Magni Nominus Umbra
 

BYERS:

July 9, 2001

I would like to say that things have been going along swimmingly since Juliet was released from the hospital.

Unfortunately, that would not be an accurate accounting of the situation.

The physical therapy is difficult. Juliet is not a wimp by nature. She has plenty of spine and guts. But the therapy is miserable and painful, and she's still in agony much of the time.

As am I. Watching her suffer, of course, is anguishing. If I could take her pain and absorb it into my own system, I would do it. No questions asked, nothing to negotiate.

And she is bored. She is accustomed to a busy, full life, packed with work and friends and commitments. The visitors come, and she is delighted to see them, but frustrated that she tires so easily and has to dismiss them after what she considers to be an inappropriately short length of time. She has memorized the entire programming schedule on television for each day of the week. This from a woman whose former viewing consisted of ER, Homicide, and Law and Order, with an occasional Simpsons thrown in for comic relief. I have seen more talk shows in the past ten days than I would ever hope to see, and pray I never do again.

Her main diversion, however, seems to be becoming upset with her mother. She doesn't actively argue with her; it's more of a matter of her becoming irritated with Caroline, and then unloading her aggravation on me.

This is all the more difficult because I find that Caroline is working my last nerves pretty hard. And my nerves are quite thin right now, thank you very much.

My plans to work on my writing, prepare for the fall semester, and attend to my administrivia have not yet materialized. And they need to begin to take on something resembling reality soon; it's already nearly the middle of July, and I have accomplished nothing.

It's 6:10 a.m., but I'm already wide awake. I can feel another hot, heavy northern Virginia day settling in. The summer has boasted some record temperatures, with humidity to match. I've eschewed my suits in favor of more comfortable summer attire in honor of the extreme weather, though unlike Langly, I consider going to work in shorts to be something that's simply not done.

Juliet continues to sleep. She still requires some Vicodin to rest comfortably at night, and night for her has a habit of extending well into morning these days.

Her bruising is disappearing, and her mouth has healed. She is still heavily casted, but in spite of it, she looks positively...edible.

She's not ready for that yet. She still doesn't feel up to having relations. At least that was the case yesterday, much to my chagrin.

I decide that I've had enough, and I'm going to do what cowardly males have done for millenia to escape it.

I'm going to work today.
 

FROHIKE:

God, this weather...I hate it.

Not only is the heat per se difficult to handle...but this dense, damp hot air is a brutal reminder of my time in hell. The disturbing dreams have returned with a vengeance.

Basically, I haven't slept for nearly a week. Exhaustion and peace don't equate in this case. My ulcer has gone from being an irritation to a major disruption. I've eaten nothing but crackers and milk for days now, and I'm not getting much relief from it. About the only thing that works for me right now is ice-cold beer. Michael and I have indulged in plenty of that vice in the past week since the mercury shot through the roof. Our apartment is not air-conditioned. I'm beginning to seriously contemplate a window unit for my bedroom, if nothing else. Michael can complain all he wants, but age before beauty here, folks.

Today's oral surgery day for Michael. I confess to being secretly relieved that Kelly has offered to take him. I will have enough to do when it's over. Let her deal with his anxiety for a while. She needs to see him when he's not at his best. I do believe she has, but I think it's good for her to have to handle him without assistance when he's totally miserable.

And he will be totally miserable. I've had this experience. It's not fun. But he needs to do it.

If he backs out, I will kill him. He needs to do it, deal with it, and get it over with.

I flash back to my own experience with having my wisdom teeth pulled. The thing that sticks out most in my mind is coming to and puking on my shoes.

Just the image I needed at this hour and with my stomach swearing at me.

I spent the last week putting together information for Ms. Russell. We still have much more to do. And I need to put something together for the August issue of TMB which is going to require a great deal of work.

And the offices are air conditioned.

I'm out of here.
 

I manage to see Langly leaving the house for DC-clad in shorts and Birkenstocks, hair in a ponytail, all the trappings of trying to beat the heat.

He looks unhappy and tired. I know he's been arguing with Allison. Well, perhaps arguing at this point is the wrong word. They argued for one weekend. Then she threw up a wall, and basically, I think her conversations with him have consisted of no more than basic information exchange, and skeletal at that.

Needless to say, she doesn't look any happier than he does right now.

"Hey." He greets me as he tosses his backpack into the back seat of his Corolla.

"Hey yourself. You holding up?"

He shrugs. "Guess so. Gotta go. See ya tonight."

"Has Allison made a decision?"

He looks pained. "Not that she's told me about. Hey, I'm late. See ya."

Maybe it's time for a short conversation with the lady of the house.
 

I know she's here; her car is still parked.

I don't like to badger her...but I think the time has arrived for her to break down some barriers.

It's an odd situation. She is usually the more focused, rational one of the pair. And I generally find that her arguments are the ones most likely to hold water.

Not this time. I don't appreciate what she is doing to Langly. Or her children.

Coffee, provided Langly didn't make it, is delicious and plentiful here. While my stomach isn't hospitable at this point to the acid content, the smell is intoxicating...and my better judgment is thrown to the wind.

She wanders into the kitchen. In spite of the heat, she has her hair curled and worn up in a clip, and she's wearing a cobalt summer dress that I know Langly loves.

Maybe she's trying.

"Good morning," I say to her softly. "Got a minute?"

"Not many. Have to get the kids ready." She pours a commuter mug for herself, splashes it with a little milk, and takes a long sip. "What's up, Frohike?"

"Let's go outside. You can smoke out there." She looks at me quizzically. I appreciate her efforts not to smoke near me, but I have noticed that in the past week, she has imbibed in the habit more than usual.

We sit on the back porch, if you could call it that. It's big enough for two acrylic chairs and a small table that contains her ashtray, which I don't think she's emptied in the last day.

"So what'd you need to talk to me about?" Her voice is thin, wary.

"Well..." I am slightly embarrassed to admit this to her, "I overheard your...discussion with Langly about a week and a half ago."

"You mean, our argument. Call it what it is, Frohike." She lights her Marlboro and takes a hard drag on it.

"I don't think he was trying to argue with you, my dear."

"Whatever."

She is so damn hard to reach sometimes. I can see why Langly gets frustrated with her.

"I think...he just wants you to make some kind of decision."

I expect her to harden up, perhaps even head back indoors. She will do that when threatened.

I'm a little surprised when I see a few tears trying to leak from the corners of her blue eyes. She blinks in the hard sunlight.

"Frohike...this is hard."

All real decisions are hard, my dear.

"I can't sign anymore. Or caption. Not like I used to. I have to find something else to do."

"Is there some urgency why it needs to be done now, my dear?" I'm trying to keep my voice gentle.

"Because I don't know how to do anything! Because I'm a total failure at everything I do!" She's gulping for air. She is determined not to let her tears get the better of her.

My feeling is, let it go, Allison.

"Allison...that's not true, and you know it."

"No, Frohike, I don't know it!" She lifts her head and looks at me for the first time in the whole exchange. "All my life, I'm surrounded by brilliant people. People who know how to do things. People who are smart and capable. And then there's me." She drags on her cigarette, gives a short, harsh laugh. "My brothers...they're all talented and intelligent. My first husband was brilliant. Langly is unbelievably intelligent. You guys...you all have so much education, so much insight, so much you know how to do...I can't even have children like a normal person, Frohike! How's that for failure?"

She's not going to be able to fight the tears much longer. I think she'd be wise to just let them go.

"Allison, my dear, you're what, 45?"

"Yeah, and I don't have much to show for it!"

Now I'm irritated with her. "Allison. You have a lovely daughter, Dana Scully just about worships you-"

"Which she wouldn't if I didn't know how to sign or caption!"

"Maybe that formed the basis of your initial relationship, but I don't see that as being that much of a factor anymore." Mostly, when Scully has spoken of her, she speaks of Allison's kindness and determination and...capability in all the areas she's observed.

"You've made Langly very happy."

"Oh, right, he's really happy right now, can't you tell?" Now she begins to sniffle some. I think I've hit her in a soft spot.

I hate doing it, but I think I need to press on this area.

"He knows you're not happy."

"Uh-huh. Well, what do you want? I'm trying to do a job I don't know enough about, I'm trying to learn as fast as I can, I'm trying to do a good job raising these kids, and not doing too well at it-"

"I think you're doing a marvelous job, Allison."

"I don't think Miranda would agree with you. Or Patrick." She lights another cigarette, having subconsciously crushed her last one.

This is cruel. Getting a woman upset before she needs to get out and function in a professional capacity.

"My house is a mess. My kids are a mess. My husband is a mess. My life is a mess."

I find this admission ironic. This is what Langly was saying to her...and offering her the opportunity to put it in order.

She doesn't see it that way.

"Allison, my dear, why do you feel compelled to do everything?"

"Because I have to. That's how I was raised."

"You're 45. You're not bound by that."

"Almost 46. Less than a month. Christ. I'm a pretty poor excuse for middle age, Frohike."

"Allison...what I would like to know is, what did Langly say to you that you found so threatening? Think about that."

She looks at me, puzzled. Almost as if she isn't sure what I'm talking about.

"Frohike...it's like, I would love some time to just be with these kids, to do some writing, to get my house cleaned, for God's sake...but I'm so afraid, if I don't keep busting my ass, Langly's going to start thinking I have no brains-"

"My dear, he knows you have brains, and he's saying, you don't have to keep proving it to him!"

"I think he's looking for me to make his life smoother and more convenient." There's a little acid dripping off the voice. She's missing the point. Again.

"Can you blame him?" I can't. "What about your own life, Allison? You've as much told me it's perpetual chaos."

"Wouldn't be if I knew what I was doing."

"No, Allison, it isn't you!"

"Then why is everyone telling me it's me?"

This has to be the most stubborn woman on the planet. After Dee and Jan, of course.

"We aren't. Do you know what Langly's saying to you?"

"That he's tired of things being so screwed up?"

"Maybe some of that. But also, he depends on you...the kids depend on you, too. We all do."

"You guys aren't picky, are you?" Her gaze is hard.

How did her parents and first husband ever deal with her? No wonder Langly bangs his head against the wall sometimes.

"That was uncalled for, Allison." I give her my best paternal gaze.

She chastens under that. While stubborn, I don't think she's had a life of open defiance.

I'm ready to give it up with her. She is not about to listen to anybody. Least of all me.

"Frohike..." the voice is small, and there are tears in it..."Frohike, I'm scared."

I sit up sharply. Maybe I'm getting somewhere with her.

"What are you scared of?"

"I'm scared...Frohike, it's Patrick...I'm getting really attached to him...and what happens if they take him from us?"

"Allison, if a genetic link can be proven, the Commonwealth of Virginia will look favorably upon that."

"And if we can't?" The possibility still exists.

"Then perhaps they will look favorably upon your parenting skills...particularly if you indicate that you have taken some time especially to look after him, give him what he needs...like it or not, Allison, the laws of this state are not the most progressive...and they're getting worse."

"I just don't think I can stand to lose any more kids," she's letting the tears run. "I've lost two with Langly already...and it nearly killed me, Frohike. I can't go through that again."

Truthfully, I did not know that the events had impacted her to that degree. She always seems so calm about the miscarriages. At least in public.

"I feel so useless since I lost this baby...it was a boy, you know."

Langly told me.

"First boy I'd ever conceived." She laughs. "That I know of. I don't know what the miscarriages with Eric were. I've had one good kid, Frohike. That's all I've done...and I think Miranda is a great kid in spite of me, not because of me."

"I beg to disagree."

"I'm scared...what if I stopped working outside my home, and I took care of Patrick and Miranda, and then they go and take Patrick from us...where am I?
Frohike, I don't think I can explain this too well...it's just...everything is falling apart."

"Have you talked to Dana Scully about this?"

To my surprise, she nods in the affirmative.

"A lot."

"What does she think?"

"She thinks...it would be good if I took some time off...but she's in something of a bind...we need someone there in the lab...and Michael's training Kelly-"

So THAT'S what he's been up to with her in the offices. I was worried about that...

"But she doesn't know how to build most of the models...she's very smart and catches on rapidly, but it would be hard for her to move into my slot..."

"Maybe you could build the models at home. And Kelly could do the data analysis and collection. I suspect that Michael is getting her up to speed
on that." At least I hope he is. "How does she feel about Kelly moving into the lab?"

"If she can do the work, great. But Dana's kind of skeptical about her being so young and so inexperienced. Then again, I had no great experience in doing this before I started...and Kelly's a lot smarter than I ever was..."

"Allison, who ever had the nerve to tell you you were stupid?"

"Nobody had to. I just knew. My parents, my brothers, my first husband, my daughter, my second husband...I pale next to all of them."

"Look at me." She hesitates, but she looks up then. Her gaze is tentative.

"Allison, we know you're intelligent. You don't have to keep showing us you are. We don't need any more proof. We don't need proof of anything. What
Langly's been trying to tell you, and what I'm trying to tell you, is that we need YOU. We love you because you're you!"

Her eyes are disbelieving.

This is an utterly alien concept to this woman. To be loved without condition. To be loved for herself.

I've met her mother...and right now, I wish that woman was alive so I could smack her silly.

How dare anyone make this lovely lady feel as if she is incompetent!

"Your intellectual pursuits are obviously important to you, my dear...and not being in an employed capacity does not mean you need to abandon them."

She is silent.

"You can probably do some of your work from here...you did some while you were pregnant..."

And she bursts into tears.

Maybe this was the wrong thing to say.

Then again, maybe not.
 

MICHAEL:

I have a confession to make.

I am scared silly.

My fear gets worse as I swallow the atropine tablet I was given to dry out my mouth. Guess this guy doesn't like to be drooled on when he's working.

Instructions say, wear loose comfortable clothing. I think I can manage that. It's so fucking hot out, I don't think I could stand anything else.

I almost pop my lenses in when I remember it says to leave them out, or I have to take them out when I get there. Why work harder than I have to? Kelly can hold my glasses for me. I'm sure I won't be needing them, or wanting them, while this is going on.

Why am I going through with this? I feel better. I don't hurt as much. The antibiotics helped. Even if they did fuck up my stomach for a week. Dad and I, we pretty much live on crackers and milk. And beer.

I could use a beer right now.

And it's only 9 in the morning.

I guess I better shave. I may not feel like doing it for a while. Least that's what my dad tells me. I manage to only cut myself twice.

And here's where I'm going to piss off all the ladies out there who say, you got no idea how hard it is being a woman.

To which I respond: Razor burn. Shaving nicks. Your dick in a zipper.

I could cancel this. I could call up, say I'm not coming, and sit down and pig out on Cap'n Crunch and coffee and juice...spend the day working with Kelly on her stats, write an article maybe, do some tutoring, play with the kiddies...

Then Kelly bangs on the door.

Too late. Kelly will kill me. Dad will kill me. I will die a slow, painful, agonizing death.

Might as well get this over with.
 

I notice here that people go in, but I don't see them come out. Either he's got a back exit, or it's like the roach motel. Roaches come in, but they don't get out.

I don't like this. And he's got lousy magazines.

Kelly takes my hand. She's got to notice that I'm trembling a little.

I am so pathetic.

We wait. Waiting is killer. The more time goes up, more I want to scream and run.

Just running would work. Screaming might still hurt.

We're told, just a few more minutes, there was a little trouble with the patient before me...

This does not reassure me. I'm nearly reaching record panic levels.

I had surgery once. It was enough. I think my scar hurts this morning. Probably all in my head, but it's like, I know it's there.

Kelly leans over and whispers in my ear, "Think of the shore, Michael."
 

After being stuck in several places-I swear to God, I will NEVER get sick or have another surgery again-and being given a large chunk of rubber to bite down on, I really wish I'd bailed out on this.

The Valium helps a little. I'm kind of sleepy from it, but I still sort of know what's going on.

Then I get this stuff that smells like nail polish remover...shit...

"Think of the shore, Michael."

They can pull every fucking tooth out of my mouth for all I care at that point.

END OF PART 61