Chapter Text
It takes every ounce of convincing Claire has in her body to make the damned stubbornest man she’s ever met in her life go get a real meal.
“A deli sandwich, a lobster roll, a burger. Anything, Jamie, that isn’t a bag of something out of a vending machine or a frozen meal. Please. As a doctor, I’m begging you.”
It hadn’t been easy, but with a promise that she wouldn’t leave Faith’s room for any reason, he’d finally gone, telling her to text if there was ‘anything.’ Claire promises, then sits beside a currently sleeping little girl, mindlessly scrolling the news on her phone.
“Doctor Claire?”
Looking up quickly, the phone is slipped into her lab coat pocket as she smiles, reaching out to lightly touch Faith’s arm. “Hello, darling.” She smiles softly at her. “Your dad just went to get something to eat. He’ll be back soon.” At least she can promise Faith that and keep it. She hopes.
“Can ye make Daddy sleep, too?” she asks, clearly more clever than Claire is giving her credit for.
“What do you mean?” she asks of Faith curiously, holding her hand now.
Reaching up with her free hand, she presses her fingers under her own eyes. “He has dark eyes.”
Claire watches and listens; he’s tired. Even a child can pick up on that, because it changes a person physically. The dark circles under seemingly permanent red-rimmed eyes.
“He’s sad because I’m sick. Aye?”
Oh, God. Claire isn’t prepared for this. It shouldn’t be her having this conversation with the little girl, but she finds herself unable to put up a wall, not wanting her to be afraid to ask questions or think she can’t. “It makes all of us sad, Faith. We don’t like seeing you so sick.”
She seems to consider that for a moment before asking her next question. “How come I dinna do the medicine?”
The chemo; Claire knows exactly what she means, and a knot of sudden desperation for Jamie to return forms in her stomach. Wetting her lips, Claire lets her eyes visually trace the small veins in Faith’s hand before taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Sometimes medicine won’t make you feel much better, darling,” she says quietly, raising her gaze to look directly at her.
“I asked my Da a question, but it made him cry, so I didna try to ask again,” Faith says slowly, raising her eyes to look directly at Claire.
She knows before the question comes out what it’s going to be, and she’s never been more unprepared for anything in her life.
“What happens to Da when I die?”
It was bound to happen; she’s in a pediatric cancer ward with nurses chatting in the hallways, parents pacing the halls on cell phones talking to family, other doctors, religious elders. And still, Claire isn’t prepared to hear this sweet five-year-old girl ask about her own death. Especially not in the context of her father.
“Well,” she begins, wetting her lips, desperately trying to speak around a lump in her throat. “Your dad has your aunt Jenny and uncle Ian. And he’ll have me, too,” she explains. Not that she assumes Jamie will want anything to do with her. Not when Claire was supposed to fix his only child. “A lot of people love him, Faith, and all of those people will make sure he doesn’t have to be by himself.”
Faith slowly turns more to her side so that she’s facing Claire fully. “I dinna want him to be sad. But he is anyway.”
Everyone’s sad, Claire thinks, but she just reaches out, stroking Faith’s temple tenderly. “It isn’t wrong or bad to feel sad, Faith. And it’s not even wrong or bad to feel scared. That’s all okay.”
“Does dying mean…” Faith pauses, trying to puzzle it out in her head for a second before looking back at Claire. “Does it mean I’ll be wi’ my mam?” She knows that her mother died, that she’s with angels.
There’s a gossamer thread holding Claire’s emotions in check, a breath away from breaking, even as she nods and raises Faith’s hand to kiss the back of it. “That is what it means, darling. Your dad will be so grateful that your mother can be with you.” She watches Faith nod, apparently out of questions for now.
For a moment, Claire remembers the night a police officer came to her front door. Young, unpracticed. He’d told her haltingly that there had been an accident, that her husband, he was sorry to say, was dead. Then, she’d only felt numb, had let Frank’s family carry her along through everything. She’d let her mind shut out all but the necessary: eat, sleep, work, bathe. Do it all again. It was the only way to protect herself that she could think of. She was stripped raw by the death of her husband, and she’d wrapped herself in the only thing that gave her meaning and purpose: work.
Now, it’s the work that’s slowly gutting her all over again.
By the time Jamie returns, Claire is reading out loud quietly to a not-quite-asleep child. Finishing, she closes the book and puts it aside before looking at him and nodding toward the door. Together they step through it and she eyes the fast food cup in his hand. Not ideal food calories. Better than a cold ‘beef’ hamburger from the refrigerated vending machine.
“What is it?” he asks, reaching out with his hand, just barely grazing her hip before dropping his arm, remembering himself and where they are, for her sake only.
“She has a lot of questions, Jamie. I think… I just mean children are perceptive. It might be a good idea to let me send a social worker to speak with her.”
Everything in Jamie tenses but he does nod, letting out a breath. “I ken you’re right,” he finally admits.
“What about you?” Claire asks him quietly. He needs someone better than her to talk to. She watches him as he takes one more sip of his drink before walking to a trashcan and tossing it away.
Jamie shakes his head when he looks at her again. “No. I’m no’ the dying one.”
And then he’s gone, back in the room, letting the door close behind him quietly.