ArchivedLogs:Months
| Months | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2014-01-08 Mel finally goes to the doctors, talks with Jim before and after. |
| Location
<NYC> In a Car | |
It starts with a text message: 'how much warning do you need to take me to a doctor's appointment. trying to reschedule one now.' Jim's answer, abrupt as ever: 'Just tell me when it is.' Melinda's reply is short and sweet. 'Appt: 3pm. Pick me up at 2pm at work?' Answer: 'Have a coffee to go ready for me.' Melinda is standing outside of Montagues at 2pm holding two cups of coffee. She is bundled up against the cold and is more recognizable if her coat seems familiar. She has a hat pulled down around her ears and a large, bulky scarf over her face. Her eyes blink over the yarn, the cold wind bringing tears to her eyes. Her coat is bright red and buttoned up as high as it will go, her scarf stuffed into the top. Her slacks are thick, black, and wool, but there are most assuredly more layers underneath. Her hands are large green mits and her feet stomp feeling back into her boot clad limbs. Steam pours out of the tops of her cups as she waits, utterly unable to drink at the moment. Still, she is patient. It might be alarming, but Jim can be absurdly punctual. To the point that it seems almost like he had been /staking out/ Melinda's place of work from further up the block like the reflexive PI creepster that he is, pulling up alongside the curb in a rapid swoop when his target appears. Leaning over across the passenger seat to open the door for her, his eyes are still directed forward, "Get in." Like it's a getaway. Melinda stands stock still until Jim pulls to a complete halt. She waivers for a moment, then moves closer as the door opens for her. She's a little off balance as she moves her well padded self into the seat, then turns and hands one cup of coffee to Jim. "Here." Her eyes start scanning the area for a cup holder for her own cup before transferring it to her left hand and pulling the door closed behind her. Getting her seat belt on is equally difficult, requiring cup juggling, but she manages. The next words she utters are 'Thanks.' Then she gives him the address. VROOM VROOM. Leaning back in his seat, Jim takes the cup, his other arm straight out ahead with the palm /poised/ at the apex of the steering wheel. And once Melinda is belted in he GUNS the engine to aggressively muscle his way back into New York traffic. Horns honk, and a few tires screech, and not a hair seems turned on the once-PI's head for the chaos. Street-level city view whizzes past the windows; freezing hotdog vendors and huddle die-hard shoppers. Cold weather aside, foot traffic is still probably light for the city's norm - New York's constant state of woe and hardship has damaged its position as a prime tourist spot. Jim sips his coffee tersely, brows furrowed. After a few minutes: "You uh," oh shit, he's trying to make conversation. "You got everything you need?" "Yeah," Mel replies, quiet and tired. She has worked her scarf down around her neck after they are settled in the flow of traffic - her hand gripping the door rail for stability prior to that. She inhales the aroma of the coffee, but doesn't seem to keen on drinking just then. "They have my records. I've been a regular there - well, for a number of years now." She finally finds the cup holder and slides the cup into it, her attention focused more on the dashboard than the world passing by them. "I didn't take you away from anything important, did I?" Here she glances at him, looking him over for the first time that day. There's cup-holders, though they're nothing fancy - as is common for cheap rental Corollas, they're in the center console. "Christ," Jim mutters, as though Melinda's polite concern aggravated him - lane-hopping to cut in front of the a trundling fruit truck, accelerating abruptly the twenty feet required to pass up a battered old Lexus and then swerving to reclaim the lain, his steering-hand still somehow has time to rapid-flick his turn signal with each maneuver. His coffee-holding hand remains hovering near his face for rapid sips, "Y'say that like /this/ isn't important. It's so cold you'd have to chisel the dog off the lampost." A little old lady dragging a hand-cart forces him to abruptly brake. He lays on the horn, and the lady default-gestures exactly what he can do with himself. "...god take this city." "I may be trying to pretend that this isn't important - other wise this all seems like you're speeding me away from my execution - or well, to some antidote." Her hands grip the strap across her chest as the car screeches to a halt for the little old woman, Mel's eyes sliding closed as she prepares for impact as if it were inevitable and not really anything to worry about. When it doesn't come, she smooshes herself backward into her seat, trying to get comfortable. "There's also a shit ton of life and death stuff going on in this metropolis that --" And just like that she gives up speaking, staring deadpan in front of her. "You're right. This is important." "Yeahshutup." It's probably less that Melinda just gives up speaking and more that Jim mutter-interrupts her before sipping his coffee and gunning it once the road is clear again. Vrrrrmmmm..RRRmmmmmmvrrmmm, pushing that little Toyota like this is the mother fucking Grand Prix. The rest of the drive is probably quiet, full of that sour mix Jim can radiate of sullen irritability and sharp urgency in ALL THINGS that might, if you squint, look sort of like Jim-variety concern. He's just taking it out on the pavement. The wheels make a quiet 'erk!' squeal when he pulls them to a sharp stop outside the doctor's office, "You go on in. I'll park the car." After which he's apparently coming in himself. Just kinda decided. Mel is content to be silent as well, her eyes somewhere between half lidded and fully closed as she concentrates on her breathing for the rest of the trip. Jim's grump is comfortable though and she seems peaceful up until the moment they pull up outside the doctor's office. She leans toward the window and stares up the building as far as she can see from the car window. Jim's announcement about parking the car hits her in slow motion, nodding a half minute later and gathering herself up to leave. Her scarf is pulled up over her face and she digs in her pocket to produce the appointment card for an office inside. She hands it to Jim. "This is where I'll be." She then opens the door and heads out, leaving her coffee behind in the cup holder. The door is closed and she rushes inside. Waiting rooms are brutal about time passing; that CLOCK that ticks on the wall, the periodic jarring flutter of a magazine page turned by one occupant or another. The soft click of keyboard keys as the receptionist performs her business. Whatever Jim DOES with his car while out of sight, he doesn't have it on him when he shoulders his way into the waiting room. His scarred face and scrubby jacket - not his SCRUBBIEST he tried to dress nicer; probably even has a crooked tie - probably get a few wary looks, but they slack off when he grabs a photography magazine off the rack and heads over to a seat one seat away from Melinda. The waiting game resumes. The waiting room is probably especially rife with wary looks as the GP that Melinda uses is a part of a women's health conglomerate. The room itself is full of pamphlets on female reproductive issues and family planning. It's not anti-men, but very few of the males that walk through the doors are unattached. Free of her coat and outer garments, Melinda has been given a clipboard for updating information: there's some updates to policies for 2014, a new warning sheet which includes all of the plague words - or as many as were known at the time of the printing, and an advertisement for a study to help disadvantaged families gain free healthcare for their participation. She is busily ticking away at boxes and describing conditions when Jim walks in. She peers up through her lashes at him, nearly straining her eyes to get a glimpse of him without moving her head. She nods and glances at the chair he sits in, but then continues. At length, she turns in the paperwork and then returns to her seat. She pulls her purse out from under her seat and holds it in her lap as she silences her phone and waits the additional time for her appointment to start. Just when it's getting ridiculous to still be waiting, a nurse opens the door and calls out, "Ms. Chylds?" Melinda rises and follows. Following her with his eyes - very much SIMILAR to Melinda's own observation, Jim remains grounded where he is. And waits.
The car sways and sags to readjust when Jim drops into the driver's seat. And just sits there, staring hard out the front windshield with his jaw pushed forward until Melinda hands him the paper. He unfolds it, and holds it up over the the steering wheel so that the dim winter sunlight glows behind it. Then hands it back. And guns the ignition to life. The whoosh of the heater is loud in the car. "Guess it's a little late to ask if they're sure," he asks. "You want to go back in there to ask them to prove it to you?" Melinda raises an eyebrow head turning to study man sitting beside her. Her tone starts out indignant, perhaps edging toward outraged, but it dissipates in the silence that follows, ending up defeated by the time she continues. "I've only got a handful of months left - six at the most. Denial isn't going to last long." She draws in a deep breath and slips the paper back into her purse. "I don't know that I want to go back to work." Backing up out of the parking space, Jim doesn't respond to much of this. And only after they're pulling out into the street does he inform her, "We're getting Chinese." And that's... that. | |
