Zip! We're at St. Big Hospital, Small Tax Base. Unser's in the chapel, staring at the devotional candles. He stammers to Gemma, "I'm trying to remember how to do this." Naturally, Gemma is disinclined to offer any spiritual insights, so she quips, "You put the flame to the wick." Unser lights a candle, and Gemma gently asks, "You stopped going to your church?" Unser says, "When you're buried in your own shit, Sacred Heart seems a little out of reach." Wow, he is really punishing himself for the choices he made with SAMCRO, isn't he? Gemma continues gently, "You gotta believe in something, Wayne." When Unser caustically asks Gemma what she believes in, she says she's in the same place she's always at. Unser says, "No, you're not, sweetheart. We want to believe that. But the older we get, the further away we get from who we think we are." And, it is implied, the closer we get to the ugly reality of who we really are. Gemma chews on that a moment, then asks, "We done here, Confucius? Let's go."
Yes, by all means: Let's go back to last week's wacky subplot. Gemma is still hung up on finding those letters Maureen tucked into Jax's luggage. She barrels into Tara's office and commands Unser to act as her lookout (he is indignant). As Gemma futzes around inside, we see what's going on in the corridor: Roosevelt and his (presumed) wife come out of a doctor's office and the woman collapses onto a chair. Roosevelt murmurs how sorry he is, and he coaxes her up out of the chair and down the hall. This does not go unnoticed by Unser, who creeps down the hall to see with whom the Roosevelts were consulting. The answer: Hoyt Willmott, MD, reproductive fertility specialist. Poor Roosevelt: like his job isn't giving him enough trouble, he and his wife have to deal with the insanity of infertility and its treatment. Anyway, Unser's spying lets Margaret waltz right past him and into Tara's office, where she surprises Gemma.
Margaret asks, "Is Tara expecting you?" and Gemma stammers, "No, I um, I was just going some research." Margaret reads the book title: "Sonoanatomy and feasibility of ultrasonic graphic guidance in term and preterm neonates." "It's a trilogy," Gemma deadpans. You have to hand it to Gemma: Even when she is totally busted, she commits to her cover story. Behind Margaret, Unser's just skidded up, his eyes cartoonishly wide, and he says brightly, "Hey there!" "Hey, Wayne," says Gemma, in a voice that promises quick entry into a world of pain. Unser then tries to draw Margaret away with questions about his HMO, and as Margaret goes, she tells Gemma, "I'll tell Tara you're in here, engrossed in the Neonatus trilogy."