Just one day after Pacey had laid his fears out for Andie and Jen, his own mother - to brush off the usual condolences and well-wishes for her baby boy - let slip to her hairdresser during her fortnightly trim. Then, to two ladies in the queue at the deli counter whilst picking up a few cold meats for dinner, and to the guy who filled her car at the gas station, and to Mrs McGovern chairperson for the past pupil's alumni and mother to Pacey's peer Belinda.
The news of Capeside High's one and only wheelchair user entering into hospital again to try to aid his physical limitations spread like the wildfire Jack had feared. Belinda was quick to tell the rest of the cheer leading squad during the short time school had broken up for the weekend, that by Monday morning not only were posters and spirit cookies and empty promises from faceless strangers swamping Pacey in the corridors, but a hefty collection was soon offered up to him too. It was decided the money be spent on a weekend away for two with shopping vouchers, personally delivered to the Witter household quite fittingly by Principal Howard Green.
Pacey was embarrassed if anything but his family were treating him the very same. His father especially and most surprisingly became this suddenly suffocating overprotective looming figure. And by the time the week was out and he was finally summoned to check in at the hospital, John - despite being the worst fan of even a doctor's surgery - was a constant force by his son's bedside. His mother was a praying mess. His sisters quiet. His brother uncomfortably polite with him in a formal almost detached manner. His aunts and uncles on their mandatory one visit made with the cheek pinching routine, the men all promising him pints. His nieces and nephews were eerily well-behaved.
"Look Pop," Pacey sighed heavily after the third day of being confined in his sterile prison. "You really don't have to hang back. The others are down the cafeteria and, hey, I know how much you loathe hospitals. I mean, you didn't spend this much time here the first time I had the accident."
"Pace..." John looked about himself before settling into a chair, a little disheartened by the lack of gratitude. But it was the habit of sitting and standing and pacing about the foot of the bed whilst wringing his hands that Pacey had learned to hate.
"Why do you hate hospitals so much anyway?"
"I don't. So-" he clapped his hands together.
"How did my grandparents die?"
"Damn it, Pacey! Why can't you do as you're told and just drop things, huh? I mean you would think being here would make you, I don't know, serene - asleep, all this damn medication. But you're still a pain in the ass, aren't you?"
Dawson made his way downstairs to the shouts of his mother with an irritable scowl on his face, having been woken from a short nap, a pleasure he very irregularly indulged in. Shaking his fringe out of his eyes by the time he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked about his hallway briefly before flapping his arms and figuring Gale to be in the livingroom.
He stopped dead, his eyes flickering to his maternal guardian instinctively, as he noticed his dad shaking the hand of Pacey's until their greeting evolved into an awkward hug. With a final pat to Mitch's shoulder, John gave his brief nod to Dawson before exchanging pleasantries with Gale.
"Hello Mr Witter," Dawson said levelly, trying to create the impression of a confident well-together young man.
"Dawson," John nodded again curtly. He allowed himself a long sigh as he lowered himself down onto the sofa and sank back into the cushions, his hand finding the small of his back. Dawson regarded him with a tilt of the head and suddenly wondered what had brought him here as the initial shock subsided. The Sheriff was kneading a well-worn Red Sox cap between his hands, his eyes were subdued into dark sockets, his face red from the whiskey Dawson knew Pacey fervently despised.
His hair, already thinning, was touched with new silver flecks at the sideburns and continuing to creep up. Anyone could tell instantly that years only had so much on him and in truth it was probably Pacey who added the extra strain. Not that Pacey could be blamed, but he and Joey for their once friend to seek solace in a bottle and some of alcohol in the first place. Rumour had it way back when that the teenager had forced himself to down an exact bottle of tequilla, rendering himself certifiably incompetent, before stumbling numbly in front of Mr Leery's range rover.
"Is everything alright? What's going on?" he demanded on an uncertain hitch of breath. Mitch eased himself into an armchair opposite them all and watched his friend look off to the left without answer. Gale materialised from the kitchen, offering tea and coffee but was met with the polite decline 'I'm not staying long, thanks.' "Is Pacey okay?" Dawson complained at the adults again, fixing his question towards his own father this time.
"Mm," Sheriff Witter said gruffly, fixing his cap to his balding head and straightening it into position. He allowed for a rueful laugh and focused a tired stare in Mitch and Gale's direction. "I'm sure you've heard the hospital took my boy in last week, so he's just been waiting until they're ready to undergo any operation or whatever. It's tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Gale repeated, glancing at Dawson and bending with her tray of biscuits and tea pot to the coffee table before perching herself on the armrest of her husband's seat. He pulled her hands into his lap, caressing them over with the pad of his thumb absent-mindedly. "And how is poor Pacey?"
A knock at the door and a gleaming nurse shuffled in, all teeth and big hair, her white musk instantly choking both father and son. With her was a wheelcart and a decent sized wooden cabinet on top. The Sheriff tossed her a polite smile while Pacey began to twist about restlessly on his pillows, obviously well acquainted with the hag and routine and not much liking it.
She reached into her pocket and found a long keyring with several small keys swinging. The first one she tried was successful and pulling open the lid of her medicine box, she began sifting through notes instructing her what and how much was prescribed to her patients on these daily rounds. "This now," she held up a hand, brandishing a lengthened syringe. Pacey grimaced. "And..." setting it aside for a moment she was able to count out three different bottles of pills, alternating them in her hands as she spoke: "These now as well. Two of them. One from this bottle and this is for the morning, okay? Long day ahead of you tomorrow huh... Pacey?"
He expelled a huffy sigh as she moved around her cart with her syringe and a separate bottle altogether . Upturning it, she stamped her needle into the soft rubber of its lid and drew upon the clear liquid within. Pacey held out his arm and tightened his fist, allowing her to clean her desired location with a damp strip of cotton wool before stabbing him, waiting three seconds, and then injecting slowly.
There was another pause before she ripped the syringe away and moved for her cotton wool to stop the trickle of blood. Pacey clamped his own hand to the 'wound' and glared childishly as she lost interest and returned to administering the rest of his medication. "Head back. Sit up, dear" she ordered busily, holding out three tablets and a glass of water. He stuffed them into his mouth, swallowing a generous swig of water and smiling with forced enthusiasm that made his father chuckle and shake his head.
"There now, it's all over," she cooed, her voice thick with teasing. She shared a smirk with John and bowed as she left them in peace then.
"See when I get out of this place? I'm gonna stick her with about a million needles, she how she likes it!"
"That's enough of that talk."
John sighed again and removed his cap, fidgeting to find the words. "We had an intimate little discussion today. They're so few and far between it wouldn't be right to divulge." He stopped, inching forwards and licking his lips. "But every once in a while - I don't know - I just get these glimpses of the wonderful future he's going to have, and of the sensitive scared little kid he actually is... despite... he's braver than anyone I know, the way he's handled things. Gotten his life back on track. And that Jen's a fine girl. Fine girl indeed. She makes the boy happy."Dawson wondered if this was for his benefit as way of almost threat but then remembered Sheriff Witter was once keen on him, his parents were present and most notably the man was riddled with grief and nostalgia and parenthood that he probably didn't care in the slightest the dynamic of a teenager's social life.
"Is he scared about tomorrow?"
"Petrified," John replied quickly, accompanied with a soft smile as he watched Gale's face crumble. "He was clinging to my arm this afternoon, all tears and running nose. I could do without it."
Dawson knew John was never one for words. Grunts and slights would usually suffice, but this image did not conjure one of an annoyed father trying to prise away a whining nuisance. Instead he saw Pacey alive in John, although neither could ever admit the similarity. Pacey too had a particular way with words, everything was a joke, everything laced in sarcasm. He tried to imagine Pacey crying in his father's arms and a sharp jolt of guilt in his chest surprised him.
Was Pacey crying for fear of the impending surgery or because he was having a heart-to-heart with his old man? Was the physical and emotional pain at constant odds and if so what would win out? If the operation went suitably well, he and Joey would always co-exist to remind Pacey of his once situation. Equally, if the physical pain won out, the boy may learn to forgive them but remain forever and alone in a wheelchair as people excelled around him. Dawson stopped himself, deciding that he was just over-analysing, exaggerating, and assuming a vulnerability Pacey mightn't even feel himself. He'd be fine. He had to be fine. For many's a conscience.
"We all went home. Once they sedated him it was pretty much pointless, you know?"
"Yeah," Mitch tried to understand.
"You couldn't make head nor tail what he was talking about. He had some awareness... he knew something was happening to his leg. He said it was a shark that got him out at sea so they had to take it off tomorrow. He also had some story about being stabbed, I don't know..."
"Does tomorrow have to happen, dad?" Pacey wondered, a slur coming to his words already.
"Now Pace, we talked about this," he was reminded firmly. "I understand you're more than a little apprehensive about this. You're allowed to be, but it's for the best."
"S'all Doug's fault."
"What?" John asked, a laugh of surprise catching in his throat. "Walk me through that. I'm dying to know."
Pacey sensed he was being patronised and tried his damnedest to maintain eye contact despite increasingly obscured vision. His eyes took on a glazed look and his head lolled onto his shoulder but he mustered every ounce of energy to stay lucid enough to carry the conversation. "No, not Dougie... what's his name? The one that looks like Doug 'cept he has blonde hair and he's smaller and stockier - maybe a little more camp that Doug."
"I don't know Pace," John apologised, trying to remain serious as the drugs dulled his youngest's senses, movements and train of thought.
"Dawson!"
"Dawson?"
"Dawson. He... he stabbed me in the leg. And now they want to amputate it but you can just go get that nurse and tell her they can take Dawson's leg instead, 'kay Pop?"
"I can't do that," his father explained patiently. "I'm sorry."
"Why?" Pacey demanded, affronted. "It's your fault in the first place. You're meant to be some great fisherman," he accused as if this was the most obvious reason. John took a breath and braced himself for a new tale. "You knew I fell overboard and you saw the shark and you didn't even bother your ass pulling me back-"
"So there's a shark now too?"
"Well duh, man. Geez. You're meant to be the policeman here. Why else would I be getting a shark tooth taken out of my knee tomorrow?"
"So it's me and Dawson's fault? Pacey. Pace, bear with me kid. No, no look at me. Up here. I'm over here. You were drunk and got knocked down - well over a year ago now. It's been a long road back since that day. That's all tomorrow is."
"But I was only drinking because I knew you'd kill me."
"Excuse me?"
"You all know this already. It's old news. I was on a boat playing poker and by the way I don't... appreciate people trying to trick me. You're always - always trying to trick me into facing up to things that didn't happen. I know cars don't drive on water. Shark..."
"You never said that you were drinking because you were afraid to go home."
"I'm starving, what's for dinner?"
"God love him," Gale laughed morosely, with a shake of the head.
"Well, the kid's sure got some imagination," Mitch pointed out appreciatively. "What time are they taking him in at tomorrow? Are we allowed to visit beforehand?"
"That's ah... that's actually why I'm here," John nodded. "We were all talking about it, thinking it should probably just be family and that, but Dougie said you're just as important in Pacey's life," he added with almost a hint of regret. Mitch reached over to clamp a hand on the man's shoulder. John just chuckled cooly, stretching back and removing his cap again. "Tomorrow determines the rest of Pacey's life," he mumbled knowledgeably, concentrating on nothing but his hat. "And it might go wrong."
"It won't go wrong John," Gale reassured firmly, wanting to feel out for his hand but deciding against it.
"Might do," he shrugged almost casually.
"Am I allowed to be there for him?" Dawson dared inquire after an ominous silence fell about the room.
"Yup," Sheriff Witter cleared his throat. "I mean, anything can happen on that table under the knife, can't it? Might be the last time any of us get to be there for him."