Chapter Text
Prologue
It’s late, when the call comes through.
You should have gone to bed an hour ago- two, even.
Maybe a part of you knew.
(Mother’s intuition.)
You’re working tomorrow.
You’re working tomorrow and you should have gone to bed an hour ago, but you’re fighting sleep, and you can’t explain why.
It’s certainly not the Olympics.
You’ve got the TV on, but you’re not really watching it.
You turned it on to reassure yourself, more than anything.
Just to see that it’s real.
A year late, but real, nonetheless.
There’s no team USA to cheer for and they aren’t the only absence either, but it’s real, and it’s happening, another sign that the world is still turning, that maybe, just maybe, this might last.
This…
This…
You don’t know if you’d quite go so far as to call it peace and normality restored.
It’s difficult to readjust and accept that this is normal, that it was always supposed to be.
You’re still getting your head around this new-life-return-to-life-as-it-was, and it’s been a little over a year.
You’re half falling asleep, half following the television coverage and trying to get your head around watching the Winter Olympics in the height of summer, when your phone vibrates against the coffee table.
You stop.
The screen tells you it’s the hospital switchboard.
“Hello?”
“Madison Clark?”
“Speaking,” you confirm. “Could it not have waited until tomorrow? I’m on shift first thing…”
“No, it can’t wait. I’m going to patch you through to Ange Godard…”
You frown. “Isn’t she…”
“She’s still in the field, yes. On her way back from what used to be Oklahoma. I’m going to patch you through- the line’s pretty bad…”
“She alright?”
“She’s fine. But she needs to speak to you urgently. It might take a moment for the line to connect,” the operator warns. “She’s in the air, we’ve lost her a couple of times already. So just stay on the line, okay? If we lose her, we’ll get her back…”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about…”
“I’ll let her explain. I’m patching you through now, alright? Just hold on.”
And so you wait.
You turn off the TV and you wait, hold the line, flip your phone onto speaker in preparation, because what else can you do?
Still it doesn’t click.
It should.
It should have clicked the moment the operator mentioned Oklahoma- practically on the doorstep of the corner of Texas where you were forced to leave your kids behind.
But it doesn’t.
Perhaps it’s because you’re overtired, fighting sleep.
Perhaps it’s because it’s been a year, and you’ve not moved on- of course you haven’t.
They’re your kids.
But you’ve had to compartmentalise.
You’ve told yourself over and over that your kids are just fine, repeated it to yourself like a mantra until you just about believed it.
You had to.
You’ve convinced yourself that somewhere on the other side of the Pacific, Nick and Alicia are doing just fine, that they’ve found someplace else safe and started again, as close to the new reality you’ve found yourself in here as they’re realistically going to be able to achieve in the wreckage of North America.
To even consider any other possibility has been simply too painful.
But it doesn’t even occur to you this might be about them.
You assume it’s about you, that Ange Godard needs you.
You assume she’s trying to make contact because she needs your help, because she’s encountered a situation out there she’s struggling to handle and she wants your expertise.
How much use you’re going to be, you don’t know.
Not when you’ve been out here for a year now.
But that’s what you assume, until the call finally connects.
“Madison?” Ange Godard calls urgently over the mechanical drone of helicopter propellers. “Madison, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I can hear you,” you tell her. “Everything alright? I thought you weren’t due back until the end of the month… you heading back early?”
There’s a long delay, phone line struggling to maintain the connection.
Maybe it’s Chloe, you start to wonder.
Maybe it’s Ange’s daughter and her anxiety disorders.
Maybe she managed to get a call with Chloe from the field and she’s worried about her, wants you to check in on her, watch over her until she’s back to take over herself.
You’ve already raced ahead in your mind, grabbed your car keys, driven over to Chloe’s apartment with your guidance counsellor head on, because Ange is your friend and you’d do anything for her daughter, when the call finally stabilises, and her response changes everything.
“You sitting down?” Ange asks suddenly.
“Yeah…”
“I’ve got Alicia.”
Everything stops.
Your head is spinning- because this isn’t real.
It can’t be real.
You’re dreaming.
You can’t allow yourself to believe this is real because it will only break your heart all over again when it isn’t… it can’t be real…
“Madison? Madison, can you still hear me? I’ve got Alicia. Alicia? Alicia, can you hear your mum? Alicia?”
The line crackles.
You can’t think.
Everything is spinning.
You feel dizzy.
“Alicia?” you whisper into the phone. “Alicia?”
But your daughter’s voice doesn’t come.
“I’m bringing her back to you, Madison,” Ange promises, voice fading in and out. “I’m going to get her to you as soon as I can. Alright? I don’t want you to panic… She’s sick- I think it’s sepsis. I picked her up about an hour ago, I’m still assessing her. She’s… okay, Alicia,” she murmurs, voice softening. “Okay, it’s okay. You still with us? Your mum’s on the phone. See? I told you, didn’t I? I told you she was alive. She can hear you, Madison,” she urges. “She’s not going to be all that responsive, I’ve got her on oxygen and I really don’t want her removing it. But she can hear you…”
“Are you sure it’s her?” you blurt out.
Perhaps that’s the worst thing you could have said in that moment, but the words tumble from your lips before you can stop yourself.
You have to be sure.
Your heart is racing.
You’ve mourned for your babies once and you don’t have the strength to do it all over again if Ange is wrong, if this isn’t your daughter after all, isn’t Alicia.
She hasn’t mentioned Nick.
How can this be Alicia when Ange hasn’t mentioned Nick?
“I’m positive, Maddy,” Ange insists. “I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t. The tattoo on her arm- it’s exactly how you described it. Everything fits. I’ve got your daughter. I’ve got your daughter, and I’m going to reunite you as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I’m going to try and bring her straight back…”
“Alicia? Alicia, can you hear me, baby… Alicia? Alicia… oh, Alicia…”
You can’t breathe.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be real, you can’t allow yourself to believe it’s real or the brutal revelation that it isn’t real will crush you…
You can’t seem to take any of this in.
Or you couldn’t, at least.
It all seems to be hitting you several moments too late, because suddenly, you’re panicking.
“Did you say sepsis?” you ask urgently, frantic. “Ange? Ange, did you… she’s got sepsis…”
“I’m not sure yet,” Ange admits- and she’s calm, still calm, but all of a sudden you’ve tuned into her properly, can hear that this is her staying calm to keep her patients calm voice, and it’s scaring you. “I’ll know her more once I can assess her properly- I just haven’t got the equipment out here. But she’s clearly a fighter. That’s pretty clear, and I’ve only been with her an hour. She’s a fighter like her mother…”
“But she’s going to be alright?”
You’ve done this so many times, with Nick.
You’ve done this so many times with Nick that you lost track by the time he was sixteen, but you’ve never done it with Alicia.
You’ve never done it with Alicia and it shouldn’t be any different, really.
But it is, somehow.
Maybe it’s just because it’s all so much to process, or maybe it’s because it was always different with Alicia.
You don’t know.
You can’t think.
You can’t think, you can’t take it in…
Nick…
“She’s responding to your voice,” Ange offers gently. “Madison? Her heartrate’s come right down, she knows you’re there. You can talk to her. Hearing your voice is helping. This is the calmest she’s been since I picked her up, hearing your voice is definitely…”
“Have you got Nick?” you plead desperately.
She hasn’t mentioned Nick.
It’s dawning on you slowly that Alicia hasn’t mentioned her brother herself because she’s in no fit state to- because it’s bad, because the only reason Ange hasn’t come out and told you it’s bad is that Alicia’s alert enough to understand and weak enough that the realisation might cause her to give up, but that’s not your priority now.
That sounds awful, but it’s true.
Because Alicia’s safe.
That’s how you see it.
Alicia’s possibly septic, definitely struggling to breathe on her own, but she’s with your friend, getting medical attention, on her way back to you.
You trust Ange.
Ange got you out of Texas, got you to safety; you trust her with Alicia’s life because she proved herself with yours.
Alicia’s safe.
Alicia’s safe, but you don’t know about Nick.
The line crackles alarmingly.
“Ange?” you call urgently. “Ange? Are you still there?”
“I’m still here…”
“Is Nick with you? Ange? Have you got Nick? Were they together? Is he safe, is he…”
Ange inhales sharply.
“Maddy, I’m so sorry…”
Your world shatters.
“No,” you wail. “No… no, no no, Nick…”
Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.
You can’t breathe.
Your breath catches in your throat and the world falls away beneath your feet, and there’s an aching in your heart unlike anything you’ve ever known before, even when Steven died, even when you had to tell Nick and Alicia…
Nick...
“Alicia was with him,” Ange murmurs softly. “It was quick…”
“She tell you that?” you choke.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening…
“The man I found Alicia with told me. He was there. When it happened, he was there. He was with them. He’s been looking out for Alicia since…”
“How…”
“Maddy…”
“How?” you insist, angry- angry with her and even you don’t know why. “How did it happen, how…”
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t know?” you explode. “You’ve called to tell me my son’s dead, and you don’t know how?!”
You’re being unfair.
You know you are.
You’re taking it out on Ange because you need to take it out on someone, because you’ve forgotten how to breathe, how to think, how to fucking exist.
Nick…
He’s gone.
Your baby’s gone, your baby’s gone, he can’t be gone…
“Alicia?” you call, frantic, instinctive, running on pure maternal adrenaline because your baby’s gone, your other baby, how can you focus on anything else when your other baby is gone? “Alicia? Alicia, what happened? What… Nick… Nick… how did… how…”
“Maddy…”
“How?” you sob. “How? Tell me how, tell me…”
“She’s not going to be able to tell you right now, Maddy,” Ange tries. “I know this is… unbearable. I know. I’m so, so sorry. But Alicia needs you… Madison? Madison, listen to me. Alicia needs you right now…”
“Nick,” you sob desperately. “Nick…”
“I know. I know, and I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling. I know. But Alicia needs you now. There’s nothing you can do for Nick now- I know. I know you’re hurting. I know. But you can help Alicia. I need you to keep talking to her, Maddy. I need you to help me keep her calm. She’s on her own with me, she’s pretty freaked out…”
“They were supposed to protect each other,” you whisper faintly. “They were supposed to protect each other, they were supposed to…”
“Oh Madison, don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
You’ve snapped.
You don’t care anymore.
Nothing matters.
How can it?
Nick is gone, your baby is gone…
“Don’t do this in front of Alicia,” Ange pleads. “I know you’re hurting. I know. But it’s not Alicia’s fault…”
“I didn’t say it was Alicia’s fault…”
“Okay…”
“No, it’s not okay!”
You can’t think straight.
All you can focus on is Nick… Nick’s not coming back, Nick…
It’s not that you aren’t listening.
Because you are.
You get it.
Ange is desperately trying to get you to talk to Alicia because she’s afraid she’s not going to last the journey.
She just doesn’t want to say that out loud and have Alicia realise it.
She wants you to talk to Alicia now because she’s your friend, and realises this might be it, doesn’t want you to have to live with the pain of not having been with either of your babies when…
When…
You can’t.
She’s right.
You do know that.
She’s absolutely right.
You should be pouring all of your energy into Alicia now.
You know you should.
You should be offering her the gentle reassurances that seem to come so naturally to Ange when she’s with her own daughter, the smothering you perfected with Nick long ago but you never quite managed with Alicia.
Nick…
It’s not that you don’t need Alicia to hold on.
Because you do.
You can’t lose them both.
You wouldn’t survive it.
You’d lost them before, of course, lost them a year ago, but this is different.
You had hope, then.
You can’t lose them both like this.
You can’t lose them both, and so you need to focus on Alicia.
You know you do.
You need to focus on Alicia, tell her whatever you need to so that she hangs on, survives the journey back to you.
You know it.
You know it, but all you can concentrate on is Nick.
You’re sobbing, you realise.
Except sobbing isn’t the right word.
The sound that leaves your lips is more of a primal, wounded howl.
You can’t breathe.
Your baby’s gone.
Your baby’s gone, and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe…
“M…” comes a faint voice from the other end of the phone, muffled- struggling against the oxygen mask, you suppose. “…M…”
It’s too much.
It’s the hospital all over again, when she was born.
You haven’t thought about that in years, but all of a sudden, your mind is back there as if it were yesterday.
It’s summer 1993.
It’s summer, scorching Alabama summer, and you’ve not slept in a month.
You’re torn between Nick, not quite three, and the too-tiny, too-scrawny, too-goddamned-see-through-and-dinky-and-delicate preemie on the Tuscaloosa NICU running up a bill you’ve no idea how you’re going to pay with every breath she relies on the respiratory support to pump oxygen through her veins- your insurance doesn’t cover neonatal care, all a fucking mess.
You choose Nick, most days, because what else can you do?
Steven’s burying himself in overtime at the construction site- half-distraction, half-financial necessity just to scratch the surface of your baby girl’s medical bill- and Nick’s old enough to understand you were gone more of the first week and a half than you were home but not old enough to understand why, screams until he’s blue in the face and vomiting when you try to leave him with yet another neighbour he doesn’t know, and your heart can’t take it.
So you choose Nick.
You’re faced with a completely impossible choice so you choose the baby you’ve already bonded with, and apparently you’ve chosen him too many times because the NICU physician called this morning to tell you that Alicia needs you there with her all day, every day, that he knows it’s hard with other children at home but Alicia needs to hear your voice, Alicia needs skin-to-skin, Alicia needs you to be the one to change her diaper and hook the syringe up to her feeding tube and be the first person she sees when she opens her eyes and the last she sees when she closes them again all of two minutes later or you’ll never bond with one another and he thinks you might have postpartum depression, because for all his waxing lyrical about knowing it’s hard when you’ve already got a two year old and your husband’s buying his head in the sand and no, there’s no family you’re willing to ask, he doesn’t understand a goddamned thing.
You’re collapsed on the tiled flooring of the balcony off your apartment on the opposite side of Tuscaloosa, Alabama to the goddamned NICU, muslin draped over your shoulder to transfer your scent onto it for Alicia because the NICU nurses said it would help calm her given you’re never fucking there.
You hug Nick into your chest, sob helplessly and your breasts ache because he’s the wrong baby, gave up expressing a week ago since Alicia’s showing no signs of being ready to try syringe feeding any time soon and you can’t take it anymore, but your body didn’t get the memo.
“Mama!” Nick begs you, toddler-speak, breaks your heart, because he heard you on the phone to Steven’s sister when you finally got rid of Alicia’s physician, knows what’s coming, established that much after a month of this nightmare and you wish you could split yourself in two and give both of them what they need, but you can’t, failing him and failing his baby sister even worse and you don’t know how to make it better, feel like you’re drowning, all three of you, and you’re barely managing to push your babies to the surface, no energy left to save yourself. “You stay, Mama! You stay!”
That awful feel of all-consuming panic and despair and hopeless floods through you again, and you freeze.
It’s too much.
It’s all too much.
“I can’t do this,” you blurt out. “I can’t do this, I… I can’t…”
You can’t breathe.
You can’t breathe, and you’re trapped, suffocating, drowning under the weight of the impossibility of processing Nick being… Nick… Nick and Alicia coming back to you at once and you can’t do it, you can’t do it, you can’t…
“Madison,” Ange protests. Madison, can you hear Alicia? Madison…”
You slam your thumb down onto the red button and throw the phone across the living room before you’ve even realised what you’ve done.
“Nick,” you sob helplessly, cry until you’ve no tears left to cry, vomit all over your nice new Australian sheepskin rug twelve-year-old Alicia would have told you was animal abuse and you can’t even find the energy to clean it up. “Nick… Nick…”
You’re not sure how long you rock back and forth on the floor before your Alicia instincts finally kick in.
All you know is it’s far, far too late.