Morphine

Chapter Fifty Five

Marceline Anne brushed her hair as she looked in the mirror of her vanity. She even looked tired and run down. That was not good.

She brushed her hair from root to tip and went for another stroke when she noticed so much hair in the brush. She frowned and took it out of her head.

She hadn't been seeing things. Her hair was falling out. By a lot. Again...

Her eyes filled with tears and her heart hurt as she stared at her beautiful, long hair in the wig brush.

Malcolm noticed that she'd stopped moving and turned from jumping in his jeans. He zipped them up and walked over. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" She choked on a sob, staring at the brush in horror.

"Dove, talk to me."

"Stop sounding so reasonable! I hate that!" She cried.

"I'm sorry. What do you want from me? I'll do it."

"You can't do anything! Can you put my hair back in my head?!"

He realized what was happening and swallowed. "Maybe we can cut-?"

She howled.

He'd never seen her like this and wasn't sure what to do. "I'm sorry, baby. I don't know what you need."

She tried to stop crying but it was hitting her all at once. The grief for her mother, the absence from her father, the pain of the car accident, the unfairness of cancer, the loss of her hair, the unfairness of death, not seeing her children, losing him. It all caught up to her and she felt like she was dying right then.

He held her as she "ugly" cried. He patted her back and drew his hand away with strands of hair. He didn't understand all of her hurt and anger over the loss of her hair but he could imagine it was just one more thing being taken away from her.

So he held her as she cried and if he sniffled once in a while, her patting his back let him know they were in this together.

M-

St. John eyed his doctor shrewdly. "What's up, Doc?"

"I haven't heard that one." Marceline Anne wrote on his chart.

"Seriously. You look like you just got my diagnosis."

"I'm not making any promises but your future's going to be brighter than mine." She finished writing his new treatment plan and set his chart back.

"Whatcha got me on, girlie?"

"You'll see when it hits you." She clicked off her pen and put it in her lab-coat pocket.

He grabbed her hand. "You've been crying. That fella hurt you?"

"If incredible care and concern is hurt, then yes."

"Why are you here in the morning? You usually have your rounds in the afternoon. Unless I flatline. What's going on?"

She wasn't going to answer him but she ran to a bedpan and threw up.

St. John looked at her in concern. "Shouldn't you be over that morning sickness?"

She raised her head, blood on her mouth.

He was not a stupid man. "You're sick."

"I can care for you. My commitment to you has not wavered and my ability to care for you has no end in sight."

"Ability to care for me? Why don't you care for yourself?"

She stayed quiet.

"It's the end, isn't it? Because you are pregnant."