Chapter 8

The rest of the day passed quietly. The X-rays and MRIs came back negative, to everyone's relief. The blood tests revealed traces of the drugs used in spinal blocks, confirming Jesse's suspicions that the injections that Mark had been given in his back had been used to deaden his sensation in his legs so that he would be unable to walk. There were also traces of drugs that, when combined with the sedatives he had obviously been given regularly, would have acted to induce a state of heightened mental confusion and anxiety. Taken all together, while the picture that emerged of deliberate, calculated abuse and cruelty was enough to drive Steve to the brink of homicide, it was encouraging them to hope that when the last of the drugs was finally flushed from Mark's system, there was a good chance that he would regain his memory. Or at least most of it. As Jesse reluctantly pointed out, it was not uncommon for amnesia victims, even those who had not experienced the additional complications of mind-altering drugs, to have some permanent loss of memory.

While Steve had not been particularly happy to hear that, right now he felt that he could cope with almost anything if Mark could at least regain his knowledge of himself and his son. Not only was the sight of his father so confused and anxious heartwrenching, he felt a lot like he had finally located Mark only to find a stranger inhabiting his body. He wanted his father back whole – mentally, physically, and emotionally.

Mark spent most of the rest of the day sleeping off the effects of the sedatives. Steve refused to leave him, not wanting him to wake up and find himself alone and confused, perhaps wondering what new disasters were about to befall him. It wasn't until the dinner tray was delivered, however, that Mark awoke. Hearing the rattle of the food cart and the clink of the tray as it was placed on the rolling bedside table, Mark opened his eyes and looked around, momentarily disoriented as he tried to place these new surroundings.

Steve saw his dad looking around and moved over to the bed.

"Hey there. Have a good nap?" he asked lightly. He saw recognition on his father's face, but realized, with a pang of disappointment, that it was only the limited recognition of their new 'acquaintance'. He knew it was too soon to expect any more; he hadn't even realized until that moment that he had been unconsciously hoping that somehow his father would wake up and really know him again. But he was disappointed nonetheless.

"Hi." Mark looked up at this man – Steve? – who had stayed by his side from the moment he had appeared. "You're still here," he observed, somewhat surprised by this fact. Certainly nothing he had seen or experienced in the past week had led him to expect such consideration or devotion on the part of one person for another.

"So's your dinner," replied Steve, trying to maintain the light tone. He hadn't missed that note of surprise; he found it heartrending in its implications that Mark had not expected anyone to care enough to stay by him. He rolled the table into place over the bed and pressed the button to raise the bed to an upright position. He removed the cover from the dinner tray. "Voila," he announced. "Dinner is served."

Mark picked disinterestedly at the food, his attention focussed on his new surroundings. His mind was clearing now that the effects of the sedative had worn off, and he had a multitude of questions he needed answered. He looked up at Steve, wondering how to broach them.

Steve watched his father, not wanting to rush him in any way, giving him time to take in everything around him. When he saw Mark looking at him hesitantly, he decided to try opening the conversation.

"I know this must all be confusing," he said quietly.

Mark nodded, relieved at the understanding and openness he perceived in Steve's attitude. He decided that it was probably safe to ask questions without fear of negative reprisals.

"You said I'm not really Martin Donner?" he asked, starting with the basics.

"Your name is Mark Sloan," Steve replied. "And I'm your son, Steve."

Mark thought he detected a brief flicker of pain in Steve's eyes as he was obliged to identify himself to his father. "I'm sorry," he apologized, hating to hurt this person who seemed to care about him.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Steve told him, keeping his voice level with an effort. "This has to be a nightmare for you – I just want to help any way I can."

"You are helping," Mark said, touched by the obvious sincerity in Steve's voice. "It's just that I don't seem to know anything about myself or anything else."

"I know, Dad," Steve responded. "Why don't we just start with whatever questions you have so far, and then we'll take it from there."

"Am I a psychiatric patient?" This was a question that had plagued Mark all along – he just had trouble feeling like the person whose history he had been given.

"No, Dad, you're not." If the question weren't so obviously in earnest, Steve reflected, it would almost be funny, it was so far from the truth. Considering all the tragedies and traumas his father had weathered over the years, he had long ago decided that Mark had to be one of the most stable personalities he knew. "You're a doctor – the head of Internal Medicine here at Community General."

Mark considered that piece of information. It certainly explained a few things – like his familiarity with certain medical terms and procedures that had surprised himself and some of the staff at Exeter. They had assumed that it was due to the amount of time he had spent in other institutions, but apparently he was a medical professional himself. Which brought up the next question.

"So how did I end up in the Exeter Institute?"

Steve stifled a sigh. That was certainly the million-dollar question, he thought.

"We're still trying to figure that out," he answered. "You disappeared last Thursday night; we found your car about a half-mile from the Institute, stripped, but there was no sign of you. We're not really sure if you had some kind of an accident or were attacked. I'm not even sure if Sanders – Collins – caused whatever it was. My partner's been questioning him, and he claims that you were brought into the Institute, already injured, by one of the orderlies. Unfortunately, that orderly is currently away on vacation. We're trying to get hold of him to verify the story." He paused to see how his father was reacting to this. "Do you remember anything about what happened?"

Mark shook his head thoughtfully. "The only thing I remember is waking up – in the Infirmary, I guess – not knowing anything about who I was or what had happened." His eyes darkened as he remembered that initial confusion and the dismay he had felt on being informed of his supposed identity and history.

"What happened then?" Steve asked.

"Dr. Collins told me that I was Martin Donner – a psychiatric patient with a history of violence; that I had been injured in a fight." Mark looked up at Steve in confusion. "Why would he lie about that? Why did he keep me there?"

"He wanted revenge, Dad," Steve explained as gently as possible. "His real name is Dennis Sanders, and several years ago you helped send him to jail for manslaughter."

Mark was quiet for a minute, processing what he had heard. He thought of all the things Collins had told him and done to him, and realized that just about everything he thought he 'knew' about himself was probably fake. He looked back at Steve. "So all those 'medications' and injections he gave me…?"

"They were apparently designed to keep you confused and incapacitated," Steve replied grimly. "He must have known that was the only way he'd be able to get away with what he was doing to you."

"How did you find me?" Mark asked, after a moment.

"A reporter was killed in a car crash on her way back from the Exeter Institute," Steve told him. "I went there to follow up on what she had been investigating, and found out that she had been asking questions about you – as Martin Donner."

"Why would she be asking about me?"

"We think she must have recognized you, or seen something that made her suspicious," Steve replied. "It looks now like Sanders may have killed her to prevent her from telling anyone you were there." He saw that his father still looked confused.

"Why would she recognize me? Did she know me?"

There was a slight smile in Steve's eyes as he explained, "You're a pretty well-known person, Dad. Besides your hospital activities and the various boards and commissions you've served on, you're also a consultant for the police department. You've solved quite a lot of high-profile cases for us."

Mark looked surprised and intrigued. "Providing medical expertise?" he asked.

"You do a lot more than provide medical expertise," Steve replied. "You've got a real talent for figuring things out and solving mysteries of all types."

Mark contemplated this information thoughtfully. There was certainly a lot to take in, and it cast an interesting light on his life; obviously he was not the useless wreck he had been made to feel at Exeter.

Steve watched as Mark relapsed into silence, wishing he knew what was going on in his father's mind. He noticed that Mark was just toying with his food, apparently lost in thought.

"Come on, Dad," he urged gently, "you need to eat."

Mark surveyed the meal before him disparagingly. It didn't seem much better than the food he had been getting at the Exeter Institute. However, he could see the concern in his son's eyes, so he figured he might as well try to get it all down; besides, with the decline of the amount of drugs in his system, he was actually starting to feel hungry for a change. He speared another forkful and ate it, grimacing.

"Well, I've discovered another thing about myself already," he commented dryly. "I hate hospital food." He saw Steve's face light up in the first smile of genuine amusement he'd seen.

"I know," Steve replied. "I promise – tomorrow I'll get us ribs for dinner."

Mark focussed his attention on this man who claimed to be his son. Affection showed clearly through the amusement which had softened Steve's face, easing the tension and anxiety that Mark was beginning to recognize for what they were. Even in his drugged state, he had realized that this man cared about him; now that his mind was clearer – if still distressingly empty of memories – he could better recognize the depth of the concern that showed in Steve's face and appreciate his willingness to spend his time in constant attendance to provide support for this mentally confused parent. Mark reflected that he seemed to be very fortunate in his son.

"Aren't you going to go get something to eat?" he asked, not really wanting him to leave, but thinking it was time he showed some consideration for Steve's needs.

Steve shook his head. "Amanda brought me up something from the cafeteria a little while ago. I'm fine."

"Who's Amanda? And surely you could do better than the cafeteria? That can't be much better than this stuff."

Steve smiled at him. "That's okay; I don't mind the hospital food. You guys are always getting on my case about it."

" 'We guys'?"

"You and Jesse and Amanda. Jesse you've already seen – he's the doctor who examined you when you got here. Amanda's Dr. Amanda Bentley, the chief pathologist here and the county assistant medical examiner. She came up to see you earlier, but you were still asleep." God, it felt weird to be explaining who their best friends were to his father. Having to explain every detail, person, and place he mentioned to a man who normally seemed to understand everything practically before it was spoken was going to take a lot of getting used to. On second thought, he hoped to God that the situation wasn't going to last long enough for him to get used to it.

"Jesse and Amanda are two of our closest friends," Steve continued. "Amanda sent you her love; she really wanted to be here when you woke up, but her sitter had to leave, so she had to get home to her boys. Her son CJ is your godson, by the way." He saw a strange look pass across his father's face and paused. "What is it, Dad?" he asked.

Mark looked up at him thoughtfully. "I seem to have a quite a little circle of family and friends," he said. "Collins said I had none – no family, no one who cared."

Steve felt his heart constrict again, and he sat on the edge of the bed, laying his hand on his father's arm, using the physical contact to try to establish an emotional connection as well.

"Anything he said to you was a lie, Dad," he said earnestly. "And that was probably the biggest lie of all. You have me; and Jesse and Amanda are as close to family as anyone could possibly be. This whole hospital is full of people who love you, and you have friends everywhere from the governor's office to the back streets of the city. Have no one? Hell, Dad, you have more friends who care about you than just about anyone I know."

The warmth and sincerity in Steve's voice washed over Mark, drawing him in to share in that warmth. He found tears stinging his eyes, and blinked them away. He looked back at Steve and saw that he was watching him with concern and compassion. He felt a surge of gratitude for this son who was demonstrating such support and understanding.

Steve waited for his father to pull himself together, knowing that he hated to be caught succumbing to emotion. Although, he reflected, it was hard to know what the correct responses were right now, when his father so obviously wasn't his usual self. He fought with the competing waves of anger and compassion that flooded through him as he wondered what other mental torments Sanders had devised for his father, in addition to the physical ones he had already glimpsed.

An interruption occurred at that point in the form of a kitchen helper arriving to remove the dinner tray. By the time she had managed to knock the mobile table top into Mark's chest, drop the tray cover onto the bed, and step on Steve's foot when he tried to help her, the emotionally heavy atmosphere had been displaced by a welcome dose of comic relief. When she had finally departed, Steve and Mark exchanged glances of exasperated amusement.

"I haven't seen anybody that klutzy around here since Nurse Sudie was looking after you when you broke your leg," Steve said, with a laugh.

"How did I break my leg," Mark asked curiously. Steve looked over at him, a gleam of amusement still in his face.

"You had a head-on collision with a supply cart."

"I broke a leg walking into a supply cart?" Mark asked incredulously.

"No, you broke a leg colliding with a supply cart while riding a motorized scooter," Steve explained, wondering how his father was going to react to this.

"I ride a scooter around the hospital?" Mark asked. "Is that common practice here?"

"Only for you," replied Steve, smiling. He watched with interest as Mark pondered this for a moment. Then his father looked up, a distinct twinkle in his eye.

"Sounds like fun," he said. "I hope I get to do it again!"

Steve's smile grew into a bona fide grin, his heart suddenly feeling lighter. Mark might have lost his memory, and he might be confused and unstable from all the drugs he'd been given, but apparently his basic personality hadn't undergone much change. It might take a while for them to adjust, but, for the first time that day, Steve actually felt like this really was his father.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you," he told Mark, trying to straighten his face, "but, you sort of gave up on using the scooter around the hospital after that – you didn't want to risk running into one of the patients." He paused, seeing Mark accept that, before adding: "Now you mostly stick to your roller skates." He watched with satisfaction as his father's eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Well, at least it doesn't sound like I lead a boring and conventional life," Mark commented.

That brought a genuine burst of laughter from his son. "No, Dad," he replied, his eyes alight with affectionate humor, "whatever else you might be, you're certainly not boring and conventional!"

Jesse entered the room a little later, pleased to find Mark sitting up and talking to Steve. "Hey, it's nice to see you awake," he said brightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I was," Mark admitted.

"Well I don't suppose that's saying much," the younger doctor quipped dryly.

Mark smiled slightly, acknowledging the truth of that observation. "So, what's my prognosis?" he asked.

"Well," replied Jesse, shooting a quick glance at Steve, "so far, everything looks pretty good. All the tests came back negative. Obviously, you suffered a pretty severe concussion, but it seems to have cleared up pretty well – there are no signs of swelling or lesions on the MRI. The X-rays of your spine also seem normal. Let's check your reflexes again and see if you've got more feeling and mobility in your legs."

For the next few minutes, Jesse took Mark through various movements and tests, periodically asking questions designed to elicit information about Mark's mental state as well. When he was finished, he made a few notes on the chart he had brought in with him.

"So, what's the verdict?" Mark asked.

"It looks good," Jesse said with satisfaction. "Your reflexes are greatly improved, and you obviously have good use of your legs. I have no doubt that the only reason you were in a wheelchair was because of the injections they gave you. Fortunately, they didn't do any real damage; they just temporarily deadened the nerves in that area. Now that the drugs are clearing out of your system, everything's coming back to normal."

"When can I take him home?" Steve asked.

"Assuming he can get around okay by morning – and he should be able to – there's no reason you can't take him home tomorrow," Jesse replied. "In fact, being in familiar surroundings may help jog his memory."

Steve nodded in satisfaction. He just wanted to get his father home and back to some semblance of normalcy. He hoped that would stimulate Mark's memory, and he hoped even more that it would help dispel the lingering horrors of his incarceration in the Exeter Institute and allow him to feel more at ease and like himself.

After Jesse had left, an orderly came in with the portable cot that Steve had requested. Mark watched in surprise as they set it up.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"I'm going to stay here tonight," Steve replied.

"Steve, that's not necessary," Mark protested, nevertheless feeling a surprising degree of gratification that his son had intended to do this.

"It's okay, Dad, I want to." Steve was glad the abnormal anxiety his father had been experiencing was obviously lessening, but he had no intentions of leaving him alone yet. "We can go home together tomorrow."

"But you've been here waiting on me all day. You're exhausted," Mark said in concern. "You should go home and get some real sleep."

"I'm fine, Dad," Steve assured him. "And I'll feel better if I'm here. Like I said earlier – now that I've found you, I'm not letting you out of my sight." He saw that his father was still unconvinced, and added with a slight smile, "Besides, it's not like you haven't done the same thing for me." That succeeded in distracting Mark.

"What do you mean?"

"There've been several times when I've been in the hospital and you stayed with me," he explained. "I'm just returning the favor."

"What were you in for?" Mark asked.

Steve hesitated an instant before replying. The last thing he wanted to do was to have his father's first returning memories be of some of his most painful experiences. He shrugged, answering lightly, "I'm a cop. Occasional hospitalizations are an occupational hazard." He saw Mark mull that over, and went on, hoping to prevent him from thinking about it too closely. "Don't worry about me, Dad. Compared to some of the nights I've spent on stakeout, this'll be luxury accommodations!" He was relieved to see his father smile in response.

They chatted for a while longer, and Mark soon began to feel sleepy. Steve sat quietly leafing through a magazine, giving his father a chance to drift off. But Mark found himself watching his son, noticing the lines of strain and fatigue that showed in Steve's face when he thought he was unobserved. He tried to consider the events of the past week from Steve's perspective. Given his obvious attachment to his father, he must have been frantic with worry during the week that Mark had been missing. And on top of that extended period of concern had come the current strain of dealing with an amnesiac, needy father. Mark felt a pang of guilt at being the cause of all this stress and unhappiness, even though he knew it was hardly his fault.

Steve looked up and caught his father staring at him. "Dad?"

"This must be as hard for you as it is for me," Mark observed quietly.

Steve's face softened in surprise. "It's okay, Dad," he responded. He was further surprised when Mark shook his head slightly.

"I hate to think what you must have been going through for the last week, searching for me. And then when you finally find me, I don't even recognize you," Mark said sadly. "I can't imagine what this must be like for you."

Steve found himself taken aback by this unexpected perceptiveness. That Mark could already see past his own pain and confusion to recognize the impact on the son he didn't even remember yet touched him deeply.

"It's okay, Dad," he repeated gently. "We'll get through this together, like we always do." He met the regret in his father's eyes with as much reassurance as he could put into his own. "We're both going to be fine," he said.

Mark held his gaze for a moment longer, then sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself to succumb to the fatigue that engulfed him.

He hadn't been asleep long when the night nurse entered the room, making her rounds at the start of her shift. The noise startled Mark awake; he tensed automatically, his sleep-disoriented mind flashing back to the nightly 'games' that had become standard bed-time routine at the Institute. Steve caught the sudden intake of breath and involuntary jerk of motion, and looked over at his father alertly.

"Dad?"

The sound of Steve's voice broke through the mists of apprehension that had suddenly gripped Mark. He turned his head and met his son's concerned gaze. The tension eased as he realized that he was no longer at Exeter, that there would be no nighttime torments here.

Steve moved over to the bed, placing a reassuring hand on his father's arm. "You okay?" he asked softly.

Mark nodded, and his eyelids started to droop, as he felt himself relax again into drowsiness. Steve watched as his father settled back to drift off again, wondering what had sparked that sudden tension and how long it would be before the emotional scars left by his week-long ordeal would fade. The sooner he got Mark back to a normal environment, the better, he thought.

"Sleep well, Dad," he murmured quietly. "Tomorrow we'll go home."