Chapter One
Al's haggard face showed the patient weariness he'd grown accustomed to feeling in the past days. Sleep had been a stranger to him, his constant vigil necessitating wakefulness.
Forcing a grin upon his drawn features, he lifted the bowl of cereal - Cream of Wheat, or its equivalent. It was white and floppy, like the stuff they'd served on cold winter mornings at the orphanage. Spooning up a bit, he lifted it to the lips of the man on the bed.
The slack mouth opened and took the mouthful of cereal. Greenish eyes crinkled in a 'thank you'; no words were needed. Al dipped the spoon in the bowl and came up with another morsel. Small bites, Dr. Swann had instructed, so he wouldn't choke. The feeding ritual, four times a day, no slacking.
"What d'you think, Sam? Metallic red or electric blue?" Al brought the napkin up, dabbing at the cereal that dribbled down Sam's chin. "I've got to get my car repainted. Y'know how that desert sun just bakes right in, screws up anything and everything."
The bowl had only been half full, as much as Sam could eat at one time. Soon, it was empty, and Al set it aside. "I'd take you out for a drive, but I think Beeks and Swann would have my ass if I did." He leaned on his knees, bracing against the mattress, his hands over Sam's. "You used to like the way I drove, right?" Al grinned at the glint of wry amusement in the invalid's eyes. "I can tell what you're thinking. You have to admit I don't get speeding tickets that often: Well, only when you're in the car. That hasn't been for, what, four years?"
No response. Uncomfortable silences were becoming the norm in this room. Al sighed, trying hard not to let his friend see his discouragement. This had gone on for a week, since they'd retrieved Sam. Those dark-rimmed eyes were closing now, sleep taking over after breakfast, like it did everyday, as if he were a tiny baby.
Leaning back in the chair, Al tried to rum the bleariness out of his eyes. If only he could fall asleep so easily.
This place had been the Waiting Room, while Sam was Leaping. Now, its stark plainness was out-and-out boring. They had to do something about that if Sam was going to be staying here for a while. There had been no mad rush to the nearest hospital; the Project had complete facilities for neurological emergencies, and there was little an outside institution could do for Sam at this point.
It had been an emergency retrieval. The second meeting of the budget committee had assembled in D.C.. Diane McBride had not been re-elected and the new chairman of the committee was Senator Arthur Ronnenburg, a hard-liner who spent more time cutting budgets than expanding them. He did not believe that Dr. Sam Beckett was in the mists of time, somewhen. His practical sense did not believe in dreams or the strivings of Man. Two point eight billion dollars had been spent and he wanted to know where it had gone. The itemized list of expenditures prepared by Ziggy did not satisfy him. His final conclusion, and that of the esteemed panel, was that Sam Beckett was in a coma, had been in such a condition since he had stepped into the faulty Accelerator.
His cold suggestion was that Admiral Calavicci, as custodian of record, install the physicist in a proper institution setting, where he could receive adequate care for his condition. As for the Project, it would be dismantled in seven working days. Case closed, no argument.
There would be no last minute reprieve from God this time.
With a sinking feeling, Al made the phone call to the Project to inform them of the committee's decision. During the longest two-hour plane trip of his life, Al had to decide what to do. He made the decision to try for retrieval. It hadn't worked before, but they had to try.
Ziggy made predictions. Since the very first Leap, more road had been traveled by Gooshie and his team, and made for a fifty-fifty success prediction. Sam was mid-Leap and that, Ziggy computed, would simplify retrieval without the transfer between Sam and host to encumber them.
Al kept telling himself it wouldn't work. Sam would be lost in time forever if the Project were dismantled. He spent most of his time around him, Dr. Swann, the Project physician in Sam's absence, made dire predictions about Sam's future condition, should the retrieval be successful. The possible side effects of being torn back through time, the "Quantum Energy" stabilization... The Admiral took that all in stride, knowing they had no choice now. One way or the other, Sam Beckett was coming home.
Everything was in readiness. Anxious moments spent in the Waiting Room; Al, Verbena, and the med team awaiting any movement from Sam's motionless form. The Admiral found himself taking Sam's limp hand in his own, waiting out Ziggy's emotionless countdown. Zero. The moment of retrieval, Sam's death still body suddenly convulsed, eyes snapping open in surprise and fear.
One moment, Sam's fingers had been lax, then clenching Al's hand as if to break bone. Convulsions again, worse than before, almost throwing Sam from the bed he lay in. Al barely managed to pull his bruised fingers from Sam's grip and hold onto the writhing body until the med team could move in and take over.
In Al's eyes it seemed forever before the team could stabilize their patient. He watched the entire thing enfold before his eyes, not even aware of Verbena's hand on his arm, or her comforting words. Guilt slashed through him like a knife. He'd made the decision to tear Sam from Time, and now God - or whoever - was working His vengeance. Al felt himself flinch at each convulsion, every blip of the machine monitoring Sam's heart rate. The Team surrounded the bed, and it was hard to see his friend's face. then, in one moment, Al caught a glimpse that made his breath catch in his throat like broken glass. Tears came to his eyes as he took in the ravaged features, now lax against the pillows.
Dr. Swann's diagnosis was unnecessary. In his memory's eye Al remembered an old uncle, years before. Stroke. His face like melted wax on the Med Team faded as Al slumped in a chair on the far side of the room. He was numb and frozen, waiting and staying out of the way while Swann and his team worked to keep Sam alive.
The first moments were crucial. MMRI, "cat" scan. Orders were snapped out by Swann and efficiently carried out by the Med Team. Through all the chaos, Al stayed in his chair, his eyes riveted on the man on the bed. His friend, Sam. He mutely accepted the cup of coffee Verbena offered him and sipped at it absently, watching and waiting.
In the hours that followed, explanations made the situation clear. Sam had probably suffered a minor stroke upon retrieval, damaging the right hemisphere of his brain, impairing motor function on his left side. The MMRI indicated that his neurons had been partially stropped by the trauma, leaving him much like a newborn baby - unable to perform certain functions until its brain has developed. Certain chemicals, over time, would alleviate that problem, but nothing could be done about his other condition until his vital nerve connectors had been restored.
Once Sam had been stabilized, Al moved his chair to his side. He studied his friend's face, looking for any sign of the personality that lurked within, the bright, living light that was Sam Beckett. He saw nothing but the shell of something that was lost, the down turned mouth, the eye that slanted, almost sliding off the once expressive face.
"He'll be under constant observation through the night, Admiral," Swann said, sitting down next to Al. He nodded at the monitors and life support equipment that had been set up. "All of his functions have been stabilized, for now. Considering what he's been through today..."
Al gripped the safety rails of the bed tightly, his eyes on Sam's face. "I'm staying with him."
"Admiral, you look like you could use some rest yourself."
"I've made my decision," Al reiterated. Inwardly, Al knew it was his fault Sam was like this. He'd made the order, and this was the direct result of that action. "Dr. Beckett is my responsibility."
Sighing, Dr. Swann stood to leave. "I'll be staying here tonight, and the team is on standby until further notice. If you need me I'll be a link call away. If his condition should deteriorate, we'll have to airlift him to Los Alamos Trauma Center."
Al kept a constant vigil, dozing off once in a while as the night dragged on. Once in a while, he'd sense Verbena at his side, worried, but silent, her hand resting on his shoulder for a moment just to let him know she was there. Then, the silence, only broken by the sound of the monitors and machines that seemed to be keeping Sam alive.
He kept his hand curled around Sam's warm fingers, wanting his touch to be the first thing Sam should sense if he awoke. One of the team instructed Al on how to move the patient to prevent skin irritation, and fluid from collecting in his lungs. Al had spent some time in a vet hospital after Viet Nam, and remembered how to handle trauma patients from that time. It kept him busy and helped him feel like he was doing something to help Sam besides sitting there like a lump.
It was late, way past the time Al usually turned in. Exhaustion had dragged him down to slump in the chair, dozing fitfully. Gradually, by degrees, he awoke to see Sam gazing at him from the bed.
Al leaned forward quickly, grasping Sam's right hand with both of us. There was confusion and fear in the hazel-green eyes. "It's okay, kid. You're home," Al said soothingly. "We snatched you back."
Sam lifted his head a fraction, trying desperately to sit up, frustrated that he couldn't. His entire body felt like a lead weight. What was wrong with him? Trying to push up from the mattress, he found that one side of his body responded sluggishly, and the other, not at all. He looked to Al for explanation and saw the sympathy there. Even his voice wouldn't work as he tried desperately to form words. He found himself gasping for air, frightened more than he'd ever bee in his life.
With a choking sensation Al watched Sam fight to communicate, his struggle to move. "There were...problems, Sam. You can't talk, not yet." Desperation to get through to his best friend made him speak quickly. "It's okay. I'll do the talking for both of us. They say you've had a stroke, a minor one." He brought his hand up to touch the side of Sam's face, the frightened gaze widening as his fingers made contact with his skin. "In a couple of months you'll be back on your feet, so don't worry about it. We didn't have a choice this time - they were going to cut funding and leave you high and dry. I couldn't let that happen. Don't blame anyone but me for this, Sam. It's my fault."
The man on the bed untensed, his gasping easing down to a calmer breathing pattern. He could live with an explanation, that he was hurt, but home. Al could touch him here, and that meant more than anything the other man could tell him. With his friend at his side, his warm physical presence gripping his hand tightly, it became so real. He tried vainly to return the grasp, and was rewarded by a broad grin from Al.
"You can hear me. Good." Al blinked back the tears that were burning behind his eyes. Sam had moved his right hand, a gentle squeeze that meant volumes. "No more time-traveling for a while. You're home and I'm not leaving this room until you out and out tell me to." The struggle to stay awake was evident on Sam's face. "You should rest. "We'll have plenty of time to talk later." Al reached up and tugged the blankets around Sam's chin as the younger man nestled against the pillows. "You're safe," Al said, echoing the words Beeks had told him to use if Sam should wake. "This isn't a dream. I'll be right by your side the minute you wake up again. Sleep now."
For the first time in what seemed like eons, Sam Beckett closed his eyes, feeling secure and warm. He didn't have to pretend anymore, or worry about who he was the Leap. He was Home.
That had been more than a week ago. Al settled back in the recliner, one that Verbena had brought from somewhere so he'd at least be comfortable while watching Sam. When the kid slept it was easier to believe that he was well and whole again. Somehow, Sam's face in repose erased the tiny lines of tension, relaxed the drooping left side. Al had grown used to the changes in his friend, the left eye that he could barely open, the way his mouth tilted, as if sliced by a knife during clumsy surgery.
The hand in Al's stirred, Sam's eyes opening to gaze upon his friend's exhausted face.
"How're you doing, Buddy Boy?" Al grinned. "Not a long nap, this time." Sam's thumb caressed his wrist as he spoke, expressing himself in a way no words could. "I know, Sam. I know. Now, what say we read the paper?" Al gently removed his had from Sam's and reached for the Alamagordo paper that Verbena thoughtfully provided every day. "Comic page first. You used to love "Bloom County". Remember the silly party where everyone had to come dressed as Opus?" That odd, lost look appeared in Sam's eyes, like when he tried to remember something he'd Swiss-cheesed during a Leap. Al sighed, digging through the paper. "First thing every morning, like clockwork. You'd have your tea, although that's not on your diet now. Then, the paper. Comics, sports, news, business, always in that order. Used to drive me nuts watching you compulsively fold and refold every page. Hell, when you were through, it didn't look as if you'd even read it. I'm not that nuts, mind you, but you know that already. I'm a Class-A slob."
Sam's head turned away. Laying the paper aside, Al leaned over the bed railing, touching his friend's arm gently with his fingers. "You okay? Look at me, Sam. Tell me."
Al had spent so much time with Sam in the last week that he felt he could read the other man's thoughts from the expression in his eyes. A tear was slipping down the injured man's face, slowly falling to the pillow. Al wiped the wetness from Sam's cheek with the back of his hand, swallowing hard. "I know it hurts," he said gently, just the barest of roughness creeping into his voice. "you have all that stuff to say and not bein' able to do it. Ah, Sam, it's going to take a while, but we'll make it like we do everything else. Patience and forbearing, to quote you and half the senators in D.C." Sam made a noise between a snort and a laugh, making Al's eyes light up. Slumping back in the chair, the older man rubbed his face wearily. "Oh year, another thing. Ronnenburg, that nozzle." Al had to grin at the disgusted look that crossed Sam's face. "Doc sent him the data on your retrieval. Seems he's had a change of heart. Kept the Project on the Top Secret list, for now. We're not allowed use of the Accelerator, of course, but now he's changed his mind! They aren't going to dismantle the Project - so we can keep you here. that's good news, huh?" A tiny shrug was all the reaction Al received to his question. "I bet, inside, you're overjoyed. Hospital food, remember? Yucky. Everything you want in the world is here - home cooking." Sam rolled his one good eye, making another face. "Very funny, kid. When they say it's okay I'll sneak you in a pizza."
Sam was drifting off again, and Al felt himself wanting to do the same. The bed Verbena had insisted be set up for the Admiral was an inviting sight. It was within arm's reach of the panic button in case something should go terribly wrong - which it hadn't. Yet.
Sliding off his loafers, Al pulled himself onto the vacant bed. As usual, sleep was slow in coming. The moment he'd drift off, he'd be aware of Sam's sleeping presence near him. When the other man would stir, Al jolted awake as if connected to an electric wire, watching and worrying. Once Sam settled back into sleep, the older man would again try to doze, only to be roused when his friend moved again.
Al was unaware of Verbena's concerned gaze from the one way window. At other times, she'd watched those who had spent time in this room, inhabiting Sam's body. Now, her face was a mask of concern. The way the Admiral was pushing himself, he'd be a basket case in a week - or less, if this pattern of behavior continued.
Squaring her shoulders, she entered the room. She hesitated before leaning over Al's bed, then gently touched his shoulder. "Al, we have to talk."
Slowly, Al rolled over onto his back, his right hand shading his eyes. "Talk away," he said warily.
Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, Verbena kept her tone soft so Sam wouldn't be disturbed. "You're not going to like this, but I've brought you a sedative." She kept speaking, ignoring the face Al was making. "Instead of palming it, as you usually do, I'm asking you to swallow it. Your patient will be in very good hands, should he need someone."
Al sighed, sitting up just enough to take the pill she handed him. "I hate pills," he grouched, like a little kid.
"This one will help you sleep, Al." 'Bena poured a glass of water from the pitcher by Sam's bed and handed it to Al.
"I don't want this."
"Make it a direct order from your physician."
"You are not my doctor."
"Dr. Swann prescribed the medication and I didn't hesitate to put my two cents in." She stood, hands on hips, watching Al with a steely expression in her brown eyes. "Take it, or pass out from exhaustion. You'll be a big help to Sam, then."
Not happy about the idea, Al took the pill and lay down. The medication worked its magic, pulling him into blessed oblivion.
Verbena watched with relief as the Admiral's eyes closed. Seating herself by Sam's bed she picked up a worn paperback from the bedside table. Dandelion Wine. It had been one of Dr. Beckett's favorite books in the days before he'd leaped; she remembered it in his hands during those rare times he was resting between crisis. His always expressive face would settle into soft lines as he read, lost in the lyrical Bradbury phasing.
With a start, she realized Sam's eyes were open and searching anxiously for Al. Quickly, she reached over and gently patted his hand, soothing him with her words. "Al is in the next bed, asleep. He needs his rest, too. Would you like me to read you something?"
The hand in hers squeezed once, firmly, as the expression on the agitated features calmed. Al had been the one who discovered Sam spoke with his right hand. A squeeze, a certain pressure, or a touch, could say volumes if the right person sensed it. The psychiatrist could also surmise, by the expression in those shaded greenish eyes, what Sam was feeling, be it anxiety, impatience, or satisfaction.
Opening the book, she kept her free hand over Sam's as she read. "It was a quiet morning," she began. "The town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first morning of summer."
She read on, about a town rising from the depths of long sleep. With satisfaction she noticed that her voice smoothed the lines of frustration on Sam's face, making him look almost healthy. He loved his books, she remembered, rarely going anywhere without a volume or two. It was his relaxation, and probably one of the reasons she had never had him as a patient, only a friend.
The words of the novel swept over the invalid like a cool breeze, Verbena's calm, even voice a perfect accompaniment to the almost poetic phrasing. For an hour he could forget the prison he was encased in, his own body. Most of the time his thoughts were unsteady, like alphabet letters scattered over a blank piece of paper. Somehow, he could touch the familiar words she read, his memory echoing back each paragraph of the much loved book. It helped him remember the time before leaping, being healthy and active.
There were reasons why he loved the book; memories of his grandparents and their home in Elk Ridge after Dad had taken over the farm and they had retired. Staying at their house in the summer, early mornings slow and sleepy, hearing the sound; of the town awakening. The aroma or bacon and biscuits, Grandpa humming as he shaved. With some relief Sam noted that his memories were not impaired, or his thinking processes. In fact, his recall of his own history was clearer than it had been while he was leaping.
Verbena closed the cover after reading a couple of chapters. "If you want, I'll read more later but it's nearly lunchtime." She leaned over and placed the book in Sam's hand, folding his fingers over it. "I'll leave this with you while I go get your meal."
As she left the room, the terrible choking fear flooded his senses as it did every time he was left alone. Verbena had said Al was near; quietly resting. Sure enough, in the bed next to him, Al was sleeping. The panic quelled in him, knowing his friend was near, like on a leap, the only pillar of sanity in a sea of madness. Flat on his stomach, snoring softly, but as real and as substantial as the book in his hand.
He looked down at the volume. His fingers played over the cover, stroking the well-worn finish. The trembling eased a bit. He was Home, he kept repeating, forcing the thought to become reality. He was Home.