April, 2007
Jen pulled her legs under her in the uncomfortable hospital room chair.
At first, she'd been glad that Davis had chosen not to undergo treatment if that meant her time with him would be totally hers. But now, watching him unconscious in bed, she was alone with her guilt. She knew that he would have fought his illness if it hadn't been for their relationship. After he collapsed in the shower two days ago, Jen forced him to go to the hospital, much to his protestations.
Davis stirred; she leapt up from the chair quickly. His eyes fluttered, then closed. It was no surprise that he wasn't awake. He was heavily medicated, the doctors told her.
Jen put her hand over his and felt it's warmth rising up in her palm.
"Hi, honey," a nurse said, coming in the room unannounced. "Is your father awake yet?"
Jen opened her mouth in anger, but shut it silently. She shook her head politely.
"Alright, then. Just let me know if anything changes. This usually happens when we start on this medication. It's nothing to worry about." The nurse smiled kindly and shuffled out of the room.
"Jen?"
She stood up and moved to the side of the bed.
"Yeah, babe," she said.
He scooted over in the bed, allowing room for her to sit beside him.
"How long have I been asleep?"
Jen laughed slightly. "Almost two days."
"Good God, that's a lot of days. Especially when I only have six of them left." He laughed.
Jen looked at him. "Damn you, Davis Mozell. Always reminding me . . ." She motioned to the room around them.
"Well, Honey, if the hospital bed, industrial lighting, and lots of people walking around in white coats didn't tip you off, I can't be responsible for spilling the beans," he told her jokingly.
She began stroking his hair. "How come you're so . . . nonchalant about this whole thing?"
He sat up in the bed and looked at her curiously. "I don't know. I'd like to give you the stock answer of ‘I'm resigned' or ‘I've had a good life' or ‘There's no sense in fighting it' but I don't really feel any of those things. I feel pretty damn angry, to tell you the truth. And I guess when it gets right down to it, people always return to that innate survival mechanism they have. For me, that's humor. For my mother, that was sewing. For you, that's . . . writing ten thousand pages in a dark room with a blunt number two pencil . . ."
"What?"
He nodded. "Tell me, Jen. How much have written this past month? The month that -- let's remember -- we both promised not to do anything even slightly academic." He looked at her with his eyebrow raised, awaiting her response.
"I lost track after . . . fifty." She smiled. "Okay, so you know me pretty well."
They sat in silence.
"You know what I hope?" he asked finally.
She turned toward him, honestly curious.
"I hope they have a Library of Congress in the Afterlife, because I want to be able to read every word you write from now on."
Jen felt a flood of tears coming. Instead of turning away as she might of done when she was younger, she climbed farther into the bed – over cords and wires and plugs – and into his arms.
Jen's heels clicked on the tile as she walked down the hall to the payphone. When she saw nurses and doctors working, she always thought how nice it must be to live their lives, as if helping to cure disease might make one immune.
She saw the universal-looking phone booth and stopped next to it. Pulling out her phone card, she punched numbers until she got the ring she was waiting for. She listened for several minutes, then heard the click of an answering machine.
"Hello, you've reached Jack McPhee, Paul Lippman, Helen Manley, and Ryan Jenkins. We're not home right now. Leave a message and we'll call you back as soon as we can."
Her heart rose in her throat when she heard her best friend's voice, then fell with the realization that she wouldn't actually get to talk to him. She left a message.
"Hey, Jack. And Ryan and Paul and Helen. This is Jen. Where are you guys? Anyway Jack, call me soon. I'm looking for you. Love you. Bye."
She hung up the phone reluctantly, and walked back toward Davis' room. She always expected Jack to pick up the phone when she called. In fact, there had rarely been a time when she had been unable to reach him. He had his phone routed everywhere in the world; first, it rang at his apartment, then his cellphone, then his office phone, and finally, a voice mailbox. Apparently, he'd disconnected the last three of these. Jen, slightly worried, wondered where he was. But under that worry was a sense of being abandoned. She pushed that aside as she glided past the nurse's station. Two seconds later, it was there again – that strange anger at Jack and his happiness, that weird jealousy she almost never experienced.
She reached Davis' room and started to pull the door open, but heard two voices inside.
"Dr. Yelman, I really appreciate all this, but I'm going home."
"I have to advise you that . . ."
"Thank you for your help, though."
She heard shuffling and muffled comments. Finally, Davis stepped outside the hospital room. He had his pants on, his shirt untucked, and was carrying his jacket.
"Just the person I wanted to see," he said. She felt his lips on hers, then his tongue in her mouth. She responded with equal emotion, enclosing him in her embrace.
Before she realized what was happening, he picked her up and swung her into his arms. "Let's go, my love."
She struggled to get down, but it was futile. "Don't hurt yourself, Davis."
"The only thing that will harm me is being here one more minute." He smiled and carried her to the elevator. People began turning to look at them. Jen was always attracting some kind of attention, but this was very un-Davis behavior. She gathered enough self-possession to wave at the staff as she was carried onto the elevator.
Jen woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. She scooted out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She found two tablets of aspirin and swallowed them dry.
In the thrill of last night, she'd almost forgotten the reality she was living. Davis had taken her to the top of the apartment building with a bottle of wine. They'd made love on the roof and looked out at the skyline of Dallas until the sun began to come up. Drunk and naked, she hadn't been coherent when they'd taken the service stairs back down to the apartment.
She climbed back in bed. Thinking about the past month of sleeping late, drinking too much, having sex every night, and eating at the best restaurants, she didn't know how she would be able to go back to her dissertation or her teaching position. Jen doubted that real life even existed anymore. She knew she didn't know how to go about building her life without Davis when she had spent the past months building her life around him.
She rolled over, trying to turn away from her thoughts. An inch from Davis' face, she could see the dignified lines etched in his forehead.
"Do you know when I fell in love with you?"
His eyes had suddenly opened. She had no idea how long he had been watching her, but she felt no sense of invasion.
Smiling at him, she shook her head. "Nope."
"The first day you were in my class. You sat in the front row. You were wearing those boots – God, they must have gone all the way up your legs – and that short skirt with the dark purple shirt you have. Do you remember?"
She nodded, closing her eyes.
"It must have been ninety degrees in the classroom, but you were wearing a leather jacket. A jacket that a mere mortal would have burned to death wearing in the middle of August. God, you were beautiful. Are beautiful. You make me crazy, Jen Lindley, crazy with the sense of my own good fortune."
She put her head on his shoulder and began sobbing. If there was anything she felt Davis didn't have, it was good fortune. She resisted the urge to point out the irony in his statement.
He patted her, but held her slightly away from him. "Come on. You promised me you wouldn't do this. Please . . . please, Jen, don't do this."
Wiping her eyes with her pajama sleeve, she pulled herself up in bed and looked down at him, composing herself. "What do you feel like doing today?"
"Let's go to the park."
"The park?"
"Yeah. You know? The place with all the trees and grass, sometimes a few benches . . ."
She slapped him on the arm. "Okay, I get it. The park. Sure, that sounds good."
She watched him walk to the door of his closet. Mesmerized, she moved her eyes over his frame as he undressed in front of her. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and threw it in the hamper, followed quickly by his flannel pants. She breathed heavily as the muscles in his back pulsed under his skin. He turned and saw her. They smiled at each other and he came toward her, pulling her on top of him on the bed. She began taking off the clothes he had just put on. They didn't reach the park for several hours.
"Do you want anything special for dinner tonight?" she called from the kitchen. "It's my night to cook."
They had spent most of the day at the park, sitting under a huge tree, not talking. She had made a comment about how nice it was that the weather hadn't gotten hot yet. He asked her what she was going to teach in the fall semester. These attempts at conversation failed because both implied the same horrible truth: Davis was dying. There was no chance that he would see May, much less the fall. He couldn't share whatever concerns she had about weather and teaching.
"No," he said from the bedroom. "I'm not hungry. Why don't you work on your paper for a while? You haven't done that in ages."
She stopped immediately and turned toward his voice. Davis hadn't mentioned her dissertation at all in the past month. In fact, it had been almost a forbidden topic. She went to the bedroom door and stuck her head in.
"Are you okay, babe?"
Davis nodded silently. "I think I'm going to turn in early, tonight."
Jen didn't need a doctorate in literature to read the subtext in that comment. She was struck with an immense bout of indecision. If she left him here, would it tell him that she didn't realize what his comment was obviously meant to say to her? But if she stayed, would she be depriving him of something he desperately needed -- the privacy and peace to die on his own terms? Thoughts ran back and forth as she fought with herself all the while trying not to cry.
"Jen . . . your defense is in July. You don't have much time." He nodded toward the living room where the computer sat, totally ignored these past weeks. His words had told her nothing, but the way he held his head and the tone of his voice guided her out of the room and to her desk chair.
Close to an hour later, she crept back into their room. Her heart thumped inside her chest to the rhythm of squeaking hinges as she opened the door. Jen rounded the end of the bed and came to face Davis. She placed her first two fingers on his neck, pressing slightly. Expecting complete stillness, that's what she received.
She collapsed beside the bed, shaking from her tears. Allowing herself to scream and cry, she gave one whole hour to her sorrow. At the end of that hour, she rose and placed her hand on the phone beside the bed.
All her instincts told her to dial the number she knew by heart, the one that would, hopefully, have Jack's voice at the other end. For one of the first times in her life, she ignored her instincts and calmly dialed 9-1-1.
Jack stood in the Tate Gallery, staring at a collection of Degas paintings. He had started on the top floor of the museum, and was now reaching the front door. It was his last night in London, and Paul was finishing his seminar. Jack had hardly seen Paul since they'd arrived. They'd spent snatches of time together here and there, but it was nothing like the romantic getaway Paul had promised.
Each day he was here, he thought more and more about Jen. He'd tried to reach her four times but hadn't gotten any answer. He felt guilty for not telling her he was leaving and he knew he'd pay for it later. They had the kind of relationship where it was okay for them to be angry with each other.
He walked out onto the street and hailed a cab. The driver delivered him at the door of his hotel moments later.
"Hello, Mr. McPhee," the doorman said as Jack passed through the glass doors.
"How are you?"
"Wonderful," the elderly man said. "Mr. Lippman just arrived."
Jack couldn't help smiling and moved, with newfound resolve, toward the elevators.
"Hi, babe." Paul saw him at the door immediately and came toward him, embracing and kissing him.
"Hey."
"How was the day at the gallery?"
"Good . . . good. I missed you."
"I missed you, too."
Paul pulled him over to the bed, where they sat down amongst piles of disheveled clothes and two matching suitcases.
Paul took a deep breath, grasped Jack's hand, and began speaking. Jack expected about several million things except what came out of Paul's mouth.
"I'm sorry I haven't spent any time with you. I feel like shit for that. I apologize."
Jack looked up, genuinely shocked. Paul never apologized for anything. That's just not how it was between them. Jack would apologize and Paul would act self-righteous until he was over his anger.
"Um . . . that's okay."
Paul shook his head. "No. No, it's not. I drug you here and then I abandoned you in the middle of a strange city."
Jack was beginning to feel uneasy. "Really, Paul, it's fine. I had a good time," he lied.
"I should have been with you, making sure you were okay. I was totally in the wrong."
"It's fine. I was fine. I moved away from my parents when I was seventeen and I lived on my own when I was nineteen. I don't need people to take care of me."
"You don't?"
"God, no. Believe it or not, I *did* make it on my own before I started dating you."
"I know . . ."
Jack shook his head, confused. "What is all this? What are we really talking about here?"
Paul shrugged. Jack stood up and went into the bathroom to pack up his things.
"Do you need any help in there?"
"No . . . thanks." Jack quietly shut the door and locked it. As he put his things into a small bag, he considered, for the first time, why he had ever fallen in love with Paul Lippman.
Later that night, Jack picked up the phone and dialed Jen's number using his calling card.
He listened to it ring for several minutes, then heard the answering machine click on. Not knowing what to say to an answering machine at a time like this, he set the receiver gently in it's cradle. He didn't know how he knew, but he was sure that Davis had died.
"Paul?"
"Yeah, Hon?"
Jack looked at him dripping wet from his shower, and shook his head. "Nothing." He couldn't talk to Paul about this now. And he wouldn't cheapen Jen's pain by letting it rest in anyone's heart but his own.
Paul shrugged and stepped back into the bathroom.
Jack pulled out a piece of hotel stationary and a pen, walked across the room, and sat down at the desk.
April 17, 2007
Dear Jen,
I can't seem to reach you by phone. It feels like it's been at least a year since I've heard your voice. I miss you. This self-imposed separation we have going on must be illegal in some official best friend handbook somewhere. And speaking of being your friend, I've done a shitty job of it lately. Really shitty. I'm sorry. Just a minute ago, I was laying in bed, millions of miles away from you and I began to want to slap myself. Literally, throw my hand across my face repeatedly. My priorities were all messed up -- still are, I think, since I'm here with Paul and not in Dallas, with you. Whether either of us want to admit it or not, I needed to be there for you when you heard about Davis being sick. Grams would be very sad and disappointed that I'm not with you. And I can't disappoint her OR you. Basically, the point of all this is me telling you that I'm putting my life back together, even if that means I have to take it all apart first. But either way, you're coming out on top this time.
All my love, Jack
He folded the paper carefully and stuck it inside a hotel envelope. Picking up his billfold, he walked downstairs to mail the letter from the concierge's desk.
Jack walked back into the hotel room several minutes later, took off his coat and pants and climbed back into bed. Paul stirred in the space next to him.
Jack sighed loudly and Paul opened his eyes.
"Hey, where were you?"
"Downstairs mailing a letter."
Paul nodded. "Well, goodnight," he said, and turned over.
"Paul?" Jack said a few moments later.
"Yeah?"
"Um . . . never mind, it's nothing."
Paul shrugged.
"Paul?"
"Yes?" he said, this time getting irritated.
"I was wondering . . . why you brought me to London when you're sleeping with my assistant."
Paul turned toward Jack immediately, eyes open wide. He yanked the cord of the lamp beside his bed and looked at Jack with a shocked countenance.
"What?" he finally stuttered.
Jack shook his head slowly. "Paul, you heard me. I'm not going to repeat it. It was hard enough to say the first time." Instead of cracking like he imagined it would, his voice remained strong and emotionless.
"Jack, you know that's not true."
"No, Paul. It is true," he said, sure in his theory. "I'll make it really easy for you, though. How about this? Just tell me why. Why the hell are you betraying me like this? And why the hell are you forcing me to use trite words like ‘why' and ‘betrayal'?"
Paul laughed nervously.
"Don't laugh, you bastard! Tell me why."
Paul stood up from the bed and pulled a chair slowly next to where Jack lay. "I don't know . . . that's my answer. I don't know." He reached out his hand and attempted to put Jack's hand inside it. Jack pulled away angrily.
"I deserve an answer."
"Don't be like this. It's not like we were . . . exclusively dating."
"You were living at my house. That's pretty damn exclusive."
A moment of uncomfortable silence passed.
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning. But . . . I'm not sleeping here tonight. I can't. I can't be here with you right now."
Paul nodded slowly and stepped toward the door. "No, Jack. I'll leave. In all the horror of what I've done to you, just let me do one . . . honorable thing. Okay?" Paul pulled open the door slowly and entered the hallway.
Jack blew past him. "No," he said, then again, more firmly. "No."
"Why?" He gave Jack a pitiful look.
Grabbing his clothes off the chair, he turned and gave Paul one last look before he stormed down the hall.
"Because I don't want you leaving this relationship thinking you did even one thing right."
Later, after purchasing another room, he lay down in bed. The room was a carbon copy of the one he just left, so he shut his eyes, shoving out the light.
There had been only about ten times in his life that Jack had ever really cried. There had been many moments when he wanted to cry desperately, but refused. He usually held it back, held it in, held it from the people he loved. There was no one in this room – in this entire city – that he loved. Totally alone in a hotel room across the world from his real life, he cried for several hours and finally fell asleep on top of the industrial-pattern comforter.
"Hey, Jack!" Helen came toward him, hugging him tightly and kissing him on the cheek. Ryan followed behind her. Jack had caught a plane that morning, paying an incredibly high price for a ticket on such short notice. He was as happy to be home as he could be, under the circumstances.
"Hey! We missed you, man," Ryan said, hugging Jack after Helen moved away.
"I missed you guys, too." Seeing them again was a wonderful feeling, he thought to himself.
They helped him carry in his suitcases into his room then ushered him to the kitchen, where they'd prepared a meal for four people.
Jack sat down slowly, glancing at Paul's place next to him. Helen took her seat next to Jack and quietly motioned Ryan to go get the food. Slowly, Jack put his head in his hands. Helen scooted her chair as close as she could and laid one of her hands his back and one on his arm. She pulled him into her and hugged him tightly. When she finally released him, she seemed surprised that he wasn't crying. He looked very tired and very resigned.
"Jack?" Helen said gently.
He looked up.
"Let's get you to bed," she almost whispered.
He nodded slowly and felt like he was ten years old again, staying home sick, and getting taken care of by his mother.
Before he could even think about sleep, there was something he had to do. So, for the third time in as many weeks, he dialed Jen's number. He listened to it ring two times. Then, there was a click, and Jen's voice greeted him.
"Hello," she said.
"Hi . . . it's me."
Jack heard her breathe a long, relieved breath and sink down in a chair.
"Hey, Jack."
"How are you?"
"Um . . . been better actually," she said, her voice breaking. "Busy, though, with the funeral and everything."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too. Wait . . . how did you know . . . ?"
"Best friend's intuition?"
"Ah." He heard her pause. The breaks in conversation were sometimes his favorite part of talking with her. He would just sit and listen to her breathe and feel very close to her.
Finally, he spoke again. "Is anyone there with you? Any of your friends or students, helping you out?"
"Nope . . . it's just me."
Jack looked down at his hand holding the phone, then up at the room around him. The ridiculousness of this situation struck him. Him, here; her there, and both of them needing each other so badly. His thoughts were interrupted by her next comment.
"You sound sick."
"I'm not sick, just really exhausted. Did you get my letter?"
"Yeah. Although I have to say I was mad as hell that you didn't tell me you were leaving, I'm glad you went. It was probably good for you to get away for a while."
"Yeah, I thought it would be, too."
"Thought?"
"Paul and I broke up."
"Oh God, Jack. I'm sorry."
"Believe me, you don't tell me you're sorry about my petty little breakup when your life is . . . the way it is."
He heard her swallow. "I'm still sorry about you and Paul, though. I'm sorry for both of us."
"We are pretty pitiful, aren't we?"
"Really pitiful," she agreed.
"Have you decided what you're going to do about teaching next semester?" he said, to change the subject.
"I don't know. I was thinking of taking off for a while. Amazingly, the grief has been a huge motivator and I'm almost done with the dissertation. Thank God."
"Good for you."
"Yeah . . . now all I have to do is defend it."
"Yikes."
"Definitely yikes. Hey, listen. I've gotta go move some more stuff from Davis' apartment."
"Okay."
He waited for her to speak again, and she finally did.
"This is killing me, Jack."
"I know."
"I love you."
"Love you, too," Jack said, wishing Grams would deliver him a sentiment from on high that would make her feel better.
He put the phone down and rolled over, desperately needing sleep.
Near noon the next day, he heard a knock on the door. He had been studying Paul's things all around him, wondering if he should throw them out onto the street below like people did in the movies. Or if he should just look at them and get more and more maudlin. Jet lagged and groggy, he chose the second of those options.
"Come in," he said, trying to be enthusiastic.
Helen crept in slowly, followed by Ryan. They sat on either side of him on the bed.
"We want to . . . ask you something," Ryan said.
Jack nodded. "Okay."
"Um . . ." Helen began speaking. "We bought you a plane ticket." She got up and pulled a small envelope out of her back pocket.
"Guys . . . thanks but . . . I don't think I can accept the gift. I've already taken a month off from work."
Ryan shook his head. "No, Jack. This ticket is one way."
Jack smiled for the first time in two days.
He reached for the proffered envelope and read the information inside. "April 20, 2007. From: Kennedy Airport To: Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Leaving: 1:30 PM Arrives: 5:20 PM." It was the best gift he'd ever received, because it was permission. It was permission to leave a situation that had gotten to big for him to handle.
He swallowed hard and looked up at them. "God, you guys. Thank you. I might just take you up on this offer."
Helen kissed him and Ryan gave him a hug before they crept down the hall to the library.
Neither Lewis nor Paul spoke to him as he packed up his office. Boxes were scattered across the center of the room. So much for the stereotype of people quitting their jobs and carrying one box to the elevator, he thought to himself.
He left most of his files and client information stuck here and there in drawers. Trying to organize things as best he could for the next person who moved into his clients and his office, he came across several letters from Jen and Grams, some pictures drawn for him by Andie's kids, more pictures from Dawson and Joey's kids, still more pictures from Pacey and Laura's kids, notes from Paul (which he threw away promptly), and a whole folder of articles written about him in The New York Times, New Yorker, Vanity Fair, and New York. He placed all personal belongings in one box, all his books in another, and his drawing, building plans, and unfinished sketches in another.
For someone leaving their whole life behind them, he felt strangely secure. He knew that was Jen's presence showing through. There were guarantees that came with having a friend like that, and it was these moments that made him feel incredibly lucky, despite everything.
He loaded all his boxes onto a huge rolling dolly and pulled them into the service elevator. There was no fanfare, no goodbye party, no tearful promises to keep in touch. Jack was glad for that; he abhorred fake sentiment above all else.
Helen carried his laptop bag over her shoulder and Ryan and Jack both carried two huge suitcases. They had spent the past two days ignoring their classes and helping him get everything in order to leave. He sold the apartment to them for three dollars and wished them good luck with the unreliable hot water and ornery superintendent.
He hugged Ryan first. "Thanks for everything, Ry. I'll definitely be calling to see how things turn out with THE Margaret." Ryan laughed and gave him a slightly bittersweet smile.
Then, he turned to Helen. "I . . . I don't know what to say to thank you, babe. You're just the best." He took her into his arms and held her for several moments. She handed him his laptop and carry-on bag and promised that she and Ryan would take the remaining boxes to UPS in the morning.
"Helen . . ."
She turned.
"Will you come to Dallas to visit me? And you, too, Ryan?"
They nodded in unison and he waved as he boarded the plane.
The Living Room of My Soul by Beth
Chapter end notes
I've got a multitude of wonderful people to thank for their help on this part. As always, the lovely Daizy Lee, who reads all my stuff and is just generally a great friend and great fic writer. Liz, who read Jack's half of this part and helped me improve it ten-fold. Courtney, for the final phone call idea. Angie, Brandi, Eden, Kathy, Eric, Tammy, and Aimee for their encouragement. Wow, I think that's it . . . thanks to all of you! At the end of August, I was honored with a nomination in the Creeker's Choice Awards in the 'other relationships' category for my fanfic, "Jack&Jen," also known as "Come As You Are." Voting goes on until the end of September. :) OH, I almost forgot: Please send feedback to jackandjenfanfic@yahoo.com!