Chapter 2
Seven Years Later
“Yoko, hurry up!” Enid mumbles, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe while waiting for Yoko to fish out the keys to their shared apartment.
It had been a long night out at the bar, and all Enid wants now is nothing more than to change into fluffy fleece pajamas, curl up in bed with her stuffed animals, and sleep for a week (if only she didn’t have to wake up the following day).
Recently, Enid has felt like she’s living solely for weekends, forcing herself through a long, grueling week, only for some small semblance of rest once she goes home on a Friday night. That is, if Yoko doesn’t drag her out to seedy clubs to “pick up hot chicks,” as Yoko likes to put it.
Yoko might see it like that, but for Enid, her nights go something like, “pick up Yoko and drag her home after she gets shit-faced drunk, waxes poetic to paintings—she still cringes at the memory of the Mona Lisa incident—and potted plants, and cries when they ‘reject’ her romantic advances.”
All in a day’s (or night’s) work.
Yoko finally pulls out her keys and unlocks the door, and they both stumble inside gratefully.
Yoko immediately wanders over to the couch and slumps onto it. Her cheek is pressed awkwardly against the cushions and she’ll probably wake up with an incredibly sore neck, but she’s already dead asleep and snoring, so Enid doesn’t have the heart to wake her up, not when she looks so peaceful. As peaceful as one can look after blacking out at the bar.
She goes to the kitchen and fills up two glasses of water, one for Yoko and one for herself, and places Yoko’s on a table next to the couch along with two Advils, knowing that Yoko will face a killer hangover and a massive headache the next day.
Then she walks to her bedroom and places the remaining glass of water in her pink mini fridge, which was a present for her birthday a few years ago.
There are a few empty cans of Sprite on the floor but none in the fridge, so she frowns deeply and makes a note to buy more next weekend when they go for groceries.
Tomorrow is Saturday, so they technically could go get groceries this weekend, but Enid refuses to step within a 50-foot radius of Roberts Market with a hangover.
The market being adjacent to a school, all the trip would accomplish is exacerbating her headache, and neither she nor Yoko wants to deal with that.
She goes to sleep, haunted by screaming children and all her ghosts.
Enid’s eyes slowly flutter open as she wakes up, clutching a stuffed animal—the raven—to her chest.
The light shines into her room through her curtains(what good are the curtains at that point), and her alarm is ringing, and everything is too much. Enid just wants to sleep for a few more minutes, hours, a few more, whatever more might be.
So she groans and throws out her arm to silence her alarm clock, but merely knocks it off the desk, and now she’s still got light blinding her and an alarm clock blaring, except the clock is now out of reach. It’s too fucking early for this, so she stares up at the ceiling, places a pillow over her face, and screams.
But the alarm clock is too loud and it drowns out her scream, so she gets up and turns the damn thing off with a huff.
Enid throws on an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, downs the water and Advil from the night before, and walks out to the kitchen.
Yoko is still on the couch, letting out soft snores, so Enid makes breakfast for the both of them.
She’s not a perfect cook, but she can make mean blueberry pancakes (as long as she’s got her secret ingredient, Nesquik pancake mix, in the pantry).
Enid sets off, stirring, pouring, and flipping. The powdery pancake mix is all over the table, like a soft layer of snow, but that’s a problem for the future, so Enid ignores it for the time being and continues to fuss over the pancakes.
The smell wafts throughout the room, and Yoko perks up once it reaches her. Enid smiles because it’s just so predictable and so—it’s just so much like home.
Enid drowns her pancakes in maple syrup and quotes Percy Jackson like she does each time they eat pancakes for breakfast, while Yoko eats them plain.
“I’m eating like a soldier,” Yoko claims, but Enid thinks Yoko does it just to avoid awkwardly maneuvering the fork around while trying to prevent spilling syrup onto herself. “Vampires aren’t meant to be awkward,” or something along those lines.
They eat breakfast on the couch, watching another episode of Suits and gushing over Meghan Markle’s acting because—let’s be honest—why wouldn’t they? It’s Meghan Markle, after all.
They’ve got a mutual understanding that this morning will be spent doing nothing but lounging around. The pair are lying on the couch, Enid squeezed comfortably against the side, Yoko dangling off the edge, slightly less comfortably.
And then, Enid’s phone rings. It’s loud and aggressive and shocking, so much so that Enid jerks up with a sharp jolt running through her spine and flails around a little.
Yoko rolls right off of the couch.
So much for their mutual understanding.
Enid picks up her phone and looks at the caller, wondering who could possibly be calling her at this time on a Saturday morning. It’s not someone saved in her contacts, and she rolls her eyes at the thought of dealing with a spam call right now, but it’s a number with a nearby area code, so she picks up.
“Hey,” she says, bringing the phone up to her ear and holding it there with her head and raised shoulder to free up her hands. It could be someone important, or it could be an old fling calling, and she’d rather not have Yoko listening if it’s the latter. “Who is this?”
“Hello, this is El Camino Hospital. Can you confirm your name for me?” a slightly monotone female voice asks. Enid doesn’t blame her though, because the job must get boring after a while.
Her eyes widen. Well, Enid thinks, at least she’s not being advertised an extended car warranty or told she’s won a new electric toaster.
“I’m Enid Sinclair. Um, can I ask why you’re calling?” Her heart is beating quickly now, because which of her friends is in the hospital, and why are they calling her?
“I’m calling on behalf of Wednesday Addams,” the lady says, and Enid’s heart drops, and she thinks she might cry.
“What?” she croaks, sounding like she’s smoked a pack a day for the last five years. It’s been ages since anyone has dared to say that name to her.
Yoko shoots her a concerned look and motions for her to put the phone on speaker, but Enid shakes her head, her hand shooting up to catch the phone when the movement dislodges it.
“Wednesday Addams is in the hospital and you’re her emergency contact, so we are notifying you of her status and requesting that you come to the hospital if possible.”
Enid’s face turns ashen, pale like never before, and the world feels like it has stopped around her, but the lady continues speaking nonetheless.
“She’s just been brought out of surgery and is stable. Unconscious, but stable. She doesn’t seem to have any other emergency contacts, so we don’t know who else to call. So if you’re unable to come, please let us know who else might be able to.”
“No, no,” Enid tells her, stuttering and stumbling over her words a little. “Thanks for calling, I’ll be there soon.”
She pulls the phone away from her ear and faintly notices that her hand is shaking and her breathing is speeding up. But it doesn’t really matter, because Wednesday, the girl who abandoned her, who hasn’t spoken to her in seven years, is injured.
Wednesday, the girl who abandoned her, who hasn’t spoken to her in seven years, is in the hospital, unconscious.
Wednesday, the girl who abandoned her, who hasn’t spoken to her in seven years, still has Enid as her emergency contact—her only emergency contact.
“Hey, what happened? Who is it? Are you ok?” Yoko asks in rapid-fire. “Enid, talk to me. What happened?”
“Wednesday is in the hospital,” she says numbly. “El Camino Hospital. She’s unconscious and just came out of surgery.”
Yoko nods, but Enid can barely react to anything. She’s just dazed and in a dream-like state, awkwardly rising from the couch and tripping over her own feet on the way to her bedroom.
She throws some clothes into a duffle bag and grabs her raven plushie, clutching it to her chest, moving like she’s in a trance.
Luckily, Yoko is more in control of her senses and manages to shove Enid into the passenger seat of their shared Toyota Camry and drive them to the hospital, which is a couple of hours away.
The entire car ride consists of Enid staring out the window, watching the trees and the ivy stretching across brown walls whiz by.
The radio is playing softly, and Yoko is nodding along to the upbeat Carly Rae Jepsen song, which is one of Enid’s favorites, but she hardly hears it.
As the drive goes by, Enid slowly becomes more and more panicked. Her thoughts are racing. Her head is spinning. Her stomach feels like there’s a zoo inside, but not butterflies, just tigers and lions and all the other scary animals in existence.
They eventually turn into the parking lot, and Enid only knows they’ve made it to the hospital because she can see the bright red sign reading HOSPITAL in all capital letters like it’s screaming at everyone who arrives.
Yoko parks, and before the car is fully stopped, Enid is already out the door, swinging the duffel bag behind her, squeezing the raven so tight that its eyes might as well be popping out.
She sprints towards the hospital, dodging and weaving between the parked cars, and slams into the door when she tries to push it open. Confused and irritated, she steps backwards to inspect the door, and almost growls when she sees the Pull sign.
But she doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed, so she pulls the door open, correctly this time, and dashes to the reception desk.
“Wednesday Addams,” she blurts out, slamming her hands onto the counter, huffing and puffing and completely out of breath. “What room is Wednesday Addams in?”
The receptionist raises an eyebrow at her actions but doesn’t comment on them, and instead just asks, “What’s your relationship to the patient?”
“I’m Enid Sinclair. I’m her—” Enid pauses, unsure what to call it at this point. It’s been seven years. “I’m her emergency contact. Enid Sinclair,” she says, repeating her name.
The receptionist nods and types away at her keyboard, loud clacking noises causing Enid to grit her teeth.
Ah, yes, take your sweet time; it’s not like I’m in a rush or anything, Enid thinks as the receptionist proceeds to type for far, far too long.
“Room 309,” the receptionist finally tells her. “Take the elevator up to the third floor; it will be the fifth room on the left.
Thanking the receptionist as she walks away, Enid slams the elevator button and shifts on her feet as she waits, antsy and impatient as hell. But really, who can blame her?
Enid is the only one waiting for the elevator, and she thanks whichever god exists that nobody else is there to slow her down.
Yoko reaches her just as the elevator doors open and hunches over with her hands on her knees once they step inside and the doors close.
“You could have waited,” Yoko says, and Enid gives her a look.
“No, I couldn’t,” Enid responds, and they leave it at that.
The wait feels interminable, seemingly endless, but they eventually reach the third floor, and the doors slide open as a bell noise rings out.
Once there is a gap just wide enough for Enid and her duffel bag to fit through, she squeezes out of the elevator and runs down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of room 309.
Despite battling time to reach there as soon as possible, she waits outside the room for a little, wondering how to proceed, wondering what she’s about to go through, wondering what to say.
Because what on earth do you say to your no-longer best friend that ghosted you, whom you haven’t spoken to for seven years?
Yoko interrupts Enid’s train of thought when she taps her on the shoulder and says that she will stay outside to give her and Wednesday space.
Enid steels her nerves and pushes the door open (and this time it’s actually a push door, for which she is so incredibly thankful, because she doesn’t think she can face the mortification of doing it wrong twice).
She immediately looks around to check for doctors, nurses, anyone she can talk to before acknowledging the girl in the bed.
The hospital room is like any other; it’s simple, and almost everything is white. It’s the stereotypical hospital look, and Enid doesn’t know why she’s surprised.
Maybe it’s because any room that Wednesday Addams is in doesn’t feel stereotypical, but this one does, and maybe that’s because she hasn’t even looked at Wednesday yet.
Not seeing anyone, her gaze drifts to the stereotypical bed in the middle of the stereotypical room, and then she spots the not-so-stereotypical girl with—
Enid jumps a little and drops the pink duffel bag. Wednesday’s eyes are wide open, her face unreadable, eyes calculating and questioning, watching Enid with an unflinching stare.
She blinks. Wednesday blinks, and then Enid blinks, and now Wednesday is opening her mouth to speak.
“Hi,” she croaks in her ever-smooth voice. It’s so familiar, so recognizable, so Wednesday.
Enid swallows, her throat burning. God, she thinks, even on a bed after surgery, even after seven fucking years, a single word from Wednesday elicits so much emotion in her. So much, and fuck, she misses it.
“Hi,” Enid says, unsure of what else to say. This isn’t going how she thought it would, and she feels so out of control, like everything she planned for is all slipping away right in front of her eyes.
Hell, she thought she would walk into the room and Wednesday would still be unconscious, not wide awake and staring at her with hard eyes.
She studies Wednesday, who looks—well, there’s no way to lighten the blow, really, because she looks rough. Awful. Hit by a car type of rough (Enid has no idea just how close to home she just hit).
“How are you?” she asks, and then cringes inwardly because the girl is in the fucking hospital, so why the hell is she asking how Wednesday is like it’s not obvious.
“This is fucking stupid,” Wednesday complains. It’s the first time Enid has ever heard her sound the slightest bit petulant. “I’ve survived multiple murder attempts, a resurrected pilgrim intent on an outcast genocide, my boyfriend—crush, situationship, whatever you want to call the bastard—turning into a Hyde. I’ve even survived being stabbed in the stomach, and yet it’s a normie driving a Chevrolet that comes the closest to delivering me into death’s warm, waiting arms.”
Enid grins, because only Wednesday would describe death as having warm arms. But then again, Wednesday has always loved the morbid, so it’s not surprising at all.
The recurring theme of Enid not knowing what to say continues, and so they stare at each other for a little longer.
Wednesday’s eyes drop down to the duffel bag at Enid’s feet. “It’s not red,” she points out, and then throws a hand over her mouth like she didn’t mean to say it, didn’t mean to show that she noticed it.
It shouldn’t be a big deal, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but the stupid thing means so much to the two of them.
Enid chokes out some amalgamation of a laugh and a pained sob. “I fucking love you,” she says, and takes quick strides to the bed to give Wednesday a hug.
Her arms are wide open and ready when she halts and steps back, realizing that Wednesday probably doesn’t even want a hug. She despised physical contact back then; why would she accept it now?
Wednesday looks at Enid, whose arms are still outstretched, and then glances at the raven that Enid forgot she still had in her hand. Her eyes move from the raven to Enid, then back to the raven, and then to Enid once more.
Then Wednesday lifts her hands up too, and gestures for Enid to come closer.
Enid’s smile is radiant, and she pulls Wednesday in tightly, almost squeezing the little life left out of her. The position is awkward because Wednesday is in bed, and Enid is standing, just hunched over her, but it still feels like coming home.
Even though it’s been seven long years, it still feels like coming home.
They’re hugging and laughing and crying, and Wednesday murmurs, “You kept it,” into Enid’s ear, breathless like she can’t believe Enid would still own the raven plushie, like she can’t believe it’s not lying in a dumpster somewhere in Vermont.
Enid burrows further into the little gap between Wednesday’s head and shoulder and says, “Of course I kept it. Why wouldn’t it? I love you, you dumb shit,” in a loving, honey-sweet tone.
They don’t talk about the past, they don’t talk about the future, they don’t even talk about the present. They just sit in each other’s presence, drinking in the fact that they are both here, in each other’s arms, together once more.
They need to talk, and they know that, but right now, that doesn’t matter. They finally have each other again.