Chapter 15

Mark woke suddenly from an uneasy sleep in which a confusing jumble of people and events paraded through his dreams. He sat up, blinking around at the dark room, once again feeling dazed and disoriented. He reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, accidentally bumping his arm against the carafe of water he kept on the nightstand. In moving abruptly to try to save the carafe from tipping over, he banged into the lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, where it smashed, scattering pieces of glass and ceramic across the room. With a sigh of frustration, he carefully slid into his slippers and headed to the bathroom to find a wastebasket to collect the shards of glass.

Down in the den, Steve had fallen asleep in the recliner when the sound of the crash woke him. Instantly concerned, he headed for Mark's room. He knocked briefly on the door before opening it, calling out to his father as he entered.

"Dad?" He fumbled for the light switch beside the door, searching the darkness for his father, as he stepped into the room.

Mark heard Steve's voice and poked his head back out from the bathroom, calling quickly: "Steve? Watch out for the …" There was a sharp exclamation of pain, as Steve, whose attention was focussed on his father, stepped down hard on one of the pieces of glass littering the floor. "…glass." Mark came back into the room to see his son holding onto the footboard of the bed with one hand, a bleeding foot in the other.

"Here, sit down and let me take a look at that," Mark said with quick concern, stepping carefully across the floor to his son. Steve allowed himself to be steered onto the edge of the bed, his alarm slightly allayed, but his attention still on his father.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "What happened?"

"I just knocked the lamp over when I was trying to turn it on," Mark replied, checking out the bottom of Steve's foot. A largish shard was imbedded in the sole. "Stay here," he instructed. "I'll get the first aid kit." He disappeared back into the bathroom, reappearing a moment later, first aid kit in hand. He knelt next to the bed, fishing out a small forceps from the medical kit. "You know," he scolded mildly as he carefully removed the sliver of glass and rinsed the cut with peroxide, "this is why your mother always told you not to run around the house at night without your slippers."

Steve smiled slightly, and was about to respond with a light remark, when the significance of what Mark had just said suddenly hit. Hesitating to believe the implications of what he had heard, he looked sharply at his father.

"Dad…" His voice was low and carefully calm. "How did you know where the first aid kit was?"

Without looking up from his task of bandaging Steve's foot, Mark replied with a touch of exasperation, "Because it was right where it was supposed to be – in the cabinet I've kept it in for the last 10 ye…" His voice broke off abruptly, and he looked up, eyes wide with shock. Silently, almost afraid to breathe, Steve watched as his father looked slowly around the room, his face wearing a stunned expression. For Mark, it was as if someone had just opened a wall of windows illuminating what had been a dark emptiness in his mind to reveal a wealth of form, color, and image. The rest of his life seemed to click into place with the events of the previous week, producing a dizzying sensation of a sudden, rapid shifting of focus.

"How much do you remember?" Steve asked softly, his hopes building as he watched, despite his attempts to control them.

"A lot…" Mark's voice was shaky and somewhat tentative as he struggled to process the knowledge and awareness that seemed to suddenly well up in him. "Maybe all of it…" He looked back at his son. "Steve." The single word was an acknowledgement, a full recognition of this man who was the most important person in his life. "Dear God…," he said shakily, as a lifetime of memories, shared experiences, and love flooded back into his consciousness. His hand reached out almost without conscious volition to grip the knee in front of him. "…Steve."

Steve gazed into those blue eyes, seeing the emotional turmoil there, and seeing too, finally, the recognition and love he had been waiting for. His own eyes misty, he leaned forward to grip his father's shoulder, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Welcome back, Dad."

The moment held for a timeless instant, before Mark broke the contact and drew a deep breath, giving himself a brisk mental shake. He looked down at the roll of adhesive tape he still held in his hand and the glass that littered the floor around him.

"I'd better clean up this mess," he said, a hint of shakiness remaining in his voice.

"I'll give you a hand," volunteered Steve. But Mark put a restraining hand out.

"Don't move until you've got something on your feet," he ordered. "I'll get you my other pair of slippers."

Steve sat back as his father disappeared into his closet, quickly reappearing with the slippers. He reflected that it was amazing how much satisfaction he could derive from the simple fact that his father knew that he had an extra pair of slippers and knew where to find them. He glanced up from donning the footwear to see Mark watching him with a smile in his eyes, and knew that he was sharing the same thought.

Together, father and son cleaned up the remains of the lamp. Both reluctant to let go of their newly rediscovered connectedness, they repaired to the kitchen for a midnight snack. A deep sense of contentment and relief filled them as they sat at the table, as they had so many nights in the past – a past they once again shared. There were few words at first, as they allowed the volatile emotions to settle. They had never needed words to communicate anyway.

Mark was the first to speak of the events of the past week.

"You know, I've had patients who had lost part or all of their memories; now I know how they must have felt."

Steve scrutinized his father's face, and was relieved to see no signs of depression. "It must be a horrible experience," he responded.

Mark nodded. "Not much fun," he admitted. He looked his son straight in the eyes. "Not much fun for you either," he said.

"No," admitted Steve in return. He gazed back at his father seriously. "But at least I didn't spend the week in that hell Sanders created for you." He saw Mark's eyes cloud momentarily as he mentally reviewed his experiences at Exeter. But they were clear and level a moment later.

"I doubt it was a particularly enjoyable week for you either," Mark commented dryly. With his memory returned, he had a very good idea of the variety of hell his son must have experienced during his disappearance. "I think we can safely say that it was rotten for both of us."

Steve smiled in acknowledgement of that statement, then sobered. "Do you remember what happened to you, Dad?" he asked.

Mark was silent for a moment, considering. "No," he replied. "I'm not even sure exactly what the last thing I remember is. I'm still getting some vague images of events at the hospital that seem to be pretty mixed up. I think it's going to take some time before it all settles down to a coherent timeline. But I don't seem to remember anything about an accident or injury of any kind." Abandoning, for the moment, his attempt to recall the recent past, he refocused his attention on the present.

"But at least I remember the most important things," he declared, an affectionate smile in his eyes as he looked at his son. Blue eyes met blue in a wordless exchange that nevertheless spoke volumes to both.

"It's good to have you back, Dad," Steve said softly.

"Thank you, son," Mark replied, in the familiar, emotion-deepened voice. He knew that, as usual, Steve would understand all that simple phrase was meant to cover. "It's good to be home."