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sga_flashficChallenge: Abandonment
Title: Prodigal
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Author: Brighid
Summary: This time, maybe he'll be free.
Prodigal
by Brighid
The semi-private hospital room smells like antiseptic, old soap and stale piss. Rodney drags a chair over to the bed as quietly as possible and sits beside his sleeping mother.
She's jaundiced, and a good forty pounds lighter than the last time her saw her. Her skin is drawn tight on her face, like a death's head. Her fingers are curled as she drowses, and they look like claws. It makes his throat close up, like allergies, only more dangerous.
He doesn't want to be here.
It makes him feel guilty, the resentment. But he's spent most of his life trying to get away from here, from her bitterness and his father's indifference and their constant fighting that only ended when he left for university and they had nothing left to fight about.
He'd never intended to come back.
But Jeannie's voice on his voice mail had left him no choice. "It's liver cancer. It's advanced." Her voice was perfectly flat, without inflection. "Come or don't." There'd been a hiss, like an indrawn breath, but it was probably just transatlantic static, and then he heard the click. He sat in the dark half the night. He requested his leave first thing the next morning.
And now he's here. Jeannie would meet him later, for dinner, taking a day to catch up with her paperwork at her office. So he sits in silence, listening to the sad, sick noises of the ward, thinking about dying.
His mother stirs as a meal cart clatters by in the hallway and opens her eyes. They are unfocused, their normal sharpness dulled by painkillers. "I told Jeannie not to call you," she says finally, thickly.
Rodney snorts as he reaches across to the pitcher on her bedside table and gets a spoonful of crushed ice. "And when, exactly, did Jeannie ever listen to what anyone wanted?" He gives her a small mouthful, watches as she sucks. "What do the doctors have to say?" he asks, once she's done.
"That I'm dying." She's still got her "gingersnap" tone: sharp, with a bite. "It started in the colon, moved on up. By the time they were able to diagnose hepatoma it was too late. The oncologist mentioned chemo, but it's unlikely to do much good at this stage. We've already begun making arrangements with Hospice of London, so don't get too worked up. It'll be taken care of." I'll be taken care of, you can go away now, is implicit in her tone.
Rodney is silent for a moment, fingers fretting at the blanket, prime-not-prime playing in the back of his head. "Does Dad know?"
"He's not returned any of my calls, or your sister's. I'm sure once he understands it means he won't have to pay any more alimony he'll call back. His third wife is expensive, from what I hear. Spends all kind of money on her." Rodney flinches at the sudden venom in her tone, and her expression softens. "Sorry. Medications seem to have erased my edit button. Not that I ever had much of one." She stops talking then, closing her eyes tiredly. "I think I need a nap," she says finally, without looking at him. "Why don't you go get something to eat? You always liked hospital food."
Rodney nods, but she can't see it, so he says, "Okay, mom. Be back later." He has to stand in the hallway for a minute, blinking rapidly at the sudden bright.
And then he goes to the parking lot, gets into his rental car and drives.
*o*
The house is in one of the new London suburbs, two stories of faux-Tudor with everything but the goddamn picket fence. It's got a cedar hedge, instead. Rodney snorts, turns sharply into the driveway and parks at the end of the driveway.
It takes only a couple of sharp raps on the front door before a short, very pregnant brunette answers. Some of the anger drains out of him at the sight of her: small, barefoot and oddly sweet looking in baggy shorts and a glittery tee-shirt that shows most of her seven-months belly. "Ah ... I'm Rodney," he says as she stands there, looking up at him.
It takes her a moment but then she smiles, opens the door wider and says, "Are you guys having a family reunion or something? Your sister's been calling all week, but she won't leave a message." She sticks out a hand, shakes his with a firm grip. "I'm Shelby, by the way."
"Oh, it's not something that she could really leave a message about. Is my father here?" Rodney asks, looking around the room. It's got plank flooring and a maroon leather sofa and loveseat set and Carl Brender prints on the wall and it's bigger than his apartment in Moscow.
Shelby frowns. "No, he's out of town on business. Tokyo, in fact, though he should be checking in later. Is it something I can help with?"
Rodney looks at her, and god. She's younger than he is, and glowing and happy and he wants to fucking hate her but he can't. "My mother is in hospital. She's dying. We thought he should know."
Shelby rubs the front of her belly, and her hazel eyes are sympathetic. "I lost my mom last year, just after the wedding." And thank god she leaves it at that, because he doesn't want this woman who has the home and the happiness his dad never gave them to understand him and it would just be galling to commiserate with one another. It would just fucking choke him. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, and she seems to mean it.
He doesn't say, give me back my childhood. He just shakes his head and says, "I need to get back to the hospital. I want to spend some time with her, help Jeannie make any arrangements we need to because I've only been given a week before I have to go back to Russia." He turns back towards the door, and Shelby goes to open it for him.
"What do you do in Russia?" she asks. "I don't think your father ever said."
Rodney smiles wryly at her. "I can believe that."
He doesn't run back to his rental car, and he doesn't speed back to the hospital, but he does sit in the parking lot for half an hour and stare dry-eyed out at the traffic and pray that this time, when it's all over, he'll finally, truly be free.
*0*
End
Title: Prodigal
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Author: Brighid
Summary: This time, maybe he'll be free.
Prodigal
by Brighid
The semi-private hospital room smells like antiseptic, old soap and stale piss. Rodney drags a chair over to the bed as quietly as possible and sits beside his sleeping mother.
She's jaundiced, and a good forty pounds lighter than the last time her saw her. Her skin is drawn tight on her face, like a death's head. Her fingers are curled as she drowses, and they look like claws. It makes his throat close up, like allergies, only more dangerous.
He doesn't want to be here.
It makes him feel guilty, the resentment. But he's spent most of his life trying to get away from here, from her bitterness and his father's indifference and their constant fighting that only ended when he left for university and they had nothing left to fight about.
He'd never intended to come back.
But Jeannie's voice on his voice mail had left him no choice. "It's liver cancer. It's advanced." Her voice was perfectly flat, without inflection. "Come or don't." There'd been a hiss, like an indrawn breath, but it was probably just transatlantic static, and then he heard the click. He sat in the dark half the night. He requested his leave first thing the next morning.
And now he's here. Jeannie would meet him later, for dinner, taking a day to catch up with her paperwork at her office. So he sits in silence, listening to the sad, sick noises of the ward, thinking about dying.
His mother stirs as a meal cart clatters by in the hallway and opens her eyes. They are unfocused, their normal sharpness dulled by painkillers. "I told Jeannie not to call you," she says finally, thickly.
Rodney snorts as he reaches across to the pitcher on her bedside table and gets a spoonful of crushed ice. "And when, exactly, did Jeannie ever listen to what anyone wanted?" He gives her a small mouthful, watches as she sucks. "What do the doctors have to say?" he asks, once she's done.
"That I'm dying." She's still got her "gingersnap" tone: sharp, with a bite. "It started in the colon, moved on up. By the time they were able to diagnose hepatoma it was too late. The oncologist mentioned chemo, but it's unlikely to do much good at this stage. We've already begun making arrangements with Hospice of London, so don't get too worked up. It'll be taken care of." I'll be taken care of, you can go away now, is implicit in her tone.
Rodney is silent for a moment, fingers fretting at the blanket, prime-not-prime playing in the back of his head. "Does Dad know?"
"He's not returned any of my calls, or your sister's. I'm sure once he understands it means he won't have to pay any more alimony he'll call back. His third wife is expensive, from what I hear. Spends all kind of money on her." Rodney flinches at the sudden venom in her tone, and her expression softens. "Sorry. Medications seem to have erased my edit button. Not that I ever had much of one." She stops talking then, closing her eyes tiredly. "I think I need a nap," she says finally, without looking at him. "Why don't you go get something to eat? You always liked hospital food."
Rodney nods, but she can't see it, so he says, "Okay, mom. Be back later." He has to stand in the hallway for a minute, blinking rapidly at the sudden bright.
And then he goes to the parking lot, gets into his rental car and drives.
*o*
The house is in one of the new London suburbs, two stories of faux-Tudor with everything but the goddamn picket fence. It's got a cedar hedge, instead. Rodney snorts, turns sharply into the driveway and parks at the end of the driveway.
It takes only a couple of sharp raps on the front door before a short, very pregnant brunette answers. Some of the anger drains out of him at the sight of her: small, barefoot and oddly sweet looking in baggy shorts and a glittery tee-shirt that shows most of her seven-months belly. "Ah ... I'm Rodney," he says as she stands there, looking up at him.
It takes her a moment but then she smiles, opens the door wider and says, "Are you guys having a family reunion or something? Your sister's been calling all week, but she won't leave a message." She sticks out a hand, shakes his with a firm grip. "I'm Shelby, by the way."
"Oh, it's not something that she could really leave a message about. Is my father here?" Rodney asks, looking around the room. It's got plank flooring and a maroon leather sofa and loveseat set and Carl Brender prints on the wall and it's bigger than his apartment in Moscow.
Shelby frowns. "No, he's out of town on business. Tokyo, in fact, though he should be checking in later. Is it something I can help with?"
Rodney looks at her, and god. She's younger than he is, and glowing and happy and he wants to fucking hate her but he can't. "My mother is in hospital. She's dying. We thought he should know."
Shelby rubs the front of her belly, and her hazel eyes are sympathetic. "I lost my mom last year, just after the wedding." And thank god she leaves it at that, because he doesn't want this woman who has the home and the happiness his dad never gave them to understand him and it would just be galling to commiserate with one another. It would just fucking choke him. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, and she seems to mean it.
He doesn't say, give me back my childhood. He just shakes his head and says, "I need to get back to the hospital. I want to spend some time with her, help Jeannie make any arrangements we need to because I've only been given a week before I have to go back to Russia." He turns back towards the door, and Shelby goes to open it for him.
"What do you do in Russia?" she asks. "I don't think your father ever said."
Rodney smiles wryly at her. "I can believe that."
He doesn't run back to his rental car, and he doesn't speed back to the hospital, but he does sit in the parking lot for half an hour and stare dry-eyed out at the traffic and pray that this time, when it's all over, he'll finally, truly be free.
*0*
End
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 12:33 am (UTC)I especially liked this bit. The weary bitterness really works for me.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 12:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 12:49 am (UTC)Oh.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 04:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 01:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 01:22 am (UTC)Oh, ouch.
You do know how to twist the knife, don't you?
It's not pretty, but it feels very true.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 02:11 am (UTC)The semi-private hospital room smells like antiseptic, old soap and stale piss. Rodney drags a chair over to the bed as quietly as possible and sits beside his sleeping mother.
She's jaundiced, and a good forty pounds lighter than the last time her saw her. Her skin is drawn tight on her face, like a death's head. Her fingers are curled as she drowses, and they look like claws. It makes his throat close up, like allergies, only more dangerous.
He doesn't want to be here.
That's talent. *is envious*
Also, for those who have lost parents or grandparents, and dealt with those sticky relationships during an illness or death, (pretty much most everyone, really) this is a very true piece. The resentments surface and then face the quicksand of sadness.
Well done.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 02:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 03:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 03:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 03:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 02:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 02:56 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing this story.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 03:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 03:59 pm (UTC)You've really captured how tired he is of carrying around a painful and inescapable past.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 06:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-05 11:32 pm (UTC)i love how he responds to his father's wife, so very much rodney. this is beautifully written.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-14 11:07 am (UTC)Damn
Date: 2006-05-07 06:04 am (UTC)Well done.
----}-@