AN: Hi guys. I doubt many of you will remember me or my story but on the optimistic premise that one or two do here's my excuse for the AWOL in updating. I have a congenital health condition that has MANY side effects. Having this and adjusting to a full-time college course simply takes allot out of me. And unfortunately my drugs to protect me from writer's block I will be able to update from now on more regularly. Thanks as always to T and Nate for everything.
She had long ago perfected the art of being numb.
Regina Gellar welcomed the familiar detachment as she guided her seemingly unstable husband through the routine of exiting the private customs area at Madrid International Airport. The blonde haired socialite winced inwardly as she became aware of the curious glances directed their way. The sight of a six foot six, Armani wearing man with tears streaming down his recently lifted and tanned face was drawing considerable attention. The unwitting spectacle was rapidly compounded by Philip's periodic ranting at his cellular phone. In one particularly embarrassing episode he had threatened Doctor Herbert Corday. His wife had flushed with humiliation when Philip had systematically detailed the elderly board member's frequent transgressions with Lucky, evidently a talented submissive at Madame Caroline's Adult Boutique.
Regina had trained all her life to project an image of social grace and high society elegance which would automatically render comparisons to Martha Stewart or Jackie O. It had been drilled into her from a young age that to succeed in this world was to emulate the peak of domestic sophistication. This private sphere of perfection would be an indelible aid to the husband's professional existence.
She guarded the image she created as if it were her most treasured possession.
She felt powerless to defend against the threat Philip's reckless actions presented.
Mary-Anne Dickson, a prominent member of Hartford high society, whispered covertly to her sixth husband. The couple was leaving for their biannual trip to Crete. Husband Number Six also happened to be the swing vote on a large charity donation Regina had spent months engineering.
With a forceful hand on her husband's arm, she dragged him through the customs lounge and into the crowded terminal. Regina was grateful to see their regular driver standing in front of a rented limousine.
"Take us to the airstrip now!" Phillip ordered sharply as they clambered into the back.
Recognizing the urgency, Paul suspended his usual idle chatter as they drove through the darkened, but heavily illuminated parking lot.
"She is going to be okay, Reggie," Philip whispered hollowly, offering his wife a tremulous smile.
"Of course Paris is going to be just fine...there can be no doubt," Regina reassured Phillip with light and dismissive tenderness. Sensing that her husband needed further comforting she continued, "Nobody who knows her could ever doubt our daughter's zest for life. She is far too stubborn to let this hinder her plans for academic domination."
The words had an edge of irony. Paris was never supposed to exist. Both of them had been adamant. He was far too busy climbing the medical hierarchy and she had wanted to devote herself to managing the Gellar's numerous financial networks. Her degree in International Finance was well utilized and her Doris Day appearance was well appreciated. Their union was viewed as highly satisfactory. Three forms of birth control were employed to ensure their sporadic sexual encounters remained fruitless.
Paris Gellar had circumvented them all, a precedent that would develop to be her guiding doctrine in life.
Strangely once his initial anger had abated Philip had been enthralled with his little girl. While simultaneously she became increasingly disenchanted with the colicky and screaming infant. Far from the quiet and placid Philip Ethan Gellar III, she imagined Paris Gellar screamed constantly and had a fastidious diet that succeeded in making a renounced dietitian cry in frustration.
Regina had never warmed to the child and the miraculous presence of Francesca had negated the necessity of her assuming any responsibility.
That didn't mean she lacked all maternal feelings. What she felt was simply a distance. Regina didn't feel intrinsically tied to her daughter. It may have been a high society cliché, but it was very much the truth.
Regina had never been a part of Paris's life. The colicky infant had developed into a socially reclusive academic, lacking all feminine grace that was familiar to her mother.
The blueprint for their relationship had been firmly established
since birth, but there was a particular incident that firmly cemented
the daughter's place in physical and emotional
isolation.
* * * * *
Christmas Day, 1984, 4.15pm
"I can't do this anymore, Mrs. Gellar. The little one has the lungs of a wounded banshee!"
The frazzled and distressed voice of Paris Gellar's fourth nanny could barely be heard over the ear splitting wailing of the five month old infant. The sounds had been echoing relentlessly around the Gellar Mansion for 11 hours. It eventually forced the attention of her mother who could no longer excuse the disturbing noises to her lunch guests.
Regina paced around the immaculate but sterile looking nursery. The only concession to the holiday was a frivolous looking Santa teddy bear planted in the crib. Every few steps she would cast disdainful glances, alternately at the crib and the cowering employee.
"You cannot quit!" The tone was sharp with exasperation and anger," All the associations are closed. I cannot have her creating such a fuss while I'm trying to entertain!" Regina purposefully explained, fully prepared to double the matronly women's wage to retain her.
"I have not slept in three days, ma'am. There is nothing you can do to convince me to stay," Ester replied, catching sight of the slender purse her now former employer was brandishing.
Before the blond socialite could resort to the now familiar rants about breach of contract, the woman bolted from the room. Heavy footsteps pounded the winding staircases in her haste to flee.
Filled with immense rage and frustration, Regina stormed over to the crib. She swiped angrily at the gently swaying mobile. Fixing her gaze on the screaming child, Regina felt a familiar surge of disappointment. Far from the cherub-like blond angel Kathy and Rick Hilton were blessed with, Paris Gellar was what could charitably be called less than attractive. As Regina seldom felt charitable towards her daughter she described her with stark honesty. Fat and disproportionate limbs adorned a shrunken torso and massive head. Her skin, so often reddened by rage, was naturally sallow and pasty as a result of her unfortunate lactose intolerance.
"Oh, do shut up, you whining brat," her mother hissed vehemently.
Impossibly soulful brown eyes stared back definitely. They had assumed an expression identical to the handful of times when Regina had tried, admittedly insincerely, to interact playfully with the child.
This could be succinctly described as absolute refusal to cooperate.
There was none of the sunny smiles she reserved for Philip or the playful gestures granted to one of the maids. The child virtually radiated hostility toward her.
Regina was acutely aware that her guest would be growing impatient. She looked around listlessly for something to distract Paris from her latest temper tantrum. On the polished wood shelving above the crib, Regina caught sight of the antique Victorian doll, given as a gift by Philip's Great Aunt Freda. Half-heartedly she held it in Paris's line of sight.
Amazingly, Paris stopped crying and reached out chubby hands to the intricate doll, her brown eyes tracking the glittering jewels adorning the dress.
Regina handed the toy to the infant, highly satisfied with the feat of problem solving.
Her mind already completely consumed with planning the Christmas dinner, Regina hurried from the room.
It was with more than a little annoyance that she realized, on the 23rd step, she had forgotten her purse in the nursery.
Jogging up to the doorway, Regina was vaguely disconcerted not to hear any sounds originating from within.
Spying her purse, she rushed over, casually glancing over the side of the crib.
Paris was coughing weakly and turning blue, her limbs trembling fitfully.
She was choking.
"Help me!" Regina yelled at the top her lungs while wringing her hands fearfully. She never bothered to read the first aid diagram charts Philip had purchased.
It could not have been more than 20 seconds before a maid rushed into the room. Immediately assessing the situation Francesca lifted Paris out and rested her face down on her forearm. While sinking into the large rocking chair, the Portuguese native gently but firmly hit between Paris's shoulder blades, murmuring softy in a mixture of English and Portuguese.
Regina felt the blood pounding in her ears and bile burning the back of her throat.
After what literally felt like forever, Paris made a strangled gasping sound. A shining false pearl bead fell to the floor with a clearly discernable thud.
Francesca whirled around while cradling the whimpering child tenderly, "Mrs. Gellar you must never ever give a baby toys with bits and pieces; she will always mouth them."
"Will you be her new Nanny?" Regina asked hurriedly, desperate to avoid the flinty and unyielding gaze. "I will pay you thirty-four thousand a year," she added almost instinctively.
Francesca shook her head at the mention of money. "If you go to the classes with Mr. Gellar, I will care for the young one," she replied neutrally before starting to hum an indistinct lullaby.
With a sharp nod Regina all but ran from the room.
It was not until late that night, after Philip had yelled for several hours about her reckless stupidity, that she allowed the guilt to bring tears to her eyes.
She flew to Fiji the next morning.
She kept Aunt Freda's doll as a painful reminder and to reaffirm her belief that to get close to an unwanted child was a mistake.
* * * * *
Whoever said black wasn't a color is a lying fool.
Black had plenty of attributes that could make it a color. It had depth, it had shade, and it had tone. Black also had the ability to change any of these attributes at any given time.
So really to label it colorless was an unfair misrepresentation.
Of a vastly greater level of unfairness was a mind such as hers being reduced to analyzing the finer points of the ultraviolet spectrum. However as it was 2.42am, her intellectual topics were somewhat restricted. This factor alone was sharply compounded by numerous IVs and blood catheters restricting any movement that her limbs might by inspired to make. This limited her number of sensory stimuli.
A multi-car pile up meant that her interactions with the night nurses were fleeting and brusque.
She distantly felt the urge to cry, but the drugs were successfully preventing her from focusing on any idea long enough to put it into action.
It also severely stunted her self-imposed challenge to name all the members of Congress in alphabetical order.
Maybe if she dissected it long enough or academically labeled it long enough.
The darkness would not be so scary anymore.
"That really hurts"
Paris had been uttering the same rhetoric throughout her fourth eye exam; disappointedly her statements didn't appear to be having any perceivable impact on the people who were conducting it. The familiar procedure involved a close examination of the eye structures before the pupils were exposed to a variety of sensory stimuli at numerous intensities. Finally the bruised and swollen tissue around the eyes were gently prodded and manipulated. The now easily recognisable voice of Lisa Sinclair was offering a continuous and highly jargon filled dialogue. Occasionally she would pause to ask the opinion of the two consultants, an eye surgeon and trauma specialist respectively, or to translate for the three non medical people in the room.
"The anatomical structures are intact. Swelling is extensive, but it is not unexpected. Stimulus reaction is minimal. Left pupil response is slightly improved since last observation," a nasally voice intoned clinically.
Francesca was grasping her hand tenderly and the blond haired teenager could feel it trembling and slick with sweat. Rory and Jamie were conversing quietly but nervously in the back of the room, waiting to be actively recruited into the conversation.
Paris supposed she should be feeling a truly extreme sense of fear at these words.
Oddly enough she remembered feeling more fear waiting for the results of The American Classical Association Latin Exam.
The wonders of central-lined Morphine were gaining a whole new meaning.
"Ouch! That hurts like hell!!"
Evidently morphine could not limit that sharp agony of having the tip of her cheekbone pushed firmly. The pain seemed to lodge with particular vengeance this time and did not recede from the sickening intensity.
"I am sorry Miss Gellar, that was the final test," Lisa Sinclair said apologetically before agreeing with a rapid paced assessment made by her fellow doctor in a series of standardized abbreviation.
"Am I blind?" Paris asked with as much authority as a drug cocktail and a severely bruised throat would allow.
"Individual recovery rates from these types of injuries are highly variable; it's far too soon to make projections. It will take anywhere from days to months for the surrounding tissue damage to be sufficiently relived to draw long term conclusions."
"Until such time you are planning on leaving me in a delightful state of limbo aren't you? I bet you there are months and months worth of platitudes all lined up," Paris shot back cynically. "Your twenty years as a world-renowned expert in this field gives you the ability to guess, do they not? Or did you fish your qualifications from a box of goddamned Lucky Charms?"
Paris would have taken some pride in that insult had she not sounded like Death's developmentally challenged cousin, complete with embarrassing stutters.
It simply was not fair. She was so used to being the intimidating academic, characteristically confident and self assured. Now in this position that held utter vulnerability Paris struggled and failed to find any sense of normalcy. She was literally entirely dependent on people, who did not seem the remotely willing to share information.
Worst of all she lacked the strength to demand it.
"Little One…" Francesca cautioned tiredly. The older woman was brought up to respect and revere those in educated professions. She had also seen this particular doctor handle several heated debates with the abrasive Philip Gellar will into the night.
Her doctor made a judgement call. Nicholas had informed her this morning that Paris Gellar had access to and would most likely utilize several medical libraries. He had overheard the young teen trying to convince a distressed Rory Gilmore to read to her from the most extensive of the dictionaries.
Give her the knowledge or she will find it, Sinclair reasoned somewhat reluctantly.
"It is unlikely you will recover full sight in either eye. The inflammation and scaring is too systemic and too close to both the optic nerve and the global. This is most predominate on the left."
The room fell silent, only the occasionally sound of a monitor beeping sporadically.
Lisa Sinclair continued neutrally, but directed her voice carefully and slowly towards the tense form of her patient. "However with careful management and rehabilitation, your basic anatomical structures are consistent enough for me to believe that you will regain functional use. I have placed a referral for a Mobility and Orientation Instructor who will help you learn how to best accommodate a sight impairment into your everyday life" One of the consultants spoke up, "Your other injuries are minor to moderate. You have avoided the primary concerns of spinal injuries, brain damage and internal bleeding. If those vitals remain stable then you will be transferred from ICU and into the general ward."
"How long is it going to hurt for? The pain is searing and awful!" Paris confessed softly.
"Miss Gellar, for that I cannot give you a timeframe. However, we will do our best to mange the symptoms."
Paris felt tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, soaking the bandages.
"What happened to Jenna?" she asked bitterly without aiming her question in a particular direction.
"A medical report that details your injuries has been summated to the local authorities. Once you have sufficiently rested they will interview for a first hand account. Do not feel any pressure to recall details yet, for your short term memory has probably been affected by the plunge into the table." was the inflectionless reply.
They were wrong.
Paris could only wish that the memories could be dulled by efficient pain.
Instead like everything else she had ever learned, the events of that night were etched in her memory.
Jenna's words would haunt her almost as fiercely as the physical wounds the other teenager had inflected with less intent.
How could this socially reclusive, mediocre and hostile student insinuate something Paris refused to acknowledge even the smallest parts of her subconscious?
* * * * *
It was rare for a nightmare to be outshone by the horrors of the waking hours.
Conventional wisdom dictated that relief would be the primary emotion experienced once one woke from harrowing dreams.
Paris knew it had been a dream, because she didn't hurt. Every limb was entirely calm on her body, without a constant feedback of disquiet and discomfort.
"No!" The gasp was a tangled mixed of fury and fear.
Prove that the illusion was being supplanted by a worse reality came in the form of instantaneous and virtually identical agonies in her face and right shoulder. The darkness was oppressive. The outside world refused to reply sensory distractions. Paris found herself chocking for breath as the helplessness began to press down on her like a physical weight. Every little sound, from the squeak of the bed to the rattling of a loose window pane seemed amplified and terrifying when you couldn't source their harmless origins.
"Paris, it's OK! You're just having a dream," Rory interjected softly, while rushing to smooth the trembling girl.
"Because the waking world is such an improvement, Gilmore!" was the shaky but quick reply.
"What was your dream about?" Rory asked with concern, while trying to find a comfortable way to half embrace Paris without disrupting the networks of IV lines and electrodes
"I was in the exam room, and I couldn't see the paper," Paris confided, fighting not to let the panic resurface in her voice.
Paris knew what Rory was about to do; she could almost sense it in the artificially maintained air, despite the cliché. Rory had doubtlessly been researching `adapted facilities' to the extreme, between her forcefully cheerful political debates and her constants attempts to normalize the situation. As if by an army of facts could somehow defeat the evil that was Jenna's actions. Rory always found comfort in saving people with knowledge.
With her farm boy Dean, Rory thoroughly researched the best mechanic and Business Management schools, trying to convince him in the virtues of higher education, when all he wanted do was to live out the Republican small town ideal.
With her Bohemian misfit Jess, Rory spent countless hours coaxing him into understanding the benefits of channelling his brilliance and wit into acceptable realms, when all he wanted to do play James Dean. Now with her Rory want to provide the light at the end of the tunnel.
Only it was a light she'd never see.
"Read Pride and Prejudice to me?" Paris whispered vaguely remembering that Rory had brought a stack of books with her.
"It will be OK, Paris"
Oddly for a split second Paris almost believed her.
Almost
It is a true universally acknowledged that a Hartford socialite must be in want of perfection.
Something she could never be anymore.
Two Weeks...Post Accident
Lane Kim groaned softly to herself as stood up from the floor of Kim Antiques. Dust coated her newly-bought jeans, and a persistent ache was pounding her ankle. The piles of backdated account records did not seem to be getting smaller. The slight aspiring drummer privately suspected that the sole purpose of antique buyers lives was to write as small as humanly possible on the order forms, just to infuriate her.
Sometimes being Rory Gilmore's friend was hard work.
Like most other things not directly related to the recovery of Paris Gellar, Rory had forgotten that Lane had needed to use her place as a cover story for a music buying trip. As a consequence of this Mrs. Kim had headed to the Gilmores to involve her of the death of a distant relative, only to be informed by the ever helpful Babette that nobody was expected home until the following morning.
The Seven Day Adventist Summer Camp was once again lurking disturbingly close in her future.
It was in this not particularly conducive frame of mind that she limped from the backroom to answer the front door.
Jess stood uncomfortably in the doorway, his hands shoved deeply in the pockets of the trademark jacket.
"Hey Lane," he said gruffly, stepping into the room quickly, as if he feared the eyes of Ms. Patty or Barbette were tracking him, which wasn't really an unreasonable assumption.
"Jess," she greeted cautiously.
They had always had a mutually ambivalent relationship. Lane had listened to Rory's exhalations of his virtues and how misunderstood he was. She had watched wearily as Rory had been entranced by his clever wordplay. Rory would never see the side of Jess that arrogantly cut down their fellow students or deliberately ridicule a nervous but genuine student teacher. Lane winced at the memory of Jess's taunting remarks to one of the younger kids who had struggled to grasp a basic concept of Shakespeare's Sonnets.
Rory Gilmore was famed for her rose tinted glasses.
"Is Rory here?" he asked softly
"No she's..." Lane began.
"...at the Manor" he finished a pained attempt to smile reaching the corners of his lips. "Could you give her this?" Jess asked overriding her assertions of when she thought Rory would be home and producing a crumbled envelope from his pocket.
Lane had seen enough movies to recognize a break-up note and began physically backing away until she was backed up against a Georgian rocking chair.
"It just isn't working...I can't be the guy she wants," Jess spoke as he genuinely believed that unloading this all on Lane would somehow help the situation. As if as the best friend she could him some sort of absolution by proxy without the tears and discomfort of the real thing.
"I don't need to hear this Jess, don't do the noble martyr routine!" Lane cut him off forcibly, trying not to envisage the predicted scenes of a broken hearted Rory when she received the note. There was no doubt Rory would be devastated, face dissolved in a startling array of emotions.
"I know she has been distracted," Lane ventured reluctantly infinitely relieved that her mother was at prayer group for the hour "but don't drop this on her now."
"There is a chance I could reconnect with my dad, and Luke is going to kick me out once he finds out about the grade situation," Jess admitted tonelessly. He traced the woodwork of floor with a troubled gaze.
"There are off campus...credit programmes," Lane ventured softly conscious that she may started to sound like a teacher "At least keep your options open."
"I'm looking into a correspondence make up course with a specialized component of Classic Literature," His plans to bolt had been derailed by Rory's tearful phone call explaining her best friend's accident. Given no choice but to stay and reflect on the logic of his plan to ditch high school just short of graduating Jess had decided that it would be stupid not to try and finish.
Sadly his motivation to try was with his girlfriend were ironically far less steadfast.
While Lane helped a particularly overzealous customer, who had been searching for years for the special chair, Jess reflected on the gaps appearing between Rory and himself that he was pretty sure they both could see.
Rory was just so committed.
It was the usual word to choose when listing a person's faultsm but it was honestly what twisted his guts at night.
It was partly genetic.
The intensity radiating in the daughter could be found in spades in the mother, and in a more repressed sense the grandmother. While Lorelai dispersed her drive to everything and everyone she came into contact with Rory, much like a lighthouse, focused her energies in a certain radius where her love shined.
Right now Jess was feeling like a rock at the other side of the bay, away from the light.
Shaking his head free of the Virginia Wolf clichés, Jess eyed Lane wearily as she spun back around and glared.
"You will not do this to her," the petite Aisin proclaimed sharply.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to find accommodation and a job," Jess agreed secretly grateful that Lane had throttled his runaway. The guilt of hurting Rory was getting harder and harder to shrug off.
"Just wait until Paris has reached a measure of independence, and then talk to her about what's going on," Lane said trying to swallow the resentment she felt that every conversation she had with Rory now revolved around the blond haired scholar. Rory seemed ridiculously enthused about the smallest details of the progress, right down to the ability to navigate the bathroom or brush her hair.
Lane and Jess exchanged looked, each sensing the common ground of irrational abandonment issues.
Neither of them wanted to hear any Dr. Phil type explanations for why they felt like this or how to resolve the potential hostilities this could create.
They wanted Rory back.
* * * * *
"We are going to do this Paris."
"Drop dead and die!" was the bitter response
Such a statement, and particularly when it was muttered from the mouth of Paris Gellar, would have sent most people away in frustration or anger, but the object of her sentiment voiced no reaction to the comment, simply continued to dress Paris's wound while quizzing on the dimensions of the room they were currently situated.
Paris rattled off the figures making good use of her renowned memory, and for good measure she located Rory in the corner, venturing a guess at the nature of her activity.
Nicholas recognizing that Paris was simply parroting numbers to expatiate his exit the tall nurse made a quick decision. He proceeded to move the girl's legs gently off the large bed and helping to support her upper body.
"What are you doing?" Paris said, disoriented by the change in the familiar physiotherapy routine and the dizziness that accompanied all of her infrequent efforts to be upright.
"You are going to walk over and see Rory," Nicholas said matter of factually, carefully studying the placement of Paris's legs. He was pleased that the stringent rehab hours had limited the degree of muscle loss.
"Grip my forearms," he instructed when Paris obeyed without comment he inched her forward and onto the floor, supporting the majority her weight. Nicholas warned that there may be some pain in her feet, in her ankles, and at her knees.
"Use everything you have learned...remember where everything is."
Paris, who was typically tactilely averse, was very relieved to have strong arms bracing her every move as she slowly brought one foot in front of the other, stepping over the pair of slippers and leaning away from the corner of her bedside table. As the rehab instructors had taught she exaggerated the movement. Paris felt a sense of pride and achievement as the instructions whirled around and she put them into practice, much like the blond haired teenager was used to doing.
"Good girl!" Nicholas said and he grinned broadly as he walked backwards while watching for signs of overuse. Paris was skilfully navigated all of the objects in her path, occasionally pointing out to him where she exactly was in the adapted spare room.
Rory couldn't contain a gasp of delight and felt tears prick as Paris lurched haltingly but resolutely towards her.
Heedless of the actual procedure for such events, Rory stretched out her hands as they approached.
Nicholas moved aside while still supporting Paris form the side but leaving her hands to link with Rory's.
Paris could justifiably blame the jolt she felt when theirs fingertips met on adrenaline but refused to analyze this while smiling broadly.
Suddenly Paris's legs gave way and before mind numbing panic set in Nicholas caught her securely and Rory rushed for to half-embraced her toppling friend around her back.
"I've got you," Rory whispered breathlessly.
"...and I'll never let you go" her mind chimed in disconcertingly.
* * * * *
"So, she is getting better?" Jess asked smiling at the sheer delight on his girlfriend's face as she recounted the day's events on the Gilmore's front steps.
"Totally," Rory enthused.
"So does this mean I might get to see you now?"
Rory leaned over and kissed him passionately. She tried not to feel disappointment when it didn't match her typical whirlwind emotions when kissing him.
Nor the joy of tenderly tucking a jubilant Paris back into bed.
To be continued...