Chapter 4

"Maureen to John, do you copy? Over."

Mom's muted voice pulls me out of a quiet slumber.

What time is it?

The surgical wing is a Russian nesting doll of tents. At the very core, the operating theater and the adjacent nurse's station don't see the light of day. Neon lights are dimmed during the night and turned on progressively to match the dawn. It is daylight. Time to check on Dad and see how he fared during my shuteye.

I push myself up and rise to my feet, stiff and achy - the cot was barely more comfortable than the chair – and limp toward the desk.

Inside the operating theater, Jonah Weber, the nurse who replaced Julia at the end of her shift at 4am, is changing Dad's IV solutions.

"John, you there?"

Mom. Where is she?

She's calling Dad on his wrist-computer so… Dad's shirt has been discarded with the biowaste, but the rest of his belongings, deemed recuperable, have been bagged. Here it is.

"Hey, Mom, it's me, Judy."

"Oh, hi, honey. Has your father already left for the drill site? I'd hoped to catch him before he left but he must already be busy. I heard there was an accident yesterday, something about an alien agent that attacks metal, even titanium. That's pretty scary. We really want to get that thing contained. If it reaches the Resolute, we'll be stuck on that desert world forever. Is everything all right on your side? Have you been able to find your friends and get some work done in the E.R.?"

Mom and Penny are the same. They talk a hundred miles an hour when they're nervous, one thought leading to another until they realize that:

"Judy? You still there?"

"Yes, I am. Listen. About that accident yesterday..."

Mom falls silent as I tell her what happened. I can't help but think of Dad's gunshot wounds. Should I ask her? I know what she's going to tell me: they didn't want us to worry. To a certain extent, I can understand that. Isn't that the role of parents, to make decisions in their children's best interest? Maybe I would have done the same in their place. I don't know. It still bugs me though.

"Thank god you were there for him. Look, I was supposed to go after the robot with Will, but this changes everything. I'll ask the pilot to drop us at the camp instead. We should be there in about eight hours."

"Wait. You found the robot?" Wow. Really? He's here on this planet with us?

"Will found him thanks to that weird connection he shares with his friend. I don't know what to think of it, honestly. It kind of freaks me out sometimes. What if it's not a one-way street? What does the robot know about Will's life? Our life? Earth? Anyway, the positive side is that once we rescue the robot from the desert, we'll be able to get the reactor working and be back on our original course for the colony sooner than expected."

"That's great. Listen, Mom, don't cancel anything then. Go find the robot. The sooner we can leave this dirt pit the better. And anyway, as long as Dad is in confinement, you won't be allowed to see him, so it's no use coming here. I'll stay with him, promise. He won't be alone."

"But you assure me that he's fine. He's out of danger, right?"

"You know dad. Between two fits of coughing, he was joking. I was more tired than he was."

"That sounds like him. Tireless. I'm glad to hear he's in good spirits. What about you. Are you all right?"

"Yeah but... can I ask you something?"

"Sure, honey. What is it?"

I hesitate.

"Jude?"

"Did you know that he was shot twice?"

A silence. "His vaccine scars… I told him then, the truth always comes out, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, Judy, those injuries, he got them a few months before we met. You were a baby."

Ah. This, I hadn't foreseen. "I mean later, you could have told me later. Why is this okay with him to lie about this? I don't get it. Did he think that it would make him invulnerable in our eyes?"

"You'll have to ask him, honey. Maybe he'll tell you, I don't know. I never asked."

Now I'm confused. "You never asked why he lied or how he got shot?"

Mom sighs deeply.

"Your dad is a very private man. He doesn't like to talk about anything related to his job, you know this. Besides, what would have been the point? He got shot, yes, but he was fine. I didn't need or want to know more."

It's my turn to be silent. Mom didn't want to know. That's a first. There's something about anxiety management, to accept one's limits, respect others' rights of privacy and their decisions, not to seek to have answers for everything. To not think over and over about something that isn't in my circle of influence. To yield control. What's in the past, stays in the past. That he got injured when I was a baby is of no importance today, medically speaking. Personally speaking, exposing another flaw in his character is another story. Dad is a liar. He can't be trusted. Which sadly, is nothing new.

"Jude, are you sure you don't want me to come?"

I push the thought away. Why do I do this to myself?

"Yes, you and Will go find the robot. It's what's more important, for all of us, including dad." Hushed voices filter through the curtain. "Look, I've got to go. Dr. Luna is coming. I'll call you back later."

"Tell him I love him, okay?"

"Of course. I'll tell him you called when he wakes up. Judy out."

Pushing aside the bitter mix of feelings set off by our talk, I quickly grab two bags of PPE as the chief of surgery steps into the tent, followed by his staff.

"Thank you, Dr. Robinson. So, how is your patient going this morning?"

While we all put on gowns, caps, and gloves, I give Dr. Luna a detailed account of Dad's status.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"A few hours. It's okay, I'm fine," I reply as we step into the O.R..

"When I was your age, a few hours of sleep per night was enough to see me through twenty-hour shifts. Sadly, it's not the case anymore. Nowadays, I need six, minimum, to be alert and eight to be good company, according to my interns. Although, according to my wife, it's closer to 12. Dr. Yates would have to sedate me to sleep that long."

A few discreet chuckles spread among the staff as Dr. Luna stops next to my father – still asleep – lifts the layers of gauzes, listens to Dad's lungs.

"His wound looks better but there are still some grating sounds in his left lung. When was his last cough?"

"About forty minutes ago," Jonah Weber says.

"Hmm," Dr. Luna grunts in obvious concern before continuing his exam.

But as the chief of surgery grabs Dad's wrist to check his pulse, Dad jerks his arm away and opens his eyes. Dr. Luna gently squeezes his shoulder. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Robinson. How are you feeling this morning?"

A moan escapes Dad's throat as he tries to adjust his position while looking all around, freezing for a brief moment as he sees the number of people in the room. "Like someone mopped the floor with me and left me hanging dry," he croaks with a crooked smile, a cough, and a wince.

Jonah quickly gives Dad a cup with a few ice chips while the staff chuckle, including me. Really? Another joke? At least, he's an easy-going patient. I'd freak out at his place.

Dr. Luna nods as he checks Dad's radial pulse again. "Thankfully, I have a plan to make you feel better. Do you want to hear it?"

"Shoot."

No, please, any word but this one.

"Considering that you are stable and that both the inflammation and the infection have receded this morning, we could put you back under for a second round, properly clean the abscess in your wound, remove all those pesky metal shards, and stitch you up. Once this is done, I'll lift the isolation protocol and you'll be transferred to the most comfortable bed in the whole hospital. What do you think?"

"I think what are you waiting for?"

While Dr. Luna pats Dad's shoulder with a sigh of relief, saying, "You heard the patient, people, let's roll. And someone page Dr. Yates!", my heart sinks and I barely manage to keep myself from blurting 'What are the risks?'

Dad didn't have time to recover from the first surgery but asking him not to cough while the surgeon has a scalpel in his abdomen is not an option. Nor is leaving him with infected metallic shards loose in his body. Surgery it is.

As I step back to get out of the way of the nurses and interns, Dad reaches for my hand. Our fingers brush.

"I'm staying with you," I say as Jonah, who is sitting down on a stool behind him, asks him to count backward from a hundred while injecting the anesthetic into his IV line while another nurse pushes the intubation cart next to Jonah.

"100, 99, 98, 9–"

Jonah waits a few more seconds before intubating Dad while Dr. Yates storms in and takes over without a look at anyone.

While a thick silence falls over the O.R., I take a few steps back to stand with the other interns not assisting the surgery to watch it on the screens. Methodically, Dr. Luna is cutting more of the abscess while another surgeon suctions it out with the pus, the blood, and some metallic flakes.

"Damn it!" Dr. Luna says. "Scalpel!"

Quickly, a nurse approaches with a new scalpel and discards the one Dr. Luna was using in the biosafety bin. Wow! The blade looks rusted...

"How many scalpel did we waste in this guy?" an intern behind me whispers to his colleagues. Under the masks and caps, I don't recognize any of them. This is male intern #1.

"I think that's the ninth," another replies. Male Intern #2.

"I lost count." Female Intern #1.

"It's the tenth." Male Intern #3.

"You sure?" Male Intern #2. Doesn't like being wrong or doesn't like Male Intern #3 being right.

"I counted. Ten scalpels and seven forceps. They kept on disintegrating in his flesh. That's just totally mad." Male Intern #3. With a chuckle. That's so inappropriate.

"Make that eight." Female Intern #1. With a sigh.

You kidding me? I stare back at the screen in time to see another forcep being installed.

"That guy's guts are radioactive." Male Intern #1.

"I just heard the nurse say they're down to a box." Female Intern #2.

"We might not even have enough scalpels to treat that guy." Male Intern #2.

"Or anyone after him. We should just close and let the antibiotics do their job." Male Intern #1.

"The abscess is too wide and deep for the antibiotics alone. He would have died of septic shock." Female Intern #1.

"One patient against every future patient... I'm just saying." Male Intern #1. And that's appalling.

"Shut up, all of you," I hiss.

The lack of respect for my father is getting on my nerves, but what they are saying chills my blood. Now I understand why it took so long yesterday evening and why Dr. Yates kept on checking Dad's hemostasis status throughout the night. He was worried about internal bleeding, not only from the repair to his iliac artery but also from a loose piece of scalpel. I'm so glad Dad is under and can't hear anything of this. No matter how skilled he is at keeping his cool, this is just too much stress, even to watch.

For the next ten minutes, I focus on following Dr. Luna as he cleans all the metallic shards from the wound.

"Dr. Luna! You just missed one under the left ureter!" I blurt out before quickly biting my lips as all eyes turn to me at once.

Without a word, the chief of surgery slowly moves his suction tool backwards a little. "Ah! Excellent eyes, Dr. Robinson. Good. Very good indeed. Why don't you replace me to take this one out?"

"Mm...me?"

Jonah nods to me fast and whispers: "Go ahead."

My heart pounding in my chest, I walk around the table to the spot a nurse has cleared for me.

"There you go, Dr. Robinson. Now, move very gently and keep on cleaning that wound without touching the forceps to avoid them shredding into the abdominal cavity. We're literally playing a classic operation game here."

Time ceases to exist. I'm in a bubble where the only thing that matters is to chase down and remove all the bits of metal that have been carried away with the internal hemorrhage and hidden by the inflammation.

Seventy minutes after Dr. Luna handed me the suction tool, I stitch Dad's wounds as much as I can. There's been too much necrosis to make it perfect and he will need a skin graft.

"Impressive job, Dr. Robinson," the surgery chief says as I put the scissors in the biosafety bin to my right. "People, we can lift the isolation protocol and let our patient recover in a more comfortable bed."

"You'll make a great surgeon, Robinson," Dr. Yates whispers to me. His eyes are red, like he didn't get any sleep.

"Thanks."

While Jonah and the chief anesthesiologist take care of my father, I join the other interns in the decontamination zone, ignoring the sarcastic comments from Male Interns #1 and 3.

"Don't mind them. They're just jealous," Female Intern #1 whispers to me as she removes her cap and mask. "You'd think that all the tragedy we've lived through together would elevate them, but they're a hopelessly selfish bunch. I'm Gabriela by the way. My friends call me Gabbie."

"Nice to meet you, Gabbie. I'm Judy."

We keep on chatting while we discard our PPE and proceed with the disinfection protocol.

"Wanna grab something to eat?" Gabbie asks as we step out of the O.R..

"Maybe later. I want to be with my father when he wakes up."

The intern's eyes bulge suddenly. "He's what? You operated on your dad?!"

I nod. "Yeah, and I intubated him yesterday."

"Awesome. I mean," Gabbie shudders slightly. "Sorry, I don't know what I mean. And, oh my, I'm so sorry about what you heard earlier in the operating room. That was so insensitive of us."

"Don't beat yourself up. You couldn't have known."

Gabbie lets out a sigh of relief. "It's just crazy these days. If we're not assisting or watching a surgery, we're in the E.R. no matter the time of the day, suturing, treating burns, setting bones and did I mention suturing? Because we do that a lot. And with this special freaking time zone we're in, shifts are endless. I feel like I haven't slept in days and anyway each time I close my eyes, I see myself–"

"Suturing."

"How did you guess?"

Gabbie bursts out laughing and so do I.

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me," she says.

"See you later in the E.R.."

"Ciao."

As the interns leave, I pull out a chair at the nurse's desk and slowly sit down to watch as the staff take down all the tarps and shove them in biosafety bins that they then align against the back wall while Jonah and Dr. Yates monitor my father.

I don't notice Dr. Luna until he hands me a cup of water.

"Oh, thank you."

The chief leans back against the deck, his arms crossed over his chest with his face so serious that my anxiety shoots through the roof.

"I owe you an apology, Judy."

"For what, Chief? You just saved my Dad."

"Yesterday, in Victor's Jupiter, I couldn't have stabilized your father without your help. But this morning was not necessary. Not medically for the patient at least."

"It's against the rules to operate on a family member, I know. But it's okay. I'm okay."

"No, you're not," Dr. Luna shoots back with more intensity than he'd intended, judging by his embarrassment. After a few seconds of silence, he says: "Nobody is okay, Judy. Not after what happened to the Resolute. We are all dealing with a fair amount of trauma and stress. For many of us, focusing on our job is what keeps us on our feet and operational. But that doesn't mean we are okay."

Dr. Luna lets out another deep sigh.

"In ordinary circumstances, allowing you to operate on your father is against all the rules of ethics I've always worked hard to uphold. But we're not in normal circumstances. I'm running a field hospital with a quarter of the staff and resources it should have because our teams have suffered losses I can't replace. And after seven months on this desiccated world, the people are exhausted, physically and mentally, which makes them more vulnerable to illnesses and prone to mistakes. An accident like yesterday, if not preventable, was expected. We're at war, Dr. Robinson. We are living in the now, reacting every second, because we lost the capacity to anticipate and to prepare. Your arrival yesterday morning was an unexpected but most welcome logistical solution, not a punishment as you may have thought, no doubt. But you never know. You saved two lives."

Dr. Luna clears his throat and drinks from his cup.

"The drill worker?"

"He's critical but stable. I think he's got a good chance to make it, thanks to you."

A weight lifts from my chest.

"You are the brightest of all the students I've been given to teach in my long career, Judy. You are also the youngest. And aside from your steady hands, and quick brain, you have an eagerness to learn and the courage to act. You're intense. All in, all the time. That's a rare and precious combination of talents you've got there and I need them now. I'm aware that I'm putting a lot of pressure on your shoulders by saying that, but until the Resolute is repaired, and we are safely back on our way to the colony, all internship programs have been paused and students have been redirected to help wherever they can. So politely, I would say that your help in surgery would be greatly appreciated, Dr. Robinson. Realistically, I feel distraught enough to say that we need you."

The curtains open and Jonah and another nurse wheel Dad out of the O.R.

"But for now, go be with your father. Not only is he your patient but he'll be more confused when he wakes up this time. A loved one's face will go a long way to make him feel better."

"Thank you, sir."

A much needed feeling of being appreciated engulfs me as I walk across to the next tent and into the ICU.

The daylight filters through the fabric of the tent here. Without the neons, the natural light gives a pleasantly quiet atmosphere to the room that has been divided into four private zones by curtains. The drill worker is in one of them.

For the next ten minutes, we take care of making Dad as comfortable as possible while we wait for the effects of the anesthesia to wear off. We put him in a gown, tuck him nicely under a warm blanket (after being feverish for almost twenty-four hours, he's now borderline hypothermic), just before gagging sounds tell us he is fighting the ventilator.

Jonah guides me as I pull the tube out. But unlike the previous time, his eyes stay closed. So I pull a chair and sit down while I wait for him to surface.

Surgery or Pediatrics? Here I am again, asking myself that same question. The last time, the choice hadn't been so hard to make. I knew I was great with kids but didn't know if I would like surgery because, as Dr. Yates had said, it lacks human interaction with the patient. It's not so clear cut anymore.

"Come on dad, wake up, I need to talk with you about what to choose. Do I abandon pediatrics for surgery or not? I'd like to have your opinion on that now that you're here."

As I say those words, my bitterness and disappointment turn to a genuine sadness. My career orientation was something I wanted to discuss with him while running, but then he left. And when he came back, there was no point talking about it anymore. So for the last ten months, we barely talked about anything but banalities. I maintained a superficial, polite level of communication between us, no matter his efforts to engage in more meaningful conversations. I regret it now. And a part of me is eager to go for a run with him again. That however, will have to wait at least a month. For now, he needs to rest and I need to be patient.

After fifteen minutes, Dad briefly opens his eyes and starts mumbling something.

As Jonah steps closer too, I bend over his face to hear what he's saying. Numbers? And sierra?

"Oh." Jonah says, his face suddenly grave. "You're safe buddy." Jonah turns toward me. "What's his rank?"

"What?"

"Your dad was military, right?"

"How do you know?"

"I've been deployed four times in Iran. Combat Support Hospital."

"My father was a major in the Navy SEALs. Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, peculiar maybe. Your dad's been drugged twice in twelve hours, and his brain doesn't know the difference between friendly and hostile drugs at this point, so it falls back on what it's been trained to do, which is giving us his serial number."

"That's his serial number?" I look at Dad with concern. He's still mumbling. "He's been trained to resist drugs? As in a truth serum kind of drug?"

"Sort of," Jonah says with a chuckle. "You're safe, Major Robinson. You've been in an accident and you're waking up from surgery. Everything went fine. You're going to be on your own two feet in no time."

"How does it work?"

"What?"

"How can they teach you to resist drugs?"

"Oh quite simply, they inject them with drugs, under medical supervision of course, so they can know what it feels like to be drugged. Think of it like rehearsing for a play at school before the real thing in front of everybody, the parents, the principal, maybe even the mayor – I grew up in a very small town."

A rehearsal? He's comparing drugging people to an elective? And who in their right frame of mind would subject themselves to this kind of treatment anyway? "That's messed up. You guys are really, completely messed up."

Jonah shrugs at my outrage. "Any recent deployments?"

"Before we left Earth, we hadn't seen him for three years. He was constantly out there, at war, wherever that was. Until mom decided she'd had enough and got us a ticket on the Resolute. One month before the departure, she managed to reach him and he came back home at the speed of sound."

I bite my lips. Why am I saying all this?

Jonah simply nods. "Any PTSD?"

That question makes my eyes open wide. "No, not that I'm aware of, although it's possible. I mean... I didn't know he'd been shot twice until yesterday." I put my hand on Dad's arm as I say those words. To my surprise, he retreats from the touch. As I grab his hand again, he jerks his arm.

"Don't touch him."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't want us to touch him. I noticed that when Dr. Luna tried to grab his wrist earlier. Could you please check his medical record?"

"Er... I'm not sure it's appropriate for me to read my own father's medical history."

"Right now, either he is your father, and I need to obtain your consent to check for myself, or he is your patient, and it's your responsibility to check for any potential issue."

Yes, sir… Dammit. I grab the tablet on the side table and feel a mortifying weight in my gut as I skim through Dad's psych file.

"No. No PTSD," I say, putting the tablet back on the table like it's burning my fingers. "But he had a diagnosis of chronic stress eighteen years ago, and again six years ago."

Jonah stares back at me. "Chronic stress is military code for PTSD."

I need to sit down. This is insane. Just treating Dad is going to cause me PTSD.

As a clearer picture of my father's life appears, a dark and violent one, I grab the tablet again and check all injuries from most recent to oldest.

Three years ago… January 2061... just after the Christmas Star crash Oh great. He suffered a concussion. And another one six months earlier. He twisted his right ankle. And broke two fingers on his left hand. Nothing six years ago but two years before, a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. I remember this. It was right after Will's fourth birthday. That he had missed and it was the first and last time I ever saw my parents quarrelling in front of us three.

"Any recent injury?" Jonah asks, interrupting my trip down memory lane.

I tell him what I've found, although I 'm not quite sure what to make of it because there is no description of the circumstances in which he's sustained those injuries. "What does that mean?"

"It means that you and I are going to keep on telling your father that he is safe without trespassing on his personal space."

For the next half hour, I watch him struggle to pierce through the fog of anesthesia, repeating that he doesn't need to give me his serial number. Then he finally opens his eyes.

"Hey, how do you feel, old man?" I ask, smiling as I wait for the classic 'I'm-not-old' reply.

But it doesn't come. The seconds tick by without any reaction. He's awake now and looking at me. But does he see me?

"What's wrong," I ask gently as, out of reflex, I hold his hand.

He immediately withdraws from my touch and turns his head away.

Jonah clears his throat and waves to me.

"I'll be back, okay?"

Disconcerted by Dad's reaction, I follow Jonah to the desk in the corner of the tent.

"You need to know when to back off with this type of patient, to avoid placing them in more distress than they are."

Distress? That seems a bit strong. "But it's just the effects of anesthesia, right?"

"That's only part of it. Look, I've seen this before, a new accident triggering past traumatic memories. We need to give your father some privacy to collect himself. Don't worry, I can keep an eye on him from here and I'll call you if there's anything."

"You're asking me to leave?"

"No, he's asking us to leave him alone, Dr. Robinson, and for now, your presence is not helping."

I don't know what hurts more: the nurse's curt voice or the fact he's right. While we were whispering, Dad has turned himself on his side to set his back to us. His body language is crystal clear. A glance at the screen displaying his vitals shows that his heart and respiratory rates are increasing. I don't hear any sobs from here but he's crying. And that breaks my heart.

Some are sad.

Dr. Yates's words ring in my mind.

Patients waking up from surgery are vulnerable, even to their own emotions. And there is nothing I can do to comfort my father because he doesn't want me next to him.

"All right. I'm going to take a break. I'll be back in an hour."

"I'll page you."

My shoulders sag at his words. After a last glance back, I exit the tent and make my way to the locker room tent like a zombie, totally out of energy and dead worried.

I pick up my clothes, sit on the bench, and stare absently at the showers, pondering.

Do I put a psych consult request in Dad's file like I did with Angela?

It's too soon. Dad isn't anywhere near the kind of distress and catatonia Angela displayed after the attack. But I can't deny that continuous combat exposure could cause both chronic stress and PTSD.

That Dad suffered repeated trauma is now evident and it freezes me to the core. He was always that invulnerable man to me, the larger-than-life figure, a hero. But that's a child's view of the world populated by good guys and bad guys. It's a fairy tale illusion, not reality. Reality is more dystopian, and infinitely more complex, more violent. Especially in his line of work.

What if Jonah is wrong? Dad could have chronic stress and nothing more, it wouldn't be so far-fetched.

But somehow I know that is not the case. Constant stress wears down the body: it brings extreme fatigue, difficulty in organization and focus. He wouldn't have stayed in active duty if he had really suffered from chronic stress syndrome.

Besides, when he'd stopped me on the treadmill that day in the garage, while the Jupiter was still trapped in the glacier, telling me that he knew what fear did to the body and to the mind, he didn't want to talk about chronic stress; he wanted to talk about PTSD.

He was concerned for me because of the accident in the ice.

Was my anger against him just a convenient excuse to wave him away?

Be honest, Jude. Why did you shut him off that day?

Do I have PTSD?

Intrusive memory, check.

Reliving the event, check.

Nightmares, check.

Avoiding talking about it, check.

Negative thoughts about myself, no.

Negative thoughts about Dad, check. He was the perfect lightning rod.

Gloomy thoughts about the future: check. Also irrelevant. Everybody feels doomed. That's what happens when a killer robot attacks your ship and forces you to evacuate to a dying planet because guess what? There's a black hole just behind the sun. If that's not enough to convince you that the powers-that-be hold a grudge against you, I don't know what is.

Memory problems? Like this could occur to me. Not applicable.

Difficulty to maintain close relationships, feeling detached from family and friends.

As a dizzy spell seizes me, I grab the edge of the bench with both hands.

Check. I mean for Dad. It's a check. A huge red blinking PTSD sign.

"Maureen to Judy, you there, honey?"

Startled, I slap my hand on my forehead. Gosh! I forgot to call mom.