He winds his arms around her, hangs on to her shoulder blades, and feels like that kid again. Feels that same sensation of falling apart, of losing his grip on himself, of pure emotion escaping the wide-open gates, soaking her shirt with tears. Except this time, she's not resetting a break to heal correctly. They're not lancing a wound. This shattering isn't leading to anything better.
And then she splinters. It stops being clear who's holding who. Just two people torn open, sharing the same pain, losing the same most important person in their world. Echoing it back and forth like a microphone too close to the speakers. Two black holes that only keep from collapsing in on themselves because of the gravity of the other.
If he had to choose between going back in time and getting thrown out of a car all over again, the snapping of bones and the unforgiving pavement scraping off his skin, or this? He'd pick the car, a dozen times over.
Time passes, because it always does, and Jack continues to have no concept of exactly how much. It's like watching heatwaves radiating off of concrete in the summer, flexing and shifting, barely visible, impossible to nail down. By the time they've both run out of tears — for now, anyway — he's fucking exhausted again. Absolutely drained, and he can't be sure if that's from the accident, the medication, or what they just suffered through.
It doesn't matter. Whatever happens next is a blur. Maybe there are a few more tests, maybe there aren't. Maybe they suggest he stay a while longer, that doesn't matter either, because whoever fights the battle wins and he winds up in the back seat of their car for the two hour ride. Wordless again, leaning against the window, trying to will himself to sleep.
It doesn't really work.
He loses track of how much time they spend there, too. He was supposed to read, he knows, but he doesn't. He doesn't talk. He just sits himself down beside her bed, and waits for her to wake up. Expects her to, the entire time they're there. Expects her to so much, he doesn't want to leave. Five more minutes and it's bound to happen. Then five more, then five more.
It doesn't happen.
So he comes back again, and he waits again. The fourth time, he remembers to read.
Blue's body survives the transportation. The surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain is successful. When they disconnect the ventilator, her body breathes on its own. The swaths of bandages are unfurled from around her face and head. The bruising goes down and then it disappears completely until, to someone who doesn't know her, it almost looks like she is just asleep.
But she doesn't wake up and the significance of those small victories begin to diminish. Some of their luster lost in the far greater failure.
Outside of it all, the accident is officially declared a hit and run. Tom's report is very clear on the existence of a second vehicle. Exonerating Jack of all guilt.
No one at 300 Fox Way sees anything to contradict him.
(The first time they make the drive up, Calla holds a hand out to steady Jack on his way out of the car. The light touch should tell her everything Maura needs to know, but it doesn't. Calla tells Maura later that she can't tell if it's because the accident has been scrubbed from Jack's memory, or because something is blocking her. Either way, certainty is a pipe dream.)
In the hospital, Maura spends more time standing in the corridor just outside Blue's room listening to doctors speak in low tones, than she spends sitting at her daughter's side. There's sympathy in their voices, and then concerns. There are other facilities. Experimental treatment centers or glorified storage units. Perhaps she should consider-- The bills are already compounding on themselves and Maura feels like the world's shittiest mom every time she has to ask and how much would that cost?
The summer passes in a haze of two hour car rides and the smell of antiseptics. It becomes routine. The more often they go, the less able Maura finds herself to look at the body in the bed. Outside, the world keeps spinning on without them, and they're all three of them stuck within four walls with the never ending beeping of the machines.
One day, Maura stands in the corridor outside the hospital room and listens to the sound of Jack's voice as he dutifully reads another chapter to her daughter. There's nothing special about the day or the book. It's the same as countless of visits before it. But something in Maura's heart snaps and breaks.
When he steps out into the hallway, there's no trace of tears on Maura's cheeks, and she gives him a smile that's faded only in the way it has been since he first woke up after the accident.
Before they make the drive home, Maura takes him to one of the many pizza places in town for a rare treat. (Blue used to bring home pizza leftovers from her job at Nino's. Each slice tastes like a memory of her, and it's all Maura can do to choke down each bite.)
She waits until they're nearly finished. Until the check sits on the corner of the table (for whenever they're ready), and Jack is finishing up his last slice.
"Jack," she says, low and careful. "I think you should stop coming up here. The semester is starting soon. You should be moving into your dorm and making new friends. Not--"
Reading book after book to a girl who might never wake up.
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no subject
And then she splinters. It stops being clear who's holding who. Just two people torn open, sharing the same pain, losing the same most important person in their world. Echoing it back and forth like a microphone too close to the speakers. Two black holes that only keep from collapsing in on themselves because of the gravity of the other.
If he had to choose between going back in time and getting thrown out of a car all over again, the snapping of bones and the unforgiving pavement scraping off his skin, or this? He'd pick the car, a dozen times over.
Time passes, because it always does, and Jack continues to have no concept of exactly how much. It's like watching heatwaves radiating off of concrete in the summer, flexing and shifting, barely visible, impossible to nail down. By the time they've both run out of tears — for now, anyway — he's fucking exhausted again. Absolutely drained, and he can't be sure if that's from the accident, the medication, or what they just suffered through.
It doesn't matter. Whatever happens next is a blur. Maybe there are a few more tests, maybe there aren't. Maybe they suggest he stay a while longer, that doesn't matter either, because whoever fights the battle wins and he winds up in the back seat of their car for the two hour ride. Wordless again, leaning against the window, trying to will himself to sleep.
It doesn't really work.
He loses track of how much time they spend there, too. He was supposed to read, he knows, but he doesn't. He doesn't talk. He just sits himself down beside her bed, and waits for her to wake up. Expects her to, the entire time they're there. Expects her to so much, he doesn't want to leave. Five more minutes and it's bound to happen. Then five more, then five more.
It doesn't happen.
So he comes back again, and he waits again. The fourth time, he remembers to read.
no subject
Small ones that nonetheless feel significant.
Blue's body survives the transportation. The surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain is successful. When they disconnect the ventilator, her body breathes on its own. The swaths of bandages are unfurled from around her face and head. The bruising goes down and then it disappears completely until, to someone who doesn't know her, it almost looks like she is just asleep.
But she doesn't wake up and the significance of those small victories begin to diminish. Some of their luster lost in the far greater failure.
Outside of it all, the accident is officially declared a hit and run. Tom's report is very clear on the existence of a second vehicle. Exonerating Jack of all guilt.
No one at 300 Fox Way sees anything to contradict him.
(The first time they make the drive up, Calla holds a hand out to steady Jack on his way out of the car. The light touch should tell her everything Maura needs to know, but it doesn't. Calla tells Maura later that she can't tell if it's because the accident has been scrubbed from Jack's memory, or because something is blocking her. Either way, certainty is a pipe dream.)
In the hospital, Maura spends more time standing in the corridor just outside Blue's room listening to doctors speak in low tones, than she spends sitting at her daughter's side. There's sympathy in their voices, and then concerns. There are other facilities. Experimental treatment centers or glorified storage units. Perhaps she should consider-- The bills are already compounding on themselves and Maura feels like the world's shittiest mom every time she has to ask and how much would that cost?
The summer passes in a haze of two hour car rides and the smell of antiseptics. It becomes routine. The more often they go, the less able Maura finds herself to look at the body in the bed. Outside, the world keeps spinning on without them, and they're all three of them stuck within four walls with the never ending beeping of the machines.
One day, Maura stands in the corridor outside the hospital room and listens to the sound of Jack's voice as he dutifully reads another chapter to her daughter. There's nothing special about the day or the book. It's the same as countless of visits before it. But something in Maura's heart snaps and breaks.
When he steps out into the hallway, there's no trace of tears on Maura's cheeks, and she gives him a smile that's faded only in the way it has been since he first woke up after the accident.
Before they make the drive home, Maura takes him to one of the many pizza places in town for a rare treat. (Blue used to bring home pizza leftovers from her job at Nino's. Each slice tastes like a memory of her, and it's all Maura can do to choke down each bite.)
She waits until they're nearly finished. Until the check sits on the corner of the table (for whenever they're ready), and Jack is finishing up his last slice.
"Jack," she says, low and careful. "I think you should stop coming up here. The semester is starting soon. You should be moving into your dorm and making new friends. Not--"
Reading book after book to a girl who might never wake up.