The Cruellest Month

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

Summary: Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

xxxxxx

Vivian Johnson collapsed on the road, by the car, flat on the rain-sleeked ground, her eyes opened and pained, her mouth trying to inhale the suddenly uncooperative air.

It was late and dark, it was raining, but the missing Stephanie Healy was found alive and relatively unharmed, the culpable party was apprehended, and some measure of justice was sure to be done. All in all, not a bad day's work that would have normally called for a celebration.

They needed it, all of them. The past few cases have been exhausting and, in many ways, discouraging. A good, kindhearted woman taking care of someone else's children all her life, killed by her addict brother. A group of young women - practically children - coming here for a chance at a better life only to find hell and slavery. A sad, desperate man, trying to fix past mistakes and resurrect his dead son by bonding with an equally lonely boy, ending up trying to shoot his brains out in front of the child. . . .

They needed a good one, a hopeful one, a respite from the depths of human despair. And this latest offered some genuine hope. A woman trapped in a man's body, taking a risk of alienating those around her, taking a chance on some kind of affection, trying to reconnect with people who mattered. She may have gotten her opportunity now. They have found her in time, and she just may have saved her ex and her kids from an abusive influence in their lives. Sometimes things did work out for the best.

And then Vivian collapsed.

Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Say that three times fast. Or not at all. . . . Jack gripped Vivian's hand, squeezing it gently after every road bump the ambulance hit. They were 7 minutes out, the EMT said. 7 minutest out of the safety zone - the hospital, their destination - where Viv would be taken care of and, hopefully, made better. 7 minutes out and one month in. One month, she said. One month ago she has been diagnosed with this unpronounceable and incomprehensible disease of the heart. A month during which she came to work, went about her business, chased suspects, spent long hours wading through evidence and clues, and not informing a single soul about her condition. Not informing him.

They wheeled her into the ER, pushing Jack out of the way, telling him to take a seat, and someone will come and talk to him as soon as . . . and does he know her family? . . . and who can they contact? . . .

xxxxxx

They gathered in a large, desolate-looking waiting area: Jack, still shell-shocked and lost; Danny, pacing the floor, keeping fear at bay by the constant motion; Sam, tired and looking guilty for some reason. Danny and Sam drove up right behind the ambulance, and Jack knew that Martin was on his way from New York right now, as well as Marcus Johnson.

Jack set, shielding his eyes against the harsh, iridescent light, his head swimming, his thoughts random and in a whirl. Thing were happening too fast. Spinning out of control and out of reason. It seemed like lately it was one crushing revelation after another. Just when he thought he's gotten a hold of something solid and stationary in his life, something else happened to send him right back into the tailspin.

Vivian knew for a month and she didn't tell him. She put herself at risk. Hell, she may have put others at risk! What if Martin, or Danny, or Sam needed a back up any time during that month, and she had collapsed then? . . . Jack dismissed the anger for what it really was: fear and pain. Fear for Viv, pain of not being trusted. He felt wounded. He felt like he deserved to know. Not as her boss, but as a long-standing friend - someone whom she should have been able to open up to.

Jack was fully aware that, all things considered, this sense of hurt was childish, petulant, and unworthy of him. He also knew without a doubt that, had the situation been reversed, he would have done the same thing. He would not have told anyone, either. The sense of self-preservation, fear, and the desire to avoid any kind of solicitation or pity would have prompted him to silence just like they prompted Viv.

And yet, the fact that she didn't confide her troubles grated on him. Or may be it was just exhaustion.

Jack shifted in his seat, pulling the drenched coat all around his frame in useless attempt to extract some warmth out of a limp, damp cloth. His mind drifted to that other recent revelation of things not told: Sam and Martin. Martin and Sam. He noticed that this was how he now always thought of them: as a unit, as one entity.

When did this happen? Jack didn't ask himself where. He knew where: right under his nose, that's where. And it wasn't even fair to fault either of them for going for it, or for not informing him. He had no claim on Sam. He let her go for another chance with his wife a long time ago, and, truth be told, because it was easier. Because what had started out as a comfort and a destruction, became too much of that, too complicated, and too involved.

And it wasn't as if she set around for these past several years waiting for him to change his mind. He knew she dated: some doctor in Tribecca, a detective they all worked with on a case. . . . They were there, on the periphery of Jack's knowledge, to be brought up occasionally in an unguardedly playful conversation. . . . As if they weren't real. He wondered briefly if Maria ever seemed real to Sam.

Martin was different. How, Jack couldn't have explained, but he was. And he was right there, every day, a person, even a friend, not someone Jack just heard about or met on occasion. Plus, he was Martin: dependable, solid, kind, eternally optimistic. Someone, who could give Sam what she deserved: undivided attention and unquestioned loyalty.

Jack liked this feeling even less than he liked his anger toward Vivian. His sense of fairness made it impossible to condone. And it wasn't as if he even contemplated starting something with Sam again. He said as much to Maria's barracuda lawyer, and he even believed at the time that he meant it. The problem was that, as stupid as it sounded, he somehow, in the back of his mind trusted that Sam would always be there. Not exactly available at a drop of a hat, but there, for some distant, uncomplicated future. Jack wondered at this conviction. Why would he think that? Why would he ever think that a young, beautiful, accomplished, and independent woman would sit there, like a difficult but highly recommended book on a top shelf waiting to be picked up and read at some later, leisurely time? It was an irrational feeling, and it belittled both of them somehow.

He stole a glance at her. She was muttering something under her breath, trying to warm her hands on a paper cup of hot and tasteless hospital coffee. Once upon a time Jack was able to read Sam's expressions and body language. He realized with a shock that this was no longer the case. He didn't have a clue what she was thinking or feeling.

He shook his head forcefully. He needed to snap out of this. Vivian was not out of the woods yet, and who knows what lay ahead for her with that condition. His complicated and wounded feelings would have to wait for the more appropriate time and place. Jack chuckled at his own state of mind, a little too obviously, because both Danny and Sam looked at him in surprise. Danny with concern, probably afraid that Jack was finally cracking up, and Samantha with more guarded apprehension. He shook his head at them in a reassuring way and got up, taking the damp coat off. No reason to get pneumonia on top of everything else.

xxxxxxx

Sam watched Jack for a while, out of the corner of her eye. He bewildered her so. He looked tired, positively ragged these days, but it wasn't that. It was the way she noticed him looking at her every now and then: a quizzical expression, filled with some unreadable emotion, as if challenging her to do or say something. Say what? Do what? She once thought they could communicate silently, but now she wondered if that was just an illusion. Just another lie she told herself. She certainly didn't get his communication now. So she watched him rest his head on the back of an uncomfortable chair and try to sleep. . . .

They should all try to sleep. Vivian was transported to the ICU. An imposing and impersonal doctor came and told them she was out of the immediate danger, but they would keep her for observation and determination for a while yet. More specific details would be given to the immediate family.

They decided to wait for Marcus and Martin to arrive. Sleep, that only a moment ago seemed like such a good idea, was suddenly not an option. Danny kept pacing. Sam wondered idly why it didn't annoy her, but instead infused her with comfort. May be it was because Danny's movements were less erratic and more like a well-oiled pendulum: rhythmic, crisp, and timed evenly.

Yep, sleep was definitely gone. She took out her cell phone: no missed calls, no messages, five last incomings all from the same number. Martin. Martin, who called 15 minutes ago. He was stuck in Lincoln tunnel earlier, his voice edgy and clipped, full of impatience to get here. Sam smiled faintly: she could see him cursing in that car. It was somehow always slightly shocking to hear Martin use those words. He was so well-bread that it didn't seem possible he would even know them.

Martin. She alternated between bouts of overwhelming tenderness and rage when she thought about him these days. There didn't seem to be a middle anymore. When did they get there, she wondered? And how? It was her fault, undoubtedly, but there was no point in canvassing the issue. If she could change something, if she even knew what and how to change, she would have. She wanted to be happy, she thought she took all the right steps toward that elusive state, and sometimes she even believed she was. And then it would desert her. Was that a cosmic joke or an old wives' tale: that impossible "happy" that you were supposed to be, if only you were a good girl and did what you were intended to do? But heaven help you if you didn't fit the mold.

They didn't even make love anymore. Oh, they still slept together, but it was something expected, almost ritualistic, as if they feared that if they took a break one night, they would never find a way into each other's arms again. And it was a shame, because it used to be lovely - something to hold on to, something comforting and reassuring. But then they could always comfort each other, even before they got involved. If this thing between them could be reduced to just that - comfort - they would both be happier. Or Sam would. . . . Or wouldn't. . . . God, it was impossible to sort out what she felt or wanted anymore! She would have even feared she was pregnant, if she weren't so absolutely assured of the contrary, because her condition felt hormonal. At least emotionally so. She saw herself get more and more belligerent and frustrated, and she took it out on Martin. On Martin with his idealistic and simplified view of a relationship and his often too-straightforward expectations. On Martin with his wounded eyes and exasperating need to have things neat, and clear, and out in the open.

Sam sighed and decided she better get some sleep. Thinking about this will only lead to more unhappiness. And she had quite enough, what with the feeling of being indirectly responsible for Viv's current condition. Not that Sam thought she could have prevented this , but at least she felt she could have kept a better eye on Vivian, safeguarded her somehow, talked her out of working so hard or going out into the field. She was, after all, the only one who knew. She should have done something, and never mind that Vivian would not have welcomed the action. "Story of my life," Sam thought, "doing either too much or not enough."

xxxxxx

Danny paced the waiting area. Eight steps north, eight steps south, and, if he felt particularly adventurous, there were five additional steps diagonally, toward the distressed vending machine. The pacing was methodical and the thoughts swung with it. Eight steps north: Vivian is seriously ill and may die. Eight steps south: how did I not notice this? Five steps diagonally: can't stand hospitals.

He stopped for a second, contemplating the vending machine. Stale potato chips, dehydrated chocolate bars, evil-looking generic brand soda cans. Danny briefly wondered at the wisdom of selling this potentially health-threatening stuff at a hospital. Oh, well, at least the emergency room was near.

Eight steps north: of course he didn't notice. The truth was that lately he was happy. Acutely happy with the kind of elation that can, at its sharpest and at least for a while, become all-absorbing.

A girl next door, of all things, and never mind the cliche! A certain Audrey Mills moved in down the hall and into his heart in February and promptly occupied his entire existence. Not that his work suffered. . . . Much. He concentrated, he did his due diligence, but, for the first time in a very long time, his work finally ended where his real life began.

Eight steps south: was he so selfish that he missed all the signs? Danny tried to recall if he had seen Vivan in pain or discomfort. Did he just ignore it? Did he put it down to tiredness? No. He noticed. Of course he noticed, and long before she had any diagnosis to share. The thing was that one just didn't pry with Vivian. If she didn't want something known, you couldn't get it out of her.

Eight steps north: bullshit. He should have asked. He should have insisted. He should have grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to the nearest doctor months ago. Way back in late January, when he fist noticed that she wasn't quite herself.

Five steps diagonally: coffee would be good right about now. . . . Who the hell ate this stuff? This vending machine is a health code violation waiting to happen! . . . His reflection looked distorted and troubled in the slightly curved surface of it. Danny ran a hand through his damp hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. It was getting longish in the back, but Audrey said that she loved it that way, so he was putting off a trip to the barber.

Five steps diagonally, back: Jack seems to be asleep. Then again, he may be just sitting with his eyes closed. Danny certainly wanted to close his. It would be good not to see the ugly, pale-green walls and dusty pink plastic chairs. Whoever decided that those were good colors for a hospital was in dire need of some high-impact drugs. The effect was depressing rather than soothing, which undoubtedly was the decorator's aim. The overwhelming paleness, like a washed-out hope. People kill themselves in much less opressive environments.

Eight steps south: Sit down, close your eyes, may be you can pretend you are somewhere else. Yeah, right. Like the sterilized hospital smell would let that happen. Danny physically felt the odor stick to the inside of his nostrils and lodge itself into his skin. Hospital smell. Institutional smell. . . . Close his eyes and he is 14 again, being led down the narrow corridor of his first group home, air thick with remnants of thousands of overcooked meals, cheap cleaning products, and not quite dry laundry. Or he is 16, and in a hospital bed, sharing a room with 3 other people. And he can't breathe, because the bandages on his chest and stomach, covering the freshly stapled knife wounds, are too tight, and he is afraid to press the button for the nurse, because the big, menacing guy recovering from a gunshot on a bed next to his had just fallen asleep and hates to be disturbed. So 16-year-old Danny is breathing through his nose, trying not to involve his chest too much, and not inhale the sickening mixture of chlorine and rubbing alcohol.

Five steps north: Sam looks like she is about to drop off. Clearly hospital coffee didn't help. She looked so distressed earlier. At least Martin will be here soon. He'll look after her. . . . May be. As absorbed as Danny was with his own personal life, he couldn't help but notice that not all was well between these two. That will have to wait, though. Vivian needed all his attention now.

Five steps diagonally: May he should pray. There bound to be a chapel somewhere on the premises. Thing was, he forgot how. That is, he could remember some verses, but the true nature of a prayer, that intimate contact with whatever deity, was out of reach. Memory of Father Orlando came to him. "You can always talk to God, Danny. He hears the intent, not the words." It was easy to believe this from someone like Father Orlando - a truly spiritual man who never said anything he didn't mean. But here, in this impersonal place, at some makeshift house of worship, surrounded by generic paraphernalia of faith, it was hard to summon any meaning or intent. Or any belief in a deity that would allow someone like Vivian to go through something like this.

Five steps diagonally, back: He really should stop pacing. It seems to annoy Sam. She's been following his movements with her eyes, but the look in those eyes told him she wasn't seeing him so much as she was lost in her own thoughts. She took out her phone, but didn't dial it, just stared at the screen. Danny felt in his coat pocket for his own cell. He restrained the desire to call Audrey yet again. It was late, he already spoken to her three times tonight. She had a review with an advisor tomorrow. Graduate school was tough enough without dealing with boyfriend crises.

Eight steps north: Boyfriend. The once abhorrent word. It rolled so easily off his tongue now. Danny smiled quietly. And stopped, feeling guilty. Vivian. There's nothing to smile about. Audrey came into his mind again, shaking her head and saying in that impish tone of hers: "Bon voyage on your guilt trip!" But he did feel guilty. Happiness is all well and good, but he allowed every other connection in his life to lapse, he hoarded it like a hard-won prize, not sharing with anyone. He wondered if people around him even knew. They probably noticed something. It was hard not to notice that he ran out of the office as soon as he could now, or that he stopped coming in on weekends, unless absolutely required; that he had a smile on his face a lot. They probably noticed the same way he noticed little things between Martin and Sam, or Vivian not being herself lately, or Jack tethering on a brink of something. That was the problem with all of them: they loved each other, they cared, but they never did share much. Unless absolutely necessary.

Eight steps south: Here's a prayer: God, please, let her be all right. Let her pull through, and I promise, I will change things. I will try to be more open, I will not shrink back from asking questions, I will let my friends know that I care, even if they know it already. "Don't bargain with God, Danny," he heard Father Orlando in his head, "it never works, and you'll never follow through anyway." Great. I am hearing voices. It's that damn hospital. I swear they spike their ventilation system with something.

Five steps diagonally: I really should stop this. One more trip and that vending machine crap will start looking good to me. I need Martin here. Watching him eat inedible things always stops me from doing the same. He checked his phone one more time. Text message. "Call me. Whenever. Love you." Audrey. Her not-so-subtle way of cheering him up and letting him know that she won't be studying or sleeping anyway, so he might as well call. Danny's heart contracted in love and gratitude. He would go outside, fill his lungs with damp, chlorine-free night, and talk to her about Vivian. This would be his form of prayer.