Title: The Railroad Recalibration (7/9)
Author: phantagrae
Rating: G
Summary: My idea of how Sheldon's train journey might have gone. A million thanks to my super beta, FoxPhile!
Feedback: Yes, please. phantagrae@earthlink.net
Author's Notes: A million thanks to my super beta, FoxPhile!
Chapter Seven
He was woken by the sound of his hotel phone ringing persistently. He scowled at it with bleary, bloodshot eyes, but finally picked it up.
"Yes?" he rasped into the phone, clamping his eyes shut against the morning light streaming in through the window.
"Sir, this is the front desk," a man answered. "I believe you had left instructions to call you this morning at seven AM. We've been trying to call you. It's now eight AM."
"Thanks…" Sheldon said absently, hanging up the phone and trying to remember where he was and what he was doing.
New Orleans, seven AM…he rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the restroom. His bladder was bursting. As he stood before the sink washing his hands and splashing his face, the horrible taste in his mouth finally brought everything back. Today was Saturday. Saturday morning.
The train!
He quickly grabbed his things from the bathroom counter and threw them into his duffel, then went quickly but methodically through the room to make sure he had grabbed everything. He didn't have time to shower but he took a few seconds to grab a fresh t-shirt. The one he had been wearing seemed to smell of vomit…
He dashed downstairs and checked out, getting a taxi downstairs to rush him to the train station.
He checked in at the station just in time to pick up his reserved coach seat tickets. To his relief there was a slight delay in the train's scheduled departure time, giving him just enough time to take a quick picture of the Sunset Limited. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but his head was pounding and the sun was already too bright and the temperature already hot and sticky at nine AM.
He found a seat near a window on what seemed to be the shadier side of the train. He had a nine-hour ride before him and all he wanted to do right now was rest and try not to throw up again.
He closed his eyes and prayed that no one would try to talk to him.
By noon they were approaching the Texas border and he felt well enough to go to the dining car and order some plain toast and water. With that light fare to settle his stomach, he made his way back to his seat and let the movement of the train lull him into a fitful doze—not asleep enough to really rest, but not awake enough to do anything else.
By the time the train pulled into Houston in the evening, Sheldon was exhausted. He had managed to get over his hangover, but he felt like he was coming down with something. God only knew what kind of germs he had come into contact with in New Orleans.
Beyond that, he was feeling the weight of everything he had been through in the last week—the possibility of living alone, of moving away from Pasadena, of losing his girlfriend. The more he considered all the possibilities, the more confused he became.
He disembarked and quickly located the bus station, boarding a bus heading over the bay toward the one place he wanted to be more than anything.
Home.
Sheldon grasped the doorjamb with his left hand to steady himself and raised his right hand to knock on the door.
*Knock-knock-knock*
"Mother."
He swayed on his feet and leaned closer to the door.
*Knock-knock-knock*
"Mom."
He leaned his body up against the door.
*Knock-knock-knock*
"Mommy…"
He finally lowered his forehead until it touched the wooden door as he listened for his mother. At last he heard her hurried footsteps on the other side of the door and he managed to pull himself upright just as she opened it.
"Shelly!" she exclaimed, holding her arms open to him. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you call?"
He couldn't answer for a moment because of the large lump that suddenly formed in his throat.
"Come in, honey," his mother said, taking his arm as he half-stumbled over the threshold, leading him into the living room.
Sniffing wetly, he drew the back of his hand beneath his nose and dropped his duffel on the floor.
"Do you want something to eat, Shelly? Can I get you anything?" She fussed over him, taking his shoulder bag and jacket.
He shook his head and finally found his voice.
"I just need to sit down, Mom," he said hoarsely. "I'm very tired."
"Of course, sweetheart," she said, leading him to the nearby armchair. She sat on the sofa near him and studied his face.
Sheldon looked at her and then turned away from her scrutiny. He knew she was already figuring out that he wasn't feeling well and that he was exhausted.
"I'd like to stay here for a day or two, if that's okay, Mom," he said quietly, studying his fingers. "I've been staying in hotel rooms and sleeping on trains and I just need…I need…" He wasn't sure what he needed apart from a shower and sleep. Lots of sleep.
"Sure, baby," she replied. She stood and pressed her palm against his forehead. "You look like you're coming down with something. I want to make you some hot tea or warm lemonade, and maybe some toast. Does that sound good?" She took his bearded chin and turned his face up toward the light.
He nodded into her hand.
"And I think you should try to take a bath, son," she said a little more firmly. "You've gotten a little…ripe." She softened her words with a gentle smile.
"I was going to take a shower," he answered.
"I think you should take a bath," she repeated. "You look a little too unsteady on your feet. I don't want you passing out in the shower."
"Yes, ma'am," he agreed quietly. Lying down in a hot bath sounded like a great idea. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn't seem to push himself up from the armchair. The minute he'd stepped into the house, all of his energy seemed to have left him.
She helped him to his feet and led him back to his old bedroom.
"There's clean underwear and pajamas in the drawers," she said. "I'll get your bathwater started for you." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and left the room.
He looked around at his old toys and books and a wave of nostalgia washed through him. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed, eyeing his pillow longingly, but he knew if he put his head down, he'd never be able to get up for his bath, so he pushed himself up from the bed and set about getting the clean things he would need.
His mother was just shutting off the faucet as he entered the bathroom.
"There you go, Shelly-bean," she said, straightening up and wiping her hand on a towel.
"Thanks, Mom," he said, setting his clean underwear on the closed toilet.
"I put a clean towel on the bar there for you and I checked the temperature of the bath—it's just the way you like it," she said warmly. "You let me know if you need anything, okay?"
He nodded and waited for her to leave, then stripped out of his dirty clothes and eased himself down into the tub.
As the hot water lapped over him, he let out a sigh that hitched into a sob. He hadn't really admitted to himself how much he missed being in familiar surroundings. The scents in his mother's house hadn't really changed since he was a child and he was suddenly flooded with memories of those days. He curled onto his side in the tub, as much as his long body would allow, and slipped his head under the surface for a moment, letting the water envelop him like an embrace.
After a moment, he sat up and began scrubbing himself from head to toe, washing away the grime and confusion of the last few weeks. Or trying to. The grime came off easily enough, but everything else seemed to cling to him like a stain on a white shirt.
At last he struggled to his feet and gave himself a quick rinse with the showerhead as the dirty bathwater drained away, finally climbing out of the tub and toweling himself dry. He changed into his clean tee-shirt and underpants and wrapped the large bath towel over his shoulders like a blanket, dropped his dirty clothes into the hamper in the bathroom, and made his way back to his room.
The pillow beckoned him once again and this time he gave in, practically flinging himself onto the bed, sprawling across it and burying his face in the familiar scent of the laundry detergent his mother had used as long as he could remember. He drew the towel across his body and let himself relax into sleep.
Mary entered a few minutes later with a cup of hot lemonade and a plate of toast with the crust trimmed off.
"Sheldon, honey, are you awake?" she called softly as she put the plate and cup on the nightstand.
He stirred groggily and looked up at her.
"Honey, why didn't you put your pajamas on? Or at least get under the covers?" she asked, smoothing his damp hair away from his face.
"I was too tired, Mom," he said. "And I've gotten used to sleeping in my underwear, I guess."
"Okay," she replied, her brow furrowing a little. "I brought you some lemonade and toast. Do you want to try them, or would you rather go back to sleep?"
"No, I'll have some," he said, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself up.
She helped him sit up and handed him the cup.
"Be careful, honey, it's hot," she said, steadying his hands as he lifted it to his lips.
When she was assured he wouldn't drop it, she turned to the bureau and took out a pair of pajamas.
"Let's get you in your pajamas, son," she said, unfolding them on the bed.
He set the mug down on the nightstand and let her help him slip the shirt on. He started to work on buttoning it, but his hands felt thick and useless and he finally just let his hands drop to his lap. Without a word she took over and soon had the shirt buttoned, then handed him the pants.
"Do you need help?" she asked as he took them from her.
"No, ma'am," he replied, pulling them onto his legs and up to his thighs. But he looked up at her when he had to stand to finish pulling them on.
She took his arm and helped him to his feet just long enough for him to pull the waistband up, then she helped him to ease back down onto the bed.
"Why don't you finish your lemonade and toast and I'll go bring you something for that fever," she said. "Don't lie down until I get back. I want you to take something before you go back to sleep."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, nibbling on the toast. He wasn't really hungry, but he knew she would only worry more if he didn't eat. And he had to admit that the lemonade was soothing as he felt its warmth spread through him.
She returned with some ibuprofen tablets which he dutifully swallowed before setting his mug aside.
"Are you done with this, son?" she asked, pointing at the half-eaten toast and remaining drink.
"Yes," he replied, turning toward that tempting pillow once again. He started to lie back, but she took his arm again.
"I want you to get under the covers, honey," she said, pulling him to his feet just long enough to pull the covers down.
He climbed into the bed and curled onto his side as she pulled the covers up over his shoulders.
"Mommy," Sheldon began softly, reaching a hand out to her. "Will you sit with me a minute?"
She sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand.
"What is it, son?" she asked gently, caressing his hand between hers.
"I just need you to stay with me, please," he said quietly, curling his fingers around her hand.
"What's the matter, honey?" she asked. "Why don't you just tell me?"
"I don't know, Mom," he said. "I'm so tired of being alone."
"You know I'm always right here," she said reassuringly. "You sleep tonight and we'll talk in the morning. What are you going to want for breakfast?"
"What day is it?" he asked sleepily.
"Tomorrow is Sunday," she said, patting his back as he began to relax.
"You're not going to make me go to church are you?" he asked, frowning with his eyes closed.
"No, honey," she said. "But I'll ask my Sunday school class to pray for you. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"
"Can I have pancakes? And orange juice with no pulp?"
"Of course, baby," she said, bending to kiss his forehead. "You sleep and I'll see you in the morning."
"Shelly!" Mary called from the dining room. "Come and eat your breakfast. I've got to leave for church."
Sheldon came out to the dining room in his pajamas, his hair askew, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Mary set a plate of pancakes on the table, along with a glass of orange juice.
"Have a seat, sweetheart. I'll bring you the butter and syrup, and then I've got to skedaddle. I'm running late." She ran a hand over his mussed hair and kissed the top of his head.
"You're not going to eat with me?" he asked, with mild disappointment.
"I'm sorry, honey, but I've got to go." She stepped briefly back into the kitchen, then reappeared with a small tub of butter and a bottle of syrup. "It's my turn to get the donuts for the class."
"Thank you for making me smiley-face pancakes," he observed, reaching for the butter.
"Of course, baby," she replied. "Now, I'm leaving, but I'll be back in time for lunch. There's a roast in the oven. Will you check on it right around noon?"
"Yes, ma'am," he answered, looking up at her. "I love you, mommy."
She stopped and looked at him for a moment, a bemused smile playing around her lips.
"I love you, too, sweetheart," she said at last. "I'll be back soon."
She left and he turned to his breakfast, deeply comforted by all the familiar details of his mother's home.
Continued in Chapter Eight