I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Lady Amid The Books
Huck didn't really mean to tell her, his mother.
About the thin man.
Martin Harrison.
He tries not to talk about it outside the hospital at all.
He wishes Grace didn't have to know.
Though she has been tough as nails and gentle as a kitten about it the entire time.
A month, it has been.
A month.
And barely any improvement at all.
A bird should not eat more than a grown man.
Sometimes his shaking, his apparent chills become so bad, Huck writes an order for him to soak in the hydrotherapy room.
"I thought you didn't like the hydrotherapy room, Huck."
"Nurse Bucket-"
"No, no, I apologize. I was . . . less than I should have been at the time. You were right to defy me though you still refuse to admit it. No, you go right ahead and do what you think is best. I trust you."
"Thank you, Nurse Bucke-"
"Just don't cut the electrical cable again, hmmm?"
A very carefully worded and specifically directed order.
"Only enough to warm him and only for this amount of time."
"Yes, sir."
"Unless he asks to come out sooner. Then let him."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't leave him alone for even one second, even if he doesn't want to talk, just sit quietly and make sure he knows he's not alone."
"Yes, sir."
"And place towels along the bottom of the tub to ease his discomfort. He has no extra cushioning on him."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't close the lid on him, leave it open. We're not trapping him in."
"Yes, sir.'
Those directions that were according to the patient, were followed . . .
"Good, good. Thank you, Mr. Harrison. I appreciate you answering my questions."
. . . to the T.
And it has been all well and fine and good.
Huck has sat with him, spoken with, well, to him.
Brought him in, for small amounts of time, into the company of peaceful others.
Even bade him sit in the warming, hopeful sunshine.
He has been cared for, he has been attended.
He has been, on occasion, IVed in a desperate attempt to provide his body with needed fluids and vitamins.
And still, he merely subsists.
He is not a difficult patient.
He does not . . .
"-you, I am the director of this establishment, you mewling quim! You are under direct orders to do as I say!"
"Forgive me, Ms. Wells, but I am not."
"Fired, fired, you are all fired, so help me God if I have to withstand one more sniveling, helpless brat in this facility -"
. . . rampage against the other patients or staff.
He is however, . . .
"Mr. Harrison, I see you have not eaten but a bite of your pudding. May I help you please?"
. . . still actively on course for killing himself by season's end.
And Huck Finnigan . . .
"Another pound? He can't continue to lose weight like this, the man is going to die-"
"We're actually surprised his heart as held out as long as it has, Head Nurse Finnigan."
And well, when his mother inquired about his job . . .
". . . new?"
"Oh, well. It's fine, I suppose."
. . . it just sort of slipped out.
It's not his fault really.
His two favorite people in all of the world sitting before him.
His mother and Grace.
Side by side save for the Huckleberried sidetable between them.
Ankles crossed demurely.
Coffee cups in hand.
Eyes on him.
The little trifecta of triangled-pleasantries, respected women, and childhood memories intermixing with him.
He just sort of . . .
". . . help him. I just can't think of anything else to do, honestly . . ."
. . . let it out.
And Grace, pretty bloodred lips pressed together, delicate strong hands lowering the coffee cup solemnly into her lap.
Poor Grace.
She and her mother have tried, in vain, devise a plan to help the thin man.
From special foods to spirit-lifting excursions.
To finding someone, anyone . . .
". . . talk to him? Get through to him? Surely there must be someone he would listen to."
. . . to sit down with him and beg, plead, him into willing life.
And they have absolutely made . . .
"-son? I have some oatmeal for you?"
. . . no headway in this particular . . .
"Good morning, William Holden."
"Good morning, Mrs. Kee. And it's Huck, remember?"
"That thin man, William Holden. Can't you get him to eat anything?"
"Not much, Mrs. Kee."
"Well, fiddlesticks. Did you try sousemeat and saltines?"
"I'll have to look it up."
. . . medical matter.
And Huck feels increasingly worried . . .
". . . today, Nurse Baker?"
"He ate a bite of mashed potato at lunch."
"Well, that's something, I suppose."
"Should we funnel him?"
"No, Nurse Baker. We should not. It's barbaric and possibly kill him."
And so it just sort of . . .
"I'm sorry, Ma. I shouldn't have said. It's too unpleasant to lay at your feet."
"That's a mother's job, son. To listen and care. I'd be offended if you didn't talk to me."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is there anything that you might be able to think of that might help us with this, Mrs. Finnigan? In all your reading, perhaps?"
"Well, now that you mention it. Hmmm, I wonder . . ."
She is a woman of average height and build.
Young, somewhere between Huck and Grace in age.
Her clothes are simple and plain.
Brown knee length skirt, white top down to the wrists.
Sensible shoes below modestly crossed ankles.
Further up, her dark brown hair is pulled back into a neat bun at her neck.
Small brown wristwatch on her arm.
Plain gold band on her left ring finger.
No one to see, no one to notice in the scheme of the world.
And by all appearances that is exactly the way she wants it.
She . . . sits in on herself.
It is the only way Huck can think to describe it.
Hands clasped neatly on lap.
Raising to turn the page.
Lowering once more to continue reading.
There is nothing on the long table before her but the time to which she is devoting her attention.
She seems to take up only the space required to exist.
And her face is solemn.
"Mrs. Inger?"
Huck is used to his mother's soft spoken voice. The gentle lilt is an integral part of his childhood.
And yet, it is even softer, even more gentle than he can call to memory.
Nevertheless, the woman shrinks from the sound of it, just the slightest bit.
Dark brown eyes darting up to the source.
And then, imperceptibly, she relaxes.
"Yes, Mrs. Finnigan?"
The thick European accent is unmistakable.
And Huck knows.
Just as he did with Harrison himself.
Though he supposed it must not be too difficult to infer.
"I apologize for bothering you but this is my son Huck and his lady friend Grace. They would like to talk with you."
She does not move, as if she is trying vanish from sight.
Meld back into the rows and rows of dark wood bookcases.
This haven of quiet information and literature.
And then, silently, she nods allowance.
Huck's mother returns the nod, steps forward, and Huck gestures Grace forward, following last.
He tries to sit the ruined side of his face as away from Mrs. Inger's as he can.
Still . . .
"You are a soldier?"
. . . she notices anyway.
"Yes. Germany. Mortar explosion."
And does not show the alarm he expected.
"No, not your face. Your eyes."
He supposes she would not.
"They have seen much."
This he cannot deny, only nod mute affirmation, wisp of a nod.
Grace squeezes his hand under the table.
"Mrs. Inger, my name is Grace Miller. We have come to ask you for help."
And then Grace, voice respectful and straightforward, . . .
"There is a patient at the hospital I work at . . ."
. . . continues.
Thanks to DinahRay for reviewing before .See you again in a couple of days. :D