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Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2016 5:40:00 GMT
Charlotte had taken the liberty of ordering an entire bottle of a halfway decent shiraz and two glasses as she'd arrived a little earlier than she'd expected, and no sign yet of Maggie. Truth be told, she'd been a little surprised to get a text asking if she wanted to meet for drinks, but her curiosity compelled her to accept the invitation. She'd known Maggie Chance for years, in that off-and-on way of colleagues, but they'd always gotten along pretty well, and their conversations at USBC functions (when they both attended, and happened to fall into talking,) had been enjoyable. The more women--and women of a Certain Age, let's be honest--there were in positions of power in media, the better, as far as Charlotte was concerned. She'd been introduced in passing to the owner of the network and spent a private moment despairing that anything might ever change in the future of broadcasting when, in the space of a few polite exchanges, he'd proved to be clever and charming and a raging male chauvinist pig, and Charlotte only thanked her lucky stars that she didn't need to work with Rossi on a regular basis, herself. If anyone could help to keep a man like that on a reasonably-short leash, it was Margaret.
The server brought the wine and the glasses and uncorked it at the little corner table Charlotte had found in a quiet, grown-up sort of bar. There was some indistinct sort of music playing--easy listening, Charlotte supposed they called it--but thankfully it lacked anything too brassy or maudlin in the way of saxophone-heavy mid-eighties ballads. It was more like warm white noise. She shook her head when the waiter offered to pour some wine into her glass, willing to let the bottle breathe a while.
"I'll wait--thank you."
---
@mchance
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Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2016 6:48:20 GMT
They said breathing exercises were good for you. Who was “they?” Margaret did not know. What she did know was that she had been mentally reciting “in through the nose, out through the mouth” as she carefully paced her breathing to compensate for the speed of her stride, and it was not doing a damn thing to calm her down. It certainly was not distracting her from the manila envelope that she had been toting around for the past hour. One simple envelope that could change her entire life. But divorce was messy, at least everyone else who had thought to give Margaret a piece of their mind regarding the news said so. Even if two of their three children were grown and spreading their wings to fly from the nest, one remained and Margaret had to consider that one when making the decision to stay or leave.
His infidelity had been newsworthy. Of course, Margaret’s husband had made headlines on those gossip magazines and talk shows plenty of times, public figures tended to for one reason or another, and she had supported him from the sidelines like a devoted wife was supposed to - rejoicing over his victories and giving him strength to overcome the losses. But this was the first time he had ever dragged her into his spotlight, and she hated every second of it. Everyone had a question. Everyone had a comment. Everyone had a pitying expression as they tried to pretend they knew less than she did. But worst of all was the fact that her face was now out there. She had lived a life of anonymity, working behind the scenes of the famous people but never wanting the limelight for herself. Attending functions for USBC was all good and fun (not really, but she was obligated to say so), and standing demurely at her husband’s side during events he was required to attend was just another part of her job. She had been a face that was easily forgettable.
Not anymore. Not after what he had done. Everyone loved drama as long as it belonged to someone else, and everyone wanted to hear victims speak out about the storm that their lives had become. Margaret refused to be a victim. She was too proud for that.
But that did not change how exhausted she felt from keeping busy enough all week to prevent herself from thinking about it. Everything felt like it required ten times more effort than normal as she slid into the chair across from Charlotte, placing the heavy envelope unenthusiastically on the table. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, passing a hand wearily across her eyes in an unusual moment of weakness, “It’s been one hell of a day.” Though Charlotte, being a doctor, must have had far more of an exhausting day than the office worker. Margaret’s comfortable life was just falling to bits, that’s all. And she needed a drink. Possibly ten.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 16, 2016 15:29:17 GMT
Maggie looked...tired. Frazzled, even. Not that one hair was out of place--no, she looked perfectly-put-together, as always. But there were shadows beneath her eyes that would take a level of make-up usually only seen at open-casket funerals to cover up. Charlotte briefly wondered if she were unwell, and perhaps wanted to seek a consultation without the fuss and gossip-fuel of a proper appointment at her office. Then she reconsidered--Margaret Chance didn't care two straws what anybody else thought of her, much of the time, and generally kept a lower profile than most of Charlotte's patients who wished to keep a low-profile...usually due to their life of fame or notoriety. Margaret was admin.
A line appeared between Charlotte's brows, but she smiled a little as the other woman sat down opposite her.
"Oh, never mind if you're late," she said warmly. "Is...is there anything I could help with?" she added after hesitating only for a moment. Surely they were both capable and intelligent enough women to get right to their points? "I must admit I was a little surprised you texted me...I can assure you of my discretion if there's anything you'd like to...talk about. Sorry--" Charlotte winced at herself. "Still in doctor-mode, I'm afraid. I never switch off. But if you want to talk--"
She had reached for the waiting bottle of wine and already poured Margaret's glass full, first.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 18, 2016 3:43:55 GMT
Margaret was a creature of habit. Having become accustomed to certain routines in her life, the sudden disruption and absence of these habits was making even the simple process of sleep difficult. Her husband sleeping in the guest room, for one. She was used to him being away for work, and she never minded an empty bed knowing that he was some distance away and would visit her dreams. Yet having him so close, but too angry to show any sign of affection, made her toss and turn until the early hours of the morning. If affected everything she did now, from the way she kept her head down on the subway to the way she catnapped on her lunch break to make up for the emotional sleepless nights.
She sighed heavily, not even realizing she had done it as she tapped her fingers restlessly on the table, like she was playing the piano, the scale of C Major ringing clearly in her mind. Until she snapped back to attention at Charlotte’s words. The warmth there was familiar in a discomforting way, like an invitation to show vulnerability. Like hell she would do that. Margaret did not want to talk about her troubles. But she had invited the good doctor out, and avoiding the topic not only defeated the purpose of the invitation but would also just prove to be a nuisance in the end. Still. Why was it so hard to rely on other people?
“My husband’s been fucking other women and there’s a very strong chance I might kill him. Also, my child could quite possibly be dying.” She smiled back at Charlotte, but there was nothing warm about the gesture. Just a hard and emotionless facial expression. But the eyes were more honest. They gave way to the disappointment, and for a brief second, she almost thought she was going to cry. Like she had finally admitted to herself the situation at hand. Instead, she laughed. She had to. “I’m pretty sure this is something even you can’t fix.” Margaret was not certain she wanted it fixed. The marriage, that is. She wanted her child healthy more than anything.
“Thank you,” she took her glass, raising it slightly in what might have been a toast, though there hardly seemed to be anything appropriate to celebrate these days. She took a sip nonetheless, not caring if the wine should have been allowed to breathe in the glass a little while longer. She needed this. “But enough about me. How was your day?” That’s right. Avoid the issues and maybe they would go away.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 18, 2016 4:44:27 GMT
"Right."
It was a lot to take in, but Charlotte appreciated Maggie's candour, and there was little that phased Doctor Fox for long. It was the emotional equivalent of discovering someone had an internal bleed, perhaps. Find the critical points of injury, stem the flow, save the surrounding tissues, stabilize blood pressure. As always, easier said than done.
"Gosh..." she began, letting out a breath and running her fingers through her short hair. "Well, obviously I won't do you the disservice of prattling about my new yoga routine or debating whether or not to re-paint the walls in my flat. Maggie--" She reached out to press her hand over the other woman's in a tentative but genuine gesture of support. "Don't murder anybody just yet, and tell me about your...your child, first. There I may be able to help, even if anything just needs explaining in proper English rather than a load of Greek and Latin. What's happened?"
Presumably, an illness. If there'd been some sort of accident or acute injury, surely Maggie would be in the pediatric wing of some hospital, texting or calling her to meet her there.
The husband...well, that was something else altogether. Charlotte wasn't certain what advice she could offer on that front. She wasn't certain she had any right to...infidelity was a can of worms, any way one looked at it, and certainly it sounded as if Margaret's husband--Charlotte knew she'd already forgotten his name, but had a vague recollection of shaking his hand at some function or other--had crossed the one firm line most people insisted upon...which was sex. There were other lines, much less clearly defined, and those had been the death of Charlotte's own marriage, but unfortunately for Maggie, her case seemed much more black and white.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2016 4:52:23 GMT
Tonight felt like it was going to be one sigh after another. Margaret managed to suppress the latest one forming in her chest, but just barely. Communication had never been her strong suit, not in her personal life at least. Emotions were better of being ignored until they festered so much that acknowledging them was inevitable. Other people might have disagreed, but Margaret had a choice place where they could put their opinions. Abrasiveness was an unfortunate trait, one that she had lived with her entire life, and it had done her no favors. But around Charlotte she did not feel the need to censor her words for the sack of propriety. Charlotte had heard and seen worse, and none of the broken little pieces in Margaret’s life could faze her one bit. She liked that about the woman. It made her a worthwhile…friend?
Though, in all honesty, she did feel the slightest twinge of guilt over selfishly dumping all her problems on the woman. But now that she had started, she was finding it hard to stop. Taking a large sip of wine, she swirled the contents of the cup and watched the clear webby designs that snaked down the curve of the glass. “You’re painting your apartment?” That did genuinely interest her, and it was a safe topic that would provide a distraction, even though she knew that was not at all Charlotte’s intention. Yoga, on the other hand, was a load of cock and boloney, and she had been adamant about avoiding trying it lest she find out she was mistaken. She hated to be proven wrong.
“I couldn’t bring myself to kill him even I wanted to,” she admitted, more to herself than to Charlotte. She loved her husband, for all his faults. And this was hardly the first time she had caught with his pants down. But she had not been the one to catch him this time. Everyone else had, and she had learned about the rumor from a magazine cover at the grocery store. This was just messy and inconsiderate, and she was tired of cleaning up his messes. Now she did not know what she wanted to think about less – her husband or her child. Christ, she was a terrible mother. Her mind went completely blank as she tried to remember what the doctor had told her. “Leukemia,” she said at last, struggling to remember the rest of it, “Acute…myelogenous leukemia.” Sure, medicine had come a long way since she had been a young teen and there were options. But the doctor had been lousy (her husband’s choice ages ago, and she had so far been too preoccupied to find a new one) and had practically made it sound like a death sentence. God she needed a break today. “She’s terrified,” her voiced came dangerously close to cracking at the mention of her daughter, “And I don’t know what to say to make it better.”
((Sorry for the late late reply. Stuff's been crazy but finally starting to calm down a bit.))
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Post by Deleted on Nov 4, 2016 18:01:33 GMT
It was on the tip of Charlotte's tongue to demand to know who the oncologist was and which course of treatment was being pursued...but of course she felt she had no right to pry so deeply into the facts of the matter while Maggie was so clearly distressed. At any rate, she could guess that Maggie had no particular quirks of religion or that trendy distrust of science beginning to plague a certain level of anti-establishment thinking which insisted that nobody needed doctors or drugs at all, ever. And for the rest, Charlotte knew that New York City drew some of the finest medical minds and advanced techniques in the world--generally due to also drawing some of the largest financiers in the world, but she wanted very much to believe that at least some doctors still worked for moral considerations, as well as financial ones.
"I think..." she said slowly, "...I think you know there's nothing you can say, and I think she would know that, too--kids have a knack for sniffing out the bullshit." True, Charlotte had no kids of her own, but she'd worked with enough of them over the years, and seen plenty of domestic dramas play out in the emergency room, where lies began to crumble, or else began to snowball, as fears began to ping on people's instincts to protect themselves and their loved ones. "But it'll be what you do that matters...so if you find a doctor that you trust to do what's best, then your confidence and hope will influence hers. And kids are atrociously resilient--she's probably got the best chance of anybody at making it through this."
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Post by Deleted on Nov 15, 2016 0:35:29 GMT
The oncologist had said that it was important for her daughter to see that she was keeping positive throughout this whole ordeal, and had mentioned that some found comfort in the power of prayer. Margaret had thought long and hard about that, even getting up in the middle of the night with a glass of wine to ponder over whether stooping to that level was worth the effort. She had not prayed in years, having given up on the idea of some higher power watching over them. If she started up now just to ask for her daughter to be cured, how hypocritical did that make her? Very, by her standards, and the thought made her sick. Better not to tread in such dangerous territories. Margaret believed in science, and hard work was her god. Nothing more. Nothing less. And with New York being home to some of the brightest minds, it was not like she had limited options for her daughter’s care. If anything there were too many. These days it felt like there were oncologists pouring out of the woodwork. “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she admitted, “I barely understand what they’re telling me half the time.” Of course that was not the doctor’s fault. Margaret had felt like she was living underwater for the past week. Nothing was registering the way it was meant to.
She started to laugh, unsure if it was out of amusement or bitterness at Charlotte’s words. Adults gave their kids far less credit than they deserved, and Margaret was no exception. Her daughter took after her far more than she cared to admit but without the wisdom to control herself, calling out, as Margaret put it, “the bullshit” at the most inopportune times. No doubt she would have done the same to her own mother if Margaret had tried pulling the wool over her eyes about the situation. But she was keeping it together. They all were, if only because there was nothing else to do about it. She felt yet another sigh coming on and suppressed it with a sip of wine, or what was meant to be a sip but turned into a rather large gulp.
A thought occurred to her, one that normally got brought up in conversation but, for some reason, Margaret could not remember discussing with Charlotte. Then again it was not as if their relationship had started as some feminine frenzy where they cooed over nail polish and family or even doctorates and whiskey. Neither was the sort, and neither was particularly open about…anything, really. But it was a fairly obvious question, and Margaret could not remember asking it to the woman. “Do you have children, Charlotte?” Then again, she could not remember if she was or even had been married either. It was not like they spent an excessive amount of time outside of work together. Even so…what the hell did they talk about?
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