Emily sat on the couch, shoulders slumped, unwilling to meet Jenny's eyes.
Jenny paced in the small waiting area. "My God, Emily, you claim to love Sly, then you say something like this? Did you want to completely destroy him?"
"No," Emily said weakly. It had been a long day, and she was so tired. She couldn't defend herself anyway. She just wasn't in the mood to endure an emotional lashing from Jenny, especially since she had already asked herself all of these questions.
Paul put a protective arm around his wife, trying to rein her in. "So that's when he put his hand through the window?" he asked.
Emily shook her head. "Not quite." She wrapped her arms around her mid-section. "He pulled his arm back and kind of raised it…" Emily paused. She was tired of telling this painful story over and over.
"He was going to hit you?" Paul asked, aghast.
"That's what we both thought he was going to do, but he didn't," Emily said with a new conviction in her voice, finally lifting her eyes.
"No, but the mere thought made him put his hand through the door," Jenny accused, putting all the pieces together.
Emily bit her quivering lower lip. She wasn't sure how she thought this conversation would go, but now she definitely wanted it to end.
Jenny shook her head. "This is our fault, Paul. We knew what it was like to marry a Quartermaine, but we were stupid enough to let Sly do it anyway!"
Emily's mouth dropped open at the insult. Emily knew she was to blame for much of this situation, but that should have nothing to do with her family.
"I would watch what you're saying to my daughter." Alan's voice boomed in the small waiting area as he approached with Monica.
"Why? This is all her fault!" Jenny said, her eyes wild with fear and anger.
"And your nephew shoulders none of the guilt? What about hiding alcohol in the apartment and nearly hitting Emily?" Monica fired back.
"Jenny isn't denying Sly's culpability in all of this," Paul began.
"It sure sounded like it," Monica muttered.
Jenny's hand shook as she pointed to Emily. "I just pray that Sly is going to come out of this. God help you if anything else happens to him!"
Alan moved between Emily and Jenny. "Do not threaten my child," he said with venom in his voice.
"Just stop it!" Emily shouted. Everyone was quiet. She stepped away from all of them so they could see her. "Do you think this is going to help Sly get better?" she asked quietly. "Do you think this is good for our baby?" No one had an answer. Emily sighed. "I didn't think so." She swallowed. "Yes, what I did was wrong. I don't deny that. But isn't it better to focus our energies trying to help Sly through this instead of attacking each other?"
There was silence for a moment, and then Paul spoke up. "She speaks the truth." He turned to his wife. "Let's go. Sly's in good hands. We can't do anymore tonight."
Jenny, shaken yet visibly affected by Emily's words, nodded and started to walk with Paul down the hallway.
"How dare she speak to you that way?" Monica said, still hurt by Jenny's comments.
"She was upset and looking for someone to blame. I just wish she wouldn't insult my family in the process," Emily said tiredly, rubbing her eyes with her left hand. "God, I can't believe how far this goes. We weren't only hurting ourselves," she said, her eyes taking on a faraway gaze.
"You look so tired, Emily," Alan commented.
"I'm, I'm fine," she said, but the fatigue in her voice gave her away.
"We have something we'd like to discuss with you," Monica said gently.
"What?" Emily asked, already not liking her mother's tone of voice.
Alan faced his daughter and put his hands on her shoulders. "We think it would be best if you moved home for a while."
Emily looked away. "How did I know this was coming?"
"It makes sense, Emily. You've been at the hospital for days. You haven't been sleeping, and you're not eating correctly," Monica pleaded.
"Mom, I'm under a lot of stress right now. I'm not hungry, and I can't sleep. Can you blame me with everything that's happened?" Emily said, sinking back onto the couch.
Alan shook his head. "We don't blame you. All that we are saying is it will be easier for you to get a good night's sleep and to eat properly at home."
Emily looked up to him. "What about when it's time for Sly to leave the hospital?" she said sharply.
"We think maybe it would be better if you spent some time apart," Monica said finally.
"He's my husband! I can't just abandon him!" Emily said, fire spilling into her voice. "Who's going to take care of him?"
"Well, he can move back in with Jenny for a while until he's recovered and has had enough time and distance to think about things," Monica said, trying to sound authoritative.
"What happened to 'for better or for worse'?" Emily said bitterly.
"Emily, he was going to hit you," Monica said, emotion finally showing through her voice.
"He didn't! Why doesn't anyone understand that?" Emily said, throwing her hands into the air in an exasperated gesture.
"We don't want to take a chance in leaving you alone with him right now in this fragile emotional state," Alan said sadly.
"You don't understand! Nobody understands," Emily said in a strained voice. She attempted to stand up, but did it too quickly. She felt light-headed and her father quickly held onto her to keep her from falling.
"Emily!" Alan said, holding her in his arms.
Emily quickly recovered, blinking her eyes a few times. "I'm fine," she insisted.
"That's it, you should see Dr. Newmann right now," Monica said, holding onto Emily's other arm.
"I don't need to see a doctor. I was just dizzy for a moment," Emily said.
"When was the last time you ate, Em?" Alan asked.
"I don't remember," she said tiredly.
"Ok, since you won't see the doctor, then we're going to take you home and Cook is going to make you something to eat, then you're going straight to bed," Monica said. "I'm going to get you a wheelchair to take you downstairs." She left before Emily could protest.
"I just want to see Sly one more time before I go," Emily said, moving slowly back to Sly's room with her father's support.
"You know that Gail's in with him right now. You can't interrupt," Alan said gently.
"That's not what I meant," Emily said, and very quietly approached his door. She leaned in just enough to get a peek of Sly on his bed, and Gail sitting beside him. Let her get through to him, she thought silently.
Soon, Monica returned with a wheelchair. "Come on, Emily, it's time to go."
With one last glance into the room, Emily wearily sat down in the chair. She rubbed her belly as her mother began to push her down the hall. Time to go for a ride, baby. We'll see your daddy again tomorrow.
*-*-*-*-*-*
"It's a shame we have to meet again like this," Gail said. "I remember that you were one of Scotty's friends."
Sly had a brief flash of Scott on the sidelines of a Little League field, yelling instructions and encouragement, jumping up and down like a big kid. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Gail carefully observed Sly's posture. He was lying passively on the bed, as far away from her as possible. He held his left arm to his waist and stared ahead to a point near the door. His right foot moved back and forth just slightly. Her tone turned serious. "I've been informed about how you injured your hand."
I don't want to have to hear this from another person, Sly thought. I know what I did.
"I'm concerned about your reactions to stress, Sly, especially since you've had many stressors in your life, more than any young man should have had to deal with," she said softly.
Sly quickly shifted his gaze to Gail. What did she know?
Gail was encouraged that Sly was paying some attention to her. "You lost your parents at such a young age. You're dealing with an unexpected pregnancy and a new marriage." She paused. "And your trust was broken by your grandfather's abuse."
Sly scowled and exhaled deeply. How many people knew about this now? It seemed like the secret he had tried so hard to keep was now being passed around callously. He swallowed. Now that Dr. Baldwin knew what had happened, was she really surprised that he had continued the cycle? Maybe it was inevitable.
"You responded to your violent impulse with more violence, punishing yourself. Self-mutilation, really," she said, her eyes drifting to Sly's hand.
I deserved it. Don't you understand? Sly thought. Then he remembered what Lucky had said earlier. You stopped. You never hit Emily. There was a slight throbbing over his right eye, pain derived from his internal struggle. He squinted slightly.
"I know that you must have come up with myriad ways of trying to try to protect yourself over the years. I think that that is why you're not speaking to anyone right now," Gail said, trying to regain eye contact with Sly.
Not just me, Sly thought sadly. I've got more important people to think about now.
"You may not feel safe using your voice. I can understand that." Gail spoke in an even tone. "The famous poet Maya Angelou didn't speak for years after a traumatic event."
Sly looked with interest when Gail bent down in the chair and reached for something she had put on the floor earlier. She sat back up and held a large yellow legal pad and a felt tipped black magic marker. "Just because you're not speaking right now, that doesn't mean you should stop communicating. You could at least use this to express any needs you may have to the medical staff so they can treat you more adequately." She handed it to Sly. "But many of my other patients have found that writing down their feelings is a tremendous help. Perhaps it will help you, too."
Sly looked at the pad, a blank canvas for his thoughts. You can't get into an argument on paper, he thought. It might be ok.
Gail saw the look on Sly's face and was encouraged. He seemed open to this new development. "I'm going to be back to see you again tomorrow. I know you have a lot to think about right now, but if you do decide you need someone to talk to, just let one of the staff know." She rose from her chair.
Sly looked up to Gail. He didn't think that seeing her would help, but he couldn't hate her for trying. Thanks, he nodded.
"Good night, Sly," she said as she left the room.
Sly's eyelids grew heavy even though it was still fairly light outside. He put the marker and the pad on his rollaway table. He tried to adjust himself on the bed, which was hard to do without disturbing his hand. Finally, he found a mildly comfortable position. His head sank back into the pillows as his jumbled thoughts tried to untangle themselves in his mind.
*-*-*-*-*-*
The darkness enveloped the forest floor. He rolled over, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his side. He looked up, but the canopy of treetops overshadowed the night sky. Where am I, he thought. He struggled to his feet, and was surprised to find himself barefoot. His loose, flowing clothing was no match for the night wind.
He took a long look at his surroundings. He was obviously deep in the woods somewhere. There was no visible trail to follow. His heart pounded at the realization that he was lost. What am I going to do?
He closed his eyes and listened very carefully. The forest seemed eerily quiet, devoid of animal noises. Was there nothing alive in these woods?
As if to answer to his question, he then heard a faint cry. He decided to follow the noise. He fought against the vegetation that reached out to him, threatening to strangle him with its bony arms. The more he progressed forward, the louder the cries became.
"Hang on, I'm coming!" he called, but the trees and undergrowth muted his voice. The branches stabbed and pulled against him, but he moved ahead.
Finally, he came to a small clearing illuminated by the moon. The cries were even louder, and then he noticed a small bundle of white material on the forest floor. He was shocked when he realized it was a baby. He ran to the child.
He stooped down and picked up the baby. It was wrapped up in a downy white blanket. The baby had soft blonde hair, but its face was red from crying. "Hey there," he said, scooping the infant into his arms. "What are you doing out here all by yourself?" The baby wailed all the louder, and he put a hand to its forehead. "You're burning up!" He looked frantically around the clearing, but there was no sign of civilization. "I'm going to find a house or something. We'll get some help and you'll feel better really soon," he whispered to the child. He held it close to his chest as he chose a direction.
He started to dash through the woods once again, making sure that he protected the baby from the thorny branches. He ran until his feet were raw and aching. His eyes moved rapidly back and forth, trying to find an opening in the patch of dense trees.
After what seemed like hours, the brush finally began to thin out. He was overjoyed when he spotted an old farmhouse at the edge of the forest. He ran over to the house, still cradling the child in his arms. The house was completely dark. "Hello? Is anyone home?" he said as he banged on the door with his free hand. He was surprised when it swung open. He slowly walked in.
The kitchen was dark, only illuminated slightly by moonlight streaming in from the window above the sink. The area was messy, as if the family that lived there had left in the middle of breakfast. There were plates on the table with half-eaten food. A skillet was on the stove, crusted with the remnants of what looked to be scrambled eggs. The door to an old-fashioned icebox was open. The only thing that made it appear different from a normal home was a thick layer of dust over everything. Cobwebs hung from the windows, forming their own sticky curtains. It was obvious the house had not been inhabited for a long time.
He left the kitchen and started to search the rest of the house for a bathroom. He carefully walked up the creaking stairs, passing various bedrooms. Everything was in disarray, as if the family had not expected to leave anytime soon. Finally, he found a bathroom, but the medicine chest only held old bottles of goopy brown liquid. He began to cough because of the amount of dust in the house. "What am I going to do?" he asked aloud. The baby continued to whimper and shake.
Just then, he looked out the window and saw a barn next to the house. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a towel and then went back downstairs. He left the house and took the baby to the barn. To his great relief, the barn was filled with bales of soft hay. He nestled the baby into the hay carefully. "I'll be right back," he said to the child, who had begun to cry again.
He ran outside and gave the towel a good shake, removing the dust that had accumulated on it. He spotted the old well with the hand pump when he first came, and now he brought the towel over to it. He tried to move the handle, but it was hard because of years of neglect. He was finally rewarded by a gush of cold water. He soaked the towel, and then wrung it out.
He walked back to the barn and picked up the baby. Its fists were clenched in discomfort. He started to apply the cool, wet towel to the baby's head. "This will feel better," he said softly to the child, though he wished for real medicine. He hummed a little and rocked the baby in his arms. Soon, the child quieted down. He was surprised by how natural it felt, tending to the child's needs. He stared down at the infant. "Who are you?" he asked gently. "And who would leave a child to fend for itself?"
Just then, a figure blocked the moonlight coming in from the barn door. He looked up to see an old man slightly leaning against the frame. He was nearly bald, and his face was weathered by the years. "Maybe they thought they were doing him a favor," the man said in a low voice.
"Hello," he said to the old man. "Do you live around here? The baby has a fever. Do you have any medicine?"
The old man just walked slowly towards them. "Sometimes a parent will think that they can't possibly provide for a child, so they leave them out in the open, in the care of the angels, I suppose. It's an ancient practice; I think there's a name for it, but you forget a lot at my age," he said, smiling at the baby.
"How could anyone leave a beautiful child like this behind?" he asked again. It didn't make any sense to him.
The old man just sighed. "Maybe they think the child would be better off in the arms of fate. Maybe they're scared," he said, carefully touching the baby's forehead. "She doesn't feel too hot to me."
He touched the baby's head, and miraculously, it seemed like the fever had broken. "Thank you," he said out loud.
The old man smiled at the child. "But you're right. Who could leave such a precious creature, one with her whole life ahead of her?"
He nodded in agreement. "I wonder who she looks like."
The old man continued to look at the baby. "We all carry pieces of those who have gone on before us. Maybe you'll see his grandfather in his smile, something of his mother in the way he moves. A child is a living legacy of the things we've handed down."
He was surprised when he felt tears spring to his eyes, looking at this beautiful child of the forest, cared for by the angels.
The old man then took the baby from his arms. "What are you doing?" he asked, distressed.
"I'll take good care of him," he said, carrying the white bundle away.
"But I can do that!" he shouted, feeling as if a part of his soul was suddenly ripped out.
The old man turned back one more time. "You're not ready, but your time is soon to come." He disappeared into the night, carefully carrying the infant in his arms. Soon, they were gone.
"No!" Suddenly, he doubled over in pain. He touched his side, and bright red blood colored the tips of his fingers. He looked down, moving his shirt, and there was a long wound along his torso. He sank to his knees into the hay. "Don't take him away from me!" he cried, his words echoing back at him in the large barn. "Don't take my baby away!"
*-*-*-*-*-*
Sly awoke with a start. His heart pounded in his chest. Where was he? Slowly, he calmed down as he re-acclimated himself to the now dim hospital room. He lay there for several minutes as the dream weaved in and out of his consciousness. The moonlight streamed into the small window, creating a strange pattern on the floor.
Finally, with a shaking hand, Sly took the paper and the marker. He stared at it for a moment, but he knew what he had to do. He picked up the pen, and he began to write.