OOM: Break

[argyle_princess]

It's really not hard to convince a school nurse you're not feeling well when you look (quite frankly) like you're about to faint.

It is, however, impossible to convince her you can drive yourself home.

Hannah thinks she remembers that her mother had something important to do today (three days ago?), so she can't imagine that Steph was at all pleased to get a "come get your daughter" call. Hannah's right about that.

"Hannah," says her mother, briskly, coming into the office, "this had better--" She stops short.

Hannah raises one hand and waves. "Hi, Mom."

"Give me just a minute, okay, Hannah?" she says, in a completely different tone.

Hannah nods. "Sure."

Her mother is already dialing her hyper-efficient assistant. It doesn't even take the minute she's asked for. "Terry? Steph. Cancel everything, I won't be back today."

Hannah doesn't remember much about getting home, except thinking that the nurse was right, and she really should not have tried to drive. She feels like she's moving through a fog; everything takes just a little too much effort, one foot in front of the other.

They don't talk in the car. That waits till they get home, till Steph has managed to get her only child up the steps and into pajamas and settled in bed with camomile tea. (Hannah used to insist on camomile tea when she didn't feel well, something that can be traced to her parents' reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit to her over and over when she was small. It's habit to fix it for her now.)

"All right, Hannah," says her mother, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "What's going on, honey?"

Hannah wraps her hands around her tea, and looks for the words. It's hard enough to explain this when she doesn't have to censor herself. "I, um, I had some . . . some bad news," she says, at last.

"About?" Steph prompts.

"Henry. A friend of his family's called. Um. There's, um . . . there's been an accident. He's . . . he's not in a good place. Not real forthcoming with the details, but, um. . . . they don't know if Henry's going to . . . I don't know if he's . . . what's going to happen."

"Oh, Hannah," says her mother, putting her arms around her daughter gently. Hannah is stiff and still for a moment, and then she breaks into great, gasping, shaking sobs.

They sit like that for a long time, Hannah crying onto her mother's shoulder, Steph murmuring nonsense and rubbing her daughter's back.

"Hannah?" her mother says, finally, when Hannah has subsided into sniffles and hiccups. "Do you need to go to Vermont?"

"What?" She's too tired to sort out why on Earth she'd need to go to Vermont in the middle of all this.

"Do you need to go see Henry?" Steph asks, gently.

"Oh," says Hannah, and then shakes her head. "No."

Steph looks a little surprised. "Are you sure? If you do, honey, we'll find a way to get you there."

Hannah shakes her head again. "No. Thank you, but no. I don't really know his family and he wouldn't know I was there, anyway. It's just more for everyone to have to deal with, right?"

Besides, he's a long, long way from Vermont.

"All right," says her mother. "But if you change your mind . . ."

"I'll let you know."

"Do you want to talk?" Steph asks.

"There's really not much more to say, is there?"

"Maybe later," Steph says.

"Maybe."

"I think now you should try to sleep, though, Hannah."

"I know," she says. "Everyone keeps telling me that."

"Well, everyone is right," says her mother, with the air of someone who is humoring someone who is distraught and therefore not quite making sense. "Come on, honey," she adds, wrapping one arm around Hannah and settling her daughter's head on her shoulder. It makes Hannah feel like she's about six years old, but that's all right.

It's a long time before she falls asleep, but once she does, it's even longer before she wakes up to face all this again.