(part 1, i guess. i can’t quite call this done, as she doesn’t get to doing any of those things.)
I’m worried now,” Marnie says. Joan’s stomach clenches out of reflex, even
though the exasperated smile on Marnie’s face broadcasts something that has
nothing to do with her. “My grandma has already started hinting and I just
know this is it as far as my family’s concerned. Time to move to New
god,” Em laughs. “I’ve heard it all. ‘The city is no place to raise
kids’ blah blah blah.”
irritated by that relief, Joan drains her beer while Em lists parks, classes,
and children’s theaters that wouldn’t be found in such numbers anywhere else.
Marnie says. “Though we have been thinking about Westchester.” She’s
an eye doctor with an office on the Upper East side who was
childless–endometriosis–until two years ago when she started a long-term
relationship with a single dad (The ex-wife is in Seattle and she is awful,
apparently. Women who aren’t suited for motherhood somehow always are.).
Marnie’s love for sarcasm rivals Joan’s. She was one of the few people Joan
knew from her medical days who didn’t treat her differently after Gerald
Castoro’s wife sued her for wrongful death.
gets the server’s attention and orders a martini, her head pounding. She’s
become a cliche, the token singleton in a group of women who did the sensible
thing and settled down. For years she didn’t mind being different, cheerfully
taking part in all their milestones, loving their kids like they were her
blood, listening to their complaints about preschool teachers and keeping
those years, she realizes, she thought she wouldn’t be different forever.
she says, clumsily plunking down her martini glass.
skipped dinner, didn’t you?” Em says with a knowing, affectionate grin.
“I told you to order something.”
sort of… forgot?” Joan giggles, hitting herself lightly on the forehead.
“Sorry, guys. I think I need a cab.”
looks at Marnie. “I actually should call it a night, too. Devon has soccer
in the morning, and six year olds running in a herd after a ball isn’t real
sports enough for Greg to consider worth getting out of bed for. I’ll make sure
Tipsy Hedren here gets home.”
pulls up in front of the brownstone in her minivan. Meanwhile, why does she
even have a van? She only has one kid.
Joan a look that tells her to brace herself. “You know, I wish I’d gotten
the chance to meet Andrew. From all accounts, he was a great guy.”
broke up with him three minutes before he died,” Joan says flatly.
“It was the last thing he did, accept that I wanted something else."
that was just a touch too on the nose. Her eyes burning, Joan fumbles with her
seatbelt, adding to the illusion of drunkenness without even meaning to.
“I’m sorry, I just- I have to go. Good night, Em.”
me tomorrow, okay?”
stumbles out of the car without responding. When she doesn’t call tomorrow, Em
will. She’ll call again on Sunday. If Joan keeps ignoring her, she’ll enlist
the help of Joan’s mom. But eventually she’ll stop trying. Carrie did. Indira,
Marco and Jocelyn did. Just because the thought makes Joan want to cry, for
several reasons, it doesn’t mean this isn’t for the best.
is sitting cross-legged on the library floor. She doesn’t pause long enough to
see what he’s doing there. When she gets to her room, she sticks her iPod in
the dock and starts blasting whatever she was last listening to. This is
functionally the same as going up to him and announcing in plain words that
she’s upset. It’s okay because he knows to leave her alone, at least for
tonight. There’s no telling about tomorrow, when he could very well decide that
her issues are “affecting their work”, his way of saying that he’s
concerned about her. He’s been doing that a lot more often, and it simultaneously
pisses her off and touches her. Before Kitty, before MI6, he didn’t try so
hard. Unless she did something out of character, he kept any concerns to
himself and concentrated on the cases, content that she was taking care of her
own issues, which meant he wouldn’t have to deal with them. She may have more
urges to punch him now, but the brownstone feels a lot less lonely than it used
enough? Could it possibly be enough?
sits heavily on the edge of the bed, her brain helpfully replaying every
conversation she ever had in which she encouraged Sherlock to do all the things
she’s considering not doing, putting herself out there, meeting people,
trusting them, accepting their help, building a healthy support system.
Suddenly she can’t remember the last time she had an honest conversation with
someone who wasn’t Sherlock. He has heart to hearts with people on a regular basis. There are the meetings, and Alfredo, and all these ghosts from his past drifting in and out, causing
intense soul-searching and helping him figure out who he wants to be, what he
wants out of life. Joan lets people talk about themselves or maintains light
chit-chat. Sherlock makes her talk, sometimes. Her mom makes her talk. Joan
would force herself to get another therapist, but that wouldn’t fix the problem.
On second thought, she should
start looking for a therapist. It’s just
that she needs to work on some other things as well.