The night before They came, she dreamt of a child that would finally happen.
This body was broken, damaged beyond repair, and nothing could be salvaged from the broken wreckage of ovaries. It was, the Doctor had suggested, scans in slim, dark fingers, just unfortunate. Missing a birthday was unfortunate; forgetting Parmesan on Lasagne night. All those years of spotty periods and acne breakouts had been the warning, but there’d never been time to fix the underlying issue. Career mattered more. In many ways, that was still the case.
Amelia Bishop lies, sweat-drenched, crying into darkness.
Blood rushes in ears which won’t hear any more truths: what remains in this existence is a lie, impossible to deceive. Deep down, she knows conception will happen. Maybe it won’t take place inside her body, but everything else is possible, even if she cannot provide the raw materials. A vessel is what she has become: home, simply waiting for a family. Money is no object, and once today’s Court Case is concluded there’ll be holiday enough to make everything happen.
To add insult to injury, this Thursday was when girlfriend left for good.
The night before They came, Flight BA145 hits turbulence, just before breakfast.
Almost thrown out of the bathroom, Mark’s having to scrabble for a handhold as the plane drops, sickening lurch that wakes many passengers screaming. He’s struggling back to First Class, fighting desire to throw up, pastrami bagel eaten in the departure lounge at JFK earlier feeling uncomfortable and stodgy in body which aches in a way he can’t remember from countless physical beatings. There’s been too many nights of hotel rooms and bad take out and when this Court case is done, he’s putting in for vacation time, because being a secret agent fucking sucks.
Mark Chambers sits, wondering why life won’t just cut a decent break.
His son had cried as ex-wife had picked him up in Brooklyn, look of disgust that meant he’ll be paying more alimony and seeing the boy less going forward. Little Pete was perfect, the only thing he’d done right in ten years. Fact remained that Dad was a tool to him and treated mom like dirt. On reflection, Cassie’s threat to reduce visitation rights was probably as good a deal as could be expected. On the scale of 1-10 of shitty male behaviour, Mark hovered permanently in low 60’s, showing no sign of reducing the average. All those promises to not be the Navy Brat like dad had been lost, ignored in the clamour of CIA notoriety. What a fucking joke he was.
To add final insult to injury plane suddenly drops: pastrami on rye ends up all over his lap.
Before scheduled arrival, a suitable match was determined.
Next Part of EX/WHI can be found here.