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The first package arrives on a Tuesday. Frank doesn't get it until Friday, because he and Abby are trying to see whether it will be easier to stay married if they give each other a little time apart. (It doesn't. It just shows them that they're happier separated.)
Abby texts him that there's a package for him at the house. He hasn't ordered anything. She tells him it looks personal. There's a little text chain back and forth, until she mentions the postage stamp and he lets her know he'll pick it up asap.
ASAP turns out to be almost the weekend. (They take the kids to the park; he puts the package in the car and avoids her odd looks. It's not for her, though, is it?)
He unpacks it at home on the couch, feeling a little sick and giddy.
It's a T-shirt. Alberta, it says in large capital letters on the front. Below, there's a minimalist drawing of a mountain range, trees, and a lone buffalo in the middle. It says Canada at the bottom, in case there's another one elsewhere.
There's a note, too.
Because you like those touristy tees.
He does.
It's in that moment that he realizes how tense he has been for the past week, how scared that Robby would do a buffalo jump and end up with his head smashed-in. The grief he's been feeling for what used to be them has been pent up for too long. He sits on his couch and cries tears and snot. Everything he's been keeping inside breaks out of him: fear, worry, grief, and the silent panic that sits just behind the sternum.
Once he's calmed down, eyes burning and a massive headache pounding in his skull, he texts Abbot if he's heard from Robby.
"I haven't," Abbot says when he calls a moment later and Frank picks up. "Have you?"
"He sent me a T-shirt."
Abbot is quiet on the other end. When he speaks again, it's with the most careful voice Frank has ever heard from him. "Yeah?" It sounds so hopeful that he could start crying all over again. He realizes his eyes water a moment later. Apparently he will.
"Yeah," he replies, hoping his voice doesn't sound as squeaky as he fears it does.
Abbot is silent once more. Frank presses the phone to his ear. Finally, there's a quiet "Good."
They disconnect the call soon after. When he's dropped the phone on the couch, Frank tilts his head back and wipes his eyes… with the damn T-shirt. He debates what to write back while he puts it in the wash with a few other things. He ends up with a simple Thank you. And because that feels awfully short after receiving a gift with a note, he adds I appreciate it. He's an idiot. He is a moron. Who writes that? But he can neither take it back nor send a third message without coming off like an even bigger idiot, so he leaves it at that. (He doesn't expect an answer and doesn't get one. It's not like that. They're not communicating back and forth. They're talking at each other. And for right now? That's enough. It feels like reconciliation.)
He puts the T-shirt in his closet for the weekend, not wanting to sully it by wearing it to work. He nods at Abbot at hand off. They don't talk about it; there is no need to. But he can see the relief in Abbot's eyes.
The second thing he gets is a postcard from Cut Bank, Montana. Apparently at some point in the past, it was the coldest spot in the nation, because there's a giant statue of a penguin wearing a red, pointy hat proclaiming just that. Behind it, a sign welcomes travelers to Glacier Gateway Inn.
A must-see for Penguin fans.
Fuck it.
He grabs his phone and texts Robby Noot-noot.
He's a loser.
For what feels like a millisecond, three dots appear below his message, but they're gone the moment he dares to blink. There is nothing else.
The postage stamp does not say Cut Bank, Montana. That's what gets him. That Robby apparently debated whether to send this to him. Frank worries that Robby regretted that first package, regretted reaching out. He doesn't sleep very well for a night or two.
When he sees Abbot two days later, he tells him. Props himself against the counter of the hub, close, their upper arms almost touching, the way he's seen Abbot and Robby stand together sometimes, and leans in. Tells him, "He went to Montana last week."
Because he feels like they've formed a sort of alliance; brothers in worry.
Abbot turns to look at him. "Another T-shirt?"
"A postcard."
The corner of Abbot's mouth tugs up. "Well, there's a lot of open road in Montana. That's gotta be nice for bikers."
Frank dips his head, studies the counter, and scoffs. "Robby, a biker." Some part of him warms at the idea—at the very true fact of the matter, because Robby is a biker, apparently. (Frank is not immune to fantasies. He is - technically, officially, at least, still - married and he has two kids, but that does not erase that other side of him.)
Abbot's only answer is a laugh.
He doesn't hear from Robby for two weeks after that, long enough to make him antsy. He knows he's more tense than usual, but then Abbot slides a postcard towards him at hand off, picture up. Learning that Robby seems to be a fan of Oregonian cheese calms him. This is fine. Abbot can get postcards, too.
"Was delivered here," Abbot explains and turns the postcard around.
Since you apparently share.
"I texted him," Abbot says with a rueful smile. "Told him I'm glad he got to Montana or something to that effect. He knows you told me about the card."
Abbot is calm, unconcerned, jovial. Meanwhile, panic rises like white noise in Frank's ears. Does Robby think Frank betrayed him by sharing that he was okay? With Abbot? Does he now think Frank tells everybody about where he's going? He nods dumbly and excuses himself. He shouldn't have said anything. Is this like that first deception all over again? Robby's trust, gone up in flames once and now a second time. (This is ridiculous. Frank just didn't want Abbot to worry needlessly.)
He doesn't say anything else, just lets the next presentation of an intern sweep him away from Abbot with the vow to not betray Robby's confidence anymore. Although, thinking of the Oregon cheese card, it probably doesn't matter. He won't get any more mail directed at him alone.
He feels sorry for himself until he does a successful reanimation. That gives him a high that lasts until he twists during a transfer and nearly buckles under the sudden pain that spikes up his back. Highs and lows. Every fucking day.
When he looks up, he's startled to find Park watching him from the other trauma room. He nods and bows out and sticks a heat patch on his back in the bathroom. Then he takes five at the hub with a bottle of water and a heavy, thick tongue. Hunched over, because there is no way he's standing up straight for another five.
He's an awful human being. That's what it comes down to.
His therapist squeezes him in between sessions and tells him he's not. He just feels that way. They're working on him not believing himself when he tells himself things like that. Not everything is his fault. His addiction did not, in fact, make him the worst person on the planet. (But how would his therapist know?)
Park corners him after coming down for a consult, bullying him into a trauma room, crossing his impressive arms, and looking at him with those icy eyes. "So."
"I told you—"
"You told me that it would get better with PT. I agreed on that condition."
"I can't take a month or two off. I just got back."
Park doesn't let up and Frank gets an appointment for imaging and another for a more hands-on consult and then an appointment for a surgery the moment Park has an opening. He's allowed to veto if the timing is objectively bad. (Park tells him he's being ridiculous for worrying, after all, Park the Shark is taking care of him and should that not assuage any fears he has? Truth is, Frank's fears have very little to do with Park or the surgery itself.)
Park argues, "Your residency will take another year. Minimally invasive, four weeks tops. Two with temporary mobility aids. I'll talk to HR."
Frank gets a call from a Susan he's never heard of, gets the provisional, preliminary okay for two weeks off when that opening arises, and doesn't think about it again.
He deals with the sadness that comes with not getting another postcard, but he does buy cheese from Tillamook a week later when he's at the store.
"It's Oregonzola," he tells Tanner who makes a face.
"But why is it blue?"
There is no good way to tell a kid what the blue in blue cheese is without lying. It's mold. It's just that. An edible fungus. He tries to argue that it's penicillin. (Which is true. He's not even lying. But Tanner does not want to eat antibiotics via strong-tasting cheese either. Not even as a sauce with noodles.)
Before he realizes it, a month has gone by since the fourth of July and he feels like he's truly back with all the confidence he had before he left. He's more anxious, too, but he has new ways of dealing with that. He has tools now. Tools and a therapist and a shit ton of luck. (He's massively, massively lucky, because he learns that he does not actually get cravings. That's not something to take for granted, he's aware of that. He counts his blessings.)
Despite the awful feeling that he will never get another postcard, he keeps checking his mail with a glimmer of hope that refuses to stay down. Even seeing Abbot at hand off, he tries to gauge from the other man's posture whether there's any news.
There isn't. No card and no news. Abbot looks relaxed, though. Maybe there is news and he just doesn't share with Frank. (Abbot is the better choice for Robby to update. Abbot, at least, doesn't gossip about where Robby is going. That knowledge burns.)
He feels good about work, semi-good about the separation, not-so-good about the mail situation—until Park calls one night and tells him not to eat any solids for the rest of the day or tomorrow and to come in around nine. He's already cleared everything with HR.
Frank does not want to go under. (His fears have very little to do with the surgery itself and semi-little with not being able to finish his R4 year. Six years ago he was afraid a surgery might set him back a year in med school. He has different worries now.) There is something about anesthesia and being under and his recovery that he does not like. He's afraid it will feel great to be numb and floaty for a bit. It feels like a trap.
He also doesn't want to be home for two weeks and he's not sure how to work in a wheelchair. He's not useful in the ED in a wheelchair. (Other people? Sure. He's even seen Abbot wheel around once or twice. But that's other people. That standard does not apply to him.)
Park looks actually warm when he talks to Frank. Warmer than he's ever seen the guy. "I've informed PHP of the procedure. They will know exactly what we give you and how much."
"You've informed them."
"That's what I just said." There is a sigh. "I'll be there every step of the way."
He needn't have worried. It feels awful to go under. He hates losing control and it makes him a little nauseous. He clings to wakefulness. The last thing he hears is a "Jesus, finally."
When he wakes up (after a false start or two), there's a card by his bedside. Not a postcard, but an envelope. He thinks at first it's his file, but it's red and blue and smaller and not a manila folder. He's too out of it to reach for it or read it. Maybe tomorrow.
Before that can happen, Abbot comes by and sits with him, eyes hard and frustrated.
"You didn't tell anyone."
Frank shakes his head. Why would he?
Abbot is… displeased. His mouth is a set of hard lines; his whole face is. Frank has a hard time concentrating looking at him looking so stern. Abbot seems to realize that he's making Frank uneasy, because he melts a little. Becomes softer. More palatable. That may even be a smile.
Frank's facial features are completely out of his control at the moment. He doesn't know if he smiles back. He knows he blinks back. Slowly.
The card has been sent with Express Mail. Abbot opens it for him, which makes Frank think that he was the one who put it there in the first place. His movements are too fast for Frank to see who the envelope is addressed to and he doesn't want to interrupt to ask. When Abbot shows him the card and he sees the picture, he wants to laugh. He even starts laughing, but discovers quickly that's a bad idea, even with pain medication, and then he just huffs. (Fire. It feels like fire and he almost chokes a little.)
"What does it say?"
Abbot opens the penguin card and holds it into Frank's line of sight without looking at the text.
Take your time.
He doesn't know why, but his eyes well up. His nose clogs up and he pulls up wetly until Abbot finds him a tissue.
"Sad get better wishes?"
Frank shakes his head and shows Abbot the text. (Betraying Robby's trust once again. He may be the world's worst human being after all. Over and over, the same mistake. It makes him want to cry. His already clogged up nose burns high up between his eyes.)
Abbot sounds sad when he says, "I don't know what that means, Langdon."
That's okay. He tries to say as much with a slow blink. The thing is, Robby is… not patient. He is patient with patients, enough so that he has none left for his residents or the administration or anyone else. Everything needs to happen fast and faster. Frank remembers when he hurt his back, when he felt like there was no time to rest, no time to get better at a slower pace. He rushed it. He fucked up.
So, to be told to take his time… he doesn't know if it's an apology, but it sounds like one to him.
He can't put that in words, though. He just lets the card fall onto his chest and puts his hand on top of it for a moment, to take a breather, before handing it to Abbot. "Put it up?" he asks quietly and watches as Abbot carefully sets the card on the table so the penguin looks at Frank.
It's a drawing, cute, for children or whimsical adults. The penguin has a plaster on its head, its cheeks are flushed. It could have any ailment, but the sentiment is that it'll surely get better soon. It's the rainbow, he thinks. The rainbow says things will look up soon.
"You good?" Abbot asks. He probably asks because a minute ago Frank cried over a get-well card.
"I'm good."
"I've got to go to my shift. You staying here for a bit?"
Frank huffs. Like he's got a choice. "Might go to the movies later," he replies. "Or tennis. Haven't decided yet."
"Funny man."
Frank raises his loose fist at the one Abbot is offering him and taps it. Or rather, Abbot takes pity on him and taps his. There is only little coordinated movement on Frank's part. He feels very heavy. "Right back at you."
As Abbot gets up, Frank stops him. "Before you go. Where's my phone?"
"Right here," Abbot replies and reaches for it on the night stand. "Want it on the bed?"
Frank's mobility may be shit, but he nods. "I'll try." If it doesn't work, he can leave a voice message. Abbot puts it in his open palm and leaves—after checking the vitals on Frank's equipment. He's not allowed to do that, Frank thinks stubbornly, even though it's probably automatic after so many years.
It takes Frank a while and he has to delete about ten typos, but he manages to text Robby Thank you I will.
Physiotherapy sucks. Being home sucks. Working with temporary mobility aids sucks. Park seems to have some weird personal stake in this, because he visits and checks on Frank every couple of days and makes appreciative noises. Frank doesn't know where he finds the time. Park is also the one to decide when to take out the stitches and does so himself, spontaneously in the ER. Frank understands that even less.
Working with a wheelchair is surprisingly easy. Jefferson rolls by to give him tips and makes jokes about being glad to have someone at the same eye height for a while. He shows him the ropes of getting around the hospital on wheels. They roll to lunch. (There is a lot of insistence on Caleb's part not to suddenly say 'Let's roll' all the time. Also making every 'go' a 'roll' gets tiring for everybody except for Frank.)
He gets another card, to the hospital again, but addressed firmly to him.
Apparently, Robby went to Morley Nelson Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area. Frank googles it and it seems Robby is on his way back to the east. (The card may be from Morley Nelson Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area, but the postage stamp says Salt Lake City.)
Heard you're on a roll.
Robby is a funny, funny man.
He keeps the card in his wheelchair and doesn't share with Abbot. It seems that Abbot is doing just fine talking to Robby and telling him about Frank.
He is so happy to have received that card that he forgets to write back for almost a whole day.
It's rolling well. He types it, deletes it, types it again, hits send.
Park's estimate of 'four weeks tops' was an underestimation. It actually turns into the two weeks at home, two in the wheelchair, two days on his feet with a back brace, followed by another one and a half weeks in the wheelchair and then one week with a back brace and more sitting. It's going great. He can't even lift a chart without being the center of attention.
The first time he gets a message on his phone, he doesn't realize it's from Robby. He opens the chat from the lock screen without looking at it, and finds a picture of a giant glass dome with triangle panels. Inside is a lush garden with high palm trees. He thinks Abby took the kids someplace new, only then does he realize that the past couple of messages in that chat history are
Thank you.
I appreciate it.
Noot-noot.
Thank you I will
He zooms into the picture, takes a moment to really appreciate what he's been sent, and finally writes, This looks beautiful. Renovating at home?
Des Moines Botanical Gardens, is Robby's answer. Then he sends a picture of a very prickly cactus with the caption Picture of me.
It's fitting. So fucking fitting.
Prickly for protection, he writes back.
It's an apology from Robby and forgiveness from Frank and there are actual words they need to say to each other, but they can have this metaphor a little longer, he thinks.
He's at the hub, finally back in the swing of things, still on light duty and not allowed to do much of anything, but at least returned to standing height. Even if everyone looks at him weird now. (He never told anyone here about the accident, never told anyone but Robby about the back injury, didn't tell them about the surgery, and just showed up in a wheelchair one day, announcing himself by accidentally ramming a cart on the way in.)
He's propped up on the counter, tired and more than ready to go home, chatting with Lena, when Abbot appears next to him, copying his pose.
"You good?"
"Tired." He's more upbeat in the mornings. At seven at night? Not so much. (Also, if he's honest, there's a reason he's on light duty.)
"But good?"
Frank thinks about it for a moment. He nods when he remembers he texted with Robby. Texted. Back and forth, four messages in total from Robby to him. Two pictures. A self-deprecating joke. "Great."
Abbot just shakes his head at Frank like he expected a better answer. "You're as bad as each other," he says, leaving Frank with more evidence that he talks to Robby about Frank and Robby has things to say that are not negative. Maybe. Hopefully.
He gets a text a week later. Ever been to Pittsburgh Botanic Garden?
He was once, maybe ten years ago. In winter, at a time when nobody has any business being in a botanical garden. He doesn't want to say yes, precisely because it's not a great memory. He doesn't want to lie, either. In the end, he answers, Is it as nice as Des Moines? (So what if his fingers get a little shaky and his armpits a little sweaty.)
Let's find out.
Frank's heart flutters cautiously. Does that mean Robby is back? He puts the phone down, gets something to drink, picks the phone back up, takes a breath, and answers.
Just say when.