Boring Disclaimer:  The characters of Philip and Michael Watters are the property of David E.
Kelly.  No copyright infringement is intended in their use.


                         Still Watters
                                
                       by Gail M. Eppers

     For the third time that night, Philip awoke with a start and looked at his clock radio,
thinking he was late for work.  3:04 am.  About an hour since the last time.  He wasn't worried
about oversleeping, but he checked the alarm setting anyway.  He wouldn't even mind
oversleeping tomorrow, or rather, today, since it was past midnight.  It wasn't going to be an easy
day.  He wasn't going in to work.  His collegues at Chicago Hope all knew his situation and
wouldn't expect him back for awhile yet.  Dr. Thurmond had made it a point, in fact, of assuring
him that the job would be there when he felt ready, if he promised to wait until he really was
ready. 
     He glanced over at the other side of the bed, which was empty.  It had been empty for
some months now, but tonight was different.  He'd found that no matter how sick she'd gotten,
no matter how many oncologists told him there was no hope, no matter how much his brain told
him they were right, in his heart he could still imagine her getting better and coming home.  But
not anymore.  Now that side of the bed was empty for real.  Oh, Rose, he thought, help me.  Of
course, there was no answer.  No sleepy arm reaching around his shoulder.  Not even the rustle
of her turning toward him under the covers.  
     Heaving a sigh, Philip resolved himself to this restless night and sat up in bed, leaning
against the headboard.   The moonlight coming in through the unshaded window cast eerie
shadows in the room.  He was tired, both physically and emotionally, but terribly conscious of
the coming ordeal.  The rest of his life.  Without her.  He rubbed his weary eyes and thought of
their son, Michael, 16, probably sleeping soundly in the next room, secure in the knowledge that
his mother was no longer suffering.  Michael had worried about that constantly.  "She's not in
pain, is she, Pop?  She can't feel it, anymore, right?"  
     A wave of guilt washed over Philip.  He still couldn't believe he'd done it.  He'd had an
affair.  And not just a one night stand, either.  He'd been sneaking around with Stephanie for
three years before Rose got sick.  Despite all his medical knowledge, he still had trouble not
seeing the cancer as a punishment from God.  Then why didn't you give it to me?  he'd asked
Him.  The silent treatment was a favorite tactic of God's.  That made it worse.  He wasn't sure
how long the affair would have gone on had Rose not gotten sick.  Had the cancer not reminded
him about what was really important.  He'd been honest with Rose, had broken it off with
Stephanie and begged for her forgiveness, and Rose, angel that she was, had given it to him.  But
the guilt still haunted him.  He supposed that was God's punishment for his indiscretion...be
forgiven but feel the guilt anyway.  
     He remembered the night he'd told Rose.  Of course, she had suspected as much, so it
was more confirming her suspicions than revealing a secret.  But the look on her face, and the
memory of that look, twisted in Philip's heart.  He kicked himself daily now.  Why had he done
it?  How could he have done such a thing to Rose?  He would never be with another woman
now.  He knew that.  It might have been possible, after losing Rose, to fall in love again, but not
after hurting Rose.  
     In time, he would go back to his surgery.  Fortunately, his job provided plenty of
opportunities to keep his mind occupied.  He could lose himself in his work.  He had certainly
gained a new perspective through all this, the perspective of the patient and their family.  If he
didn't forget (and how could he?), it would make him a better doctor.  He wished he could fast
forward to a time when this was in the distant past, to when this experience became nothing
more than a source of character.  He began to wonder what else the future had in store for him. 
For the immediate future, anyway, it would not be sleep.  If he was going to make it through the
next day, he thought, he'd better start drinking some coffee now.  He threw his covers off, and
slid his feet into his slippers, and shuffled quietly down the stairs to the kitchen.


     In the next room, teenaged Michael also lay awake.  He hadn't slept at all.  His mother's
funeral was tomorrow.  The finality of it kept running through his head.  She's dead.  Dead. 
Silent tears slid down his face and dripped on his pillow, but he just kept staring at the ceiling. 
The world felt different to him now.  He looked around his room, which had not changed, but it
seemed different somehow.  That desk and chair might be physically the same, but yesterday
they had existed in the same world as his mother.  He would rather have lost the desk and chair. 
He would rather have lost anything, including his own life.  
     Over the months, as she had gotten sicker, he had prayed as she had taught him.  But he
prayed for God to put the sickness in him instead of her.  Of course, it never happened.  No
matter how much he had pleaded, God ignored him.  For now, anyway, he hated God.  Oh, Ma,
help me, he thought.  If God, *her* God, wouldn't answer him, maybe she could now.
     He wondered what his father was doing.  Could he possibly be sleeping?  He wouldn't
have been surprised really.  Although his father had done the hospital vigil, and been
appropriately worried all during Rose's battle with cancer, Michael had sensed something else. 
An undercurrent that really began before all of this.   By all outward appearances, his parents
had been happily married all along.  But two years ago, Michael had begun to notice small
differences in how they treated each other.  They didn't touch as much, and sometimes one of
them slept on the couch downstairs.  Oh, he wasn't supposed to know about that.  Whoever had
drawn the short straw would always leave after he was supposed to be asleep, but he'd seen it. 
Often, he wasn't even sure which one it was hidden under the pillow and blanket as they loped
down the stairs, but it didn't matter.  It was one of them.
     Michael had suspected his father had done something.  It was pretty easy to guess more
or less what, and he felt a glimmer of self-satisfaction when his father had taken him aside and
revealed the truth.  For awhile, Michael had blamed his father for his mother's cancer, but
eventually, resentful as he was, he had to admit that feeling was wrong.  The only thing he could
blame his father for was the tortured look on his mother's face when they visited.  Oh, some of it
was the chemo perhaps.  Only someone who'd known her his whole life would have seen the
difference.  Even through the forced smiles he could see it. 
     He swung his arms back and folded them under his head.  So, this is what it was like.  To
have someone you love die.  He felt a hard lump grow in his throat and fought it.  People die all
the time, he told himself, and, generally speaking, for everyone that died there were people left
behind who felt like this.  He began to understand why his father had gone into medicine.  He
had to admit his father was good at his job.  He had just turned out to be a rotten husband and
father.  But could a good doctor ever be a good father, too?  Michael thought so.  They weren't
mutually exclusive.
     Suddenly, Michael began to feel that life was way too complicated.  He rubbed his tired
eyes, not wanting to think anymore.  He didn't want to analyze or imagine or plan or dream.   He
knew he wasn't going to sleep.  After his sixteenth glance at the clock, he thought about going
down to fix himself an early breakfast, and maybe losing himself in a late late movie.  Just as he
was about to slip out of bed, he heard his father's bedroom door open.
     Michael stayed quiet and listened as the familiar slippered feet padded down the creaky
stairs.  He heard the faint clink of a mug and spoon, and rolled over in his bed, his back to the
door.  He didn't want to face him right now.  He'd have to face him in the morning, that was bad
enough, and day after day for the rest of his life.  But for now, he wouldn't.  He curled himself
under the blanket and hugged his pillow, staring through the dim light at the wall.  It was going
to be a long night.


     Philip sat sipping his coffee and thinking.  Had Michael heard him come down?  Did he
realize that his father was restless?  He knew Michael was angry at him, and he wanted to clear
the air, but he wasn't sure how.  Afterall, Philip knew what he'd done was wrong.  Michael had
every right to be angry.  He was afraid that if he tried to approach his son it would erupt into a
shouting match, even at this late hour.  It always did.  Why? Michael would ask.  Why did you
do it?  And Philip never had an answer for him.  The boy would have a difficult enough day.  If
by some chance he was actually sleeping, let him sleep.  
     As Philip crept back up to bed to try again for some sleep, he considered checking on
Michael.  What if he was lying awake, full of questions?  Or even crying?  Philip didn't hear any
sounds coming from the room, but he paused with his hand on his own doorknob.  It was his son. 
They shared a loss.  
     He approached his son's door, even placed a hand on it as if feeling for warmth.  Then
shook his head and returned to his room.  Maybe after Michael had some time to work through
the anger.  It wasn't a good time to deal with so many issues.  He was probably sleeping, soundly
or no, but sleeping.  It had been easy getting forgiveness from Rose, but not from Michael.  He
knew that Michael had not forgiven him.  Philip didn't really expect him to.  But perhaps an
understanding could be reached.  Some kind of acceptance of things past.  They would talk. 
After the services, maybe.  Or tomorrow.  Or next week.
     In the meantime, Philip crawled back into bed, lay back, and stared at the ceiling.

THE END