Chapter 14: Blessed Art Thou Among Women

Dr. Webb kicked the table. Frank III was so full of Propofol, Francis could have gone to town on any number of his limbs and had nothing more than a satisfying lunch. A tasty, yet pointless meal; not worth the expense of an entire roll of dental floss.

Greenwich smacked his hand on the way to fourth floor reception to greet and triage the Franklin Family and guests. Francis was still squeezing the flesh here and there, looking for the tender spots. He pulled his smacked hand back, wiped it on his slacks and gave the table another kick. Because he could.

To no one in particular: "I have been living with this man for sixty-six years and if I feel like sampling the buffet...well, a man's got a right; that's all I'm saying." Margaret led him to a reclining chair and got him a popsicle. "Is it orange? I don't like orange. Oh. It's not orange. That's very nice, thank you, Margaret."

"You're welcome, Dr. Webb. Would you like a mild sedative as a chaser?"

"No thank you, dear, I'm still on duty."

She sat next to Frank on the bench. It was nice sitting with Frank. He smelled good, and Margaret was feeling a little goofy. She didn't know why but she meant to put a stop to it. "Frank. Frank?" Frank raised his chin off his chest and gave her a wobbly smile.

"What's up, Margaret? Are they almost here?" She got off the bench and squatted down in front of him. "Frank, they're not here yet, but they'll be here soon. I promise. However, while we're waiting, I think I've got a little problem."

Frank tried to sit up a bit. He was having a little trouble focusing. "What's the matter, Margaret? Lady troubles?"

Francis hauled himself out of the recliner and marched over to the bench.

"Frank! We do not ever ask a lady about her lady business! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Francis whacked Frank in the face with his popsicle and went back to his seat.

Frank was embarrassed but Margaret didn't seem the least bit put out, so he tried again. "I'm sorry, Margaret, can you tell me what's wrong or would that fall into the category of too much information?"

"Frank, I feel a little funny. Do you feel a little funny?"

"As a matter of fact, Margaret, I feel slightly off, and if I can safely admit it, just a wee bit inappropriate. Except I don't want my uncle smacking me with anymore popsicles so I'm afraid to say."

"OK. I understand. Maybe you could whisper it to me?"

"Oh hell, Margaret, I'm just gonna say it and, Yo! Uncle Francis! Close your ears for a minute!" Dr. Webb looked like he was sleeping, but Frank wasn't buying it. "Margaret. I'm feeling a little inappropriate. That's not right. I've done nothing inappropriate. I am, however, having some very inappropriate thoughts and I'm afraid to tell you."

Frank noticed Margaret was wearing her wet cat face. "OK, fine. I don't want to say it because I don't want to get in the middle of whatever might or might not be going on with you and Coop. That's not true either. I am more than happy to get between you and Coop, but I'd much rather pretend there's nothing in which to get in the middle is that even right?"

"Frank. There's nothing going on with me and Coop. There is, however, something going on with Coop and Christie but that seems to have gone right over your head."

"Coop and Christie? OUR Coop and Christie?!"

"Let it go, big guy. Let it go."

"Wait! That means there's nothing to get in the middle of, right?"

"That is correct, Frank, there is nothing in your way."

Francis had gotten out of his chair while they weren't paying attention and approached the bench. "Margaret, my dear, please get off your knees and have a seat over there by the popsicle goo. I'm going to have a word with my nephew."

It was a simple word. A one syllable, two letter word of the sort just about every human walking the planet has heard many times. 

"NO!" 

Francis reclaimed his chair but made Margaret stay in the corner. "All these years together and you pick now to get randy. Put it back in your pants, Frank, and focus up."

"Why aren't you yelling at Margaret?"

"Frank. I am not yelling at Margaret because ladies do not have trouser snakes."

"Just as well", Margaret said, "I need to get down the hall to reception. Don't know if you two heard it, but stuff got a little interesting on the fourth floor a few minutes ago. I think it's safe to say, Greenwich for the Win!" She bent down and kissed the top of Frank's head and asked, "Do you think you can move the MIB pile into a closet or something? Maybe the decontamination shower? Coop was supposed to do it twenty minutes ago but I'm afraid he's otherwise occupied."

"By what, Margaret?! By what could Coop possibly be otherwise occupied?"

Margaret smiled and kept walking toward reception. She called back over her shoulder, "Well, Frank, Christie wants a baby, didn't you know that?"

Margaret was waiting at reception when the elevator door opened. She put her hands on Samantha Blue Franklin's shoulders and stared at her eyes long enough for Sam to fidget. When she was certain, she dropped her hands and stepped back. "Well, my brown-eyed girl, looks like you and I have got some work to do."

"Margaret? I don't have brown eyes."

"Yes, Sam, you surely do; and if I had to make a guess based on your middle name, I'd say you were altered in utero. Come on, kiddo, it's probably going to turn out jelly side up."

*

In fact, Christie did want a baby, but the process and source materials had nothing to do with Coop. He was there to do the heavy lifting. She looked at Coop, "you're not thinking of making a baby with me, are you? Because that's not happening, sweetheart. I don't have time, although having a good look at you in this light, I expect I might have the inclination if I wasn't otherwise occupied."

Coop was mortified. He couldn't truthfully say it was the first time he’d been called out, but he was cut to the quick and that was an uncomfortable, yet thoroughly novel experience. "Uh. Christie, I just thought you could use the company. When you fell, Margaret fell too, and I've never felt a heart break like that. I thought she was going to call the sky down on us. I thought she did call the stars down, but it was just Frank being Frank and blowing stardust all over the place."

"Frank's been up here a lot, hasn't he? Up here chowing down motes like there was a shortage or something. There is no shortage of motes, you know that, right?"

"One, yes he has. Two, it hadn't occurred to me that there might be a shortage. Have you looked through that glass?"

"I sure have, Coop, and that's exactly why we're up here. I'm going to need a whole bunch of those motes, and after that, Coop, it's going to be time for me to go home." Coop shook his head, he couldn't have heard what he heard because Christie was home, wasn't she? "No, Coop. I'm not home. I wish this was home. I really don't want to go. Margaret's going to be gutted and I'd do just about anything for Margaret."

"Except stay."

"Yes, Coop, except stay. I've been weighing the harm to the universe and the harm to Margaret for quite some time. It may be hard to believe, and probably a little selfish of me, but that scale remained in her favor far longer than it should have. And then, Coop, I took my thumb off the scale."

"I don't understand, Christie. What balance?"

"Look down, Coop, and tell me what you see."

Coop looked down and thought about it. "Christie, I suppose I'm supposed to think I'm looking at dust motes, but I'm not, am I?"

"Tomato, tomahto, Coop."

"Don't understand."

"It's OK. That's a galaxy beneath our feet. It looks containable, small even, because it's caught between the bottom of the eighth floor and the top of the seventh. That's not really a lot of room and yet, when we look down it seems endless, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"Well, Coop, the eighth floor isn't a very good long-term home for a galaxy. Stars need a lot more room than this building can provide. And even if they did somehow manage to hang in there, eventually we'd end up with a situation we couldn't control. Coop, those stars cannot possibly exist within the same time and space that I exist. Those are my children, the children born when a Supernova explodes, and they belong in what you like to call the sky. Coop, I exploded very many light years ago and don't start up with parsecs, I know you understand this. Hiding behind a vacuous Mr. Anderson persona, black suit or no black suit is not a pretty look on you. You're a lot more than that, Coop, and the world would be a far better place if you owned up to it.”

“Frank told, didn’t he?”

“Frank told, what, Coop?”

“About the burned suit and the truck and the chewy lemon vodka and Chuck Yeager’s plane, and how I let him hold my heart…”

“Oh, Coop. Frank didn’t have to say anything, it was all over the room on Wednesday morning and I don’t mean the stench. You were just, suddenly, you!”

“Coop! Stop crying!”

“Can’t.”

“Fine. Focus up anyway.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Where was I? Right. A Supernova, that's me, the biggest one ever, maybe, SN 2007bi, exploded too many light years ago to count. When I exploded, I did three things. I birthed a whole new galaxy, which you can see if you look between your feet, I created a monster of a blackhole, and I died. I have no idea what's happening or has happened to that black hole, but me being here walking around like the world's all sunlight and roses is wreaking havoc on the balance. Coop, the balance is on a scale you will never be able to understand. It's too big. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it, but I understand its verdict, loud and clear. Hey. Stop that, Coop! It's OK."

Christie gave up and let Coop cry it out. There weren't any tissues on the eighth floor, but she fetched the basket of surgical masks. That should hold him for a while. While Coop sat down and allowed himself a good, hard cry, Christie got back to work. 

*

Frank and Margaret had been collecting stray motes for weeks. Frank had, in fact, stopped chowing down on escapees and started pocketing them instead. He found it difficult to stop the chow down. Apparently loose stars had some sort of addictive properties. He stopped anyway because Margaret told him he had to. And then she told him why.

Frank loved Sam more than anybody except Margaret; more than Greenwich and he felt bad about that. If Margaret said Sam was in trouble, then Sam was in trouble. He'd been focused on her father, but Margaret was pretty sure it wasn't fatal. She also thought it was fixable. So, Matt could wait if he had to. They knew about the badgers and the Guard Gnome and the house and that unbelievably stupid tail he decided to grow. They understood Mr. Hunter was three feet beyond his outer limits and hanging on anyway. That deserved their respect. 

Frank’s father turned out to be a bigger monkey wrench than he could have imagined. Generally, Frank III got pissed, shot off a couple dozen poison emails, and promptly forgot about him. There was something about Coop's defection that got under his skin. If Frank had thought to ask Coop, there wouldn't have been any sort of mystery and Frank might have seen it coming more than six hours before Frank III stormed his gate. Coop had been, until Frank III sent him in to straighten out the latest mess, the favorite son.

It would have made more sense if Coop's mother had been the cleaning lady, or something, but she wasn't. Coop's mom was Emma's sister which raised all manner of issues. Coop knew who his mom was. He knew who his father was too, and he worshiped his father. Unfortunately for Frank III, Coop got an eyeful while on duty at 220 North Avenue West, and he went right over the top when the Fourth Frank damn near turned himself inside out trying to get Coop back on his feet.

Coop was smitten. He'd never considered a sibling, although he had a slew of half-sibs by both parents, but when confronted with the reality of the Fourth Frank everything changed. Coop's whole world opened. He discovered he cared quite a bit about many people. After the night in the parking lot, with Fourth Frank patiently watching him be Chuck Yeager and then cleaning him up and putting him back on the podium, Coop did a thing he'd never done in his life. He lied to his father.

Coop's allegiance turned between one heartbeat and the next. He chose to stand with his brother. THIS was a thing Frank III would never forgive, and certainly not tolerate.

When Coop was in the mood for ruminating, he thought he'd about die if Fourth Frank got that sort of mad at him. His father, on the other hand, was a certifiable weasel. If they'd bothered to have the conversation, Fourth Frank would have corrected that assessment. He'd have said, 'Dad's not so much a weasel as a certified sociopath. If his mother had had him re-evaluated a few years later, the diagnosis would have been upped to the next level.'

Frank wished he'd been able to ask Coop to help collect motes earlier. It made Coop very happy, but also terribly stressed by a deadline he had no control over. Frank said, "Don't worry, buddy, get what you can and dump it in the bag."

The bag was not a bag, it was a box. It was a box with a single opening, constructed from reclaimed parts of the weather station Dr. Webb gave Margaret and the purloined light. It was a tall rectangle with a one-way opening at the top. All you had to do to was push the little button on the side, pour the captured motes into the box, and slap the lid shut. Christie got it about locked boxes.

Christie was also comfortable breaking rules. The motes were meant to fix Matt up a bit and maybe straighten out those badgers and the gnome. To be fair, she only took half the contents of the box and to be even more fair, if Margaret had died, nobody could have fixed Mr. Franklin.

*

Both Francis and Frank were asleep when the door opened. Greenwich upended Dr. Webb's recliner and motioned for Reed to put Marty down very gently. It was just two fingers, which shouldn't have been life threatening, but there was something very wrong with Jeffry. Marty looked like he'd eaten a poorly prepared blowfish.

When Marty was properly situated, the entire room looked at Samantha. She looked at Dr. Webb and Dr. Evans and Margaret and felt a little like Dorothy, who hadn't quite woken up. She looked at Greenwich and got her answer.

Greenwich was crying.

"Am I going to die? I don't want to die; I haven't even finished high school."

Samantha Blue Franklin couldn't honestly have said when it might have been OK to cry. Dr. Evans folded her into his arms and officially gave her permission to be herself. 

From the back of the room: "Please don't let her go on much longer, she's already dehydrated. I'm bringing an IV across, can somebody seat her on the bench?" Sam looked up at the voice and saw Margaret's eyes over the top of a surgical mask. She saw the surgical headlamp wrapped under the puffy cap that covered up all her hair. She saw scrubs and gloves and little white booties on Margaret's feet. Margaret looked up and said, "the Clean Room is no longer clean, not by a long shot. The only way I'm going to get my Clean Room clean is if every one of you, including that slab of beef on the table, remove yourselves to the hall. Or wherever, I really don't give a damn right now."

Frank asked if she could be moved to one of the operating theaters on the fourth floor. Samantha looked back up at Margaret's face and shook her head. "Margaret, I don't understand. You came and got me and said we had work to do so maybe we could fix my father, but it turns out I need fixing and it won't wait. Is that right? Is that right, Margaret?"

"I didn't lie to you, Sam, something shifted, in the elevator, maybe, and you jumped to the front of the line. I don't know what happened, sweetie, but whatever altered you in the womb wasn't a one-shot deal. It's been working overtime since your first breath. I think everything that's happened this week made a perfect storm, and whatever it is got its hooks in you."

"It grew? Like a tumor?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to dignify it by giving it a tumor or even a Big C label. I think it’s a sentient hive. If I thought I could trust your mother, I'd drag her up here right now."

"I don't think my mother would lie about this, Margaret, I think she honestly doesn't know what she did."

"Then downstairs she stays until we've got you sorted out. Dr. Evans, do you have what we need?"

Frank stood directly behind Sam and shook his head.

"Then work it out. I'm going to put her on that table and bring her down. Can somebody ask Christie to come down and handle the anesthesia? No? OK. I need another doctor..."

"Margaret, I'm pretty sure I can take care of that myself."

"You shouldn't have to, Sam, but I guess this is what we've got. OK, up you go now."

Sam dreamed of stardust and a battalion of dust motes. She felt them fill her lungs and work their way into her blood. She felt a great surge and heard Margaret yell: "FUCK!" and then the surge receded. Thousands of microscopic bots click clacked out of the host as fast as they could. They poured from her eyes, mouth, and ears; they burrowed up through her skin, swarmed the table and expired. The damage done to her internal organs was surreal. Frank and Margaret watched her little nine-year-old face turn grey and extubated her. 

*

In her dreams, Sam went to visit Christie in a room full of stars and Coop was there and they were making something in the middle of a massive black glass floor. Christie looked up and said, "Well hi there, sweetheart. I'm glad you're still with us. Wanna hang out and help? I can probably give you what you need from here and if you feel up to it, you can help us finish. What do you think?" In her dreams, Sam smiled at Christie and told Coop she loved him, but Coop was crying and couldn’t look at her. Christie said, "don't worry, just sit down beside me, we're gonna break open this silly glass ceiling in a minute, and then I'm pretty sure you'll be OK."

Sam sat down to wait on the top of a glass ceiling that held a galaxy captive, keeping it from ever being what it ought to at least have the chance to be. 

*

Coop was in the hall with his face pressed against the glass square. He didn't like what he thought he might be looking at but blinked just in case. Nope. Everybody's still standing there with their heads and hands hanging and who the hell is that on the table? The basket in his left arm felt a little wet so he knocked. Politely. Just twice. 

Margaret looked up and tried to focus on the dark spot in the window. Looked like it might be Coop. Oh well. He could probably open the door by himself, which is exactly what Coop did when Margaret turned away. Coop opened the door, flipped on the lights, and promptly turned them off again.

"This is a big-time cluster, isn't it? I'm sorry, Margaret. I'm sorry, Frank. I don't know that anything sucks much more than this. But listen, I know this is a bad time, but I need to give you something and it can't wait because, because it's wet and also because Christie said so."

Margaret looked up abruptly, "Christie? Where's Christie? Has something happened to Christie? Frank, turn the theater lights on, please. Coop is covered in stardust. Coop, why does it look like you've been rolling in stardust?"

"Because Christie asked me to break the glass ceiling, which is our floor but their ceiling and that’s still confusing and it got all over me. I'm sorry. Her very compelling argument was very compelling and please don't be mad at me, Frank! I was doing my very best, I'm still doing my very best oh fuck!"

Frank pulled his gloves off and walked over to Coop. He meant to be comforting but got distracted by the wiggling basket of surgical masks. "Whatcha got there, Coop?"

"Well, Frank, I've got a baby, I've got a letter, and I've got some other weird piece of paper, but I'm meant to give them all to you. And to Margaret. Especially to Margaret."

Frank motioned Margaret to come a little closer, but she’d been in the middle of dealing with one inconceivable death and now, apparently there was another. Frank was insistent. "Now, Margaret. I know the world just ended. Twice in a row, even, but I think this matters just as much and maybe a little bit more."

Margaret nearly spit at him but stalked over to Coop as directed. She could smell it. Margaret would know that smell anywhere except there were two smells. One was distinctly Christie, and the other was the universal scent of brand-new baby.

"Coop, is there any particular order you're meant to deliver your packages?"

"Yup, Frank, on top of it as always. Hang on." Coop dug in his pocket and came up with a tiny scroll of very old parchment. He handed the scroll to Margaret and said, "Christie wanted you to have this so you'd have something to hold onto because, Christie says, you have a hard time believing sometimes."

Margaret took the scroll and held against her face. She was having a very hard time staying on her feet. Coop said, "Hang on now, Margaret, it's gonna get better in just a sec. Are you ready?"

Frank said, "We're ready, what's in the basket?"

"A very wet baby, here, it's a ‘she’, I believe." Coop dropped the basket on the floor and thrust the very wet baby into Frank's arms. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the one last thing.

"Which of you would like the letter?" Margaret stepped forward and took the paper from Coop. She tucked herself under Frank’s free arm and cupped a tiny foot in one hand.

Dear Margaret and Frank,

Every human being is 93% stardust and if you can't see the miracle in that, get yourself a new set of lenses. This little girl is 46.5% Frank, 46.5% Margaret, and 7% me! She's the only one of her kind, a unicorn, I guess. If you could name her Sam, that would make me very happy.

So long, and thanks for all the fish. Ha ha! Love, Christie

p.s. If you really think you need an explanation, Coop is well versed in the situation, decision, and the inevitable outcome. And don't worry about Samantha, she's with me and she's feeling a lot better. She'll send her address when she's found her constellation. It's gonna be a whopper!

Coop backed out of the door on cat’s feet and closed it without any sort of snick. He pressed his face against the window for a moment and looked at the parting gift of a Supernova. Only person who got it about love from the get-go, he thought, but she sure did spread it around.

He would have stood watch outside the door, protecting the space all night, if that’s what they needed, but he had one last delivery. He kissed two fingers, pressed them against the glass, and headed toward the elevators.