Omission

"J.C. this is Dr. Frome. Dr. Frome this is J.C." Max introduced.

"We met at the gala. I danced with his daughter." J.C. stated, looking back at Max. "Is your name really Iggy Frome?"

"Why yes it is. Is that okay?"

"Of course it is. In fact I like it, it's not stuffy or," J.C. paused looking for the right word, "pompous."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it." The doctor said as he looked down and smiled at his colleagues son.

"Okay kiddo," Max said as he bent down and made eye contact with his son. "I'm going to leave you with Dr. Frome. Open up to him as best you can, he's a great doctor." J.C. nodded. "When you're done let's play that game that we play on your nights here."

"Hide and seek?" J.C. questioned.

"Yep. Well, I'm not really hiding, more like roaming around working and you aren't really seeking, just trying to find me which I guess is a lot like seeking. But anyway we'll catch up later," Max said, the words burbling from his mouth in a rush.

"His words are like a waterfall. They just rush out," Iggy said as Max disappeared down the hall.

"You should see him at parent teacher conferences. Well, when he remembers them."

"Has he always been like this?"

J.C. took a deep breath in before he gave an emphatic yes.

"Okay, sit wherever you would like," Dr. Frome said opening his arms to show the entire room that he used in his work with the kids. J.C. looked around and finally chose the Lego table, a favorite among the boys. "So you've been seeing Dr. Mayfield?"

"Yeah, he's nice," J.C. said as he began to snap plastic pieces together.

"Can you tell me what's going on with you?"

"If I knew, then I wouldn't need Dr. Mayfield or you."

"I suppose that's true. But you had something happen to you a few months ago. Is that right?"

J.C. looked at the doctor who was looking down at the scars on his arms and neck. "I was with my mom. They took her and the doctors and nurses and—and—and then I don't remember. I know they didn't take me or a bunch of other civilians. Bad things happened to them." The boy said quietly.

"Sometimes when really bad things happen our mind protects us by hiding the memories."

J.C. stayed quiet as he continued to snap the colorful bricks together. He pushed the wall he had built into the top layer of the table, tightly securing it, and grabbed some wheels and began to create some kind of vehicle.

Iggy cleared his throat and continued. "There are times when reality is so unbearable that the mind refuses to see it. It's a protective measure. Have you wanted to hurt yourself?"

"No," J.C. said, snapping piece of plastic to piece of plastic.

"Okay. Have you felt other people have wanted to hurt you?"

"No," J.C. said continuing to focus on his building project.

"Do you ever want to hurt other people?"

"No."

"Do you hear voices?"

"Just from people telling what to do and not to do." Dr. Frome smiled. "Never from people that aren't there," J.C. clarified. "Though I suppose if I saw them I would think they were there whether they were or not. But I don't think I'm seeing or hearing from people that aren't really there."

Iggy smiled as he continued. "Do you suddenly get mad at people for no reason. Or not want to do normal every day things?" I

"No and no. You know what I want Doc? I want to remember. Because I feel like this is my world, my memory," J.C. said pointing, indicating the Lego wall he had built. "And this is me," he said taking the small car he had just built and smashing it into the wall sending the pieces flying. "I can't get through, I can't go anywhere until this wall is gone. I have scars on the outside but I don't remember how I got them., because the inside is blank. All those people died and I can't even be bothered to remember them."

"And it's making what's inside you confusing and broken?"

"Yes," the boy answered with tears welling up in his eyes.

"What do you remember of that day?"

J.C. squeezed what was left of the Lego car in his left hand. "Yelling, lots of yelling and dirt in the air. Claude's hand. I was holding his hand. My arms burned, my neck burned. That's it. I know they all died, but I can't remember it."

Iggy touched J.C.'s hand and gently opened it. The plastic bricks had left quite an imprint where the boy had clenched them so tightly.

"Can't you do something so that I'll remember? I have to remember."

"Why? Why do you have to remember?"

"Because I'm broken inside and I'm afraid if I can't fix it, I'll be broken on the outside too."

"What would that be like?"

"Like the questions you were asking me. If I don't get this off my chest, I'll never be able to breathe. I have to get fixed. My mom won't even come see me."

"Because of what happened?"

J.C. shrugged. "I guess. After it happened my dad came and picked me up and we came back to New York, but my mom hasn't come back yet. She said she would but then she went to Nairobi instead. She said it just came up and she had to go. Now she said she might go to Iran."

"But you don't believe her?"

The boy just shrugged again. "I don't know what to believe anymore. Nothing seems real. I mean if I can forget all those people being murdered right in front of me what does that say about me?"

"What happened to you was horrific," Iggy began.

"No!" J.C. yelled as he stood up. "What happened to them was horrific. I just sat there and watched it all happen. Why didn't they kill me?"

Iggy stayed seated and looked the boy in the eyes. "I don't know why they didn't kill you. Maybe they intended to," he said nodding at the scar on J.C.'s neck. "What you're feeling is called survivor's guilt. Do you know that means?"

"No," J.C. said standing still as his eyes glared at the psychiatrist.

"It means that you feel guilty or that you did something wrong because you survived something so many others didn't. But you did nothing wrong."

"How do I know that if I can't remember anything?"

"I can't imagine what that experience was like for you. But maybe we ought to focus on how deal with the fact that you may never remember what happened that day."

"You don't understand. I don't have to remember."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"There were camera's. The whole thing was recorded, there's video footage. I'm done for today," J.C. said as he walked past Dr. Frome abruptly and out the door leaving the doctor uncertain what to do next.

Iggy has spent the remainder of the time he had allotted for J.C. and contemplated what would be the best course of action. The boy's problem wasn't one that was going have an easy fix or simple solution, no, there was going to be pain, tears, terror and an outcome that he may not be able to foresee. The next day he finally had caught up with Max. "We need to talk."

"Yes we do. I tried to find you this morning," Max said.

"You did?"

"No, not really but it sounded better than if I hadn't said it. So what's up?"

"J.C. and I had an interesting conversation and I have no doubt that he suffers from survivor's syndrome or survivor's—"

"Survivor's guilt. Yeah I figured as much. What else did he tell you?"

"I'm not going to break confidentiality, but I'll give you the basics."

As Iggy finished Max inhaled and looked into the distance.

"Is it true that there were cameras?"

"Yes. There was a large donation that made the trip possible and the benefactor wanted to be able to see what happened on a daily basis. There were cameras set up inside the surgical tent and two outside where many of the patients were seen. From what I understood they were motion activated. They captured everything. It was edited together in the hopes to capture the perpetrators."

"Have they?"

"No. Not to my knowledge."

"Do you know why they didn't kill your son?"

"From what the locals could track down was that they figured he was an American or from a first world nation and they didn't want to bring down the wrath of some powerful foreign government or call international attention to their attacks."

"But his injuries could have killed him."

"Yes. By the time he was found he had lost a lot of blood and was in shock. But the attack on him wasn't as viscous, maybe they had planned to kill him but it was called off at the last second. Maybe they realized what his death might bring. Or maybe they just had to hurry up and leave the area and didn't do a thorough job. I don't think we'll ever really know."

"They released the medical team, his mother included?"

"They released them a few miles from the camp. It took them hours to find their way back. And when they did, well they found out what had happened."

"Why did they take them?"

"Guerrilla warfare causes injuries. They needed the medical care."

"Why not take over the medical camp then?"

"They had already taken over a small and better equipped medical facility with real walls and beds. But the staff had either been killed or ran away. They took only what they needed, doctor's and nurses."

"And let them go?"

"The abductors wore masks, bandanna's over the bottom of their faces. I'm not sure if they let all of them go or not. I'm not privy to all the details. I have no idea what they went through while being held captive. But the killers that stayed behind didn't bother disguising their faces."

"Because they knew they were going to kill everyone." Iggy said, pondering the scenario.

"Everyone except for one small boy, which makes me think they intended to kill him. Maybe the man who did it had a moment of compassion."

"Perhaps. Like you said, we'll never know." Iggy sighed, understanding for a moment J.C.'s frustration.

"You said he recalled holding Claude's hand?" Max asked.

"Yes. Does that mean anything?"

"Maybe you should watch the video."

"You have it?"

"I do. It's on my laptop."

Twenty minutes later Max was staring off into the distance while Dr. Frome wiped a tear away from the corner of his eye. "Christ. I never imagined—"

"Yeah. It's pretty damn awful."

"It's beyond awful. No wonder his brain can't process it. Was he verbal when you picked him up?"

"Barely. He didn't say anything the first day and only spoke when he was spoken to for weeks afterward. Do you think he'll ever remember it?"

"I can't say. He may never recall it. He may recall pieces of it, or one day all of it will flood his system. A place, a smell, a voice, anything could trigger a memory. He's clearly still disassociating and it obviously involves amnesia. I'm not sure what might happen when he begins to process what happened, if he's even able to do so."

"So do we help him remember piece by piece and deal with it or do we leave it to chance that one day he will smell something that takes him back to that day and he totally freaks out?"

"I don't know Max. I don't know. This, this—well I don't even know what to think. I'll need help to come up with a plan. The fear that if we don't deal with this in some manner it could come back to haunt him in the future.

"Repressed memories may never be recalled but can still affect a person even years and years later. They can cause fear of abandonment, sleep issues, relationship issues, self sabotage. And he'll have no idea why." Iggy explained.

"How can they be fixed if he doesn't know why these things are happening?"

"Or, he may have no such issues. But the fact he so badly wants to find out scares me. Does he know you have the video on your laptop?"

"I don't know. I've never told him. But I'm sure he suspects that I'm in possession of it."

"Is it password protected?"

"Yes. All the time. Well, most of the time." Max said thinking back to recent evenings when J.C. had been in his office with the laptop.

"Make sure it's all of the time. I want to talk to him more. Three times a week if possible."

"No problem," Max replied.

"Check your computer, that password is imperative." Max nodded as he pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket and looked at it. "Max, I believe he was in a dissociative state, where a piece was fractured from his consciousness in order to survive a traumatic situation. People who go into a dissociative state experience memory lapses, just as J.C. has and still appear quite normal, just as J.C. does. This state is not voluntary, it's generally caused by extreme psychological distress. His personality hasn't split off as a protective measure and that's a good thing. But—"

"But what?" Max asked as his eyes no longer could focus on the phone in front of him.

"But, I have no idea what the future holds for him."

A couple of weeks later Iggy saw J.C. heading his way. "Nice to see you again. It's been a few weeks. I was hoping to see you more regularly—or at all."

"Sorry. I have been to Dr. Mayfield a couple of times. But he is going on some kind of leave due to personal reasons. My dad said he'd set up a schedule with you."

"Right of course."

"He hasn't done has he?"

Iggy gave a tight smile thinking of his calendar that was vacant of the name Goodwin. "I'll pencil you in. Twice a week after school sound good?"

"Sure," J.C. replied.

"By the way, what are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon on a school day?" He asked as he looked at his watch.

"Parent teacher conferences."

"Did Max—?"

"Remember? No. But Georgia did. She went to the school, I came here. Have you seen him?"

"Not lately. I'm sure he's around somewhere."

"Where is your file Max?" Dr. Sharpe asked.

"On my desk," Max admitted. "I wanted to take another look at our plan."

"No changes. You, I, and Georgia talked about this. Agreed upon it. Have you told J.C. or the staff yet?"

"No. Not yet. But I will."

"You'll have to. The side effects are going to be quite noticeable and you won't be able to hide them."

"Let's get started," Max said said heading towards the table. He had already been having second thoughts about his treatment plan. The side effects were scaring him much more than the disease.

"Nope." Helen replied.

"Nope?" Max questioned.

"Not until I have your file. Where did you leave it?"

Max sighed. "It's on my desk. Can't I give it to you later?"

"No. I need to make accurate notes and in order to do that I must have the file at the time of treatment, not when you eventually get it to me. Run and get it while I take care of something else."

Max hung his head as he headed for the door and his office.

J.C. having no better plan headed towards his father's office. He found it empty as he entered. He tossed himself on the couch as he took in the scent of cardboard from the unpacked boxes that remained stacked against the wall. He thought of Meredith, who no longer came to the hospital after her mother had been discharged and moved to hospice. He would see her at school, moving through the hallways, silent and hollow, going through what suddenly felt like meaningless motions. Zeke had asked him how she was doing, his father had not.

After lying down for a minute, he became restless and hopped back up and sat down at Max's desk. He looked around at the random wreckage of paperwork that had been left behind by a man who had little use for its demands. He knew his father hated drawing up plans, much more intent on spending his energy carrying them out as opposed to writing about them. J.C. opened and closed desk drawers and made a paper football with a piece of generic paper that held nothing but scribbles. He lined up his carefully folded and self-made toy and kicked it with his finger sending it skittering to the edge of the desk where it rested on a manila file folder. He picked it up the triangle from where it sat and and saw that the folder had his father's name on it. He wondered if it was about his employment at the hospital—like a report card. He decided to take a look, but what he found wasn't at all what he expected.

Max was lost in his own world as he neared his office and was only brought out of his thoughts by noise that seemed to be emanating from inside. He broke into a jog and saw a box crash to the floor as he walked through the doorway. Another box was kicked over and papers, pens, along with a stapler and other office sundries were scattered about the floor. He looked over to see his son shove a file holder to the floor. "Jason! What do you think you are doing!?"

"What am I doing?" His son yelled. "What am I doing? Well I'm not lying to my son. I'm not keeping a big secret from him!" J.C. said as he pushed another box over in his rage.

Max frantically looked over at the corner of the desk where he had left his medical file and saw that it now was home to scattered pencils an eraser, a staple remover and a letter opener, but no file. "I'm not lying," Max began, his voice gentle, hoping to deescalate the situation.

"Yes you are! You tell me that not telling things that are important is lying by—by—by something," J.C. said, giving up on the word he was trying to remember.

"Omission." Max filled in.

"Yeah, by omission. It's still a lie." J.C. thought back to Meredith and her bitterness with only knowing bits of her mothers journey towards death. "How could you not tell me?" He screamed, his eyes wet with tears.

"I wanted to know as much as I could before I told you."

"You are starting treatment. How much more can you know?"

"Honestly I wanted to tell you when it was over."

"Are you going to die?"

"One day. But not soon. Not from this."

"But you can't promise can you?"

"No. But I can promise you that I will do everything I can to be there for you, for Georgia, for Luna."

"I hate you," J.C. screamed. "I hate you for not telling me. For not thinking I wasn't important enough to tell."

"Of course you're important enough," Max tried as Dr. Sharpe walked in seemingly unaware of what was going on despite all of the yelling.

"Max, what is taking so long," she said just before she took in the scene before her. "Wow, clearly I need to pay more attention to my surroundings."

"Can you give us a minute?" Max asked.

"As much as I'd like to, no I can't Max. Just like you I have a schedule to adhere to. Did you find the file?" She asked as J.C., unsure what to do just stood there silently. "Oh, never mind, I believe I am standing on it." She took a step back and picked the folder up off of the floor and flipped through it. "Yep, just what I need. J.C. am I correct in assuming that this modification to your father's office was due to your discovery of his recent diagnosis?" She asked in calmly as if the disaster in front of her was an everyday event.

J.C. remained quiet and looked at Dr. Sharpe questioningly. "He didn't tell me he was sick."

"I see. He should have. But he didn't and you found out anyway didn't you?"

"I guess so."

"You can be mad at him, but honestly, he just wanted to protect you as parents so often do."

"Is he going to die?" J.C. asked her as Max stood between the two as a spectator.

"Not if I have anything to say about it. In fact we were about to get started with the very beginning of his treatment. How about you come with us and see just how we're going to battle this enemy? Sound good?" She asked as she extended her hand towards him.

"Okay," J.C. replied taking her hand, turning his back on the mess behind him, his mood having created a wave of emotion, had crested, crashed and receded as so often happens with children.

"You coming?" She asked as she looked back at Max. "I have the file, so no need to dwaddle. Keep up Dr. Goodwin."

Max looked at the disastrous state of his office, ready to say something to his son, but quickly realized that he and his doctor had already departed without him.

Once they had arrived back at the treatment room Helen had the younger Goodwin sit on a stool away from the treatment table. "Your dad will lay down here and today I am tattooing him with three dots."

"Why?" J.C. asked as Max struggled to lay still.

"So I know exactly where to aim my weapon in order to get the bad cells."

"And this will make him better?"

"Well, it might make him feel bad first, but that's because it's working."

"So he has to get sick to get better? How does that make sense?"

"Well that's a great question J.C. and I'm not sure what the best answer is for that."

"The right answer," J.C. said. "That's what my dad says. Will he still have the dots when he's all done? Dad you should get a tattoo that says survivor when you get better."

"I think that's a fantastic idea buddy," Max agreed, while both he and Helen were grateful that the boys original question about getting better was lost in his whirlwind of curiosity.

Once Max finished he hopped off the table, thanked his colleague, grabbed J.C. and left as quickly as he could. Max had done his best to come up with a conversation that would somehow fix what he had screwed up or at the very least appease his son to some degree. He looked up at a nearby clock, for the first time noticing the time.

"Why are you here in the middle of the afternoon? Why aren't you in school?"

"Parent, teacher conferences."

"Dammit, I knew I forgot something."

"Georgia knew you would. She has it covered."

"How about you put my office back together?"

"Is that a request or an order?"

"Oh, that's very much an order."

"Okay," J.C. sighed. "Sorry, I made a mess. It was like a piece inside me just snapped and I couldn't stop it from—from wrecking everything, cause that's how I felt—wrecked."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It took me a long time to get up the courage to tell Georgia and she had wanted to tell you, but I just wasn't ready."

"When would have been ready?" J.C. asked, blinking as he looked up at his father.

"Probably never."

Playlist-

Paint It Black Ciara version while J.C. is talking with Iggy

I Wanna Destroy by Ema when J.C. wrecks Max's office