Fic - Circadian Rhythms (Mary Shannon) pg, 1/1
Title: Circadian Rhythms
Summary: Mary does best when she sticks to what she knows.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 3,272 words. Very obvious, very specific spoilers for season 4. Written for the femgenficathon. All the thanks in the world to justforyoudear for the brainstorming and beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated.
Prompt #150: I am, was, and always will be a catalyst for change. -- Shirley Chisholm
[0]
Her Daddy told her once, right before he left her and Brandi in the disastrous hands of her mother, that the only purpose people had in life was to let you down.
Of course, Mary was six at the time and still idealistically naïve (hard to believe, she knows, but those jagged edges were soft once upon a time) and even though she could list off the different types of liquor that lingered on her mother’s breath day in and day out, she really didn’t grasp the full meaning of the idea until much, much later in life.
“Mary, baby,” he had said, and she’d snuggled into his side, breathing in his warmth. “Your number one priority in life has gotta be taking care of yourself, kay? At the end of the day you’re all you’re gonna have. Everyone else is meaningless.”
She muses, years later when the wounds are still just as fresh as they were on day one, that it was probably his parting gift of sorts. He’d left a week later without a word and looking back it’s the only piece of advice he’d ever given her, the only thing he’d ever given her really.
After the crying and the bargaining and the adjusting (the five stages of grief have become, more or less over the years, the mantra of her life) she took it to heart and kept moving forward.
Her mother is an alcoholic and Brandi’s the last person on earth she’d put as number one on her call in case of an emergency list, so independence wasn’t so much a goal, but more a way of life.
So when her first boyfriend breaks up with her because she exhibits more male tendencies in the relationship than he does and her college boyfriend dumps her because he claims she’s never going to love him as much as she loves herself, she blames her father entirely. Chalks it up to some Freudian crap she learned about in high school that she really never gave two shits about, and keeps on moving forward, always in constant motion.
Deep down, though, when she thinks about it, Mary is kind of thankful, too.
Life is a whole lot easier to get through when you don’t have other people screwing it up.
(Of course, Mary doesn’t realize how faulty her line of thinking was until it is almost too late.)
[1]
The stick turns pink.
Mary stands in the center of her tiny bathroom, her hands tight around the porcelain of her sink, her knuckles pearl-white as they mold around the edges as if she’s hanging on for dear life. The stick sits before her in the curve of the sink and she stares at it hard, her heart beating rapidly inside her chest, her stomach turning and gnawing away at itself. She feels like she’s about to throw up, actually tastes the vomit in the back of her throat, but chooses to blame it on something else entirely - the witness, the pie, the breakfast burrito she picked up at the Snack n’ Pack this morning, anything other than the truth.
Glancing upwards, she catches sight of herself in the mirror - her face is round, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are tired. She breathes in and ghosts her fingers over her ribs and can no longer count them one-by-one by touch. Already, these changes are occurring. Already this… thing inside of her, this thing she feels absolutely no control over, is taking things away from her.
It makes Mary angry, almost irrationally so. Her fingers tighten even more around the sink, her grip so hard, so fierce that it almost hurts.
“Well, shit,” she says to the empty air around her. She laughs shortly, the sound curdling around the edges and biting at her skin.
She takes another test just to be sure. Then another one right after that, and another one quickly thereafter.
When she’s done, when she is finally convinced that this is fact and not a fluke, that her life really is crashing down in pieces all around her, she lines all five of the sticks up in a neat, perfect little row on the edge of the sink. The pink pluses stare up at her, mocking her very existence.
She stares down at them in a mixture of horror and amazement, her hand shaking as she runs swollen fingers through her messy hair.
Mary throws up shortly thereafter.
[2]
For a minute, for a brief moment, she thinks about alternatives.
There is an uncustomary moment of weakness, a short span of time where she thinks about taking an easy way out. She picks up the phone, dials a number, and is fully ready to make an appointment. At the last second she stops, clicks off the phone and tosses it to the side. Something inside of her shifts, her heart constricts on its own free will and she feels the vomit rising, tastes the bitter essence of it in the back of throat again. It passes in a blink of an eye and Mary is thankful.
Slowly, she reaches down to her belly, pushes up the thin fabric of her shirt and draws a delicate line from her navel upwards. She makes a promise, right then and there, to be better, to do better
Mary may be a lot of things, but she is definitely not that woman.
[3]
At first, she keeps it to herself.
Mary is an introvert, more private than most people she knows. She needs to give herself time to wrap her head around this, to adjust to the back pain and weight gain and unnatural distaste for coffee. She needs time to figure out what she’s going to do before anyone can muddy her thoughts with their own opinions, before they can start pressuring her to make a decision she’s not yet ready to make.
It’s why she allows Marshall the time to figure it out for himself, whey it takes her so long to tell him the truth. At first it is because she isn’t ready. Then it is because she doesn’t really know how, can’t quite form the words and push them out of her mouth, allowing the words to fall between them, filling the distance she’s deliberately placed there. She doesn’t tell anyone, really, because speaking the words make it true, make it fact, and while Mary has never dealt well with denial, she thinks, just maybe, she’s allowed this one time.
Mary hides the truth until she can’t anymore, until she is as ready as she is ever going to be.
She tells Marshall in a rush, the words falling between them like grenades after she’s positive he already knows. She does this because she doesn’t think she can take the surprise, the disappointment that she expects to flicker across his face in response.
In the end, Mary tells Marshall first because he’s the one that matters most - her partner, her friend, her confidant. He’s her only unwavering constant in the midst of perpetual change. He’s also the only true voice of reason she knows, the most rational man she’s ever met.
Mary tells Marshall first because she knows he’ll support her without question, without even a moment of second guessing. That’s just who he is. It’s what she counts on.
Here’s the thing that most people suspect, but never dare call her on: Mary isn’t made for motherhood.
She knows this. She absolutely knows this. Witnesses she can handle. Her mother and Brandi and whatever disaster they manage to wrap themselves up in week after week - that she can handle. She can handle the world’s worst case scenario in stride and with an amount of grace and ease most people would envy.
Mary is a smart, well-educated woman. She prides herself on being intelligent, on doing what is right - and not just for her, but for all those involved. It’s what makes her a good Marshal. It’s what makes her a decent person.
This is why when Marshall tells her to treat the baby like a witness, to acclimate and relocate, she has already decided to do just that. She’s already decided that this baby already has a mark against it by having her for a mother; she doesn’t want to completely ruin it by bringing it into a family that doesn’t have the best track record raising their young.
Her mother is the one to say it first.
“You’d be a good mother, Mary,” she says.
Mary sighs and starts banging her head against the back of her couch. They’ve been having the same argument for weeks - Jinx is not all that enthused about the idea of sending her first grandchild to go live with another family. In a way, Mary understands. In a way, she can even empathize with the anger. But at the end the day it is still her decision and she’s already made it.
Then again, her mother has never been one to let go easily.
“You’re a liar, Mom.”
“You take my mistakes and you learn from them,” she shrugs. “It’s why girls have mothers. To learn. You’ll be great.”
In a rare act of kindness Mary says, “You weren’t so bad,” and actually sounds as though she means it.
Jinx reaches forward and palms Mary’s face; her smile is tired and worn, her hands are cold. “Now who’s the liar?” she asks and her mother’s voice is soft, her eyebrows creasing between her brows. She looks older than Mary can ever remember her looking before.
Smiling, Mary leans in to her touch for just a moment before pulling away completely on reflex. “It’s not for me, Mom, and I really, really don’t feel as though this is the right time to test out the let’s just wait and see option.”
Mary watches as her mother’s shoulders fall, sagging with defeat. Her sigh is slow, painful, and Mary knows she’s finally letting go of the dream, of the hope, of the mere idea of a second chance.
“Okay,” Jinx breathes. “Okay, then.”
[4]
The jelly is cold against her belly and Mary winces at the feel of it against her skin. The nurse rubs it in, the latex of her gloves sticking just slightly as she does. Mary squirms in response, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides.
“We should be able to identify the sex today,” the woman says. “Do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Is that the sort of thing people do these days? Do normal people in, you know, normal situations like to know that sort of thing? Kind of takes the surprise out of it, right?” Mary asks, but the nurse just smiles and says nothing in response.
On the monitor there is the giant blob they keep telling her is her baby. Mary can barely make out the lines of the head, of the fingers and toes. Her heart does a funny thing in her chest, constricting forcefully, and she breathes and closes her eyes, lets the gentle hum of the heartbeat dig under her skin and linger. Her own fingers are still curled into fists by her side, the tips of them almost numb.
“I have it right here if you want to know,” the nurse says gently. The jelly is still cool against her stomach. Mary keeps her eyes closed.
“No. I don’t think I do,” she tells her softly.
“Okay,” the nurse replies cheerily.
Back at the office, Mary places the sonogram in her top drawer. Marshall saunters by and places a cup of tea on her desk. She takes it greedily.
“Everything copacetic?”
Mary nods. “So far, so good. Except for, you know, the fact that I can’t see my toes, have to pee every five minutes, and feel as though I’m as big as a house.”
Rolling his eyes, he leans his weight against the corner of her desk. Mary glances up at him warily. “You look fine.”
“Says the person with the pregnancy fetish. Normal people look at me and say, that poor woman. And, you know, I tend to agree with them.”
Marshall launches into some story about the correlation between pregnancy weight and healthy babies and Mary pretends to listen, but mostly tunes him out. She nods her head and makes affirming noises, and he knows she isn’t listening, but keeps talking anyway. They do this a lot. When he’s done, when he’s back at his desk, she opens her desk drawer and fingers the sonogram again. The edges are starting to curl from being in her back pocket all afternoon.
“They were able to tell the sex today,” she tells him. Outside the sun is starting to set. Stan has already headed home and like most every other day she and Marshall are the only ones left in the office.
“Oh, yeah?” Marshall looks up from his paperwork questioningly.
“Yeah,” she shrugs, shuts her drawer again and flicks on her computer monitor. Out of sight, out of mind. “I didn’t want to know. Why ruin the surprise, right?”
They share a look, a private moment. Marshall’s grin is unmistakable, that corner of his mouth twisting upwards on reflex. She can’t help but smile back.
“That’s what I say,” he tells her. “It’s just not the same, I think.”
Mary never says I can’t do this because she’s not one to admit defeat aloud, let alone to somebody’s face.
What she does say, what she does admit is, “I don’t think I’m going to make it nine months. No booze? Diet restrictions? Desk duty? I am not cut out for desk duty.”
Of course she says it to Marshall and of course he just laughs. “You’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Marshall just shrugs. “Because you’re Mary,” he says so simply, so certainly and she feels a surge of something fierce in her chest. She doesn’t let it show, only stares ahead at the empty road in front of them. Silence fills the air around them for a while, until they come to rest at a red light and he turns towards her. “I’m here for you. You know that, right? That’s never going to change, Mary.”
“I know,” she breathes quietly. The light changes to green, and his eyes turn back towards the road.
She thinks about reaching for him, about drawing in some of his strength and making it her own. Instead, her hands tangle in her lap as the road stretches endlessly in front of them as she continues to say nothing.
[5]
Most nights, Mary has this one, reoccurring dream.
It's her and it's Marshall. They're sitting in his backyard and Mary watches with her shoulder against his as the sky explodes into a million different reds and oranges as the sun sets before them. He carries her weight for the time being, his shoulder strong under hers, his fingers tight around the beer bottle in his hand. Her belly is just beginning to really show, the roundness of it protruding out from under her top, her soft skin exposed only to him and the air. She catches him glancing at her every once in a while, his gaze gently accusing like he knows, and she muses he probably does. Marshall always just knows.
Still, she tells him: "I'm pregnant, Marshall," in a quiet tone, her fingers stiff as she brings her own cup of water to her dry lips. She doesn't look at him.
For a moment he stills completely and says nothing. For a moment she doesn't breathe.
Finally, he says, "Yeah. I kind of already figured that out."
Mary rolls her eyes and laughs without mirth. "Of course you did."
They are silent for a long time. The sun sets completely and after a while Marshall starts pointing out constellations and telling her stories she only half-listens to. She's caught in-between anger and surprise at his lack of response, at the way he brushes off this monumental thing with a flick of his wrist and the squaring of his shoulders. Eventually the surprise completely fades and all she's left with is righteous anger simmering under her skin and threatening to boil over.
"You don't have anything else to say?" Mary asks. She feels the sweat pooling at the base of her spine from the heat, from the extra weight she’s carrying, from this thing that is growing inside of her that she has absolutely no control over.
"About what?"
"About what? About what? I'm pregnant, Marshall. With child. In six months I am going to pop out a poor, unsuspecting kid that has no idea what he's in for and all you have to say is yeah, I kind of already figured that? What the hell is that?"
She watches as his fingers flex and curl tightly around the nearly empty bottle in his hand. He bites the inside of his cheek. "Nothing," he shrugs. "I just..." he trails off and doesn't look at her.
"You just what?"
He shrugs and finishes his beer in a solitary swig and taps two fingers flat against his knee for a moment. It's a rare movement, but she recognizes it immediately as something he does when he's anxious, when he has something to say and is trying to figure out the best way to say it. Marshall opens his mouth once, twice, three times but nothing comes out.
Finally he breathes, "I just... I guess I always thought it would be something we’d do together."
Something inside of her snaps, and breaks wide-open in deep inside her chest. "Yeah," she says and her sigh is heavy and full as it falls between them. In a rare moment of absolute honesty she continues with a soft, barely audible, “Me, too.”
It’s the truth. Deep down under her layers and edges and those soft spots she tries so hard to hide, Mary sees a future and it’s with him by her side. She wants to tell him that, she needs to tell him that, but she doesn’t know how, so instead she says nothing.
They are both silent for a long time.
When she wakes after, it's always with a start.
Her shirt is usually soaked through with sweat, her heart racing, that feeling from the dream - that deep seeded ache deep within her chest - present and very real, almost tangible. She reaches for the glass of water on her nightstand, and holds her stomach right under where it starts to swell, her palm pressing flat against where she imagines her baby is.
In the early months she tricks herself into forgetting. She washes the dream away with cold water and a quick dose of reality.
Later on, weeks and months down the line when the dreams become more vivid, their impression more lasting and she starts to come to terms with reality a little bit more each day, she draws a line with her index finger from sternum to navel and promises her baby all the things she always wanted for, but never received. She promises to give this baby a life they deserved. To give this baby the type of life she never had - even if that meant it was a life void of her presence.
That, she thinks, has to mean something.
In the morning, after, she is usually a bigger bitch than usual to Marshall. He, of course, does what he always does and takes it in stride.
They both know that Mary does best when she sticks to what she knows.
Summary: Mary does best when she sticks to what she knows.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 3,272 words. Very obvious, very specific spoilers for season 4. Written for the femgenficathon. All the thanks in the world to justforyoudear for the brainstorming and beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated.
Prompt #150: I am, was, and always will be a catalyst for change. -- Shirley Chisholm
[0]
Her Daddy told her once, right before he left her and Brandi in the disastrous hands of her mother, that the only purpose people had in life was to let you down.
Of course, Mary was six at the time and still idealistically naïve (hard to believe, she knows, but those jagged edges were soft once upon a time) and even though she could list off the different types of liquor that lingered on her mother’s breath day in and day out, she really didn’t grasp the full meaning of the idea until much, much later in life.
“Mary, baby,” he had said, and she’d snuggled into his side, breathing in his warmth. “Your number one priority in life has gotta be taking care of yourself, kay? At the end of the day you’re all you’re gonna have. Everyone else is meaningless.”
She muses, years later when the wounds are still just as fresh as they were on day one, that it was probably his parting gift of sorts. He’d left a week later without a word and looking back it’s the only piece of advice he’d ever given her, the only thing he’d ever given her really.
After the crying and the bargaining and the adjusting (the five stages of grief have become, more or less over the years, the mantra of her life) she took it to heart and kept moving forward.
Her mother is an alcoholic and Brandi’s the last person on earth she’d put as number one on her call in case of an emergency list, so independence wasn’t so much a goal, but more a way of life.
So when her first boyfriend breaks up with her because she exhibits more male tendencies in the relationship than he does and her college boyfriend dumps her because he claims she’s never going to love him as much as she loves herself, she blames her father entirely. Chalks it up to some Freudian crap she learned about in high school that she really never gave two shits about, and keeps on moving forward, always in constant motion.
Deep down, though, when she thinks about it, Mary is kind of thankful, too.
Life is a whole lot easier to get through when you don’t have other people screwing it up.
(Of course, Mary doesn’t realize how faulty her line of thinking was until it is almost too late.)
[1]
The stick turns pink.
Mary stands in the center of her tiny bathroom, her hands tight around the porcelain of her sink, her knuckles pearl-white as they mold around the edges as if she’s hanging on for dear life. The stick sits before her in the curve of the sink and she stares at it hard, her heart beating rapidly inside her chest, her stomach turning and gnawing away at itself. She feels like she’s about to throw up, actually tastes the vomit in the back of her throat, but chooses to blame it on something else entirely - the witness, the pie, the breakfast burrito she picked up at the Snack n’ Pack this morning, anything other than the truth.
Glancing upwards, she catches sight of herself in the mirror - her face is round, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are tired. She breathes in and ghosts her fingers over her ribs and can no longer count them one-by-one by touch. Already, these changes are occurring. Already this… thing inside of her, this thing she feels absolutely no control over, is taking things away from her.
It makes Mary angry, almost irrationally so. Her fingers tighten even more around the sink, her grip so hard, so fierce that it almost hurts.
“Well, shit,” she says to the empty air around her. She laughs shortly, the sound curdling around the edges and biting at her skin.
She takes another test just to be sure. Then another one right after that, and another one quickly thereafter.
When she’s done, when she is finally convinced that this is fact and not a fluke, that her life really is crashing down in pieces all around her, she lines all five of the sticks up in a neat, perfect little row on the edge of the sink. The pink pluses stare up at her, mocking her very existence.
She stares down at them in a mixture of horror and amazement, her hand shaking as she runs swollen fingers through her messy hair.
Mary throws up shortly thereafter.
[2]
For a minute, for a brief moment, she thinks about alternatives.
There is an uncustomary moment of weakness, a short span of time where she thinks about taking an easy way out. She picks up the phone, dials a number, and is fully ready to make an appointment. At the last second she stops, clicks off the phone and tosses it to the side. Something inside of her shifts, her heart constricts on its own free will and she feels the vomit rising, tastes the bitter essence of it in the back of throat again. It passes in a blink of an eye and Mary is thankful.
Slowly, she reaches down to her belly, pushes up the thin fabric of her shirt and draws a delicate line from her navel upwards. She makes a promise, right then and there, to be better, to do better
Mary may be a lot of things, but she is definitely not that woman.
[3]
At first, she keeps it to herself.
Mary is an introvert, more private than most people she knows. She needs to give herself time to wrap her head around this, to adjust to the back pain and weight gain and unnatural distaste for coffee. She needs time to figure out what she’s going to do before anyone can muddy her thoughts with their own opinions, before they can start pressuring her to make a decision she’s not yet ready to make.
It’s why she allows Marshall the time to figure it out for himself, whey it takes her so long to tell him the truth. At first it is because she isn’t ready. Then it is because she doesn’t really know how, can’t quite form the words and push them out of her mouth, allowing the words to fall between them, filling the distance she’s deliberately placed there. She doesn’t tell anyone, really, because speaking the words make it true, make it fact, and while Mary has never dealt well with denial, she thinks, just maybe, she’s allowed this one time.
Mary hides the truth until she can’t anymore, until she is as ready as she is ever going to be.
She tells Marshall in a rush, the words falling between them like grenades after she’s positive he already knows. She does this because she doesn’t think she can take the surprise, the disappointment that she expects to flicker across his face in response.
In the end, Mary tells Marshall first because he’s the one that matters most - her partner, her friend, her confidant. He’s her only unwavering constant in the midst of perpetual change. He’s also the only true voice of reason she knows, the most rational man she’s ever met.
Mary tells Marshall first because she knows he’ll support her without question, without even a moment of second guessing. That’s just who he is. It’s what she counts on.
Here’s the thing that most people suspect, but never dare call her on: Mary isn’t made for motherhood.
She knows this. She absolutely knows this. Witnesses she can handle. Her mother and Brandi and whatever disaster they manage to wrap themselves up in week after week - that she can handle. She can handle the world’s worst case scenario in stride and with an amount of grace and ease most people would envy.
Mary is a smart, well-educated woman. She prides herself on being intelligent, on doing what is right - and not just for her, but for all those involved. It’s what makes her a good Marshal. It’s what makes her a decent person.
This is why when Marshall tells her to treat the baby like a witness, to acclimate and relocate, she has already decided to do just that. She’s already decided that this baby already has a mark against it by having her for a mother; she doesn’t want to completely ruin it by bringing it into a family that doesn’t have the best track record raising their young.
Her mother is the one to say it first.
“You’d be a good mother, Mary,” she says.
Mary sighs and starts banging her head against the back of her couch. They’ve been having the same argument for weeks - Jinx is not all that enthused about the idea of sending her first grandchild to go live with another family. In a way, Mary understands. In a way, she can even empathize with the anger. But at the end the day it is still her decision and she’s already made it.
Then again, her mother has never been one to let go easily.
“You’re a liar, Mom.”
“You take my mistakes and you learn from them,” she shrugs. “It’s why girls have mothers. To learn. You’ll be great.”
In a rare act of kindness Mary says, “You weren’t so bad,” and actually sounds as though she means it.
Jinx reaches forward and palms Mary’s face; her smile is tired and worn, her hands are cold. “Now who’s the liar?” she asks and her mother’s voice is soft, her eyebrows creasing between her brows. She looks older than Mary can ever remember her looking before.
Smiling, Mary leans in to her touch for just a moment before pulling away completely on reflex. “It’s not for me, Mom, and I really, really don’t feel as though this is the right time to test out the let’s just wait and see option.”
Mary watches as her mother’s shoulders fall, sagging with defeat. Her sigh is slow, painful, and Mary knows she’s finally letting go of the dream, of the hope, of the mere idea of a second chance.
“Okay,” Jinx breathes. “Okay, then.”
[4]
The jelly is cold against her belly and Mary winces at the feel of it against her skin. The nurse rubs it in, the latex of her gloves sticking just slightly as she does. Mary squirms in response, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides.
“We should be able to identify the sex today,” the woman says. “Do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Is that the sort of thing people do these days? Do normal people in, you know, normal situations like to know that sort of thing? Kind of takes the surprise out of it, right?” Mary asks, but the nurse just smiles and says nothing in response.
On the monitor there is the giant blob they keep telling her is her baby. Mary can barely make out the lines of the head, of the fingers and toes. Her heart does a funny thing in her chest, constricting forcefully, and she breathes and closes her eyes, lets the gentle hum of the heartbeat dig under her skin and linger. Her own fingers are still curled into fists by her side, the tips of them almost numb.
“I have it right here if you want to know,” the nurse says gently. The jelly is still cool against her stomach. Mary keeps her eyes closed.
“No. I don’t think I do,” she tells her softly.
“Okay,” the nurse replies cheerily.
Back at the office, Mary places the sonogram in her top drawer. Marshall saunters by and places a cup of tea on her desk. She takes it greedily.
“Everything copacetic?”
Mary nods. “So far, so good. Except for, you know, the fact that I can’t see my toes, have to pee every five minutes, and feel as though I’m as big as a house.”
Rolling his eyes, he leans his weight against the corner of her desk. Mary glances up at him warily. “You look fine.”
“Says the person with the pregnancy fetish. Normal people look at me and say, that poor woman. And, you know, I tend to agree with them.”
Marshall launches into some story about the correlation between pregnancy weight and healthy babies and Mary pretends to listen, but mostly tunes him out. She nods her head and makes affirming noises, and he knows she isn’t listening, but keeps talking anyway. They do this a lot. When he’s done, when he’s back at his desk, she opens her desk drawer and fingers the sonogram again. The edges are starting to curl from being in her back pocket all afternoon.
“They were able to tell the sex today,” she tells him. Outside the sun is starting to set. Stan has already headed home and like most every other day she and Marshall are the only ones left in the office.
“Oh, yeah?” Marshall looks up from his paperwork questioningly.
“Yeah,” she shrugs, shuts her drawer again and flicks on her computer monitor. Out of sight, out of mind. “I didn’t want to know. Why ruin the surprise, right?”
They share a look, a private moment. Marshall’s grin is unmistakable, that corner of his mouth twisting upwards on reflex. She can’t help but smile back.
“That’s what I say,” he tells her. “It’s just not the same, I think.”
Mary never says I can’t do this because she’s not one to admit defeat aloud, let alone to somebody’s face.
What she does say, what she does admit is, “I don’t think I’m going to make it nine months. No booze? Diet restrictions? Desk duty? I am not cut out for desk duty.”
Of course she says it to Marshall and of course he just laughs. “You’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Marshall just shrugs. “Because you’re Mary,” he says so simply, so certainly and she feels a surge of something fierce in her chest. She doesn’t let it show, only stares ahead at the empty road in front of them. Silence fills the air around them for a while, until they come to rest at a red light and he turns towards her. “I’m here for you. You know that, right? That’s never going to change, Mary.”
“I know,” she breathes quietly. The light changes to green, and his eyes turn back towards the road.
She thinks about reaching for him, about drawing in some of his strength and making it her own. Instead, her hands tangle in her lap as the road stretches endlessly in front of them as she continues to say nothing.
[5]
Most nights, Mary has this one, reoccurring dream.
It's her and it's Marshall. They're sitting in his backyard and Mary watches with her shoulder against his as the sky explodes into a million different reds and oranges as the sun sets before them. He carries her weight for the time being, his shoulder strong under hers, his fingers tight around the beer bottle in his hand. Her belly is just beginning to really show, the roundness of it protruding out from under her top, her soft skin exposed only to him and the air. She catches him glancing at her every once in a while, his gaze gently accusing like he knows, and she muses he probably does. Marshall always just knows.
Still, she tells him: "I'm pregnant, Marshall," in a quiet tone, her fingers stiff as she brings her own cup of water to her dry lips. She doesn't look at him.
For a moment he stills completely and says nothing. For a moment she doesn't breathe.
Finally, he says, "Yeah. I kind of already figured that out."
Mary rolls her eyes and laughs without mirth. "Of course you did."
They are silent for a long time. The sun sets completely and after a while Marshall starts pointing out constellations and telling her stories she only half-listens to. She's caught in-between anger and surprise at his lack of response, at the way he brushes off this monumental thing with a flick of his wrist and the squaring of his shoulders. Eventually the surprise completely fades and all she's left with is righteous anger simmering under her skin and threatening to boil over.
"You don't have anything else to say?" Mary asks. She feels the sweat pooling at the base of her spine from the heat, from the extra weight she’s carrying, from this thing that is growing inside of her that she has absolutely no control over.
"About what?"
"About what? About what? I'm pregnant, Marshall. With child. In six months I am going to pop out a poor, unsuspecting kid that has no idea what he's in for and all you have to say is yeah, I kind of already figured that? What the hell is that?"
She watches as his fingers flex and curl tightly around the nearly empty bottle in his hand. He bites the inside of his cheek. "Nothing," he shrugs. "I just..." he trails off and doesn't look at her.
"You just what?"
He shrugs and finishes his beer in a solitary swig and taps two fingers flat against his knee for a moment. It's a rare movement, but she recognizes it immediately as something he does when he's anxious, when he has something to say and is trying to figure out the best way to say it. Marshall opens his mouth once, twice, three times but nothing comes out.
Finally he breathes, "I just... I guess I always thought it would be something we’d do together."
Something inside of her snaps, and breaks wide-open in deep inside her chest. "Yeah," she says and her sigh is heavy and full as it falls between them. In a rare moment of absolute honesty she continues with a soft, barely audible, “Me, too.”
It’s the truth. Deep down under her layers and edges and those soft spots she tries so hard to hide, Mary sees a future and it’s with him by her side. She wants to tell him that, she needs to tell him that, but she doesn’t know how, so instead she says nothing.
They are both silent for a long time.
When she wakes after, it's always with a start.
Her shirt is usually soaked through with sweat, her heart racing, that feeling from the dream - that deep seeded ache deep within her chest - present and very real, almost tangible. She reaches for the glass of water on her nightstand, and holds her stomach right under where it starts to swell, her palm pressing flat against where she imagines her baby is.
In the early months she tricks herself into forgetting. She washes the dream away with cold water and a quick dose of reality.
Later on, weeks and months down the line when the dreams become more vivid, their impression more lasting and she starts to come to terms with reality a little bit more each day, she draws a line with her index finger from sternum to navel and promises her baby all the things she always wanted for, but never received. She promises to give this baby a life they deserved. To give this baby the type of life she never had - even if that meant it was a life void of her presence.
That, she thinks, has to mean something.
In the morning, after, she is usually a bigger bitch than usual to Marshall. He, of course, does what he always does and takes it in stride.
They both know that Mary does best when she sticks to what she knows.