Chapter Text
Sharon watches as Lydia‘s knuckles turn a ghostly shade of white. The grip she has on the armrest of her chair is so tight it is painful to look at and so she looks away, staring out of the window and into the grey Berlin sky instead. Lydia doesn‘t look at her either.
The ticking of the clock fills the silence. Sharon can no longer tell how much time has passed since Lydia returned from getting x-rayed, since she sat down in the bleak doctors office. The pale art print showing cornfields and flowers hung above the exam table does nothing to make the room more welcoming. Neither does the warm sandy colors of the walls. Seconds and minutes stretch into eternity.
She listens to Lydia’s breath. It is shallow and measured, following an exact pattern to keep herself from hyperventilating. The pattern some past assistant or teacher must have shown the maestro to keep her panic at bay. Of course Lydia has never told Sharon this but she’s no idiot. Years and years of performing together, of observing her wife in the minutes before they step onto the stage have made Sharon familiar with this little habit of hers.
Sharon wishes she could say something, anything, even though there are no words that could make this situation any more bearable. Instead of saying something, she puts her hand over Lydia‘s uninjured one. Her skin is cold to the touch…just like it is before every concert.
She looks at their joined hands. They are touching and yet it feels like they have never been further apart. She thinks this every day, thinks the distance between them has grown to a point where it could not possibly grow any further. Every day, she is proven wrong. Every day, she watches as she loses Lydia a bit more.
Sometimes she wonders when all of this started. The answer is different every time. Was it right after they got married? Later, when Francesca became Lydia‘s assistant? Was it even earlier? After moving in together? At one point in the last one and a half years? In one of the many lockdowns?
Sometimes she tries to stop it, tries to hold Lydia close. The harder she tries to hold on, the quicker Lydia seems to slip away. This is one of the very few things Sharon is certain of. And now she is here, watching silently as her wife lives through her biggest nightmare.
It hurts to see what they have become.
The silence expands, filling the distance between them.
It is so loud it hurts her ears.
The knock on the door announcing the return of the doctor finally breaks it. For a moment, Sharon thinks Lydia has forgotten how to breathe entirely. She tries to read the doctor‘s face, tries to anticipate what kind of news he is going to deliver. It is futile. His friendly face is entirely neutral. The bushy brows and eyes behind the thick blue frames of his glasses are relaxed. The rest of his features is hidden behind a medical mask.
When he takes his seat across the desk, Sharon feels the tendons in Lydia‘s hand tensing ever so slightly. Everything about this is torture.
Deep down she knows it is not a matter of if Lydia‘s left hand and wrist are inured, just a matter of how badly they are fucked up and how complicated the surgery and recovery will be. There is a reason why they are sitting in front of a renowned hand surgeon who has already patched up a number of shared acquaintances.
She watches him riffle through his stack of papers until he produces a print of the x-ray of Lydia‘s hand and wrist. It all feels surreal. Most of this year has felt surreal but this really is the cherry on top. Sharon gently runs her fingertips over the back of Lydia‘s hand in an attempt to soothe her. Lydia pulls away as if the touch is burning her cold skin.
The urge to snap is strong.
Sharon takes a deep breath. She has always been the more controlled one and she certainly is not going to lose her temper in front of this doctor —even though she‘d love to see Lydia‘s reaction. In all the time they have spent together she has not lost her temper once, no matter how recklessly Lydia behaves, no matter how much her actions sting. Sometimes she suspects this is the reason why Lydia thinks of herself as the more powerful one. Sometimes she itches to show her how very wrong she is. With every affair, every little power game the itch gets more persistent and harder to ignore.
The surgeon clears his throat to get both their attention. Now his brows are furrowed ever so slightly as he reaches for a bunch of highlighters. Sharon feels like her insides are twisting into a knot when he starts talking.
Several broken bones in her fingers and a fractured wrist. Displaced fractures. Surgery.
Lydia looks like she is about to faint.
The words that follow wash over Sharon without her really listening or understanding what they mean, sounding like they only reach her through thick layers of cotton wool.
Neon yellow highlighter to circle the fractures on the black and white print. Bright pink one to mark the locations of wires, screws and metal plates. Sharon feels a little lightheaded just hearing these things.
Surgery as quickly as possible. They already managed to clear a spot for her. The anesthetist is ready to see her. Heaps of papers, stuff for Lydia to sign, stuff for Sharon to sign —in case something goes horribly wrong. It all is a blur and Sharon does not understand half of the stuff she is being told.
Then they are alone again. She expects Lydia to break down but it never happens. Her face is dangerously pale, her breathing the same shallow pattern as before. They don’t talk and Sharon briefly wonders why she even is here if Lydia does not want her support. She would do anything to comfort Lydia, anything she needs; if she would just tell her what she needs.
Again the door opens and again Sharon feels her wife tense up. This time it is the doctor who is going to administer the anesthetics, accompanied by a nurse.
Again Sharon only manages to listen half heartedly, the words coming out of their mouths nothing more than white noise. Instead her eyes wander through the office, taking in the surroundings without discovering anything new after being stuck in this room for god knows how long. The air feels heavy and stuffy and she has a hard time telling if it is the actual air quality or the unsaid things hanging between them.
Sharon realizes that Lydia has lost weight again when the anesthetist asks for it. It is the excessive running at every possible and impossible time —yet another unhealthy habit Lydia has picked up since the start of the pandemic. At the beginning of their relationship she recognized the self destructive tendencies in Lydia very quickly and while they have gotten less dangerous over the years, Sharon feels like they are spiraling out of control since their life has come to a full stop, like there is no way to regain control, like the crash is inevitable.
“Just some stuff to calm my nerves.”
Sharon perks up at Lydia’s words. Of course she did not pay attention to the question but it does not really matter. She has always had her suspicions but it is the first time Lydia admits to taking medication against her ever present nervousness…it’s the way her metoprolol seems to run out quicker when they have more performances, how calm Lydia appears in the moments before they go on stage even when she’s been unable to eat or sleep much in the days leading up to any concert.
“What exactly?”
The woman across the table raises her eyebrows in a way that makes Sharon feel protective of Lydia again. She wants to snap at her. Everyone in the industry does it. For the sake of Lydia who shifts in her chair she keeps her mouth shut. No need to make this more uncomfortable than it already is.
Sharon can hear Lydia swallow heavily. She knows the answer before it leaves her wife’s lips, doesn’t need the verbal confirmation.
“Metoprolol.”
A part of her can’t help but wonder why Lydia has not talked to her about this, why she has never tried to find a different solution instead of stealing her heart medication. Lydia has never been one to discuss her problems and feelings openly but Sharon remembers a time where she would at least seek out physical comfort.
A time where it didn’t feel like there were light years between them.
Sharon thinks the anesthetist is going to poke further, is going to ask about heart problems, prescriptions and how she manages to get the medication regularly. It doesn’t happen. Maybe their discomfort is obvious to her, maybe she doesn’t need to know any more informations.
“The nurse is going to be here shortly. We’re going to start giving you the medication for the anesthesia immediately.”
It takes a few minutes. Lydia’s growing anxiety fills up the small room entirely. While they are alone, her iron grip on the chair loosens and Sharon watches her uninjured hand tremble and shake like a leaf in a storm.
“Lydia…”
“Don’t.”
So she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take Lydia’s hand to comfort her. It stings but it’s nothing new to Sharon. At this point she has gotten used to it —Lydia shutting her off entirely whenever she is nearing her breaking point. And Sharon knows there will be a breaking point, of course there will be. Everything about this is Lydia’s worst nightmare. In a way, it’s Sharon’s worst nightmare too, having to watch Lydia go through all of this, having to see the distress on her face and the fear in her eyes without getting to help her.
They both jump when the door opens again and the nurse enters. Sharon has a feeling they are heading directly into the inevitable crash. God, how she hates all of this. One misplaced step on the icy pavement, mere fractions of a second that brought them here. Lydia’s yelp of shock and pain keeps replaying in her mind. So do the images of her wife’s wrist swelling and turning an unhealthy shade of purple in a matter of moments, the image of her blue eyes shining with tears, tears she had barely managed to contain.
Sharon snaps out of her thoughts when Lydia suddenly grips her hand. She zoned out again, unaware of the nurse preparing everything to insert a cannula. The the iron grip she has on her is painful and it makes her think Lydia might crush her bones too. Still she doesn’t have the heart to tell her to let go.
It is all so surreal, watching Lydia go through this. Lydia who hates doctors and hospitals, who is dangerously close to fainting every time she has to get a shot, who fears nothing more than to lose control and who now has to go under and trust complete strangers to take care of her and to pull the bones in her hand back together.
Her lips and cheeks are dangerously pale. Is this the moment where she will snap, where she will lose her countenance and reveal what’s bubbling right behind her rigid and icy exterior? A small part of Sharon wishes for it, wishes for the emotions to be out in the open so she can finally do something about them. If it does not even happen now, when is it ever going to happen in their daily life?
Moments like this have become more and more rare and she almost feels bad to be wishing for Lydia to break down. Almost.
Lydia stares out of the window, Sharon’s eyes are fixated on the hands of the nurse and what she’s doing. White latex gloves being snapped on, a bright orange tourniquet being pulled tightly around her wife’s toned upper arm, a fine mist of disinfectant being sprayed, it’s biting scent in the air and a faint taste of it in her mouth on her next inhale.
The needle goes into her arm smoothly, right into her blueish vein. Lydia flinches. A few droplets of blood form where the cannula has punctured the skin. Sharon can’t look away. Usually she prefers to turn a blind eye on many things but this time she can’t. She just can’t look away even though a wave of nausea hits her at the sight. She imagines she can smell the sickly sweet scent of blood mixing with the stench of the disinfectant. Like a shark in deep waters sensing injured prey.
When did she start to have such disturbing thoughts?
Everything about this is wrong. So wrong. This is not how it’s supposed to be between them.
The nurse tapes down the cannula and tells Lydia to lay down on the stretcher on the other side of the room so she can hook her up to the drip. Sharon stays behind. She puts both hands over her face. At what point did it all go wrong? When did they start going down this path? Was it something she said? Something she did? Has Lydia even noticed the direction they are going in? Does Lydia notice what she is doing to her? What she’s doing to herself?
For a few moments the room is silent. Silence that is filled by the drops of the saline solution falling. Drip, drip, drip. What a mess.
“Sharon…”
Lydia’s voice sounds strangled and broken, entirely unfamiliar to her ears even after so many years together. Sharon doesn’t need to look at her to know what’s happening. Her wife has reached her breaking point. Finally, she thinks and immediately feels guilty for it.
“Please…”
There is no need to say what she wants. Sharon knows. She always knows what Lydia wants and needs even if she does not express it. So she wordlessly pulls over her chair so she can sit next to Lydia, so she can hold her uninjured hand. Her skin has gotten even colder; if that is even possible.
She can’t help but notice how fragile Lydia looks now that she can’t hold it together anymore. Her lower lip trembles despite her obvious effort to suppress it. The tears in her eyes are back too.
“I’m scared,” she whispers as if she is afraid someone other than Sharon could hear her confession. Lydia sniffles softly, momentarily letting go of her hand to rub her nose and eyes.
Sharon realizes that the sedative is not yet working, that the reality of the situation is only starting to sink in for Lydia and that it is hitting her with full force. Wasn’t the medication supposed to help her relax? She believes she heard something like that but with how unfocused she has been there is no way for her to be certain.
There is a painful ache deep within Sharon’s chest. As if something within her rib cage is slowly being torn apart. It’s so strong it takes her breath away. There is only one thing that can hurt her like this.
After the rejection and the anger she felt just minutes ago, she is surprised how much seeing Lydia break affects her. These days she is unsure what she feels for her wife most of the time, unsure if she stays in this marriage for love or if she stays for darker and entirely selfish reasons.
Tears trickle down her wife’s pale cheeks and Sharon feels her heart break for her. She will always have affection and love for Lydia, no matter how rejected and abandoned she feels, no matter what she does and how many affairs she has with her protégés —for better or for worse.
“I know,” she answers. “But I’m right here, Lydia. I’m right here.”
She rests her head on Lydia’s chest. The position is awkward and her neck aches almost instantly but she doesn’t dare to pull away or try to readjust, worried that Lydia might change her mind about wanting physical comfort if she gives her a chance.
For the first time since they have entered this room she feels like things between them are okay, like the invisible walls and barriers separating them exist no longer. At least for the moment. Nothing can happen to them in this bubble, nothing can happen to them as long as Sharon keeps Lydia close, as long as she is able to steer her into the right direction.
Sharon can’t tell how much time passes. For how long they just stay like this and listen to the silence together. It sounds different than the ones before, has lost its tension entirely. She listens to Lydia’s heartbeat too, listens as it slowly returns to a normal speed. She takes in how Lydia’s rib cage moves up and down evenly with every breath, takes in the subtle scent of her cologne and the conditioner she used on her hair this morning, the slight stickiness of her skin now that the cold sweat has dried.
She is entirely aware of her body, aware of what she needs right in this moment and so Sharon swallows down her own nervousness at the thought of Lydia having to go under and does the thing she always does: being Lydia’s rock.
When a nurse comes to take Lydia away to surgery, Sharon kisses her goodbye. Lydia’s wedding ring finds her way into the pocket of her coat. Lydia is unusually calm, calmer than she is on a day to day basis and Sharon has a feeling she wasn’t the only one sensing her intense anxiety.
“I‘ll be there when you wake up.”
She kisses her one last time before the nurse lets them know that for now their time is up.
Only when she leaves the hospital, when she steps outside of the huge building and the crisp air of the Berlin winter hits her, she feels like she can breathe properly again, like she is finally releasing the breath she didn’t know she was holding the whole time. It’s a welcome relief and for a few moments she just stands there, taking in the feeling of her lungs filling with fresh air and oxygen, breathing away the anxiety.
Inside the pocket of her coat, her fingers tighten around Lydia’s wedding ring.
We will be okay, she tells herself. I have to be okay. Lydia will be okay if I keep her safe.