She has two implausibly thick sandwiches; one is pastrami on rye, the other, turkey on whole wheat. Claire puts them both on the bed's attached tray, then starts taking things out of a plastic bag over her arm: condiments, two bottles of sweetened green tea, a tupperware container of sliced onions and tomatoes, and so on.
"You know, it's funny, but whenever you're in the hospital, it at least gives me the chance to go to this nice little deli that's not too far from here..." Claire says, and waits for Liz to pick a sandwich.
Liz will take the turkey; the texture of pastrami has always confused and frightened her.
"You should be there often enough for them to know your blood type by now, then." She's only half serious, but still three week-long hospital stays in less than a year approaches powerfully annoying.
"It's not that bad, but it helps me keep Henry from starving to death," Claire says, and puts onions and tomatoes on the pastrami sandwich. "Plus, I don't think you can live in New York and not turn into some kind of deli snob."
She opens one of the bottles of tea.
"...I'm sorry I wasn't there for you before all this happened," she says, like she's getting it over with. "I've been... doing a lousy job of juggling friends and family and work."
Liz eats her sandwich via tearing it into very very small bits; she's still getting used to real food. Hospital food is definitely not the same thing.
"Claire, I wish I could tell you I knew what you were talking about, but the fact is that everything for a really long time before last week is so fuzzy I have no idea. I remember we were going to kill frogs at some point, but don't worry, there's not any shortage of those."
"Well... my brother was in trouble for a while, but he made it out intact." Claire's still not sure Chris is telling the whole truth about that. "Leon's okay, or as okay as you can really expect... he's been really down on himself ever since he got back. And Sherry's officially my kid."
She takes another bite of the sandwich.
"Things are actually really good at the moment. I'm wondering how long that'll last."
"I'm sorry Leon was along. Hell, I'm sorry anyone was there." Including Liz, but that should be fairly obvious.
"I'm glad things are good...but I get the waiting on the other shoe to drop, yeah. You know, waiting for the next version of the psycho killer to show up, that sort of thing."
"Funny, I was kind of thinking of doing that. Sort of a last hurrah before we move." Liz pitches her voice falsetto, "Oh my god, you can't have your party when I have mine, that's so gauche."
She opens her bottle of tea and drinks about half of it in one go.
"Honestly, I was thinking of stealing your party entirely," Claire says, and sips her own tea. "Like I told Henry, I rented this huge beach house that turned out to not really be necessary."
She clinks her bottle against Liz's, because she feels like being dorky.
Liz approves. "I haven't been to the beach...since we got married, I think." She eats another fragment of sandwich. "Well, good enough, then. We do know all of the same people."
"A lot of them, anyway," Claire says, and pops the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. "Once you're up and around and moving under your own power, we can talk more about it."
She sips her tea. "Is there anything else I could bring you? DVDs, books, a newspaper...?"
"...you know, before I--left, you could call it, I guess--I was reading Stephen King. I don't think I'll be finishing that. So...books would be great."
"Books, hold the horror." Claire nods. "I'll see what I can come with--actually, hang on."
She reaches into her biker jacket's interior pocket and takes out a dog-eared copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. "Here. I've read it maybe three thousand times..."
Liz takes the book and turns it over in her hands. "You, uh. Do you realize I don't know anything about motorcycles?" A pause. "You know what, never mind. This is excellent. Gift horses and mouths and all."
She has two implausibly thick sandwiches; one is pastrami on rye, the other, turkey on whole wheat. Claire puts them both on the bed's attached tray, then starts taking things out of a plastic bag over her arm: condiments, two bottles of sweetened green tea, a tupperware container of sliced onions and tomatoes, and so on.
"You know, it's funny, but whenever you're in the hospital, it at least gives me the chance to go to this nice little deli that's not too far from here..." Claire says, and waits for Liz to pick a sandwich.
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"You should be there often enough for them to know your blood type by now, then." She's only half serious, but still three week-long hospital stays in less than a year approaches powerfully annoying.
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She opens one of the bottles of tea.
"...I'm sorry I wasn't there for you before all this happened," she says, like she's getting it over with. "I've been... doing a lousy job of juggling friends and family and work."
And homicidal rampages.
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"Claire, I wish I could tell you I knew what you were talking about, but the fact is that everything for a really long time before last week is so fuzzy I have no idea. I remember we were going to kill frogs at some point, but don't worry, there's not any shortage of those."
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"I'm sure it'll come back to you," Claire says, and bites into her sandwich. "How are you feeling?"
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She takes another bite of the sandwich.
"Things are actually really good at the moment. I'm wondering how long that'll last."
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"I'm glad things are good...but I get the waiting on the other shoe to drop, yeah. You know, waiting for the next version of the psycho killer to show up, that sort of thing."
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She takes a couple of extra magazines out of the bag--Premiere and Time--and puts them on the bed next to Liz.
"When you're feeling up to it, I'm kind of thinking of stealing your idea and having a 'Yay We're All Still Alive' party."
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She opens her bottle of tea and drinks about half of it in one go.
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She clinks her bottle against Liz's, because she feels like being dorky.
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She sips her tea. "Is there anything else I could bring you? DVDs, books, a newspaper...?"
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Liz is studiously ignoring the news.
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She reaches into her biker jacket's interior pocket and takes out a dog-eared copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. "Here. I've read it maybe three thousand times..."
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