normal. You thought you wanted
mundane. And for a while normal was
wonderful, mundane was beautifully dull.
But it was a few weeks after you got home that the flashbacks
started. In the O.R. at the worst
possible times. You'd be handing a
doctor a scalpel and you'd get a flash of memory. Pierce or McIntyre asking you to "Hurry
it up, sweetheart." Or Colonel
Potter or B.J asking in a far more gentle way that you
hand them this or that instrument.
Sometimes it was Charles or Frank you saw. You'd look up to hand Doctor Brody or Doctor
Sinclair an instrument and they'd be gone and you'd be back in Korea and it
would all come rushing over you. You
thought you were covering it up; after all, you could do your job in your
sleep. You thought nobody was noticing
that sometimes you were very far away, even if only for a second. But then one day Henry Blake stood in front
of you and you started crying.
You blamed your behavior that
time on a family crisis and your supervisor seemed to accept that. She was an understanding woman, sympathetic
to how difficult it was to be away from home.
Of course she'd never served, didn't understand just how far from home
you'd actually been. Korea was something
that had happened to other people. She
had no idea what it was like, neither did the other doctors. Not one of them had been to Korea so they
couldn't possibly understand what you saw the next time you flashed back, when
you looked down at the routine appendectomy that you were assisting with and
saw a belly full of shrapnel. That was
when you started dropping instruments.
They transferred you out of
the O.R. soon after that, put you into internal medicine where you took
temperatures and blood pressures and asked the patients things that the doctor
would just ask them again. They made you
see the staff psychiatrist too. You're
pretty sure he didn't believe the stories you told him about Korea because the
more you talked the more he looked down at the pad he
was writing on and the less he looked at you.
You realized he thought you were exaggerating. That the gore and the blood and the other
horrible things you talked about couldn't possibly be real.
But they were real. You lived them. You can still taste the way the air in the
O.R. deposited tiny particles of dust and blood and body parts on your tongue
when you weren't masked. How you had to
learn not to gag at the smell of guts, literal guts—the psychiatrist had nearly
rolled his eyes when you tried to explain what that meant. Intestines, livers, stomachs, a virtual
anatomy lesson on the floor, on your operating gown, on your skin, even in your
hair. You wished, not for the first
time, that you could share those memories, let him and all the others who
thought you were just a little bit "off" get a taste of Korea. Get a whiff of the smell of day-old
gangrene. Or see a man holding his
insides together with his own belt. Or
listen to a soldier scream because of the pain in his leg—a leg you'd watched
the surgeons cut off hours earlier.
But you can't share the
memories. The people you could share
them with are all gone, scattered around the country the way you'd always known
they would be. Klinger tried to pull the
group together for a reunion. You meant
to go, but at the last minute chickened out.
What if they didn't understand you either? What if they were all okay and you really
were "off"? You just couldn't
take that chance. The idea that you were
normal, if only within that small special group, was what kept you going, what
kept you sane.
Or as sane as you could be,
under the circumstances.
You reach for more vodka and
your hand brushes the note. You give up trying
to ignore it and unfold it. It doesn't
say what you expect. It says, "I'm
here. I need to see you. -
Hawkeye, room 410." You
nearly drop your glass; you do spill most of the vodka out of it. You put it down before the rest is lost too. The note says the same thing no matter how
many times you read it. He's here. He needs to see you. It's from Hawkeye. He's in room 410.
You're up and grabbing your
key and you've made it to the door before you have time to think about it. But as your hand touches the doorknob, your
brain kicks in. You can't do this. It's not smart.
It may not be smart, but you
don't care. You walk back to the table,
grab the bottle of vodka. He can provide
the glasses. You hurry down the hall,
ignoring the looks from some of the doctors as you wait for the elevator. They're going up too, and they eye the bottle
in your hand, check you out in a way that in the past might have pleased you
but now just irritates you. You decide
not to say something sharp, something cutting.
You keep your eyes on the floor markers and the elevator hits four and
you get out and walk down a hall that also smells like smoke and has wallpaper
that peels.
When you get to his door, it
suddenly strikes you that he might not be in there, or he might not be
alone. Maybe he meant for you to call
him? You try to stop your hand as it
falls to the door but it's too late, it lands with a dull thud. Not quite a knock, but more than
silence. You consider running away,
going down the hall and round the corner to the stairwell that will take you
safely back to the second floor where you can drink your vodka in peace.
The door's swinging away from
you before you realize he's opened it.
He doesn't say anything, just stands staring at you. You hold up the vodka, "I come bearing
gifts." It's a stupid thing to say
but he doesn't seem to notice. He stares
at you and you stare at him and you realize that his eyes are darker than you
recalled and his hair is streaked with gray but his smile as it slowly spreads
across his face is the same as you remember.
It's mischievous, unrepentant, and boyish. But as you start to smile back, you realize
that you can also see a trace of something else, something that haunts
him. You wonder if it's the same thing
that's haunting you.
"I saw your note,"
you say, wondering why the only things that are coming out of your mouth are
stupid.
"And yet here you
are." He's teasing you and you
realize no one has done that for a long time.
He reaches for the vodka, "And you brought a friend. How thoughtful. She can talk to my pals." He gestures to the table where you see
several bottles waiting. "Can I
offer you a martini?"
You know better than to mix,
but a martini sounds good, so you nod.
Hawkeye could probably offer you hemlock at this point and you'd take
it. Somehow, since you left the 4077th,
he has become synonymous with salvation, and you know this is a both a silly
and dangerous notion. To invest one
person with that much responsibility isn't fair to him or to you, but that
doesn't stop you from doing it.
He hands you the drink and
you take too big a sip and almost choke.
"Go easy, Margaret. This isn't the good stuff like we had in the
Swamp." He grins and now you can
see even more things that aren't happy in his eyes, in the strained lines at
the corners of his mouth.
"Are you all
right?" you ask and he nods quickly.
You recognize the gesture. It's a
deflection, a refusal to answer the question any more than is necessary. "Pierce, you're not all right."
He takes a sip of his drink,
does it much more successfully than you did.
When he finally looks up he says, "Why do
you say that?" and it's as if he's asking you why you think it will snow
in August. He's far better than you at covering
up. Always has been. You imagine that talent comes from playing
the clown, much harder for people to see through the jokes. Unless they know you.
And you know him. Better than maybe even he believes. "Maybe because I'm not all right either. I recognize the look." It isn't what you meant to say. You meant to say something witty and clever
but instead you tell him the truth and it shakes you that he's broken through
so quickly without even trying. You
don't know if he even wants to hear this.
But you think about the note.
"And you said you needed to talk."
He gets a glint in his eye,
the old "I gotcha" look that's so familiar. "I said I needed to see you."
"There's a
difference?"
He laughs, the sound is
brittle. "Seeing you doesn't imply
talking."
You take a long drink; his
words hurt and you suddenly wonder if he just wants what all the other doctors
seem to. "My mistake," you
mutter.
There's silence then, and you
fill it by finishing your glass and getting up.
You wonder whether it's bad manners to take the vodka back with you and
suddenly don't care. You reach for it
but he grabs you, pulling you off balance, down into his lap. He's holding you close with one hand, the
other is running down your hair and you realize it's been a long time since
anyone touched you. You hear someone
moan, and it takes you a minute to recognize your own voice. You try to push away; you're angrier than
you've been in a long time but his mouth is already too close to you and you
raise your head and press your lips against his. This time when you hear someone moan, it
isn't you.
"Why?" you manage
to say between deliriously frantic kisses.
"Why now?" He's never
tried to contact you before; you don't understand why you should run into him
now.
"Fate," he murmurs,
and you find it too whimsical an answer for your taste but are loath to make
fun of it. You wonder if he believes in
such things. You don't know if you ever
did, but if you did, Korea would have destroyed all of that. There was no such thing as fate. Just bad choices.
His hands are roaming over
your body and you remember other times when he touched you this way. That long ago time when the two of you were
alone in the hut was the first occasion but you don't like to think about it
because it still hurts that you mistook comfort for love. So you shy away from that memory, and let
yourself remember the other times he snuck into your tent, or you asked him to
stay with you, the way it became second nature to find comfort in each other's
bodies. Second nature to not read too
much into it. Second nature to love him
without falling in love. You know that
last bit's a lie, but it's a lie you've held to for this many years, and you
aren't going to stop now.
He's pulling your top off and
you think maybe you should tell him to stop.
You wonder if he wants to talk to you at all or if he just wants comfort
for a while. You're about to stop him
when his hand goes lower and you throw your head back against his shoulder. You decide talk can wait until you can think
again.
He has always been good at
touching you, good at knowing what you like.
It surprises you that he would be so much better than the others, but
maybe when he spent so much time in the early years together learning how to
get your goat, he also picked up a few tips that would apply in less
antagonistic circumstances. Like
these.
You don't try to be quiet; he
likes it when you're loud. And as you
slump against him, you feel his lips on your cheek and his voice is unusually
tender as he says your name. You turn to
look at him and he's smiling, and it's a sad smile. He seems uncomfortable under your gaze, and gives
you a long, sweet kiss. You want to ask
him what's wrong but you know he won't tell you. So you turn your attention to his body, and
find him ready for you. You try to
maneuver but he holds you in place and you're suddenly confused. This is the easy part of relating to
him. Why is he stopping you?
He kisses you again, and then
he buries his face in your chest, his lips still nipping at you as he says,
"I'm lost, Margaret."
You don't move, can't
breathe.
"I can't get away from
it." He pulls away, staring at you.
You nod, unsure what he wants
you to say. Then you realize he doesn't
want you to say anything. He's waiting
to hear what you want to say. You relax
muscles you didn't realize you'd been holding tight, reach for his face,
rubbing your thumbs gently along his cheekbones.
"I can't either," you
say—the first time you've said it to anyone who would really believe you. "I had to see a
psychiatrist..." You can't finish,
feel embarrassed.
He nods. "Work sent you?" His smile shows you he's been in the same
boat. "What we need, Margaret, is a
shrink who's been to Korea."
"Like Sidney?"
He nods. "I looked him up last year. Thought he could help me like he did so many
times in Korea."
"And he couldn't?"
Hawkeye looks away and you
understand.
"How?" He's not the first. Henry Blake was the first. Killed before he even made it back home. And you heard that Donald was shot dead by
Darlene, his mistress back when you were stupid enough to be married to him. His mistress, then his wife—a wife angry
enough to kill when she found out he cheated on her too. That cracked you up for some reason—it was
after about five margaritas, that could have been the reason. But you thought that the rest of the people
you knew in Korea were still alive out there, somewhere you could find them.
"Cancer," Hawkeye
says and you close your eyes.
You see a lot of that in
internal medicine. Cancer. Such a simple word, kind of pretty
actually. But it's not pretty. People come in complaining to the doctor of a
pain here, a weird tightness there. They
leave with a death sentence. The
treatments are horrible, and they never seem to make any difference. You sometimes want to tell the people not to
bother, just go home. Die with
dignity. But then you see a patient
actually improve, actually live, and you think that maybe you should just keep
your advice to yourself.
Besides it's better to just
stay out of other people's lives. Better
to just leave them alone when you're as screwed up as you know yourself to
be. "There should be a number you
can call."
"There is. It's called the VA."
You roll your eyes. "I'd rather be crazy."
He nods. "Me too."
He buries his face in your
neck, breathing deeply. You don't wear
the same perfume anymore, wonder if he likes what he smells. His arms are wrapped around you in a tight
embrace and you relax against him, let him sniff you and hold you and kiss your
neck where it meets your collarbone.
"I've missed you,"
you whisper. Again
such honesty.
"I look for you at every
conference," he replies.
"Look for me at my home
address, Hawkeye. It would be
easier." Your voice is harsh, and
you don't care. He knew where you were;
Klinger sent out everyone's addresses.
He could have looked.
His arms tighten around you,
as if acknowledging you're right.
"I thought..."
"What?"
He laughs, the sound is so
bitter it makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. It's the perfect imitation of your own
laugh.
"I thought," he
says so softly you have to strain to hear him, "that if you were okay and
I showed up like this, I'd just pull you down with me."
"How could you think I'd
be okay?"
"You were tougher than I
was." He pulls away and touches
your cheek softly, painting the lines of your chin with his fingers.
"Bull."
"I wanted to believe you
were. I wanted to believe that when
things got too bad, you would be there to save me." He reaches for his drink. "This has been the only thing I've asked
for salvation lately." He holds it
up to your lips and you drink deeply.
"I know. Me too."
You look away. "It's a
problem." Easier to say than that
you have a problem with it.
"I know." He drains the glass. "I don't care."
You know it's true because
you haven't cared about it either for so long.
You shift, feel him push you up.
Once you're standing, he takes the rest of your clothes off, then
follows you up, pulling off his own clothes.
You suddenly wonder if the
cost of one night with him will be worth how much it will hurt to walk away
again. He frowns at your expression,
lets go of you and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He stares at you, as if trying to assess your
mood, as if you aren't both naked and about to have sex. Suddenly tired of the scrutiny, you hurry to
him, push him backwards and wait till he's in the middle of the bed, safely
anchored by hard mattress and worn sheets, before climbing onto him and
finishing what he started.
He holds you when it's over,
holds you and kisses you and then he begins to shake. You would comfort him, would tell him not to
cry if you weren't crying too.
"I nearly killed myself
last month," you whisper to him.
"How?"
"Pills." There were lots of pills in internal
medicine. Although the hospital is
getting stricter. Too many nurses are
addicted these days.
You planned to take the whole
bottle. Drank half a bottle of vodka to
make it easier to take the pills. But
the booze and the meds mixed wrong. You
spent half the night throwing up into the toilet, the other half lying in a
ball on the bathroom floor as you faded in and out of consciousness. You woke up at noon the next day. Called in and made up some story about the
flu.
You think they believed
you. If not, they probably just thought
you were drunk or hung over.
"Don't do that."
You look at him.
"Don't kill
yourself. I need you." He kisses you, and this time there's
something utterly tragic in the caress.
"I need you, Margaret."
"Have you tried to do
it?"
He laughs and it is the
bitter sound again. "Oh, not directly. I do stupid things though. I go out on the water in our boat when I've
had too much to drink. I drink in the boat and midnight fish and hope that I'll
fall overboard as I haul one in. Or I
walk through the woods during hunting season wearing white-tailed deer
brown." He smiles. "I live a charmed life. I don't fall in the water and no one ever
shoots me."
"I'm glad," you
say.
"Why?" His hands are moving over you again. You realize you've never known another
person's body better than his. Or wanted
to know anyone's as well as you know his.
Even Frank was more a mystery to you than Pierce, even if you were with
Frank more frequently. Even if Frank
loved you in his own twisted way.
But for you, Frank was an
infatuation. Hawkeye was...
You would rather not think
what he was.
"Why are you glad I'm
not dead, Margaret?" He kisses you
again, his lips pressing at yours in a way that is insistent and
territorial.
You don't answer.
"Just say it,
dammit. For once, just say
it." He sounds frantic, the manic
irritation that Korea used to bring out in him.
You don't want to say
it. "Why do I have to be the one to
say it?"
"Because I have to
know."
You try to pull away from
him. "Why? So you can reject me? So you can walk away from me
again?" You wrench yourself away,
roll to the edge of the bed. The floor
is inches away, you could be up and dressed and gone in moments if you wanted
to.
He touches your back, and you
sigh.
You don't want to leave
him.
"Say it. Please?"
"I love you."
The words hang in the air.
You wish you could take them back. Wish
you could make them into a joke or a lie.
But you can't.
You love him.
You have loved him for too
long. And you have never told him.
His arms crush you to him,
your back against his chest. His lips
are on your neck, sending shivers down your spine.
"I love you,
Margaret."
It sounds like a lie of
desperation to you. You flinch.
He lets you go. "Don't you want me to love you?"
"I don't want you to say
it if it's not true," you whisper.
"It is true."
"Since when?"
He sighs. "Since forever."
You shake your head. It's a nice answer. A safe answer.
An untrue answer.
"Just because I'm like
you, Pierce, doesn't mean I can save you."
You turn over and kiss his face gently because you don't want to hurt
him, you just want to make him stop lying.
"But I'll try. I'll try to
save you, if you try to save me. And if
you stop lying about loving me."
"I do love—"
You press your fingers to his
lips, harder than you meant to.
"Tell me later. When I can
believe you."
"When?"
You shrug. "When we're not drunk, and we've lasted
more than a few hours together."
He nods. "I will."
He kisses you then, pushes
you down, follows you. You and he have
always fit so well together, bodies joining together as if molded for each
other. He can give you pleasure and you
can give him pleasure and the sex is addictive if only for that.
It's made more so by the
comfort that follows the pleasure.
"Come back to Maine with
me?" he asks.
You shake your head. "I have to get back."
He looks stricken and you are
shocked.
"But if you really want
me with you, I'll come as soon as I can."
He nods, his expression
clearing as he kisses you again. He's
more affectionate than you remember. He
says your name more than you remember too.
It occurs to you that maybe
he really does love you. Then you push
the thought away. It will hurt too much
if it isn't true.
"I'm thirsty," you
say in between kisses.
He points to the table, to
the bottles of booze, your old friends.
"No. Thirsty." You point to the bathroom. Maybe it is time to start trying other
beverages. Less damaging ones.
He smiles, gets out of bed
and goes into the bathroom. Comes out
with two glasses filled with water. You
drain the glass, he does the same. It
quenches your thirst.
It doesn't touch the
ache. He sees you glance toward the
table, mutters something about tapering off and gets up to bring the bottle of
vodka over to the bed. You hold out your
glass, let him fill it up with that other clear liquid. It feels hot as it runs down your throat and
you try not to shudder with relief.
You see that he isn't making
any attempt to hide how good the booze tastes to him. You wonder if that's a good sign or a bad
one.
"I've been drinking
since I got back," you say. You
drank a lot at the 4077th too, but everyone did. You didn't stand out there. And compared to doctors that had a still in
their tent, your little hip flask was positively restrained. But here, even in the land of the five
o'clock cocktail party, you find yourself on the extreme side of the alcohol
consumption scale.
"I never stopped
drinking." He shakes his head. "I set up a still for fun in the garage
when I got back. It wasn't the same and
I let it run out. Bottles are too easy
to come by."
You laugh. "And that stuff'll
rot your insides out."
"Well, there's that
too." He puts his glass down,
reaches for yours and puts it on the bedside table. "Come here."
You lose yourself in him
again, in his touches and kisses and murmured words that make no sense so you
quit trying to figure out what he's saying.
It's not because he's drunk, he's always done this. You find it comforting that some things don't
change.
He holds you, cuddles against
you and whispers, "My dad will like you."
You wonder if his dad
drinks. Or what he thinks of all the
booze. Somehow you doubt you'll be seen
as a good influence.
But you don't argue. "I'm sure I'll love him too."
"And Maine is
beautiful. You'll see."
You thought Georgia would be
beautiful too. It's not. But then you don't have him there and maybe
that will make all the difference.
"I'm afraid." You hear the words, wonder who said
them. Then realize it was you. Vodka and Pierce are the perfect confessional
inducements.
"Of what? Me?"
You nod. Yes, you're afraid of him. Of how it might not work out, probably won't
work out, and then you'll both be left without your lifelines. The one person left to you who could save
you, and you can't even make that work.
"It's our last chance,
Margaret." He's agreeing with
you. That's probably a bad sign.
You can see the two of you
holding on long after it's feasible.
Afraid to let go and face the nothingness that waits if you fail with
your failsafe.
"Maybe we
shouldn't..." The words are
cowardly but you can't take them back.
"Maybe we
should." He isn't so afraid, you
realize. Not so worried. Or maybe he has more faith in you than you do
in him...or in yourself. You know how
easy it is for you to screw up something good.
"Pierce—"
He silences you with a
kiss.
You let him. It's easier to think when you can't
think. Easier to plan for the future
when now is all you can feel and see.
"We need to get some
help, Margaret. With the booze, the dreams—you are having dreams?"
"Nightmares," you
correct and see him nod in understanding.
"And hallucinations during the day." You watch his face carefully. This is new, this is big. You could be psychotic.
You wait for him to pull
away. He doesn't. "Me too.
Every now and then." He
snuggles in, pulling you close. His arms
are warm and strong and you allow yourself to let go. To let down your guard and just let him
protect you for a few hours.
Maybe for a lifetime.
"I think that may be the
booze." His voice is
matter-of-fact. "I think we need to
stop drinking."
You've thought that for some
time now. Unfortunately, your body and
the booze disagree with that assessment.
"It won't be easy. I've
tried."
"Me too." He sighs.
"Together, we'll make it."
His voice leaves no room for dissent.
For doubt.
"Right. Together we'll be fine." You don't want to remind him that no matter
how much he loves you, he can't crawl into your brain. Can't fix what's broken inside you. Ultimately, you're still alone, even if the
two of you last what's left of a lifetime.
"When can you
come?"
It's a three-day drive if you
take it slow from Atlanta to Crab Apple Cove.
You know because last summer you drove it. Parked on the street outside his house and
just stared. You were exhausted and you
had to go to the bathroom but you didn't get out of the car. All that way...to lose your nerve. You drove to Portland. Crashed in a cheap motel with an even cheaper
bottle of wine.
You slept for a day and half
only a few hours from the man you wanted to see more than anything. Slept and then got back in your car and drove
back to Atlanta.
And cried the whole way
home. Cried because you were such a
coward. Because you wanted to turn
around but something hard and practical inside you refused. Cried because you hated the life you were
getting closer to with every mile you gained toward Atlanta.
Now he's saying that Maine
can be home. That he can be home. You want to believe him.
"Margaret? You do want to come?"
You pull his face down to
yours, let the kiss that lasts forever be your answer.
"Then when?"
Your brain is too fuzzy to do
complex calculations. Like figuring out
how long it will take you to pack up your apartment or close out your
affairs. "Two weeks." You pull the number out of the air. Probably because it's the amount of notice
you should give and you can't afford to not get the reference from Atlanta
General.
"Two weeks." He says it happily. As if that date would be Halloween and
Christmas and some special Hawkeye holiday all in one.
"Two weeks," you
repeat.
You have the strangest
feeling as he pulls you even closer, as his free hand runs down your back, and
strokes your hair, and touches your cheek.
You feel as if he could become your new booze. The long tall bottle of emotion you cut off,
of passion you refused to feel because it let in too many other dark
sentiments, of love you gave up on a long time ago.
"We'll be okay,"
you murmur as you let your eyes close.
"Together."
"Yes. Together." His voice shakes.
You smile. It's your turn to believe, apparently. That's fine.
You can trade off having faith.
If you can't save each other, then you can't save anyone. "Go to sleep," you whisper.
You feel his hand slow, then stop
moving, lying heavily on your arm, warm and solid against your skin. His head rests against yours, his lips on
your forehead.
You feel a rush of love for
him, and you don't try to beat it back.
You're smart enough to know that this time you'll need that love if the
two of you are to survive. You'll need
it badly. Both of you.
You look over at the table,
smile gently at the booze. You'll have
to go easy on it. Make the breakup
gentle. Vodka has been a faithful lover,
a staunch ally. A good friend. You imagine Pierce's bottles are equally
loving. You'll have to take it slow, let
them down gently.
Breaking up is never
easy. Even if it is for the love of your
life. You wonder what it feels like to
love your life.
You hope you'll find out.
FIN