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BLAME
"What exactly is going on in here?"
Fenton stiffened when he heard Doctor Kempton's voice in the doorway. Now was really not the time and he squared his shoulders – fully intending to confront the abrasive doctor once and for all.
Then Sam's voice put paid to what might have been considered to be a very foolish plan:
"Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm with the FBI," he said, smoothly – lifting his jacket like he'd seen countless cops do on TV. He wasn't wearing a badge on his belt, but he was licensed to carry a gun – and a mere glimpse of it usually had the desired effect. "And visiting hours don't apply."
"Yesterday afternoon, didn't you introduce yourself as family?" she snapped, without even looking at him.
"So he can't have an uncle who's an FBI agent?" Sam challenged, warming to his suddenly improvised role.
"Well, I need to check on the welfare of my patient," Doctor Kempton answered, finally looking at Sam and sounding somewhat flustered – but there was a definite lessening to the hostility in her voice. "And the hospital does have rules regarding the number of visitors…"
"I'm not a visitor," Sam snapped – now playing his utterly imaginary part to the full. He placed his hands on his hips, ensuring that his gun was in full view.
The doctor nodded and returned her full attention to Joe. Occasionally, she spared a sidelong glance towards Sam – and he was clearly making her nervous. That was just something else that Fenton mentally filed away when it came to his dealings with Lorraine Kempton. The need to check up on her flashed through his mind again.
Then her voice penetrated his thoughts: "Joseph is fine," she declared – ignoring the dirty look Frank aimed at her at the use of his brother's full name. "He is still concussed, but that can be managed by rest and Tylenol. There's no reason why he can't be discharged."
"There's every reason!" Fenton tried to argue – abruptly leaving Sam's side and crossing the short distance that lay between him and the much hated doctor. "You have done nothing but…"
And he was silenced; not by Lorraine Kempton – but by Joe:
"Let me go, dad."
But Fenton, in his highly charged and emotional state, didn't hear the words: 'let me go, dad'. Instead – and he would have sworn it under oath – he heard his son say: 'let me go home, dad.'
So Fenton decided that he could deal with the abrasive doctor at a later date, when there wasn't so much riding on it. For now, it all had to be about Joe.
Then his shoulders sagged, as he suddenly realised that he honestly didn't know what to do. He didn't want to take Joe back to the family home; back to the constant and incessant reminders of his mom. That would border on cruelty – given Joe's fragile mental state.
But nor could he check them into a hotel – not even the finest suite Bayport had to offer. That would be just too obvious a reminder of why they weren't going home.
The only feasible, neutral venue they had was the hospital – and Joe had said that he didn't want to stay there; regardless of whether or not Doctor Kempton could be convinced to let him.
They were trapped in a no win situation.
Frank stiffened when Doctor Kempton proclaimed that Joe was ready to be discharged. Unlike his dad, he hadn't misheard Joe – and those soft words had sent a chill shivering down his spine.
He waited for the inevitable protestations and arguments; after all, Joe was clearly not ready to go anywhere. But, when none were forthcoming, he didn't waste time in confronting his dad – instead, he voiced those concerns for himself:
"He won't be cured by 'rest and Tylenol'." He kept his voice deliberately low; not wanting to go into detail whilst standing over Joe's bed – and then he spun around; his sudden action forcing Doctor Kempton to take more than one step back.
He wasn't a bully by nature but, even at the tender age of eighteen, he could be intimidating when the occasion demanded. Now was one such occasion – and the expression on his face had the doctor retreating to the back wall of the room. And that was as much distance as he was prepared to put between himself and his brother.
"What about the drugs? What about the Chlorpromazine and the Scopolamine?" He kept his voice at a whisper – but his tone was still venomous.
"Neither drug is addictive and, given the doses we're dealing with, neither will have any further effect." The doctor kept her own voice hushed – a fact that surprised Frank and subtly shifted his perception of her. Maybe she did care about her patients; just not about her patients' families. She continued: "They will simply work their way out of his system."
Frank shook his head. The words 'let me go' were seared into his brain. He just knew that Joe hadn't been referring to the hospital. His voice had been so desperate… So lost…
He feared that he'd been referring to life itself.
"Please, doctor," he openly begged, a pit of fear opening in his gut – so deep that he feared he might get lost in it. He'd vowed to be strong for his brother, but he didn't know how.
"I'm sorry," Doctor Kempton answered – and she did sound genuine. "But we don't have any reason to keep him here. And we simply don't have the beds."
'Why the hell do you want us out of here so quickly, lady?' Frank wondered and then he heard a gasp – and realised that he'd actually spoken those words aloud. He instantly recanted his previously generous change of attitude towards the doctor – there was definitely something amiss about her. The expression on her face was impossible for him to decipher – but he had clearly struck a nerve with his inadvertently voiced comment.
Looking flustered and wholly unprofessional, Doctor Kempton fled from the room. Frank thought he might have heard her say the words: 'discharge papers'.
He glared at the door as it closed behind her – but then hurried back to Joe's side.
If Joe was going to be discharged, as was seeming increasingly likely, then he would be there for him one hundred per cent.
Fixing a smile on his face, he crossed back to Joe's bedside – behaving as though the doctor fleeing the room was a perfectly natural occurrence.
He quickly accepted that arguing with the doctor's decision – which, fundamentally, meant arguing with hospital policy – was futile.
It didn't mean he wasn't still suspicious of her. It just meant that his suspicions were nowhere near as important as his brother's welfare.
Fenton and Sam both watched in amazement, as the hostile doctor fled from the room as though the hounds of hell had suddenly materialised and were hot on her heels.
"Do you think I was over the top?" Sam self-consciously buttoned up his jacket. He – like Fenton – had heard nothing of the exchange between the doctor and Frank.
"Sam, you just impersonated an FBI Agent," Fenton pointed out – and in another time or place, the situation might have been deemed to be funny; but there was no humour in his tone: "I think that could be a Federal offence."
"I might be worried if I thought she was going to check up on me," Sam murmured in response. He had his own gut instinct about the doctor – and it wasn't a good one.
Fenton glanced sidelong at him: "You get that impression of her too, huh?" Here was one worry he could take steps towards erasing. "Sam…"
"I'm on it." Sam didn't even need the other man to voice any actual request. He would run every imaginable check on Lorraine Kempton – and then he would run some more.
"Thanks." Not needing to spare any further words – and knowing that his gratitude had been conveyed in spite of the absence of many words – Fenton turned his attention back to his sons.
Joe's eyes were, again, closed; but this time he wasn't trying to fool them into thinking he was asleep. There was too much tension in his features and his breathing sounded as though it was forcedly regular. He could read his son well – and Joe was steeling himself; mentally preparing for the consequences of a decision he had made. Only, Fenton couldn't be sure of what that decision was.
'Let me go home' – maybe that was it. The false memory of those words was the best guess that he could come up with. And, if it were true, then Fenton could fully understand why it looked like it was hurting so much. How did you mentally prepare for such a thing?
The answer came to him before he had even consciously acknowledged the silent question: with the love and support of his family.
Now they just had to take the first step.
Everything else that was to come, they would deal with in the same way. Any potential trial and the possible need for Joe to testify; every stumbling block along the way – because there were bound to be numerous and some bigger than others; every bad day and night; every scream-inducing nightmare.
They would all be overcome with the same simple solution: just by taking one step at a time.
The very first step was a simple one, especially given Doctor Kempton's stance on the availability of beds and the severity of Joe's injuries. Joe wanted to go home and so they would take him home.
He opened his mouth to convey that to his sons – and then closed it abruptly. In order to go home, Joe would need some clothes. But when he'd been brought in, he'd been wearing that awful orange prison jumpsuit. That had been taken away as evidence – and Fenton wouldn't care if he never saw it again.
But now, one of them had to leave; or he had to inconvenience either Gertrude or Sam to get some fresh clothing to them. And that thought provoked a stray memory – a sudden freeze frame of talking to Sam out in the corridor. Sam had been carrying a holdall.
He looked down and, sure enough, the holdall now sat at the foot of the bed – and Fenton knew that it would contain the required change of clothes.
He shook his head. How had Sam seen this coming? But the question was irrelevant. Joe would have needed those clothes sooner or later.
He took a moment to thank God for Sam Radley – and decided that he would never, ever be able to repay the debt of gratitude he owed to his long time friend.
TBC
