She'd barely gotten him up the stairs before he bolted for the bathroom. She followed and found him hunched over the toilet, throwing up violently. She held his forehead as he heaved, alarmed by the force at which he was being sick. When he was done, his legs sprawled out from under him and he fell to sit with his back against the cabinets. She got a washcloth and wet it with cold water. She tried to hand it to him, but he didn't take it, she realized his eyes were closed. She wiped it across his face. At the touch of it he reached up and took it from her, pressing it to his eyes, he was breathing raggedly. He was just having a hell of an emotional reaction to what he'd disclosed downstairs, she thought.
They'd been sitting on the couch together in the den, after dinner and putting Andrew to bed, when he'd turned to her. He'd been feeling pretty shitty all day but he'd specifically waited for an evening when they had the place to themselves, and didn't want to let the opportunity pass. He'd been unsure whether to say what he'd intended, but decided that he needed to reveal this one last secret that, in an attempt to spare her feelings, he'd kept to himself. "Shannon, there's something I need to tell you. It's not going to be easy for me to say, and it's probably going to be even harder for you to hear."
"What is it?" from his opening line, she was sure she didn't want to know. She'd had a feeling all night that there was something weighing on him.
He'd taken a deep breath. "After that night in Sydney, your reaction, how cold you were, like what we'd done hadn't happened, that it meant nothing to you, I hit bottom. I just knew I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't pretend, I couldn't be strong, I just couldn't…" He'd hung his head, hiding his face, ashamed of himself. He'd gone on for a while in the same vein, describing just how despondent his love for her made him feel, how her rejection of him, her use of him, her indifference to him, cut him. "I thought…I decided…I was going end it all after I'd gotten you safely home."
She'd grown increasingly horrified, as he'd described how she'd made him feel. At the last sentence she'd pulled him against her, unable to speak. "When the plane was going down," he'd continued quietly, "I remember thinking that I wasn't going to have to go through with it after all, that the plane was going to do it for me." His shoulders had started to shake, as the self-control he'd maintained during his recitation broke. She'd held him, her eyes closed as she replayed what he'd said over and over in her mind. She'd felt his exhaustion, how much it had taken out of him to say what he had. She'd risen from the couch, taking him with her, intending to put him to bed.
She sat now, facing him, on the floor in the bathroom. "Boone, what you said downstairs, why didn't you tell me before, when we talked about everything on the way down to Mexico last year?" He just shook his head, not answering her.
"I don't feel well, I need to go to bed," he took the cloth from his face and tried to push himself up. All his strength seemed to have left him. She reached down for one of his hands, helping him to his feet. "Just give me a sec," he turned away from her to lean heavily on the counter. She went across the hall to turn the bed back for him; she could hear the water running in the bathroom. She returned and guided him into the bedroom. He stood like a mannequin as she removed his clothes, not attempting to help her at all; keeping his eyes closed the whole time. She pushed him onto the bed where he lay limply, like a rag doll. His eyelids were puffy and red, his cheeks flushed. She brushed her hand across his forehead, realizing that it was hotter than it should have been. She fetched him a glass of water and some aspirin. Thinking that a good nights' sleep might help him both physically and mentally, she turned off the lights and left him to sleep. When he'd gotten sick, she'd pushed her thoughts about what he'd said to the back of her mind. She went back downstairs to give herself an opportunity to absorb the enormity it.
She was suffocating, it was unbearably hot; she felt overwhelming panic. God I'm dying, no, no… "No, no, no," someone was shaking her, repeating her name. She woke up suddenly, her heart racing, in her own bed, Boone sleeping soundly beside her.
Tom was standing by the bed in a t-shirt and jeans, he'd pulled them on when she'd awakened them. "You were having a nightmare," he explained his presence, speaking in a whisper. The light in the room came from the hall. "You were yelling, it woke us up, I thought I'd better wake you."
She still felt the unreasonable panic she'd felt in the nightmare. It suddenly dawned on her that if she'd woken them up, in their room at the end of the hall, then why was Boone still sleeping? "Oh, no," she spun to kneel on the bed facing him. She reached her hand out tentatively, afraid to touch him, afraid that the panic she felt had its' source in him. She laid her palm on his forehead, he was burning with fever.
"Boone," she shook his shoulder, getting no response. She laid her hand on his forehead again, Boone, she thought silently.
His eyelids flickered briefly then opened slowly. His eyes were dull, and unfocused. "Tired," was all he said, he tried to move to roll over onto his side, but let out a groan of pain. Every muscle, every bone in his body ached.
"Shannon?" Tom standing behind her was wondering what was going on.
She closed her eyes for a second assessing her options, then making a quick decision. "He wasn't feeling well before he went to bed, he's burning up now. We're taking him to the hospital. Help me get him dressed." After snapping on the light, she slid over him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a sitting position, she swung his legs over the side of the bed. She looked at Tom again, "Help me."
Heather entered the room carrying Andrew, who'd also been awakened by her nightmare. Shannon was on the floor, naked; the same way she'd gone to bed, trying to cram Boone's bare feet into his shoes; they'd already gotten his jeans on. Tom was pulling his shirt over his head, which was hanging against his chest. "What's going on?"
Shannon was too focused to answer, "Boone's really sick," Tom provided, "Shannon wants to take him to the hospital.
She was understandably alarmed at that. "What happened? I know he mentioned today at work that he wasn't feeling well, but I just thought he had the flu or something. Why do you want to take him to the hospital?"
"Look at him; he's almost unconscious, please?" Shannon pleaded for help.
Heather took another look at Boone and realized that the girl was right, she walked over to Shannon's clothes, piled on the chair on her side of the bed, picking them up, she thrust them at the girl. "Thanks," she didn't even acknowledge her state of undress, just grabbing the clothes and putting them on as quickly as she could.
Each on one side of him, Shannon and Tom pulled his arms over their shoulders and lifted him from the bed. Heather watched as they headed towards the stairs, he was trying to move his feet to walk, to keep up, but mostly they just dragged across the floor.
Out in the driveway, they piled him in to the passenger seat of Tom's car, fastening the seat belt, before he could slide off the seat. She got in the back behind him. The hospital was 45 minutes away, Tom made it in 35. He pulled up in front of Emergency, throwing the car into park, he was going to run inside for help, when he heard the back door slam, and saw Shannon running for the entrance. She emerged just seconds later accompanied by an orderly with a stretcher. He opened the passenger door and, after unfastening the seat belt, picked Boone up and put him on the stretcher. Tom parked the car while they re-entered the facility.
He walked up to admitting minutes later, "I'm looking for a blonde girl, she came in with an unconscious man, on a stretcher?" He looked at the woman hopefully, not wanting to leave Shannon alone to deal with this any longer than he had to.
"You a relative?" the woman questioned.
"Yes, I'm her grandfather," he lied quickly.
"They're in room number three," he turned to head off, "Wait, you need to get these filled in." she thrust a clip board into his hands.
He found them without any problem. Shannon was standing beside the stretcher, holding his hand, staring at him. "Shannon?" he tried to get her attention. "Shannon, you need to fill out…" he gave up, she was simply not aware of anything but Boone. He looked down at the paperwork on the clipboard, he certainly knew Boone's name and address, so proceeding with all the basics he filled in all the data that he knew. "Shannon?" He tried again, more forcefully, "Shannon?" She glanced at him. "You need to sign this, the authorization; you need to fill in his medical history." He held out the paperwork to her. She took it absently and let it hang by her side. He reached for it turning back the pages he held out the pen and pointed to the exact spot she needed to sign her name. Scrawling "Shannon Rutherford" she thrust the papers back at him. "Shannon, his medical history," he reminded her, but she'd already turned back to Boone. He gave up, what the doctor wanted to know, once he arrived, she could provide then.
It only took a few more minutes before they were joined by one of the staff doctors. He moved to the stretcher, pulling one of Boone's eyelids up he shone a penlight into it, then pulling up his t-shirt he pressed a stethoscope to his chest. Noticing something he reached for the clipboard. "You haven't filled in the medical history, what caused these faint scars?"
"He was in an accident," she provided vaguely, remembering the black thread Jack had used to stitch up the gashes on his chest.
"And the nature of this accident?" he pressed.
"I…uh…he fell," out of a tree in a plane, she thought to herself.
"Fell onto what? How far? Or do you mean he tripped and fell? I need you to be more specific."
"He fell onto the instrument panel of a plane, and there were some crates of ceramic statues, his right leg was crushed and broken; he fell about 65 feet."
"And this round one here?" he pointed to where Jack had jabbed the knitting needle into him.
A nurse arrived and started to take blood samples.
"His lung collapsed." God, why was she being forced to go through this again now?
"Was it the same incident? When did this happen?"
"Yes it was. It was about two years ago."
"Were there internal injuries?"
"I don't know." No one knew, not even Jack, they all only suspected.
"You didn't know him then?"
"Of course I knew him, he's…" my brother. She didn't finish, why was this so hard?
"But how can you not know if he had internal injuries, were you not there?"
"Yes, of course I was there."
He couldn't believe she was being purposely obtuse. He tried a different tack. "Has he been around anyone sick or have you been vacationing in the tropics lately?"
Certainly not vacationing, she thought, "We've been in the tropics, we've been back about a year; that's where the accident happened. Why?"
"He has a fever; he could have picked something up when away, especially if he was injured. Where were you?" He wanted to know.
Craphole Island she thought, "I don't know, I don't know the name of the island."
What, he wondered? "What hospital was he treated in?"
"He wasn't treated in a hospital," she was near tears. She wasn't trying to be difficult, all her answers were truthful, but she knew how outlandish they sounded. "Wait," she suddenly thought of an easy way to answer all of his questions. She reached into Boone's green bag she had slung cross ways from her shoulder. Heather had shoved it into her hands as she'd gotten in the car. She fished inside for her wallet; withdrawing it she removed Jack's card and handed it to him. "This was the doctor who took care of him, just call him."
He looked at the card, reading the name and profession. There was something about the name that rang a few bells. Just as he was about to ask why a spinal surgeon would have treated a collapsed lung, he realized why he recognized the name. "You said this happened about two years ago, in the South Pacific?" she nodded "And you've been back about a year?" she nodded again. "Excuse me, I'll be right back."
He got Jack on the phone almost immediately, after introducing himself, he proceeded with his questions "I've got a patient here; he's got a high fever." Jack was about to ask why he was being called about something like that, when the man continued. "His name's Boone Carlyle."
What the hell, Jack thought? "Fill me in."
"No actually, doctor, I was hoping you could fill me in." he went on to describe the strange conversation he'd had with the man's wife, before she'd provided Jack's name and he'd connected him with flight 815. There had been articles in many medical journals after Jack's return. Jack filled in as much background information as he could, finishing with, "Can you please tell Shannon that I'll be there as soon as I can. I have surgery now, but I'll be there right after."
He went back into the examining room. The tableau hadn't changed, she was still standing beside the stretcher, the older man still seated on the chair. "I've spoken with Dr. Shepherd; he's given me all the information I need. He said to tell you he'll be here as soon as he can, after surgery."
She nodded her understanding, "What happens now?"
"We'll be admitting him. I'll send someone in to get insurance and payment information from you. Then we'll take him upstairs." He left the room.
She provided all the necessary information to the woman who arrived a few minutes later. She followed behind the stretcher, as Tom left to find a phone to call Heather with an update.
She leaned against the wall in the elevator, her knees started to buckle before she forced them straight again. God, no, why me, it's all just too much, how can one person be expected to go through so much? She closed her eyes briefly before regaining her composure again.
She stood in the corner of the room, while they removed his clothes, hooked him up to all kinds of monitoring devices and inserted an IV into his left arm. She felt detached, like this was all happening to a stranger and she was just acting as an onlooker, she supposed it was her mind implementing a coping mechanism, to help her through this. When they left her alone with him, she found herself reluctant to approach the still form on the bed. She was afraid to see him so still and lifeless again, she forced her feet across the room. She looked at him for a minute tracing her fingers over his face. She closed her eyes, leaving her fingers resting on his forehead; his thoughts were all fuzzy, like words on a chalkboard after someone had taken a light pass with an eraser. She sat in one of the chairs by the bed.
Jack arrived early the next afternoon. She was so adrift in her thoughts that she hadn't even realized he'd entered the room until she felt his hand on her shoulder, "Shannon." She hugged him, burying her face against his chest, relief washing over her. She felt that, with Jack there, everything would work out. When she released her hold he went to look at Boone. He had an open medical chart in his hands; he'd been looking at it before he'd entered. "What happened?" He listened while she filled him in. By the time she finished the doctor who'd seen Boone the night before had arrived. She moved back, not sure she wanted to hear what they had to say. As they talked, Jack glanced over at her several times; she refused to take it as a bad sign.
When he finished the discussion with the other doctor he came over to talk to her. "Shannon, he's got a very, very high fever, it can lead to other problems. They've run blood work, but haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what's wrong with him. They're treating him as best they can, but without really knowing exactly what it is, it might not work. Dr. Mackenzie thinks it might be related to some kind of dormant virus he picked up on the island that suddenly decided to assert itself." He took a deep breath, shaking his head at how many times he'd had to break bad news to one or the other of them. "Shannon…if they don't get the fever down, if the treatment they're trying doesn't work…he could die."
"But he'll be okay now that you're here." She made it a statement.
"Shannon," he shook his head "I don't know anything about tropical illnesses."
"You'll find someone who does, then, he'll be fine, I…we, rely on you to make everything okay. You've saved each one of us in the past, you'll do it again." She insisted.
He couldn't believe the faith she had in him, he felt he didn't deserve it, but knew he had to say, to do, something in response. "I'll ask my colleagues, someone might know a specialist. I'll try and find one," he attempted to assure her as best he could.
"No, you won't try," she shook her head, "not you, you'll find one."
"Okay, okay, give me a minute." He went back over to the bed where Dr. Mackenzie was still checking on Boone, writing on the chart as needed. They spoke for a few minutes; then Jack came back over to her. "I'm going to go and use the phone in his office. He's been nice enough to extend the offer to me. I'll be back in a bit," he kissed her forehead, "Hang tight, okay?"
He was back about an hour later. "I've found someone, a specialist, he'll be on his way as soon as he can," he announced.
"See, I knew you would. Thanks, Jack," she hadn't doubted him for a minute.
The man he'd contacted didn't arrive for three more days; prior commitments had kept him longer than he'd anticipated. They continued with the treatment they were already using, for the moment, having no alternative. For Shannon the time was a nightmarish blur spent grabbing sleep in snatches in the chair beside his bed, and eating whenever someone forced food into her hands. Tom and Heather took turns being with her, or at home watching Andrew. She knew that Jack was checking in by phone as often as he could. Nothing anyone said could persuade her to leave his side, to stop hoping that he'd wake up, however briefly, and ask for her.
He opened his eyes slowly, disoriented, wondering where he was. He saw the ceiling tiles above and tried to lift his head. It felt like it weighed about 200 pounds. He settled for rolling it carefully to the right. He realized he was in a hospital. He saw Shannon sitting sideways in a chair by the bed. She was sleeping, her feet pulled up on the seat, leaning against the back of the chair. He licked his lips; his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, "Shan?" he whispered. He fought to keep his eyes open. "Shan?" he tried again a little louder.
Her eyes opened slowly, she turned her head toward the bed, seeing him awake; she uncurled herself from the chair and moved towards him. "Hey," she spoke softly, reaching forward and tracing her finger down the side of his face. Seeing the question in his eyes she answered it, "Four days."
"I don't remember anything," he frowned, speaking very slowly, forcing the words out.
"There isn't really anything for you to remember, you…" she stopped, realizing he'd already gone back to sleep. She hugged her arms around herself, she'd waited so long for him to wake up, now she felt it might have been better if he hadn't, it just made her want to talk to him all the more.
She walked out into the hall and leaned her back against the wall beside the door. She felt like crying, she was so tired, so damn tired. She slid down the wall, ending up sitting on the floor, her knees bent. She lowered her head; fatigue winning over she was asleep in seconds.
They watched her from the nurses' station, letting her sit sleeping for a few minutes before one of them went over to wake her. "Mrs. Carlyle?" getting no response, the woman reached down to touch her shoulder. "Mrs. Carlyle?" she repeated.
Shannon raised her head to the name that wasn't hers, too tired, too indifferent to correct the mistake. "You can't sleep in the hall, but there's an empty room, why don't you try and get some sleep in there? We'll come and get you if there's any change."
She pushed herself up the wall, she hadn't been even aware that she'd fallen asleep. "No, I can't." She thought back to the island, "I wasn't there for him the last time, when he kept asking for me, and I never came, I can't let that happen again." She smiled a brief smile in thanks, and went back in the room.
There was about a foot of space beside him on the bed, and she wanted to hold him so much. She slipped off her shoes and carefully lay beside him, pressing her face against his shoulder, closing her eyes.
She woke some time later; she wasn't sure how long it had been. In her sleep she'd slid her leg over his and her arm across his chest. Alarmed that she might have hurt him somehow, she carefully lifted them and rolled over off the bed. Heather sat beside the bed, watching them, an unopened magazine in her lap. Shannon slipped her shoes on and moved to the other chair. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to feel more awake, "How long?"
"I've been here about two hours," Heather answered. "When was the last time you ate anything?"
"I don't know, I'm not hungry," she actually couldn't remember.
Heather reached down to pick up a container from the floor, "I brought you something."
She opened it and pulled out the sandwich she found inside. Taking a bite, she smiled gratefully.
He didn't wake again until the next afternoon. She was standing by the window looking out when she thought she heard her name, she looked over at the bed; his eyes were open. "Hey." She crossed the space between them, his hand moved slightly, she picked it up and held it between both of hers. That afternoon they'd changed the medication they'd been giving him. Even the tropical disease expert hadn't been able to identify exactly what it was that was ravaging his system, but he had experience with something similar and had prescribed the same thing he'd used to treat it, in the absence of any absolute certainty.
"You look like shit." She could barely hear him. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a small smile. There were dark circles under her eyes, some of her hair was caught in a clip, but most had escaped and was hanging limply around her face.
"You, too," she smiled back at him; then turned serious. "Don't you die on me again, Boone."
"Not this time," his eyes closed, as the darkness of sleep reclaimed him.
Tom had come to sit with her the next day. With her reserves of strength almost gone, even with the relief she felt at the recent good news, she'd finally broken down. She sat in his lap and cried against his shoulder.
Unnoticed, Boone had regained consciousness again. He moved his head to look for her. He watched the two of them in the chair for a second before it registered on him that she was crying. He thought he felt a little better, but what if that was a false hope, what if her tears were because they'd told her differently? "Shan?" his momentary panic lent more strength to his voice than he thought he had.
She jumped at the sound of her name; she looked towards him, sliding off Tom's lap to stand beside the bed. She tried to force herself to stop crying, "Hi." She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead.
"Why are you crying? Did they say something to you…about me?" he finished a little fearfully.
She realized that his eyes were a little brighter and that he seemed more coherent, "You think a lot of yourself to imagine I'd cry over you," she tried to make a joke, crying all the harder as she said it. She leaned down and kissed him. Moving her lips to his ear, she whispered, "You're going to be okay." She straightened to look in his eyes, "Your fever's down a little, the new meds seem to be working. I guess I'll be stuck with you for a little longer after all."