Rating: R, for the shower scene

Summary: Langly just got her back...is he going to lose big sis again?

Spoilers: Not a chance.
 

ALLY:

It's past midnight. Joan has been admitted. No definitive diagnosis...the physicians claim they have suspicions regarding a number of things, but they will wait until they have a definitive diagnosis to tell us.

She is conscious again, but very ill. Right now she's asleep, which is good, but she is restless, uncomfortable.

As are we.

I hate hospitals.

That's whiny and self-centered in moments like this, and I know it.

But the more I'm in them, the more I hate them. Experience here makes me more apprehensive, not less.

Julie is pacing about, cursing herself quietly. "Knew I should've made her get checked out sooner!"

Like she would have listened, I think resignedly.

Langly is quiet, his expression one of stone terror. He's not had his big sister back with him a year. Even the remote hint that he could lose her again has him shaken to the bone. The steady stream of smart-assed comments has been replaced with uneasy silence.

I smooth the creamy hair, attempting to soothe him. He wants to be comforted, desperately, but it will not happen.

I selfishly want to take him home. I know intellectually that we could do just as much for Joan in our own bed as we could here. If we were home, I could stroke his hair and his back, give him some skin to skin contact, murmur softly to him.

It won't happen. He won't leave. Ergo, I won't leave.

Julie is obviously panicked, which she manifests in her inability to keep still.

It's going to be a very long night, and I could really use some caffeine and nicotine.

I inform the two of them that I'm going on a coffee run. Langly looks alarmed, tells me not to leave the building, hurry back. I'm not certain if this is because of his own upset, concern for my safety, or both, but I promise him I won't be long.

There's a courtyard near the chapel here, and it disturbs the hell out of me that I know my way around here. This should be a place that remains forever foreign to me. But it's lit there, and there are ashtrays, meaning that smoking is not only okay, but probably brutally enforced.

Just don't let me stumble across a certain smoker tonight.

It's cold and clear. I watch the stars float across the winter sky-they're so much brighter and harder in the wintertime.

I say a prayer in Hebrew, silently-the hospital may be a Catholic one, but I don't think they eschew prayers in any language. I just hope somebody is listening, somebody, something, that can turn this around.

At the very least, I pray that whatever it is, it has a name.

I do far better with named terrors than unnamed ones.
 

The nursing staff has told us one person in the room at a time, so two of us have to clear out. I figured Langly would fight Julie for position, but he acquiesces to her being Joan's daughter. He can be an adult when he has to.

We're back in the waiting area. I sit at the end of the sofa and instruct him to stretch out. He buries his face in my belly, and I smooth the vanilla-colored strands, now shot with silver here and there, and run my hands under the lower edge of his shirt.

He's trembling.

I hear a muffled sound that vaguely comes out sounding like, this isn't fair.

It's the only sound I hear, but the trembling intensifies. I know that buried in the warmth of my stomach are long, silent sobs, which he does not want to show me, but will share with me in his own silent way. His arm is locked tightly around my waist.

I lean down to kiss the top of the blonde head, and I find my own eyes are damp. I didn't even know I was crying. It's as if his own sorrow permeated my very being without my awareness.

A hell of a circumstance in which to discover you're soulmates.
 

January 14, 2001

We finally sleep, but it doesn't help. I'm supposed to work today and so is Langly. It's not going to happen. I grab the cell from my purse, leave a voice mail for Peter, and then one for Sheridan. I promise that both of us will try to be in on Tuesday.

I leave the messages without Langly stirring in my lap. I think it was sometime around 4 a.m. that he finally dropped off from sheer exhaustion. His glasses are tucked into my shirt, one temple sticking into my bra.

I lean over to snuggle him, and the glasses drop out of my shirt, and this does arouse him.

He looks like shit. I myself don't want to go anywhere near a mirror. My eyes are gritty from my contacts having been in for nearly 24 hours, my hair feels flat and dirty, and I know that my skin will be the same institutional grey that covers the walls.

"I gotta go see Joanie," he yawns, and pulls himself off my lap. His hair is flying every which way. I gently pull it into a ponytail, fish in my purse for an elastic, and pull it off his face. He waits while I accomplish this, but as soon as he feels the elastic snap, he pushes off. I follow him to Joan's room.

Julie has gone to sleep in the chair; someone at least had the decency to cover her with a blanket. She, too, looks red and puffy around the eyes, very much like her uncle, and her hair, although dark, flies in all directions like his.

Oddly enough, Joan, who should look the worst, probably looks the best of all of us.

Not that she looks wonderful. Her skin is mottled and blotchy, and the skin is drawn even more tightly over the bones. But she has the type of haircut that still permits her to be perfectly coifed.

Put some makeup on that woman, and you'd have a soap opera character.

Actually, I think her mascara is relatively intact. Only a small smudge of black graces the skin beneath her eyes.

Julie hears us and stirs. She may have been asleep, but not soundly, and she doesn't look the least bit revitalized.

I offer again to run for coffee. I'm the most distant relative, so it seems fitting.

We haven't told anyone yet, other than Kelly and Miranda, what is going on.

I should try and call them before they leave the house.

Miranda picks up, asks how her aunt is, and then asks if I want to talk to Kelly-sorry, but she's got to finish doing her hair.

Ah, to be 15.

Two minutes or so later, Kelly comes on. She inquires as to Joan's status as well, says that she and Miranda are fine, and that she doesn't work on Monday but she does have class until 6 p.m. I assure her that Miranda will be fine until that time, and I hope we'll be there long before that.

She asks if it's okay if she tells Michael.

I tell her all right, but emphasize that we don't have any kind of word on what her condition is, and we don't need everyone going into a tailspin. It may not be that terrible.

Talk about trying to convince yourself.

Kelly's not fooled by it, either. She asks if anybody told Jo.

Oh my God. Nobody even called Jo. And they live in the same house.

Shit. I need to do that.

I'll do it while I go for coffee, and this time, it's going to be Starbucks. Not to be a snob, but I don't think I can do another vending machine special.

I dial Jo's number, and fortunately, I reach her. I could kick myself for not calling sooner; she's been obviously very worried about Joan, seeing as she did not come home last night and didn't call. She figured that Joan and Julie may have stayed with us, but when Joan didn't come back to go to work this morning, her early-warning system went off.

I explain to her what occurred; Jo agrees that it's entirely possible that it's not terribly serious and may be easily remedied, but she says we need to be patient and let the staff do their job. She says she'll come by right now if we want her to, but I think it might be better if she goes on to work, and I promise to call her as soon as we know anything. She asks if Melvin knows, and I tell her, not at this time.

I was rather trying to avoid the party situation, but with this crowd? Forget it.

It'll be all over the map before anyone downs their breakfast.

I'm on the phone, and I'm so out of it, anyway, I don't even notice that it's my turn at the Starbucks counter, much to the  irritation of my fellow customers. I order three ventes to go and pick up three chocolate croissants. Might as well have high-octane fuel; we're going to need it.

I scan the area warily. Our smoking 'friend' has a habit of popping up at these moments.

I am grateful that I don't see him, and I can enjoy my own cigarette in peace.

I do find that I am constantly looking over my shoulder, scanning everything around me, watching, waiting.

In my past life, I'd have drunk my coffee, smoked my Marlboro Light, and ignored everyone.

It's almost become a reflex action. I'm not sure I'd consider it an improvement, though.
 

Joan is awake-more or less--when I get back. She's talking with her daughter and brother, telling them not to worry, it's probably just nerves.

Yeah, Joan, and I'm going to be six feet tall when I wake up tomorrow.

Brother and daughter don't believe it, either. Good thing Joan is as myopic as her brother, and her glasses are off. She'd know by the expressions on their faces that they don't believe her.

I pass around coffee and croissants, which earns two thumbs up from Langly and Julie.

"What, none for me?" It's the voice of Daryl Bergman, whom we contacted last night. He came, ordered some tests, and promised to be back in the morning.

"Hey, you make more than any of us. Get your own," Langly taunts him, and I feel a small surge of relief. Any Langly banter is a good sign.

Joan asks if he's got any news, and he says, hesitantly, that he does, but he's having an oncologist-hematologist come to see us shortly.

"WHAT?!" Langly and Julie chorus in alarm.

Joan, ever a mother, attempts to placate them, telling them there's no cause for alarm yet. But even she looks unconvinced by now. Or maybe she's just so totally exhausted that that's what I'm seeing in her face.

I don't even know. My own exhaustion and dirty contacts are blinding me.

I slip my hand over Langly's; I can almost get 50 percent coverage. Once again, he's silently frantic. The nails travel upwards to his mouth, and I notice my own have been in mine for an unknown length of time. Without even being aware of it, mine have been chewed to the quick.

Julie excuses herself for a moment. I ask Langly if he wants to talk to Joan alone. He silently nods in the affirmative.

I'm going to use this time to take my lenses out and switch over to my glasses. It's going to be a long, hard day. I might as well not be blind for the flight.
 

When I come out, Langly's in the waiting area, and he silently takes my arm and leads me towards the banks of elevators. Probably needs a smoke. I could use one myself.

My suspicions are correct when I hand him the pack of Marlboro lights and my lighter. He takes a long, hard drag, to the point where he almost chokes on it. I want to make a quip about him needing the oncologist if he's not careful, but I know it would be utterly tasteless to make such a comment right now.

Stress and lack of sleep do strange things to people.

He hasn't said more than ten words all morning. I don't think I've ever seen him so quiet. Not even when Frohike or Byers were in such bad shape was he this silent and morose.

Then again, while they were sick, there was no NBA lockout going on. Everyone's been having major withdrawal symptoms from no professional basketball this season thus far.

My mind is hitting all the weird places. I desperately need a shower and a few hours of decent sleep.

We smoke in silence. After about a half dozen drags, he finally says something.

"Least when Byers and Frohike got sick, the fucking NBA didn't choose that time to have a lockout."

In my state of worry, exhaustion, and general lack of control, I burst out laughing. He looks at me as if I've definitely lost it now.

"I'm sorry," I say, tears glazing my eyes as I'm laughing my ass off, "I was just thinking that."

He contemplates that for a moment. "Ally, you're getting as weird as we are."
 

The oncologist has not arrived when we return, but Julie seems to have relaxed somewhat. It appears that she at least took the time to wash her face and put her hair in a braid.

I sign, "I wish this person would get here," to Langly, who does understand some sign, and he makes the sign for agreement.

"Am I missing something here?" Julie eyes us suspiciously.

"Ally's an interpreter," Langly explains. "You didn't know that?"

"I told you that, honey," Joan tells her daughter.

"Yeah, you did say something about she works with deaf kids," Julie recalls.

"Deaf adults, mostly. College age and up. Right now I only interpret for one person, and I'm looking not to be doing it in a few years. I broke my arm last year, and it's been rather painful to sustain it for long periods of time."

"You're not going to keep interpreting?" Joan teaches special education, and I think a dropout from support services is distressing to her.

"I may continue to interpret for Dana if she wants me to, but otherwise, I'm not planning to return to it as an occupation. That's one of the reasons I went back to grad school."

"I miss my students," Joan says wistfully. "I hope I'll be back with them soon. I'm worried about them...continuity is so important-"

We're interrupted by a tall, attractive black woman who looks younger than myself. She crisply introduces herself as Dr. Walker, oncology-hematology.

She asks Joan if she'd like us to wait outside, and Joan nods in the negative. She introduces us as her daughter, her brother, and her sister-in-law, and we're all welcome to stay.

She's read the test results of everything ordered by Dr. Bergman...and her conclusion is that she would like to do more tests to get a more definitive diagnosis.

We ask her what her feeling is about what we might be looking at, and it's her opinion that it's leukemia or lymphoma related.

I can just about hear the breath being sucked out of Langly and Julie. Me, I just feel myself going numb. I think.

Joan is the calmest of the four of us. She's obviously unnerved by this development, but her overriding concern is to keep her daughter and brother intact. She asks, very quietly, what will happen next.

The next test Dr. Walker wants to conduct is a bone marrow analysis.

Langly gasps and becomes visibly pale.

He's been through this procedure, and it utterly unnerved him. I think he's more frightened than Joan about it. He grabs his sister's hand so hard I think he's going to break the skin. She doesn't pry him loose, though.

Julie asks what it involves, and her poor uncle nearly freaks as it's described succinctly. I detect a wince from Joan, but she's determined not to go to pieces over this. At least not in front of the kiddies.

Dr. Walker is kind enough to Joan, and answers the few questions she can think of right now clearly and briefly, but it's evident that she will lose patience with the rest of us if we can't gain some measure of control. I noticed her glaring at Langly as he just about pulled his sister's hand off.

I have control. I can't feel a thing right now.

Perfect.

Joan will be tested on Wednesday for this; in the meantime, there'll be a bone scan and some more X-rays and an MRI.

Dr. Walker tells Joan she'll be back later, and she wishes the rest of us good day as she departs.

Joan tells us to please, go home and get some sleep and take showers and get comfortable; she's going to be here for a few days, we might as well not get worn out in the first 24 hours. And she wants us all to go to work tomorrow. Julie tells her she doesn't start until next week, she'll stay with her, but Joan tells her that she needs to take care of herself as well.

Langly protests that he's not leaving, but Joan gives him her best Big Sister Look-cousin to the Mom Look-and he grudgingly accedes.
 

We then remember we have a dead car. Wonderful.

The car is where we left it, but it's been ticketed. This is not working for Langly, who gives a wail of pain upon seeing the pink sticker attached to one of the wiper blades.

"So what do you want to do?" I ask him, not certain what to do about all this.

He stares off into the sunlight, blinking, then unlocks the door and pulls out his sunglasses.

"What do I want to do? Lemme tell you what I want to do. I'm gonna tell Michael that he finds a way to get it home, and it's his. I can't deal with this shit. I don't have time anymore." There's a catch in his voice. "I got way too much to do to be dealing with a relic."

I silently cheer. The Mustang is very cute, but it doesn't run reliably, and Langly has no time to deal with it. Any opportunity he gets to make off with my car, he does.

I know that Michael is also very busy, but Michael is also a better mechanic, and not as overloaded with responsibilities.

"I don't have a problem with that," I tell him. "Of course, there is one condition."

"What's that?"

"Get your own damn car and quit taking mine!" I grin at him.

I actually get a thin smile in return.

"Let's call Frohike and get the hell home so I can quit smelling like I crawled out of a sewer," he says softly.
 

I offer to join him, but he wants to be alone in the shower today.

I suspect it's crying time for him, and he probably figures one performance per day in front of your wife is plenty.

He does, however, offer to let me go first. I assure him I won't take long. I suspect he realizes I won't; ergo, he will have plenty of hot water for whatever time he needs to be in there.

So I damn near think there's a repeat of 'Psycho' when I feel a hand reach into the shower.

"Changed my mind," he says, shrugging.

I pull him close. He's so tight. I knead his shoulder blades-no mean feat, considering how much taller he is than me-and run my hands down his back. He's collected all the tension there, and I can feel the knots. He buries his face in my soaking wet hair as I do this, and once again, I feel a shudder pass through him.

This time, though, it's a shudder not of ecstasy, but of anguish.

And the water turns salty. For both of us.

Once upon a time, I could separate my misery from his, and vise versa.

No more.

The boundaries are blurred, as blurred as both our vision when unaided.

When did I stop being able to differentiate whose pain was whose?

I guess it doesn't matter.

Is this what they mean when they speak of two as one?

END OF PART 47