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Chapter or Story
Title: Temporary Fixes
Author: Nicky
E-mail: NickyM96@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keywords: J/MP, MP/B
Summary: Miss Parker makes a choice that forever changes the lives of those around her. Sequel to Coming Home.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like it, these characters don't belong to me. I'm just using them for fun. Although, I don't think they have much fun in this story :-) I'll be sure to send them to therapy before returning them.
Choices
By Nicky
Temporary Fixes
The glare of the sun is what wakes me up. Not so much because it's annoying. But because it's unexpected. Broots keeps the blinds shut and the curtains drawn in the bedroom because we both like to sleep in complete darkness. So why is the sun peeking through today? I open my eyes and look around. That's when I notice that I'm not in my bedroom. I'm not in my home. I'm in the hospital. And the memories of how I got here suddenly come rushing back.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two days earlier . . .
I walk around my office, rubbing my stomach unconsciously with one hand while flipping through the files in my file cabinet with the other.
"Hi Honey," I hear as the door opens. Broots walks in holding a tray from the cafeteria.
"Hi," I say, making a point to add a smile. Over the past three months, it's become automatic. I don't even have to force it anymore. "What do you have there?"
"Lunch," he grins as he sets the tray on my desk. He walks over to where I am and places a kiss on my cheek before leading me over to my desk and helping me sit. I don't even have to try not to cringe whenever he touches me. I just don't feel it anymore.
"I hope you're hungry," he says. He separates the food on the tray. A burger and fries for him. A large chicken salad, fruit, and a glass of milk for me.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I sip slowly on the glass of milk as he rambles on about something I'm not really paying attention to. Every few minutes he'll look up to watch me take a bite of food. When I've eaten what he considers a sufficient amount, he suddenly realizes that lunch time is over and that he has something he has to get back to. We've played this game for three months now. It annoys me, but it's really sweet of him to be this caring and watchful of me. I indulge him whenever I can because I really don't think to eat any other time.
As I stand to walk him to the door, the room starts to spin. I hold onto the edge of the desk but it doesn't stop the pull of gravity on my body. My rubbery legs can no longer support me and everything goes black before I feel myself hit the floor.
That happened two days ago. I've been in here since then. I'm shaken from my memories by the sound of the door opening. It's yet another nurse with yet another tray of food. They keep on bringing me these trays of food that go back barely touched. I wish they would stop.
"Here's your breakfast, Mrs. Broots," the nurse says, setting the tray in front of me.
"Thank you," I say politely, waiting for her to leave before I push it away. But she doesn't leave. She sits next to me and pulls out a notebook. Uh oh. Something tells me she's not here to take my order.
"I'm Dr. Westfield," she says. "Your husband was concerned about you. He asked that I come in and talk with you."
"About what?" I ask innocently, picking off a small piece of bacon and popping it into my mouth. The doctor makes a little noise in the back of her throat and writes something down on her pad.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" she asks, glaring curiously at me. "You know what people expect from you. So when they start to question you about an uncomfortable topic, instead of answering, you do something to distract them. For instance, you know that I'm in here to talk with you about your eating habits. So to throw me off guard, you take a small bite of your breakfast. I doubt you've even swallowed it yet, have you?"
Normally, an accusation like that would put me on the defensive. But today it doesn't. For one thing, I know she's right. For another thing, I really don't care to defend my actions anymore. She can think whatever she wants to think about me. I just don't care.
"Why are you doing this, Marisa? May I call you Marisa?"
"Please, do," I nod. I know that I am 'Mrs. Broots', but I still don't like to think of myself that way.
"Can you tell me why you won't eat, Marisa?"
"I just forget," I say truthfully.
"You forget?" she repeats. She looks puzzled for a second before jotting that down on her little pad as well. "Do you forget a lot of stuff? Do you forget to get up every morning and go to work? Do you forget how to drive to work? Do you forget what you do here at work? Do you forget how to take care of your husband and stepdaughter? Do you forget how to keep your house immaculate? Your husband tells me that you seem to have all that in control. Plus you have time every night for him in the bedroom. You remember all that, yet you forget to eat."
"I'm not trying to hurt my babies, if that's what you're implying," I tell her, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she says. "Your husband says that you also faithfully remember to take your prenatal vitamins and get plenty of rest and exercise. You make it to all of your doctor's appointments and you two have signed up for Lamaze. I believe you're doing your best to take care of your babies, Marisa. But that includes taking care of yourself as well."
I just look at her, unable to say anything. So she takes that as a sign to continue.
"You've been to the hospital a lot during the past few months, Marisa. Burns. Bruises. Can you explain those?"
"My husband doesn't touch me," I say rather vehemently. I hope she's not implying he's abusing me. He doesn't need that kind of trouble. He's been nothing but kind to me.
"Calm down. I'm not saying that," she says, giving me another curious stare before writing in her book again. "You seem very protective of him. Almost as protective as he is of you. You can relax. I'm not here to accuse him of hurting you. I think someone else is responsible for that - you."
"What?" I wasn't expecting that.
"Not on purpose. At least, I hope not. In talking with your husband, he's told me a few things that you may not realize, Marisa. You may not be able to account for the burns and bruises, but he can. That burn on your hand? He said you and Debbie were baking cookies for a bake sale at her school. You took out the pan without an oven mitt. You didn't seem to feel the pain. The burn on your neck? Do you remember how you got that?"
"I dropped the flat iron on it when I was straightening my hair," I explain.
"They were second degree burns, Marisa. Didn't you feel them?"
I just shake my head, looking down at my lap. I see a few tears fall onto the blanket covering my legs.
"You went to see your doctor the other day. They drew 3 vials of blood. Your husband said it took them 4 tries to find a vein, but you didn't even flinch whenever they stuck you." She turns my arm and examines the bluish bruise on the inside of my elbow. I also notice with a bit of shock how the skin was barely stretched over the bone. When had it gotten so thin?
"I didn't feel it. I don't feel anything," I admit in a whisper.
"You recently lost someone very special to you," Dr. Westfield says, this time only looking into her book and not writing anything in it. "That must have been painful to you."
"Too painful," I cry. "It was too much for me to bear. I didn't want to feel pain like that."
"So you shut down so you wouldn't feel the pain. But as a consequence, you can't feel anything at all. No emotions. No pain, physical or mental. Not even hunger. That's why you haven't been eating. It may have seemed like it worked, but that was just a temporary fix, Marisa. You ended up doing more harm than good. By not eating, you not only hurt yourself, but it hurt your family to see you wasting away like this. You put your babies in serious jeopardy by not eating. That's how you ended up in the hospital."
"I'm sorry," I begin to sob. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not me you need to apologize to, Marisa. Take a good look at what you've become." She hands me a mirror and I gasp at the reflection of myself. My eyes, once blue and expressive, were more like a dull gray color. They were sunken into my head, which only further accentuated my hollow cheeks. I looked like death. It's a miracle me and my babies are still alive.
"I'll be here to talk to you when you're ready to deal with your pain. But I'm not the one you've hurt. I'm not the one you have to make this up to. You've hurt yourself and you've hurt your family. You can't hide from the pain anymore. Look at what it's done." She takes my hand and gives it an encouraging squeeze before leaving me alone.
I sit there, crying silently at my sickly reflection for what seems like hours. When my stomach rumbles, I look down at it, unaccustomed to the ache of hunger. My poor children have been in there the entire time, calling to me for months and I've just ignored them. They've kicked and punched and rolled all around inside me and I don't remember once feeling them. I've given up all the good feelings in order to ignore the bad. I've lost months that I can't get back. But I can try to make them up. With determination, I wipe my face dry and pull the tray of food that Dr. Westfield left behind towards me. I eat the whole thing without a second thought.
By the end of the day, the nurses who brought me lunch and dinner were a bit shocked to be picking up empty food trays. I continue to be the model patient because I have to get out of here. Dr. Westfield gave me a lot to think about. I hurt a lot of people with my choices. And now, there's so much that I have to set straight. I pick up the phone and make a phone call. It's just a small step, but hopefully it's one in the right direction. I've spent the past few months making a mess of my life and the lives of those around me with my temporary fixes. It's time now for something more lasting.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author: Nicky
E-mail: NickyM96@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keywords: J/MP, MP/B
Summary: Miss Parker makes a choice that forever changes the lives of those around her. Sequel to Coming Home.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like it, these characters don't belong to me. I'm just using them for fun. Although, I don't think they have much fun in this story :-) I'll be sure to send them to therapy before returning them.
By Nicky
Temporary Fixes
The glare of the sun is what wakes me up. Not so much because it's annoying. But because it's unexpected. Broots keeps the blinds shut and the curtains drawn in the bedroom because we both like to sleep in complete darkness. So why is the sun peeking through today? I open my eyes and look around. That's when I notice that I'm not in my bedroom. I'm not in my home. I'm in the hospital. And the memories of how I got here suddenly come rushing back.
Two days earlier . . .
I walk around my office, rubbing my stomach unconsciously with one hand while flipping through the files in my file cabinet with the other.
"Hi Honey," I hear as the door opens. Broots walks in holding a tray from the cafeteria.
"Hi," I say, making a point to add a smile. Over the past three months, it's become automatic. I don't even have to force it anymore. "What do you have there?"
"Lunch," he grins as he sets the tray on my desk. He walks over to where I am and places a kiss on my cheek before leading me over to my desk and helping me sit. I don't even have to try not to cringe whenever he touches me. I just don't feel it anymore.
"I hope you're hungry," he says. He separates the food on the tray. A burger and fries for him. A large chicken salad, fruit, and a glass of milk for me.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I sip slowly on the glass of milk as he rambles on about something I'm not really paying attention to. Every few minutes he'll look up to watch me take a bite of food. When I've eaten what he considers a sufficient amount, he suddenly realizes that lunch time is over and that he has something he has to get back to. We've played this game for three months now. It annoys me, but it's really sweet of him to be this caring and watchful of me. I indulge him whenever I can because I really don't think to eat any other time.
As I stand to walk him to the door, the room starts to spin. I hold onto the edge of the desk but it doesn't stop the pull of gravity on my body. My rubbery legs can no longer support me and everything goes black before I feel myself hit the floor.
That happened two days ago. I've been in here since then. I'm shaken from my memories by the sound of the door opening. It's yet another nurse with yet another tray of food. They keep on bringing me these trays of food that go back barely touched. I wish they would stop.
"Here's your breakfast, Mrs. Broots," the nurse says, setting the tray in front of me.
"Thank you," I say politely, waiting for her to leave before I push it away. But she doesn't leave. She sits next to me and pulls out a notebook. Uh oh. Something tells me she's not here to take my order.
"I'm Dr. Westfield," she says. "Your husband was concerned about you. He asked that I come in and talk with you."
"About what?" I ask innocently, picking off a small piece of bacon and popping it into my mouth. The doctor makes a little noise in the back of her throat and writes something down on her pad.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" she asks, glaring curiously at me. "You know what people expect from you. So when they start to question you about an uncomfortable topic, instead of answering, you do something to distract them. For instance, you know that I'm in here to talk with you about your eating habits. So to throw me off guard, you take a small bite of your breakfast. I doubt you've even swallowed it yet, have you?"
Normally, an accusation like that would put me on the defensive. But today it doesn't. For one thing, I know she's right. For another thing, I really don't care to defend my actions anymore. She can think whatever she wants to think about me. I just don't care.
"Why are you doing this, Marisa? May I call you Marisa?"
"Please, do," I nod. I know that I am 'Mrs. Broots', but I still don't like to think of myself that way.
"Can you tell me why you won't eat, Marisa?"
"I just forget," I say truthfully.
"You forget?" she repeats. She looks puzzled for a second before jotting that down on her little pad as well. "Do you forget a lot of stuff? Do you forget to get up every morning and go to work? Do you forget how to drive to work? Do you forget what you do here at work? Do you forget how to take care of your husband and stepdaughter? Do you forget how to keep your house immaculate? Your husband tells me that you seem to have all that in control. Plus you have time every night for him in the bedroom. You remember all that, yet you forget to eat."
"I'm not trying to hurt my babies, if that's what you're implying," I tell her, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she says. "Your husband says that you also faithfully remember to take your prenatal vitamins and get plenty of rest and exercise. You make it to all of your doctor's appointments and you two have signed up for Lamaze. I believe you're doing your best to take care of your babies, Marisa. But that includes taking care of yourself as well."
I just look at her, unable to say anything. So she takes that as a sign to continue.
"You've been to the hospital a lot during the past few months, Marisa. Burns. Bruises. Can you explain those?"
"My husband doesn't touch me," I say rather vehemently. I hope she's not implying he's abusing me. He doesn't need that kind of trouble. He's been nothing but kind to me.
"Calm down. I'm not saying that," she says, giving me another curious stare before writing in her book again. "You seem very protective of him. Almost as protective as he is of you. You can relax. I'm not here to accuse him of hurting you. I think someone else is responsible for that - you."
"What?" I wasn't expecting that.
"Not on purpose. At least, I hope not. In talking with your husband, he's told me a few things that you may not realize, Marisa. You may not be able to account for the burns and bruises, but he can. That burn on your hand? He said you and Debbie were baking cookies for a bake sale at her school. You took out the pan without an oven mitt. You didn't seem to feel the pain. The burn on your neck? Do you remember how you got that?"
"I dropped the flat iron on it when I was straightening my hair," I explain.
"They were second degree burns, Marisa. Didn't you feel them?"
I just shake my head, looking down at my lap. I see a few tears fall onto the blanket covering my legs.
"You went to see your doctor the other day. They drew 3 vials of blood. Your husband said it took them 4 tries to find a vein, but you didn't even flinch whenever they stuck you." She turns my arm and examines the bluish bruise on the inside of my elbow. I also notice with a bit of shock how the skin was barely stretched over the bone. When had it gotten so thin?
"I didn't feel it. I don't feel anything," I admit in a whisper.
"You recently lost someone very special to you," Dr. Westfield says, this time only looking into her book and not writing anything in it. "That must have been painful to you."
"Too painful," I cry. "It was too much for me to bear. I didn't want to feel pain like that."
"So you shut down so you wouldn't feel the pain. But as a consequence, you can't feel anything at all. No emotions. No pain, physical or mental. Not even hunger. That's why you haven't been eating. It may have seemed like it worked, but that was just a temporary fix, Marisa. You ended up doing more harm than good. By not eating, you not only hurt yourself, but it hurt your family to see you wasting away like this. You put your babies in serious jeopardy by not eating. That's how you ended up in the hospital."
"I'm sorry," I begin to sob. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not me you need to apologize to, Marisa. Take a good look at what you've become." She hands me a mirror and I gasp at the reflection of myself. My eyes, once blue and expressive, were more like a dull gray color. They were sunken into my head, which only further accentuated my hollow cheeks. I looked like death. It's a miracle me and my babies are still alive.
"I'll be here to talk to you when you're ready to deal with your pain. But I'm not the one you've hurt. I'm not the one you have to make this up to. You've hurt yourself and you've hurt your family. You can't hide from the pain anymore. Look at what it's done." She takes my hand and gives it an encouraging squeeze before leaving me alone.
I sit there, crying silently at my sickly reflection for what seems like hours. When my stomach rumbles, I look down at it, unaccustomed to the ache of hunger. My poor children have been in there the entire time, calling to me for months and I've just ignored them. They've kicked and punched and rolled all around inside me and I don't remember once feeling them. I've given up all the good feelings in order to ignore the bad. I've lost months that I can't get back. But I can try to make them up. With determination, I wipe my face dry and pull the tray of food that Dr. Westfield left behind towards me. I eat the whole thing without a second thought.
By the end of the day, the nurses who brought me lunch and dinner were a bit shocked to be picking up empty food trays. I continue to be the model patient because I have to get out of here. Dr. Westfield gave me a lot to think about. I hurt a lot of people with my choices. And now, there's so much that I have to set straight. I pick up the phone and make a phone call. It's just a small step, but hopefully it's one in the right direction. I've spent the past few months making a mess of my life and the lives of those around me with my temporary fixes. It's time now for something more lasting.
