Blown
Chapter Thirty-Nine
"We Go See the Wreckage. We Stand. We Gawk."
Las Vegas, Nevada
May 23, 2005
12:47PM
Gia closes her eyes--tries to will herself back to sleep. She does not want to face the rest of this day, does not want to face the fallout that is sure to come. In sleep, she knows, there is refuge, if only for a few hours more.
Her eyes pop open. It is useless. There is no sleep left in her and no matter how long she may seek to put it off, she will have to get up. She will have to deal with the doctors, with David, with Stefan. There is no other choice. She sits up, pushes her legs over the edge of the sofa. Her back spasms and she groans.
Stupid back.
Stupid over-stuffed sofa.
Stupid Gia too much of a coward to sleep in her own bed.
She reaches for her phone, flips it open. The hospital didn't call while she was asleep. She doesn't know if she's relieved or not. Rocco said he would call her if anything happened. No calls means nothing happened. Still, she can't quite help thinking that--at the very least--Stefan should be awake by now.
He should be awake and he should be asking for her.
If Rocco hasn't called her, if Dr. Kraft hasn't called her, that can only mean that he's not asking for her.
That he doesn't want to see her.
That David is right, that this marriage is nothing more than Stefan's last grasp at sustaining his sanity. Not love. Not anything real.
Gia stands to her feet. Her logic is so flawed. She's doing David's job for him. She's already run herself out of Stefan's life. She should know better. When Stefan actually tries to push her away, which she suspects he will before too long, then she'll worry. Until then...
Until then, she is still his wife.
She leaves the living room, careful not to step on any of the broken shards of glass and porcelain from her earlier temper tantrum. She makes her way to the bedroom, plucks her purse off the large Queen Anne chair by the door. She fishes a folded piece of pink stationary from the side pocket and then tosses her bag back down. She unfolds the paper, dials the phone number carefully printed at the top. It rings almost six times before Cecilia answers. Without prompting, she says, "It's Gia."
If the young woman is surprised to hear from her sister, her voice does not register it. "What's up?"
Gia pads across the room to the bathroom. The tile is freezing cold beneath her bare feet. "Word on the street is Pace bought the farm yesterday.”
"Ambiguous news travels fast, I see," Cecilia snickers. "Detectives from San Francisco just left my Aunt Natalie's house a couple of hours ago. They said he committed suicide."
She pushes open the monstrous glass door that houses the shower and reaches for the crystal knob that operates the faucet. She turns it and the four showerheads spring to life, the water running hot almost instantly. The separate sprays converge in the middle and the steam rises. "I know he's your family, but you'll have to excuse me if I don't offer my condolences."
"It's weird, you know? He's dead..." Cecilia responds, her voice so soft over the line Gia can barely hear her over the thundering of the shower. "I just...I can't believe it. I'm sort of in shock about the whole thing. I don't know how to feel. Sad for my grandparents? Happy I don't have to see his face ever again? It's all just so complicated for me. My mom's freaking, though."
"Big time?"
"Hysterical. And, Daddy's not here. It's just me."
Gia closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, well, that's sort of my fault."
"What do you mean?"
"Daddy is here in Vegas. He came to deliver the news about Pace in person." She is not sure if she should tell her sister the rest of the story. She would love to have someone to confide in, someone she can tell about Stefan witnessing Pace's suicide, about his subsequent breakdown--but, Cecilia is young and she thinks that information would be nothing but a burden to her, so she says nothing further.
Cecilia exhales loudly. "Are you kidding me?" she asks. "Daddy should be HERE. He should be taking care of his wife. Not me..." She stops, her voice faltering. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're right. Daddy should be in California taking care of you and Sharon. That's where he belongs. He just...sometimes...I don't know. Why don't I go find him and send him back home? I'll tell him you need him."
She snorts. "No, why don't you keep him for awhile. We're not really getting along that well. Not since he packed up his stuff and left. He's living in a hotel."
Gia doesn't know what to say. She wants to reassure the girl that Charles will come home, that he and Sharon will reconcile. But, given her father’s track record when it comes to walking out, she’s almost positive her father would make a liar out of her. "Honestly, Cecilia, I can sympathize with the whole abandoned thing you've got going."
"I know..."
"If you need anything, call me."
"I will..."
"This is probably for the best."
"You mean Pace being dead or Daddy leaving?"
Gia goes to the sink, picks up a comb. She looks to the vanity mirror, but the glass has grown cloudy and all she can see is the outline of her dark hair piled up on her head. Her features have become indistinct, have blurred and become lost. She pauses there by the mirror--stricken, for a moment, with how easy it is to disappear. She turns her head away, says, "The Pace part."
"What about the Daddy part?" Cecilia presses and, for the first time, she sounds uncertain--like a girl who is afraid her family is unraveling.
If Gia had any sage wisdom, she knows this would be the time to insert it into the conversation. But, she possesses none and her meager experiences have taught her little more than how to survive. How to cope. She tilts her head back. "There's nothing you can do about the Daddy part," she replies finally. "He's going to do what he's going to do. From now on, worry about the Cecilia part. Leave the rest behind."
12:59PM
The water is hot. It rains down on her skin, intense--almost scalding--but she doesn't care. The spray plasters her hair down against her head, makes her scalp tingle and reddens the flesh of her neck. She leans her forehead against the white tile, braces her hands on either side of her, and closes her eyes.
She tells herself that she is stronger than she thinks. She tells herself that she and Stefan can get through this. She tells herself that Stefan will let her help him.
She tells herself that Stefan meant it when he said he loved her.
She tells herself that she is not in over her head.
1:50PM
Gia would really rather talk to a nurse, but the man who answers the phone transfers her call to Dr. Kraft anyway. The woman answers with a rather crisp, "Leslie Kraft."
Gia rolls her eyes. She hates it when people substitute their name for a genuine greeting. As if their time is too important to waste the extra words. Stefan does it a lot. It's really very annoying. She clears her throat. "Dr. Kraft, this is Gia Campbell-Odin, Han Odin's wife. I was just calling to check on him and to see when he'll be allowed visitors."
"Oh, Mrs. Odin, how are you?" Dr. Kraft inquires.
"I'm okay, considering. I'm just very worried and--"
"Were you able to get any rest?"
"Yes, I was, but--"
"That's good," the older woman replies, her tone conversational, as if, suddenly she has plenty of time to waste, as if they were old friends sitting down to have coffee. "The number one thing I tell all my families is that they have to allow themselves a chance to rest, to recuperate. You're no good to your loved-one if you run yourself into the ground. The strength of a patient's support system often has a huge effect on the long-time prognosis--"
"Dr. Kraft," Gia interjects, cutting her off, "when can I see my husband?"
If the doctor is put out by Gia's tone, she does not let on. She switches gears, says, "Mrs. Odin, I'm really not able to answer that question at this time. Once he's awake and I've had a chance to speak with him, I'll be better prepared to gauge when he'll be allowed visitors."
Gia glances over at the clock on the wall. She shakes her head. "Why isn't he awake? I mean, it's been several hours and that nurse said he was only administering a small dose of that drug. Is this normal? That he's been asleep this long?"
"Given the medication and the level of stress your husband has been under, it would not be abnormal, no. That being said, I feel I must inform you that, this morning, your husband did regain consciousness for a brief period. There was a bit of an incident."
Her heart stills. "An incident? What does that mean?"
"He awoke disoriented. He was combative. Violent. He seemed completely disconnected from his environment and it is my belief that he thought he was somewhere else. For his own safety and that of the staff, he was physically restrained and administered a heavy sedative--"
"Excuse me?" Gia rails into the phone, jumping to her feet. "Why was I not notified immediately when this happened? Why am I finding out about this hours after the fact?"
There is a pause before Dr. Kraft replies, "Mrs. Odin, you have to understand, if I had to notify a family member of every single incident that occurs on the ward, it would monopolize my entire day. I wouldn't have time to treat patients. If anything serious had occurred, if your husband had hurt himself or if his condition had deteriorated in any significant way, you would have been contacted immediately."
"Oh, so you don't think having to restrain and sedate my husband qualifies as a serious development? You don't think being disoriented, combative, and completely OBLIVIOUS to reality is a significant deterioration of functioning? Is this what you're telling me?"
"What I'm telling you is that it was a situation that took place in a safe and controlled environment. It was efficiently handled by staff and he did not injure himself or anyone else."
"It was not handled efficiently, Dr. Kraft, because I was not notified. From now on, I want to be notified. Put me on your speed dial. If he so much as sneezes and one of your nurses hands him a tissue, I want a phone call. Do not think, for one minute, that you are allowed to treat my husband, as you see fit, without his or my informed consent. "
"Please, Mrs. Odin," the doctor responds, her tone one of irritation, "understand that I was well within my rights as the treating physician. In an emergency, I don't need your husband's consent to treat. I am not under any obligation to seek yours either. It is my ward and Mr. Odin is my patient. I actually feel that, right now, you're trying to escalate a minor disagreement into something much more. I realize that you're upset, but your stance on this situation is bordering on irrational."
For a moment, Gia says nothing. She seethes quietly, tapping the toe of her boot against the edge of the bedside table. Finally, she licks her lips, answers, "I have a few things to take care of this afternoon. Errands. When I'm finished, I'm coming to the hospital to see my husband. If I have to wait, I'll wait--but I intend to see him today. I won't be turned away. If that's irrational, then so be it. I'll be irrational. What I won't be--is chastised for bringing up valid, legitimate concerns about your approach to my husband’s care.”
"No one is chastising you, Mrs. Odin," the woman assures her. "And, of course, if you have concerns, you should come to me immediately to discuss them. I have no desire to be at odds with you. In fact, that is the last thing I want. For your husband's sake, we need to be able, not just to communicate, but to trust each other, too--"
Gia hangs up on her.
2:24PM
"I can get you a better room," she says.
Marcus replies, "It doesn't matter. I'm not paying either way. I told them to charge the room--and all the stuff missing from the mini-bar--to Mrs. Han Odin." He pushes the door closed and walks across the small room to stand in front of her. "You look like crap," he states, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. "I'm assuming that's because you've been up all night crying over Cassadine and all his little bumps and bruises. I bet he just lapped that up. He probably loves to have you all twisted into knots over him--"
Gia drops down onto the bed. "Marcus, please don't start. I came down here because I need to talk to you about something important--"
"I already know," he says, cutting her off. He shakes his head. "You're here to plead his case. Well, you run on back to him and tell him to do his own dirty work. He wants me to keep my mouth shut, he better man-up and face me. Once he assures me he's going to stay away from you, then we'll see."
She sighs. "Stefan is still in the hospital, so whatever Will Smith, 'Bad Boys' moment you had in mind for today--it's not going to happen." She hesitates a second before she concludes, "He's not well, Marcus."
His eyebrows furrow. "He was hurt worse in the car accident than you told your father?"
"No--it's what you alluded to last night," she answers. She drops her eyes, looks down into her lap. She doesn't think she has the stamina for this. She slept, but she is not rested. She is still tired, still physically and mentally drained. She exhales. "Stefan's had, what amounts to, a nervous breakdown. The psychiatrist said that's a layman's term, that it's not an actual medical THING you can be diagnosed with, but I think it gives you a pretty good idea of what happened last night."
She waits for something--a snide remark, laughter--something that would display the utter antipathy she knows her brother harbors for Stefan Cassadine. She would expect that the news of his downfall would be cause for celebration, but, to her surprise, Marcus hangs his head. "How bad is it?" he asks.
"It...it seems pretty bad to me," she responds.
"And you're sure it's real?"
"Real?"
He clarifies. "Is there any possibility he could be faking it?"
She thinks of Stefan, so still in his hospital bed, begging her to refute the torturous words of a man that only he could hear. Say you won't go, he'd said to her. She shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."
He pulls her to her feet. "Listen to me," he says, grabbing her shoulders. "I can grant you that maybe Stefan's been telling the truth. Helena is a real witch and I wouldn't put it past her to torture her own son. So, if he broke under the strain, if he couldn't cope and he cracked up, I completely understand. He's just a man, right? It's an unfortunate situation and I sympathize, believe me, I do. But, I don't want you getting sucked into his craziness. You have to promise me you will not--"
"That I won't what? Take care of my husband?"
"For the love of God, Gia. You've only been married for a couple of days. You are not obligated to Stefan Cassadine--"
Furious, she storms, "What do you want me to do? Abandon him?"
"No," he replies immediately, shaking his head, "I want you to do what any responsible adult would do. I want you to call his family, Gia. Call Alexis Davis and tell her to come see about her brother. If decisions need to be made, let her be the one to make them."
"And, when Helena follows Alexis here--then what? When Helena finds out that I knew Stefan was alive, that I MARRIED him, what am I going to do? She'll kill me in a heartbeat, Marcus, and if you get in her way, she'll kill you, too. Do you want to put Laurel and your baby in danger? You have to think about what you're saying."
"What's to stop Helena from doing that now, anyway?"
"She thinks Stefan is dead--just like everyone else does. But, the minute you expose the truth, that's it. You sign my death warrant. Hell, you sign your own. That woman is the one that's crazy. She would like nothing more than to destroy us all. "
"Cassadine really has you convinced, doesn't he? He HAS to lie about being alive, right?" Marcus snarks, "He's just so noble and self-sacrificing."
"It's not about being noble. The lie is necessary. It keeps Helena satisfied. It keeps Nikolas safe. It keeps Luke Spencer from constantly provoking the Cassadines. It keeps World War III from popping off."
"But, it keeps you right in the line of fire."
"As long as everyone thinks Stefan is dead, there is no problem. Helena doesn't care about me. I'm only a useless pawn. I intend for it to stay that way."
"Don't you, at the very least, think that Nikolas--whom you claim is the absolute love of your life--deserves to know the truth about his uncle?"
Tears flood her eyes at the mention of Nikolas, at the thought of what once was. She never thought she would love anyone other than Nikolas. After Helena forced her out of Port Charles, she thought she would die pining away for him. "I don't care what Nikolas deserves," she snaps, "Nikolas and Alexis may be his family, but I don't trust them. Not where Stefan's welfare is concerned. They've already failed him once by not realizing there was an imposter running around town with his face. They won't get that chance again."
"Gia--"
"Stefan is my husband and I will see that he gets what he needs."
"And to hell with everything and everyone else?"
"I love him, " she professes, her voice broken and full of plea. "I'll do what I have to do to help him. Can't you understand?"
She thinks it's her tears that do him in, that make him relent. He never could stand the sight of her crying. He pulls her close, embraces her. "Damn it," he exclaims, squeezing her against his muscled chest, "You're so freakin' hard-headed."
"That's a family trait," she hiccups against his T-shirt.
3:42PM
Marcus lets out a low whistle. "It's definitely totaled," he says.
"You're not kidding," Charles chimes in, coming to a stop beside the smashed front end of Gia's car.
They stand in the back lot of Selby & Son's Collision Center, the sun big overhead, the air scorching. Gia covers her mouth with her hand, a sense of unease settling over her. The Cadillac is backed up against a chain-link fence. The front end is distorted, is pushed in and grotesque. The hood is bent, the metal scarred and stripped around its edges. She can see where her car gave way, where it relented and reshaped itself around the light pole.
She gets it, now--David's reaction to the superficial level of Stefan's physical injuries. Anyone looking at this wreckage would assume the driver was dead.
Looking at this wreckage, Gia thinks Stefan should be dead.
She doesn't know who or what to thank that he is not.
"What are you going to do, Bunny?" her father asks, moving back, leaning over to look through the open window. He manipulates the deployed airbag, pushes it back against the steering wheel.
She drops her hands to her side, takes a step away. "Wait for the insurance company to cut me a check and then buy another one..."
Marcus rounds the car, kicks at the back tire. "What's the pay out going to be on this thing? You're going to take a huge loss..."
Charles says, "I'm sure it depreciated ten grand the moment you drove it off the lot. It's a Cadillac? I bet you overpaid in the first place. "
"Oh, she got ripped off," the younger man announces, propping his hand up on the roof of the car. "Let me tell you what she did...She had this hot little BMW---It must have cost $130,000.00. A gift from the last Einstein she was going to marry. She dropped him and then TRADED the car in on this one. I told her to sell it if she didn't want it and then go to the dealership with cash. Make a real deal. There wasn't going to be anything on that Cadillac lot that could have possibly been comparable to that 2002 Z8 she had. But, you know, Gia doesn't listen."
Her father's head snaps around and he looks at her. "How much was this thing--Bluebook?"
Marcus doesn't let Gia answer. He pipes up with, "Not even eighty."
Charles laughs, runs his hand back through his thick, dark hair. "Hell," he purrs, "if you're going to get hosed like that, it should at least be for something worthy. She should have picked up a 'Vette and not looked back..."
Gia glares at them, none too happy at being discussed as if she weren't even there. She approaches the car, deliberately shoves her brother as hard as she can out of the way and opens the door.
"Hey!" Marcus yelps, clanging against the fence.
She sits down on the leather seat, one leg hanging out the car, the heel of her shoe dragging on the gravel. She touches the tough material of the airbag, sees blood there.
Stefan's blood.
She throws open her purse, starts emptying the contents of the center console. She shoves her sunglasses, a nail file, a tube of lipstick, two neon lighters, and a lone Twinkie into the leather satchel. Then, she contorts herself, manages to unwedge her CD case from under the passenger side seat.
She turns to the stereo, taps the eject button. She hears a whirring noise, knows that, even without power it should be able to expel a CD. It clicks repeatedly, but it is unable to produce Purple Rain. It's stuck. "This is just perfect," she mutters under her breath, leaning back against the seat.
She looks out the cracked windshield. Just beyond where she sits, her father and brother are still talking cars. It brings back memories--random flashes of Marcus, younger than she can actively recall him being, looking up at her father with such admiration.
With such pride.
How Marcus had loved her father. She was little, but even she knew her brother's devotion. And when Charles left, he was heartbroken. He became moody and defiant, slipping from her mother's grip into the waiting arms of the Brooklyn streets. He was so close to being the very thing he hates now--a criminal. If it hadn't been for his mentor, Deke Woods, she can't say what would have happened.
She climbs out of the car, her eyes on her brother as she rejoins the group.
"...other than that fly Corvette you used to have," Marcus is saying.
Charles' eyes light up. "Kiddo," he replies, "that was a 1978 Limited Edition Silver Anniversary Special. I've never had a car I loved so much. I think the only one who loved it more was you. And when I sold it..." All of a sudden he pauses, looks down at the ground. He clear his throat before he continues, "When I sold it, I thought 'Marcus would kill me if he knew'--"
The expression on Marcus' face can only be described as conflicted. As if he were straddling the line between a buried longing and a growing resentment. He tilts his head, says, "I bet you don't remember, but you promised me that car, Charlie." He rubs his jaw. "When I was eight, we drove out of the city, up to Jersey and I got...I got ice cream on the passenger seat and you said you didn't care. You said it was my problem, because when the time came, it was going to be my car--and I was getting it As-Is."
"I meant it--"
"--when you said it. I know, Charlie. I know."
"No, Kiddo, really," Charles says, reaching out, touching Marcus' shoulder. "I only sold it three years ago. I kept it in storage for years. Friends offered me outrageous sums of money to get their hands on it, but a part of me just couldn't let it go...and I think that's the same part of me that couldn't let you and your sister go. That couldn't let New York go. So, I saved it, because mostly, I just wanted *you* to have it...you will never know how much."
The younger man flinches away. "First of all," he snaps, "don't call me that. Kiddo. I am not your Kiddo anymore. I am not that eight year old who was impressed by your fancy suits and your Corvette and your Fleetwood Mac albums. Second, you had absolutely no problem letting my sister and me go. It seemed pretty effortless to me. Third, please stop dragging us all down memory lane. It's not getting us anywhere."
Charles' eyes grow glassy. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, his cell phone erupts in a seemingly endless refrain of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. The moment broken, he shakes his head and retrieves his phone from his pocket. "It's Cecilia. I have to take it," he says, before turning on his heel and walking off toward the exit.
Both Gia and her brother watch him walk away.
3:57PM
Charles' cheeks are red and his voice is low and strained. "I do not appreciate you tricking our daughter into using her phone--Sharon...no, Sharon, listen to me. You mourn that monster if you want to, but do not expect to keep me locked by your side so you can save face...No, you might as well tell them...Sharon, for heaven's sake, tell your parents the truth. We're getting a divorce."
Gia stands by the gate, her case of CDs hugged tight against her chest, and listens to her father's end of the conversation. He seems adamant about divorcing Sharon, but she is not sure this is a good thing. There was a time she would have jumped for joy to hear the news. Now that it's happening, it only reinforces what she's always felt--that Charles Campbell's affections are fleeting. After nineteen years of marriage, he can walk out on Sharon as easily as he did on Florence after only seven. So quickly, he can disentangle himself and leave--fly off unencumbered to San Francisco, to Las Vegas.
It makes her think of Stefan suddenly, of what he said to her by the side of the road on the way back from Carson City. He had implied that, for her, everything is disposable--even people. She flinches now, just as she did then. Is she so much like her father? So caught up in herself and what she feels that she can't be bothered to stick around? Will it be so easy for her to walk out on Stefan when the time comes?
For all she knows, he already thinks she did. At the height of his psychosis, isn't that what the man was telling him? That she would leave?
Gia sighs. "I don't want to be like you, Daddy," she tells his back. "I want to be someone who stays."
At the sound of her voice, Charles looks over at her, his face registering surprise, as if he hadn't realized she was standing there. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. "What were you saying, Bunny?"
"I just wanted to tell you that the insurance adjuster is here. He's talking to Marcus and the mechanic. It won't be too much longer. Then, we can go."
He nods. "I'm just going to finish this call. Don't let the adjuster leave. I want to talk to him..."
"Of course, Daddy," she replies.
5:29PM
Stefan's wardrobe consists of five thousand dollar suits and three hundred dollar French-cuff shirts. His pajamas are all dark colored silks. His shoes are all Italian leather boots and loafers.
He is ready for a hostile takeover, a $5000.00 a plate fundraiser, or a turn as an undertaker. He is not ready for anything else. He does not have the attire for 72 hours in a locked psychiatric ward. He has a collection of clothes he considers casual, but after Carson City and Mexico, the entire supply is exhausted.
A closet full of clothes and, literally, nothing to wear...
Gia pulls a hunter green polo shirt off the rack and hands it to Viv, the sales associate who has been faithfully following her around the men's department at Neiman Marcus for the past thirty minutes. She passes her a navy blue one and a charcoal gray one, as well. "I think I should grab at least one of those light weight sweaters--the merino wool with the V-neck.”
"Oh, sure, Gia. I'll go get one," Viv offers enthusiastically. "What color?"
She doesn't even think about it. "Black."
The woman turns and heads back the way they came, an armload of dark-colored polos, henleys, and slacks cradled to her chest. If there is an extra pep in the petite woman's step, it is only because she can already smell the heady aroma of her next commission check.
Vivian Fong--a struggling first year law student at UNLV--is about to make a lot of money off Gia.
A lot of money...
But, this was never Gia's intention. After she dropped off her brother and father at the hotel, she meant only to stop at the mall long enough to purchase Stefan some new pajamas--some a little less conspicuous, a little less reminiscent of a Saturday night at the Playboy mansion. Half an hour later, she's picked up enough clothing to last six people, six months at the mental health facility of their choice.
Because nothing says intense psychological therapy like an $800.00 pair of Burberry cargo pants.
Gia's phone begins to ring and she answers it without looking at the display.
"Where have you been?" David demands, "I've been calling you all afternoon."
Gia sighs. "David," she says, "you have not been calling me all afternoon. I've had my phone on me all day and this is the first call from you."
"I've been calling the suite since three," he clarifies.
"Yes, and since I left the suite at two, that explains why you couldn't reach me. Where are all your spies? Certainly, someone should have told you I took Stefan's Mercedes from the garage hours ago. Plus, you *have* my cell number. You should have called that first."
He coughs. "Where are you, now?"
"None of your business," she snaps, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "What do you want, David?"
"I called Tim last night--Tim Fitzhugh, Stefan's psychiatrist from California--and explained what happened. He has agreed to fly out. I'm going to see if I can get Kraft to let him consult on the case. It might make things easier if we have our guy helping to make the decisions."
Gia blinks. "Our guy is just going to drop everything and fly to Vegas?"
"He already has. His plane touched down two hours ago. We're on our way to the hospital. I had hoped you would already be there. You need to meet Tim, get to know him. I want us all to be on the same page."
"And what page might that be?"
Gia can hear the smirk in David's voice when he replies, "Oh, I don't know...maybe the one where you stop antagonizing me every chance you get? Or, maybe even the one where you realize you are not the only person who cares about Stefan? We're on the same side, Gia. When are you going to figure that out?"
She leans against a nearby display table, fingers the purposely frayed hem of a pair of designer jeans. "I have figured that out." Gia moves down around to the other side of the table. She unfolds a pair of dark-wash jeans and holds them out in front of her. "I just...I don't like the way you do things. You're too smug--too dismissive. It makes me feel like I can't trust you."
"You can trust me, Gia. Stefan does."
"Stefan trusts you?"
"Yes."
"Implicitly?"
He hesitates. "No...not implicitly. Stefan's not really capable of that."
Gia looks up, sees Vivian, the black sweater in her left hand. She nods her appreciation to the other woman, then adds two pairs of jeans to the pile of clothes in her arms. To David, she says, "Yeah, well, when your answer to that question is yes, then we'll talk, okay?"
"We Go See the Wreckage. We Stand. We Gawk."
Las Vegas, Nevada
May 23, 2005
12:47PM
Gia closes her eyes--tries to will herself back to sleep. She does not want to face the rest of this day, does not want to face the fallout that is sure to come. In sleep, she knows, there is refuge, if only for a few hours more.
Her eyes pop open. It is useless. There is no sleep left in her and no matter how long she may seek to put it off, she will have to get up. She will have to deal with the doctors, with David, with Stefan. There is no other choice. She sits up, pushes her legs over the edge of the sofa. Her back spasms and she groans.
Stupid back.
Stupid over-stuffed sofa.
Stupid Gia too much of a coward to sleep in her own bed.
She reaches for her phone, flips it open. The hospital didn't call while she was asleep. She doesn't know if she's relieved or not. Rocco said he would call her if anything happened. No calls means nothing happened. Still, she can't quite help thinking that--at the very least--Stefan should be awake by now.
He should be awake and he should be asking for her.
If Rocco hasn't called her, if Dr. Kraft hasn't called her, that can only mean that he's not asking for her.
That he doesn't want to see her.
That David is right, that this marriage is nothing more than Stefan's last grasp at sustaining his sanity. Not love. Not anything real.
Gia stands to her feet. Her logic is so flawed. She's doing David's job for him. She's already run herself out of Stefan's life. She should know better. When Stefan actually tries to push her away, which she suspects he will before too long, then she'll worry. Until then...
Until then, she is still his wife.
She leaves the living room, careful not to step on any of the broken shards of glass and porcelain from her earlier temper tantrum. She makes her way to the bedroom, plucks her purse off the large Queen Anne chair by the door. She fishes a folded piece of pink stationary from the side pocket and then tosses her bag back down. She unfolds the paper, dials the phone number carefully printed at the top. It rings almost six times before Cecilia answers. Without prompting, she says, "It's Gia."
If the young woman is surprised to hear from her sister, her voice does not register it. "What's up?"
Gia pads across the room to the bathroom. The tile is freezing cold beneath her bare feet. "Word on the street is Pace bought the farm yesterday.”
"Ambiguous news travels fast, I see," Cecilia snickers. "Detectives from San Francisco just left my Aunt Natalie's house a couple of hours ago. They said he committed suicide."
She pushes open the monstrous glass door that houses the shower and reaches for the crystal knob that operates the faucet. She turns it and the four showerheads spring to life, the water running hot almost instantly. The separate sprays converge in the middle and the steam rises. "I know he's your family, but you'll have to excuse me if I don't offer my condolences."
"It's weird, you know? He's dead..." Cecilia responds, her voice so soft over the line Gia can barely hear her over the thundering of the shower. "I just...I can't believe it. I'm sort of in shock about the whole thing. I don't know how to feel. Sad for my grandparents? Happy I don't have to see his face ever again? It's all just so complicated for me. My mom's freaking, though."
"Big time?"
"Hysterical. And, Daddy's not here. It's just me."
Gia closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose. "Yeah, well, that's sort of my fault."
"What do you mean?"
"Daddy is here in Vegas. He came to deliver the news about Pace in person." She is not sure if she should tell her sister the rest of the story. She would love to have someone to confide in, someone she can tell about Stefan witnessing Pace's suicide, about his subsequent breakdown--but, Cecilia is young and she thinks that information would be nothing but a burden to her, so she says nothing further.
Cecilia exhales loudly. "Are you kidding me?" she asks. "Daddy should be HERE. He should be taking care of his wife. Not me..." She stops, her voice faltering. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're right. Daddy should be in California taking care of you and Sharon. That's where he belongs. He just...sometimes...I don't know. Why don't I go find him and send him back home? I'll tell him you need him."
She snorts. "No, why don't you keep him for awhile. We're not really getting along that well. Not since he packed up his stuff and left. He's living in a hotel."
Gia doesn't know what to say. She wants to reassure the girl that Charles will come home, that he and Sharon will reconcile. But, given her father’s track record when it comes to walking out, she’s almost positive her father would make a liar out of her. "Honestly, Cecilia, I can sympathize with the whole abandoned thing you've got going."
"I know..."
"If you need anything, call me."
"I will..."
"This is probably for the best."
"You mean Pace being dead or Daddy leaving?"
Gia goes to the sink, picks up a comb. She looks to the vanity mirror, but the glass has grown cloudy and all she can see is the outline of her dark hair piled up on her head. Her features have become indistinct, have blurred and become lost. She pauses there by the mirror--stricken, for a moment, with how easy it is to disappear. She turns her head away, says, "The Pace part."
"What about the Daddy part?" Cecilia presses and, for the first time, she sounds uncertain--like a girl who is afraid her family is unraveling.
If Gia had any sage wisdom, she knows this would be the time to insert it into the conversation. But, she possesses none and her meager experiences have taught her little more than how to survive. How to cope. She tilts her head back. "There's nothing you can do about the Daddy part," she replies finally. "He's going to do what he's going to do. From now on, worry about the Cecilia part. Leave the rest behind."
12:59PM
The water is hot. It rains down on her skin, intense--almost scalding--but she doesn't care. The spray plasters her hair down against her head, makes her scalp tingle and reddens the flesh of her neck. She leans her forehead against the white tile, braces her hands on either side of her, and closes her eyes.
She tells herself that she is stronger than she thinks. She tells herself that she and Stefan can get through this. She tells herself that Stefan will let her help him.
She tells herself that Stefan meant it when he said he loved her.
She tells herself that she is not in over her head.
1:50PM
Gia would really rather talk to a nurse, but the man who answers the phone transfers her call to Dr. Kraft anyway. The woman answers with a rather crisp, "Leslie Kraft."
Gia rolls her eyes. She hates it when people substitute their name for a genuine greeting. As if their time is too important to waste the extra words. Stefan does it a lot. It's really very annoying. She clears her throat. "Dr. Kraft, this is Gia Campbell-Odin, Han Odin's wife. I was just calling to check on him and to see when he'll be allowed visitors."
"Oh, Mrs. Odin, how are you?" Dr. Kraft inquires.
"I'm okay, considering. I'm just very worried and--"
"Were you able to get any rest?"
"Yes, I was, but--"
"That's good," the older woman replies, her tone conversational, as if, suddenly she has plenty of time to waste, as if they were old friends sitting down to have coffee. "The number one thing I tell all my families is that they have to allow themselves a chance to rest, to recuperate. You're no good to your loved-one if you run yourself into the ground. The strength of a patient's support system often has a huge effect on the long-time prognosis--"
"Dr. Kraft," Gia interjects, cutting her off, "when can I see my husband?"
If the doctor is put out by Gia's tone, she does not let on. She switches gears, says, "Mrs. Odin, I'm really not able to answer that question at this time. Once he's awake and I've had a chance to speak with him, I'll be better prepared to gauge when he'll be allowed visitors."
Gia glances over at the clock on the wall. She shakes her head. "Why isn't he awake? I mean, it's been several hours and that nurse said he was only administering a small dose of that drug. Is this normal? That he's been asleep this long?"
"Given the medication and the level of stress your husband has been under, it would not be abnormal, no. That being said, I feel I must inform you that, this morning, your husband did regain consciousness for a brief period. There was a bit of an incident."
Her heart stills. "An incident? What does that mean?"
"He awoke disoriented. He was combative. Violent. He seemed completely disconnected from his environment and it is my belief that he thought he was somewhere else. For his own safety and that of the staff, he was physically restrained and administered a heavy sedative--"
"Excuse me?" Gia rails into the phone, jumping to her feet. "Why was I not notified immediately when this happened? Why am I finding out about this hours after the fact?"
There is a pause before Dr. Kraft replies, "Mrs. Odin, you have to understand, if I had to notify a family member of every single incident that occurs on the ward, it would monopolize my entire day. I wouldn't have time to treat patients. If anything serious had occurred, if your husband had hurt himself or if his condition had deteriorated in any significant way, you would have been contacted immediately."
"Oh, so you don't think having to restrain and sedate my husband qualifies as a serious development? You don't think being disoriented, combative, and completely OBLIVIOUS to reality is a significant deterioration of functioning? Is this what you're telling me?"
"What I'm telling you is that it was a situation that took place in a safe and controlled environment. It was efficiently handled by staff and he did not injure himself or anyone else."
"It was not handled efficiently, Dr. Kraft, because I was not notified. From now on, I want to be notified. Put me on your speed dial. If he so much as sneezes and one of your nurses hands him a tissue, I want a phone call. Do not think, for one minute, that you are allowed to treat my husband, as you see fit, without his or my informed consent. "
"Please, Mrs. Odin," the doctor responds, her tone one of irritation, "understand that I was well within my rights as the treating physician. In an emergency, I don't need your husband's consent to treat. I am not under any obligation to seek yours either. It is my ward and Mr. Odin is my patient. I actually feel that, right now, you're trying to escalate a minor disagreement into something much more. I realize that you're upset, but your stance on this situation is bordering on irrational."
For a moment, Gia says nothing. She seethes quietly, tapping the toe of her boot against the edge of the bedside table. Finally, she licks her lips, answers, "I have a few things to take care of this afternoon. Errands. When I'm finished, I'm coming to the hospital to see my husband. If I have to wait, I'll wait--but I intend to see him today. I won't be turned away. If that's irrational, then so be it. I'll be irrational. What I won't be--is chastised for bringing up valid, legitimate concerns about your approach to my husband’s care.”
"No one is chastising you, Mrs. Odin," the woman assures her. "And, of course, if you have concerns, you should come to me immediately to discuss them. I have no desire to be at odds with you. In fact, that is the last thing I want. For your husband's sake, we need to be able, not just to communicate, but to trust each other, too--"
Gia hangs up on her.
2:24PM
"I can get you a better room," she says.
Marcus replies, "It doesn't matter. I'm not paying either way. I told them to charge the room--and all the stuff missing from the mini-bar--to Mrs. Han Odin." He pushes the door closed and walks across the small room to stand in front of her. "You look like crap," he states, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. "I'm assuming that's because you've been up all night crying over Cassadine and all his little bumps and bruises. I bet he just lapped that up. He probably loves to have you all twisted into knots over him--"
Gia drops down onto the bed. "Marcus, please don't start. I came down here because I need to talk to you about something important--"
"I already know," he says, cutting her off. He shakes his head. "You're here to plead his case. Well, you run on back to him and tell him to do his own dirty work. He wants me to keep my mouth shut, he better man-up and face me. Once he assures me he's going to stay away from you, then we'll see."
She sighs. "Stefan is still in the hospital, so whatever Will Smith, 'Bad Boys' moment you had in mind for today--it's not going to happen." She hesitates a second before she concludes, "He's not well, Marcus."
His eyebrows furrow. "He was hurt worse in the car accident than you told your father?"
"No--it's what you alluded to last night," she answers. She drops her eyes, looks down into her lap. She doesn't think she has the stamina for this. She slept, but she is not rested. She is still tired, still physically and mentally drained. She exhales. "Stefan's had, what amounts to, a nervous breakdown. The psychiatrist said that's a layman's term, that it's not an actual medical THING you can be diagnosed with, but I think it gives you a pretty good idea of what happened last night."
She waits for something--a snide remark, laughter--something that would display the utter antipathy she knows her brother harbors for Stefan Cassadine. She would expect that the news of his downfall would be cause for celebration, but, to her surprise, Marcus hangs his head. "How bad is it?" he asks.
"It...it seems pretty bad to me," she responds.
"And you're sure it's real?"
"Real?"
He clarifies. "Is there any possibility he could be faking it?"
She thinks of Stefan, so still in his hospital bed, begging her to refute the torturous words of a man that only he could hear. Say you won't go, he'd said to her. She shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."
He pulls her to her feet. "Listen to me," he says, grabbing her shoulders. "I can grant you that maybe Stefan's been telling the truth. Helena is a real witch and I wouldn't put it past her to torture her own son. So, if he broke under the strain, if he couldn't cope and he cracked up, I completely understand. He's just a man, right? It's an unfortunate situation and I sympathize, believe me, I do. But, I don't want you getting sucked into his craziness. You have to promise me you will not--"
"That I won't what? Take care of my husband?"
"For the love of God, Gia. You've only been married for a couple of days. You are not obligated to Stefan Cassadine--"
Furious, she storms, "What do you want me to do? Abandon him?"
"No," he replies immediately, shaking his head, "I want you to do what any responsible adult would do. I want you to call his family, Gia. Call Alexis Davis and tell her to come see about her brother. If decisions need to be made, let her be the one to make them."
"And, when Helena follows Alexis here--then what? When Helena finds out that I knew Stefan was alive, that I MARRIED him, what am I going to do? She'll kill me in a heartbeat, Marcus, and if you get in her way, she'll kill you, too. Do you want to put Laurel and your baby in danger? You have to think about what you're saying."
"What's to stop Helena from doing that now, anyway?"
"She thinks Stefan is dead--just like everyone else does. But, the minute you expose the truth, that's it. You sign my death warrant. Hell, you sign your own. That woman is the one that's crazy. She would like nothing more than to destroy us all. "
"Cassadine really has you convinced, doesn't he? He HAS to lie about being alive, right?" Marcus snarks, "He's just so noble and self-sacrificing."
"It's not about being noble. The lie is necessary. It keeps Helena satisfied. It keeps Nikolas safe. It keeps Luke Spencer from constantly provoking the Cassadines. It keeps World War III from popping off."
"But, it keeps you right in the line of fire."
"As long as everyone thinks Stefan is dead, there is no problem. Helena doesn't care about me. I'm only a useless pawn. I intend for it to stay that way."
"Don't you, at the very least, think that Nikolas--whom you claim is the absolute love of your life--deserves to know the truth about his uncle?"
Tears flood her eyes at the mention of Nikolas, at the thought of what once was. She never thought she would love anyone other than Nikolas. After Helena forced her out of Port Charles, she thought she would die pining away for him. "I don't care what Nikolas deserves," she snaps, "Nikolas and Alexis may be his family, but I don't trust them. Not where Stefan's welfare is concerned. They've already failed him once by not realizing there was an imposter running around town with his face. They won't get that chance again."
"Gia--"
"Stefan is my husband and I will see that he gets what he needs."
"And to hell with everything and everyone else?"
"I love him, " she professes, her voice broken and full of plea. "I'll do what I have to do to help him. Can't you understand?"
She thinks it's her tears that do him in, that make him relent. He never could stand the sight of her crying. He pulls her close, embraces her. "Damn it," he exclaims, squeezing her against his muscled chest, "You're so freakin' hard-headed."
"That's a family trait," she hiccups against his T-shirt.
3:42PM
Marcus lets out a low whistle. "It's definitely totaled," he says.
"You're not kidding," Charles chimes in, coming to a stop beside the smashed front end of Gia's car.
They stand in the back lot of Selby & Son's Collision Center, the sun big overhead, the air scorching. Gia covers her mouth with her hand, a sense of unease settling over her. The Cadillac is backed up against a chain-link fence. The front end is distorted, is pushed in and grotesque. The hood is bent, the metal scarred and stripped around its edges. She can see where her car gave way, where it relented and reshaped itself around the light pole.
She gets it, now--David's reaction to the superficial level of Stefan's physical injuries. Anyone looking at this wreckage would assume the driver was dead.
Looking at this wreckage, Gia thinks Stefan should be dead.
She doesn't know who or what to thank that he is not.
"What are you going to do, Bunny?" her father asks, moving back, leaning over to look through the open window. He manipulates the deployed airbag, pushes it back against the steering wheel.
She drops her hands to her side, takes a step away. "Wait for the insurance company to cut me a check and then buy another one..."
Marcus rounds the car, kicks at the back tire. "What's the pay out going to be on this thing? You're going to take a huge loss..."
Charles says, "I'm sure it depreciated ten grand the moment you drove it off the lot. It's a Cadillac? I bet you overpaid in the first place. "
"Oh, she got ripped off," the younger man announces, propping his hand up on the roof of the car. "Let me tell you what she did...She had this hot little BMW---It must have cost $130,000.00. A gift from the last Einstein she was going to marry. She dropped him and then TRADED the car in on this one. I told her to sell it if she didn't want it and then go to the dealership with cash. Make a real deal. There wasn't going to be anything on that Cadillac lot that could have possibly been comparable to that 2002 Z8 she had. But, you know, Gia doesn't listen."
Her father's head snaps around and he looks at her. "How much was this thing--Bluebook?"
Marcus doesn't let Gia answer. He pipes up with, "Not even eighty."
Charles laughs, runs his hand back through his thick, dark hair. "Hell," he purrs, "if you're going to get hosed like that, it should at least be for something worthy. She should have picked up a 'Vette and not looked back..."
Gia glares at them, none too happy at being discussed as if she weren't even there. She approaches the car, deliberately shoves her brother as hard as she can out of the way and opens the door.
"Hey!" Marcus yelps, clanging against the fence.
She sits down on the leather seat, one leg hanging out the car, the heel of her shoe dragging on the gravel. She touches the tough material of the airbag, sees blood there.
Stefan's blood.
She throws open her purse, starts emptying the contents of the center console. She shoves her sunglasses, a nail file, a tube of lipstick, two neon lighters, and a lone Twinkie into the leather satchel. Then, she contorts herself, manages to unwedge her CD case from under the passenger side seat.
She turns to the stereo, taps the eject button. She hears a whirring noise, knows that, even without power it should be able to expel a CD. It clicks repeatedly, but it is unable to produce Purple Rain. It's stuck. "This is just perfect," she mutters under her breath, leaning back against the seat.
She looks out the cracked windshield. Just beyond where she sits, her father and brother are still talking cars. It brings back memories--random flashes of Marcus, younger than she can actively recall him being, looking up at her father with such admiration.
With such pride.
How Marcus had loved her father. She was little, but even she knew her brother's devotion. And when Charles left, he was heartbroken. He became moody and defiant, slipping from her mother's grip into the waiting arms of the Brooklyn streets. He was so close to being the very thing he hates now--a criminal. If it hadn't been for his mentor, Deke Woods, she can't say what would have happened.
She climbs out of the car, her eyes on her brother as she rejoins the group.
"...other than that fly Corvette you used to have," Marcus is saying.
Charles' eyes light up. "Kiddo," he replies, "that was a 1978 Limited Edition Silver Anniversary Special. I've never had a car I loved so much. I think the only one who loved it more was you. And when I sold it..." All of a sudden he pauses, looks down at the ground. He clear his throat before he continues, "When I sold it, I thought 'Marcus would kill me if he knew'--"
The expression on Marcus' face can only be described as conflicted. As if he were straddling the line between a buried longing and a growing resentment. He tilts his head, says, "I bet you don't remember, but you promised me that car, Charlie." He rubs his jaw. "When I was eight, we drove out of the city, up to Jersey and I got...I got ice cream on the passenger seat and you said you didn't care. You said it was my problem, because when the time came, it was going to be my car--and I was getting it As-Is."
"I meant it--"
"--when you said it. I know, Charlie. I know."
"No, Kiddo, really," Charles says, reaching out, touching Marcus' shoulder. "I only sold it three years ago. I kept it in storage for years. Friends offered me outrageous sums of money to get their hands on it, but a part of me just couldn't let it go...and I think that's the same part of me that couldn't let you and your sister go. That couldn't let New York go. So, I saved it, because mostly, I just wanted *you* to have it...you will never know how much."
The younger man flinches away. "First of all," he snaps, "don't call me that. Kiddo. I am not your Kiddo anymore. I am not that eight year old who was impressed by your fancy suits and your Corvette and your Fleetwood Mac albums. Second, you had absolutely no problem letting my sister and me go. It seemed pretty effortless to me. Third, please stop dragging us all down memory lane. It's not getting us anywhere."
Charles' eyes grow glassy. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, his cell phone erupts in a seemingly endless refrain of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. The moment broken, he shakes his head and retrieves his phone from his pocket. "It's Cecilia. I have to take it," he says, before turning on his heel and walking off toward the exit.
Both Gia and her brother watch him walk away.
3:57PM
Charles' cheeks are red and his voice is low and strained. "I do not appreciate you tricking our daughter into using her phone--Sharon...no, Sharon, listen to me. You mourn that monster if you want to, but do not expect to keep me locked by your side so you can save face...No, you might as well tell them...Sharon, for heaven's sake, tell your parents the truth. We're getting a divorce."
Gia stands by the gate, her case of CDs hugged tight against her chest, and listens to her father's end of the conversation. He seems adamant about divorcing Sharon, but she is not sure this is a good thing. There was a time she would have jumped for joy to hear the news. Now that it's happening, it only reinforces what she's always felt--that Charles Campbell's affections are fleeting. After nineteen years of marriage, he can walk out on Sharon as easily as he did on Florence after only seven. So quickly, he can disentangle himself and leave--fly off unencumbered to San Francisco, to Las Vegas.
It makes her think of Stefan suddenly, of what he said to her by the side of the road on the way back from Carson City. He had implied that, for her, everything is disposable--even people. She flinches now, just as she did then. Is she so much like her father? So caught up in herself and what she feels that she can't be bothered to stick around? Will it be so easy for her to walk out on Stefan when the time comes?
For all she knows, he already thinks she did. At the height of his psychosis, isn't that what the man was telling him? That she would leave?
Gia sighs. "I don't want to be like you, Daddy," she tells his back. "I want to be someone who stays."
At the sound of her voice, Charles looks over at her, his face registering surprise, as if he hadn't realized she was standing there. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. "What were you saying, Bunny?"
"I just wanted to tell you that the insurance adjuster is here. He's talking to Marcus and the mechanic. It won't be too much longer. Then, we can go."
He nods. "I'm just going to finish this call. Don't let the adjuster leave. I want to talk to him..."
"Of course, Daddy," she replies.
5:29PM
Stefan's wardrobe consists of five thousand dollar suits and three hundred dollar French-cuff shirts. His pajamas are all dark colored silks. His shoes are all Italian leather boots and loafers.
He is ready for a hostile takeover, a $5000.00 a plate fundraiser, or a turn as an undertaker. He is not ready for anything else. He does not have the attire for 72 hours in a locked psychiatric ward. He has a collection of clothes he considers casual, but after Carson City and Mexico, the entire supply is exhausted.
A closet full of clothes and, literally, nothing to wear...
Gia pulls a hunter green polo shirt off the rack and hands it to Viv, the sales associate who has been faithfully following her around the men's department at Neiman Marcus for the past thirty minutes. She passes her a navy blue one and a charcoal gray one, as well. "I think I should grab at least one of those light weight sweaters--the merino wool with the V-neck.”
"Oh, sure, Gia. I'll go get one," Viv offers enthusiastically. "What color?"
She doesn't even think about it. "Black."
The woman turns and heads back the way they came, an armload of dark-colored polos, henleys, and slacks cradled to her chest. If there is an extra pep in the petite woman's step, it is only because she can already smell the heady aroma of her next commission check.
Vivian Fong--a struggling first year law student at UNLV--is about to make a lot of money off Gia.
A lot of money...
But, this was never Gia's intention. After she dropped off her brother and father at the hotel, she meant only to stop at the mall long enough to purchase Stefan some new pajamas--some a little less conspicuous, a little less reminiscent of a Saturday night at the Playboy mansion. Half an hour later, she's picked up enough clothing to last six people, six months at the mental health facility of their choice.
Because nothing says intense psychological therapy like an $800.00 pair of Burberry cargo pants.
Gia's phone begins to ring and she answers it without looking at the display.
"Where have you been?" David demands, "I've been calling you all afternoon."
Gia sighs. "David," she says, "you have not been calling me all afternoon. I've had my phone on me all day and this is the first call from you."
"I've been calling the suite since three," he clarifies.
"Yes, and since I left the suite at two, that explains why you couldn't reach me. Where are all your spies? Certainly, someone should have told you I took Stefan's Mercedes from the garage hours ago. Plus, you *have* my cell number. You should have called that first."
He coughs. "Where are you, now?"
"None of your business," she snaps, pushing her hair back behind her ear. "What do you want, David?"
"I called Tim last night--Tim Fitzhugh, Stefan's psychiatrist from California--and explained what happened. He has agreed to fly out. I'm going to see if I can get Kraft to let him consult on the case. It might make things easier if we have our guy helping to make the decisions."
Gia blinks. "Our guy is just going to drop everything and fly to Vegas?"
"He already has. His plane touched down two hours ago. We're on our way to the hospital. I had hoped you would already be there. You need to meet Tim, get to know him. I want us all to be on the same page."
"And what page might that be?"
Gia can hear the smirk in David's voice when he replies, "Oh, I don't know...maybe the one where you stop antagonizing me every chance you get? Or, maybe even the one where you realize you are not the only person who cares about Stefan? We're on the same side, Gia. When are you going to figure that out?"
She leans against a nearby display table, fingers the purposely frayed hem of a pair of designer jeans. "I have figured that out." Gia moves down around to the other side of the table. She unfolds a pair of dark-wash jeans and holds them out in front of her. "I just...I don't like the way you do things. You're too smug--too dismissive. It makes me feel like I can't trust you."
"You can trust me, Gia. Stefan does."
"Stefan trusts you?"
"Yes."
"Implicitly?"
He hesitates. "No...not implicitly. Stefan's not really capable of that."
Gia looks up, sees Vivian, the black sweater in her left hand. She nods her appreciation to the other woman, then adds two pairs of jeans to the pile of clothes in her arms. To David, she says, "Yeah, well, when your answer to that question is yes, then we'll talk, okay?"