Chapter twelve: Music Soothes the Savage Beast
(November 29th-December 16th)
"Excellent, Steve," Rachel said as he finished a difficult passage. "It's amazing how much you've improved in your playing in just the past few days."
"Tanks," Steve said, and blushed a little at the praise. He knew she was right.
The first day, he'd had a terrible time working the fingerboard, and had been frustrated to tears that he couldn't play the simple melodies he'd mastered the first week of class before his accident. MinJe had politely left the room to save him the embarrassment of having another man witness his weeping. Sara had comforted him, and Rachel had reassured him that the skills would come back in time. He had wanted to quit then and just go back to the hospital, but Rachel had refused to allow it. Eventually, she got him to play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' correctly, and when he started laughing, Sara, with Steve's permission, had told her about the time Steve and his buddy, Ben had bullied another friend, Nicky, into playing his mother's old violin. With very little coercion, Steve had then agreed to give himself two weeks to get back into the music before deciding whether to quit.
The next day, Sara and MinJe had run some errands while Steve had his lesson. While they were gone he had he had finally managed to play 'Silent Night' flawlessly, and by the end of the lesson, he was playing all the tunes he had previously learned at almost the same level of proficiency. Today, he had started working on 'The First Noel', and he was already playing it passably well. There were a few rough spots, but he would iron them out soon.
As Steve put the violin back in its case and loosened the bow before storing it, Rachel made the mistake of asking, "Have the police made any progress in finding your mother's violin?"
Right away, she saw his back get stiff as he inhaled deeply and turned to face her. She could see he was hurting and angry. Before she could apologize for asking about what was obviously still a very sore subject, Steve interrupted her.
"No. Nuh-ting."
Then he turned around, closed the violin case, and left the music studio without a word. Sara and MinJe, who had come by to pick him up to go back to the hospital wondered why it was such a quiet trip, but neither of them felt comfortable asking Steve what was wrong. After seeing him settled in his room, they had called Rachel from the nurses' station. They readily accepted her explanation and assumed Steve was just feeling bad about losing the family heirloom. They let Marcus and Jesse know what had happened just so they understood if Steve seemed moody, but no one suspected that Rachel's innocent, concerned question had planted a seed of guilt in Steve's mind.
Steve had yet to tell his father about the violin. He was still reluctant to try given that he couldn't yet manage complete sentences. His improvement in language was slowing down, and he knew it might be some time before he could speak fluently enough to explain adequately how the violin had been lost.
That night, Steve went home for the holiday as planned. He barely said two words to his father the whole evening, and retired early to his bedroom in the downstairs apartment, but Mark wrote it off to his just being tired and a little overwhelmed at being home for the first time in three weeks. The next day, when Cheryl, Jesse, Amanda, and her boys came to watch football and enjoy the holiday feast, no one particularly noticed that Steve didn't say much.
Friday morning, in therapy, Marcus noticed.
"Come on, Steve, try!"
"No!"
Steve was working on l words and having little success. They were sitting on opposite sides of a small table in Steve's room, and Marcus was showing him flashcards. Steve was supposed to say the name of the object or action shown on the card. He hadn't yet said one without prompting, and now, he was refusing to repeat after Marcus.
"You have to practice."
"No! In time."
"Time won't fix this."
"Go to heh!"
"What? I'm sorry. I didn't understand that," Marcus said, hoping to harass him into attempting to say 'hell.'
Instead of repeating himself, Steve defiantly took up the much abused and battered bedpan, which had traveled with him to the therapy wing, and threw it across the room. He glared at Marcus, icy blue eyes daring him to push again.
Marcus knew when the battle was lost. Very quietly, he closed up his pack of cards, walked over to the computer in Steve's room, called up a part of the speech therapy program, and said, "Fine. You stay here." Pointing at the computer screen, he said, "If you feel like working later, use this. I will see you this afternoon." Then he walked across the room, picked up the bedpan, and put it on the table near Steve. "Until then, you might find you'll be needing this again."
As Marcus' initial diagnostic tests had proven, Steve had retained his keen wit, so the parting shot was not lost on him. Steve glared at Marcus as he left, trying to burn a hole in his back until he was out the door. Then he put his head down on the table and wept.
When Sara and MinJe came to get Steve for his violin lesson, they found him poking listlessly at the keyboard of the computer. Images would flash on the screen. A woman's voice would say the word, a man's voice would repeat it, there would be a pause for Steve to repeat, and then the man, followed by the woman, would say the word again. Steve was not taking his turn.
"Are you ready to go to your lesson?" Sara asked.
Steve shrugged, then nodded, and finally got up to go without a word.
While Rachel gave Steve his lesson in her studio, she graciously let MinJe practice in the soundproof practice room she had installed just off the garage. Today, though, instead of practicing his music, MinJe was helping Sara devise a plan to get Steve out of his foul mood.
"Maybe we could take him Christmas shopping," she suggested. "There must be some things he wants to buy for Jesse, Amanda, CJ, Dion, Alex, and Marcus."
"How would you expect him to pay for them?"
"I noticed he started carrying his wallet on Monday."
At MinJe's puzzled expression, she said, "I saw him put it in his pocket, and just the other day, when he went to the bathroom, I did a little snooping. He has a credit card in there. He could use it."
"Perhaps he cannot sign his name yet."
"He can do that just fine. I was there when he signed the papers transferring him to the rehab wing. Why don't you want to help him?"
"Sara, I do want to help," MinJe said, "but today is the day after Thanksgiving. It is the busiest shopping day of the year. There will be chaos in the malls, and the clerks in the stores will not have the patience to wait for him to speak. Their frustration will only make things worse for him, and it will be very, very bad."
"We'll protect him from that," Sara insisted. "If he gives me permission to speak for him, I'll explain to the clerks why his speech is so slow. Then he can ask us his questions, and when we have a list we can ask the clerk."
The way Sara put things, it sounded perfectly plausible, and MinJe agreed to the scheme against his better judgment, "…but only if it is acceptable to Marcus and Jesse."
Sara immediately placed a call from the cell phone her father had purchased for her. Of course, she managed to convince both men that everything would be all right and that the excursion would be good for Steve. She didn't realize that after the fruitless morning therapy session, Marcus was quite happy to sign off on anything that would shake Steve up a little. Jesse had not seen his friend yet that day, and not knowing how very down he was, never realized that Steve might not be ready to face the world.
When the lesson was over, Sara and MinJe went round to the studio to collect Steve. She was fairly bursting with excitement, and he was dreading every moment of the impending shopping trip, but they had agreed not to tell Steve about it, thinking it would be easier to get him to go along once they were halfway there than it would be to get him to agree to the plan before they left Rachel's. When they entered the studio, Steve left without so much as a word of hello to them or a goodbye to Rachel.
Sara's eyes followed Steve until he got in MinJe's customized electric blue Mercedes. Then, she turned to Rachel and said, "What's up with him?"
"I'm not sure," Rachel said, "but his mood has gotten worse since he arrived, and he didn't play well at all today."
"Sara," MinJe said, "perhaps we should reconsider this shopping trip."
"No," Sara said, "I don't think so. Shopping always cheers me up. Besides, he needs to do something different once in a while. Marcus said it would be good for him."
"I know that, Sara, but is today a good day?"
Sara shrugged. "They don't say, 'No time like the present,' for nothing."
Sara and MinJe had decided to take Steve to a mall near the hospital. That way, if there was a problem, they could quickly get Steve back to safe and familiar surroundings. It wasn't until they were just a few blocks from the hospital that MinJe turned left instead of right, and they had traveled several blocks before Steve realized they were heading away from the hospital.
"Where going?"
"Christmas shopping," Sara said brightly, "I thought you could use a change of pace, so I called Marcus while you were with Rachel, and he said it was ok."
"No."
"Oh, don't be a Grinch, Steve. The only places you've gone for the past three weeks have been to your house and back to the hospital and to Rachel's and back to the hospital. You need to get out among people before you become a hermit. You need to get a life."
"Don' wanna."
"Oh, come on!" Sara tried to cajole him, "A little Christmas spirit might cheer you up. You can think about what you want to give your friends, and maybe even give something to charity."
"Bah humbug!"
Sara laughed. "That's a start."
When MinJe parked the car, Sara was out like a flash and had Steve's door open. When he sat there, recalcitrant and refused to move, she reached around him, unbuckled his seatbelt, and started tugging on his hand.
"Steve, you have to at least get something for CJ and Dion," Sara said, remembering how fond he seemed to be of Amanda's boys. "Once you've done that, or at least looked for something, we can leave. If you buy something for them today, you won't have to go shopping again."
That seemed to do the trick. Steve got reluctantly out of the car, and Sara rushed to the mall, pulling him along by the hand. MinJe followed behind more sedately, hoping they were doing the right thing, and ready to support Steve if he decided to mutiny.
Inside the mall, Steve led the way into the first toy store they passed. He went toward the back, picked out two coloring books without even looking at them, and holding them up one at a time, said, "CJ. Dion."
As he turned toward the register, Sara blocked his way. "You can do better than that." Arms folded, feet spread wide, she was ready to lay siege to her obstinate friend if need be. "Just because you are feeling pissy doesn't mean those little boys should get stupid Christmas presents."
Steve looked at the coloring books he had chosen then and had to admit Sara was right. One of them said 'Hello Kitty' and was clearly meant for a little girl. The other was a Star Wars coloring book, but the cover had been damaged, and some of the pages were falling out. Feeling suddenly ashamed of himself, he nodded, put them back and said, "CJ like peece stuff."
"Peace? Like the little circle with the upside down Y in it?"
"No peace," Steve said holding up his hand in the peace sign. "Peece." He took out his wallet and showed Sara his police ID.
"Oh, police."
"Yes. Peece," Steve frowned as he realized his word wasn't the same as Sara's. "Say again."
"Po-lice," Sara said slowly for him.
Sara and MinJe could see Steve's lips move as he worked out the word in his head.
"Polllllice. Police. Dat me! Police!"
Grinning happily, Steve looked around for a clerk. When he spotted a young man stocking shelves, he went up to him and said, "'Skooze me. Where police stuff?"
When the young man made a slightly confused face, Steve repeated carefully, "Police."
"Models are in aisle one. Play clothes and outfits in aisle seventeen, and miniatures like Matchbox and Hot Wheels toys are in aisle twelve, and RC cars are in the back in electronics."
"Tank you," Steve said, and headed off toward the remote control toys with Sara in tow. Only MinJe heard the clerk mutter, "Stupid retard, ought to keep them at home," and though he desperately wanted to correct the young man, he knew doing so would only draw Steve's attention. Protecting his friend's feelings was more important than educating an ignoramus, so MinJe chose to let it go.
Two hours and five stores later, it appeared that Sara's shopping trip was an enormous success. Steve had purchased a remote control police car with all the appropriate sound effects for CJ, as much because it would drive Amanda nuts as because he knew the little boy would like it. For Dion, who had shown an interest in science this year at school, he had found a nice microscope kit with twenty prepared slides, twenty slides for him to fill himself, cover slips, labels, collecting vials, and three petri dishes for growing his own samples, and instructions and tools for growing and collecting pure samples. Sara helped him select a beautiful, soft yellow sweater and a matching, floaty silk scarf for Amanda, and he decided to get Elena a small Christmas tree necklace, just to show there were no hard feelings.
They were at one of the kiosks on the second floor walkway of the mall looking at laptop accessories and software for Jesse when they heard a woman yell, "Stop him! He has my purse!"
Steve looked up to see a man running toward them, but on the opposite side of the walkway. Looking around, he saw a crossing area about half way down the midway and started heading for that, Sara running behind him, and MinJe staying with the packages. As MinJe watched, he saw Steve pull well ahead of Sara and the purse-snatcher. Just then, a movie ended at the cinema halfway between him and the crossing, and he saw Sara get caught up in the crowd. With a feeling of dread, he started to head deliberately for Steve's location while keeping half an eye on the man in the black leather jacket and baseball cap.
Steve was out of shape from his time spent in the hospital, but even on a bad day, he could run faster than the purse-snatcher. Steve reached the end of the crossing just as the man ran by, and he launched himself at him, making a perfect tackle. The two men grappled for a few moments until mall security arrived and a big burly guard pulled them apart.
The guards had not heard the woman calling out for help earlier, so naturally, as they struggled to keep hold of both men, they asked for an explanation.
"I don't know," the dark haired man grumbled, knowing that getting the first word in might just be his ticket to freedom. "I was just on my way home, and the guy jumped me. I've never seen him before in my life."
"Tief!" Steve shouted, "Tief!"
Picking up on the obvious impediment, and suspecting his accuser might be mentally disabled, the criminal tried to unsettle Steve by verbally attacking him. "What do you mean, calling me a thief? That's slander. I'll sue! What have I stolen, huh? Tell me. What did I take? Who did I take it from? Where is it?"
The man held up his arms, and Steve saw that the purse was nowhere in sight.
Flabbergasted, Steve looked for Sara and MinJe to help, but he had left them both far behind. He knew he had seen this man running with the woman's purse, but the fact was, he didn't have it now. Tired from the hours spent shopping, still winded from his sprint through the mall, and confused by the disappearance of the handbag and the very vocal assault, Steve found himself suddenly lost for words.
"I-I-I . . . Heeee . . .Tief!" Steve said insistently, hoping to keep the man and the security guards there until Sara, MinJe, or the woman who'd lost her purse showed up to help.
"Look, mister," the guard said to the petty crook. "It's obvious this guy ain't all there. I'm sure he thought he was doing a good deed. If you're not hurt, do you think you could let it slide?"
"No!" Steve shouted. "He tief! He steal!"
The purse-snatcher gave Steve an appraising look and said, "You'll keep him here until I get out of sight? I don't want him coming after me and attacking me from behind."
"We'll do that," the guard said. "We'll take him to the security office, settle him down, and call whoever's responsible for him."
"He steal purse!" Steve interjected.
"Shaddup, you!" The guard shouted and shook a meaty fist under Steve's nose. "I'm trying to get you out of trouble."
The thief thought about it a little, and finally said, "Keep him here until I can get to my car. I'm outside the northwest exit. Give me, say, fifteen minutes, and I'll let it slide."
"Thanks, mister," the guard said, "I'll let his keeper know you did him a good turn. What's your name?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," the crook smiled cheerfully. "A true act of kindness is always anonymous."
As the man walked away, Steve struggled to get loose and go after him. "He tief! He steal! Stop! Stop!"
The guard fought valiantly to restrain Steve without hurting him, but when Steve kicked him in the shin, he had all he could take.
"That's it! I've had enough of you!" he yelled. Careful not to hurt the man he thought was disturbed and not fully responsible for his actions, but firmly enough to get his attention, the big burly guard lifted Steve bodily into the air, and laid him on the floor on his belly with a thump and an 'Oof' as all the air rushed out of his lungs. Then he put a knee in the middle of Steve's back, caught hold of his arms, and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Steve continued to kick and struggle as the guard pinned him to the floor. Only when he heard his name being called and knew help was finally on the way did he stop fighting.
"Steve!" Sara's voice floated up from somewhere behind him. "Steve!"
"Sara! Sara, hep!" he yelled back.
"Get off him!" Sara shouted as she came upon the scene to find her friend restrained and surrounded by mall security and curious onlookers. "Let him go, he's a police detective."
"Yeah, and I'm Mary Poppins," the guard retorted as he picked Steve up off the floor. "Look, lady, if you can't keep your pet on a tighter leash, you need to leave him home."
Like lightning, Sara's hand lashed out and stung the guard's jaw red. Another guard grabbed her, and she started screaming. "Let me go! Let me go NOW! He was chasing a purse-snatcher. Where's the man he was chasing?"
"We let him go. He didn't have nothin' on him."
"You idiot! That man was a criminal. There's a lady up the mall looking for her purse right now, and LET MY FRIEND GO!"
"Lady, that guy ain't no crook and your friend ain't no cop. Now, shaddup before I do call the police to come get both of you!"
"The police are already here, you fool. You just put handcuffs on him."
"Perhaps you should check his ID," MinJe suggested, as he arrived on the scene, packages in hand. "Surely, that will tell you who he is." Without waiting for a response from the guards, he said in a soothing voice, "Steve, will you let me take out your wallet and show these men your ID?"
Steve, distressed, humiliated, and breathing too hard to speak, nodded silently.
MinJe gently moved around and took his friend's wallet out of his hip pocket. He opened it up, flipped through a few cards, photos of his father and a woman who must have been his mother, and another, younger, blonde woman who had to have been his sister. Finally, he found the LAPD identification card and held it up for the guard to see.
"Oh, shit," the guard said. "But the guy can't hardly talk."
"That is because he was injured a few weeks ago. He has been working very hard to regain the power of speech, and he is doing very well." When the guards stood there, still dumbly restraining Steve and now, Sara, too, MinJe added, "Perhaps you will remove the handcuffs now and release the girl, no?"
"Oh! Yeah."
For a moment all was quiet as Steve's cuffs were removed, but the moment she could see that he was uninjured, Sara cut loose on the guard who had been holding him. While MinJe led Steve over to a bench, she tore the hapless security officer up one side and down the other.
"What in the hell do you think you were doing, you big bully?" She walked right up to the guard and thumped him on the chest. He could have easily withstood her, but when she shoved him, he backed up a step.
"Look, lady, cop or no cop, the man your friend tackled didn't have nothing on him. He said he was just heading home."
"Oh, I see, and that strikes you as perfectly normal, does it, Barney Fife?" Sara ranted on, "On the day after Thanksgiving, one of the busiest shopping days of the year, a man accused of stealing a purse is leaving the mall with absolutely nothing, looking perfectly innocent, I'm sure, and you don't question it even a little."
"He said your friend just jumped him."
"Because he had just stolen a lady's purse."
"He didn't have it on him."
"Gee," Sara said obnoxiously, "do you suppose he could have just taken the cash and ditched the purse as he ran?"
"Well . . . "
"Mr. McQuirt," said another guard arriving on the scene with a woman's handbag, "We found this bag in one of the planters down that way," he pointed in the direction the thief had come from. "Someone saw a guy throw there and run off. It matches the description of one a woman reported stolen down near the other end of the mall. She's on her way down here to identify it."
"Do you have a description of the perp?"
"Blue jeans, black leather jacket, dark hair."
"Aw, hell."
"Don't forget the baseball cap. It was black and had the Padres' white and red logo on it," MinJe said helpfully, and only got a glare for his trouble.
The guard now known as McQuirt got on his radio and requested that all mall security, particularly those near the northwest exit, watch for the dark haired man in a leather jacket and blue jeans wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap.
"Tell me, McQuirt," Sara began sarcastically, getting in his face, "Does your boss intentionally hire from the shallow end of the gene pool?"
"Sara," MinJe said in a warning tone, but almost nothing could stop her now she was in full rant.
"Huh?" McQuirt stepped away, and Sara closed in again.
"My point exactly. I find it hard to believe you were the fastest sperm."
"Sara," MinJe tried to get her attention again, but she was on a roll.
"Just how often do you take your stupid pills?"
McQuirt was trying hard to keep away from this annoying woman while he waited for the woman who owned the purse to come confirm that it was hers. He wouldn't lay another hand on Sara if he could help it, because she had every right to be angry with him, but he wouldn't stand there and have her chew him out like some errant schoolboy either. Each time she stepped up to him, he'd move a few feet away.
"Sara," MinJe called again as she stepped up to McQuirt one more time. Like a puppy with a new toy, she just wouldn't stop worrying the man.
"You know, I've heard you can build up a tolerance for them, but I think you've already OD'ed. I know a couple really great doctors, though, and I'm sure one of them would be happy to . . ."
As McQuirt turned, she turned with him, and caught sight of Steve, huddled on the bench, trembling. All thoughts of castigating the big bully flew from her head and she ran over to her friend.
"Steve?"
"Go now?" he pleaded softly.
"Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry," she said and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned and wrapped his arms around her neck and started sobbing.
For the next several minutes, Sara and MinJe comforted their friend. Sara hugged him and hushed him and rubbed slow circles on his back, and MinJe just sat close by. When he finally stopped crying, Sara tried to salvage what was left of the afternoon.
"Steve," Sara said, "I hate to take you back to the hospital when you feel this way. Do you think maybe we could try to have a little fun before we go? Let's not let that big jerk spoil our afternoon. They have a great arcade here, and an awesome pet store, and I thought you might like to check out one of the music stores . . . "
"Sara," MinJe interrupted her, "I don't think that's wise."
"Let's let Steve decide, MinJe," she said then looked back to Steve, who was still slightly clinging to her, and said, "We could get something at the food court, too, they even have sushi here."
Steve looked at her and said, "Yuck."
Sara laughed and said, "Or we could have pizza."
"Pizza," Steve said, with some finality, "den music."
"So, you want to stay a little longer?"
"Yes."
On the way to the pizza place Sara recommended, Steve changed his mind and decided he wanted a hamburger instead. The fast food restaurant wasn't very crowded by the time Steve, Sara, and MinJe got there, and Steve still hadn't made up his mind when he got to the counter.
"Can I help you," asked a pimply-faced teenager with buckteeth and frizzy blonde hair.
Steve nodded at the boy and took a moment to read the signs.
"Well?" the youth said impatiently.
"H-h-hamburger," Steve managed the rather difficult word well enough, but by the time he got it out, he had forgotten what else he wanted and had to look at the signs again.
"Ok, that will be three ten, sir."
"Wai'! Not done."
The kid sighed, making his impatience clear. Though Steve was becoming agitated, he managed to find the next thing he wanted and remember it long enough to say it.
"Yarge fies, too."
"Ok, sir. That's four eighty-five."
Steve had been going to ask for a drink, but when the kid interrupted him, everything went out of his head. Not only did he forget what he was going to say, but he also forgot what he had said already, and the only thing he knew was that this kid had no patience for him to try again.
"Never mind," he said sadly, and turned to find a table.
Sara turned from the counter with her tray and saw Steve, sitting at a table with his back to her, resting his head in his hands. MinJe sat beside him, an arm around his trembling shoulders, and she knew Steve was on the verge of tears again. She went over and sat down across from them and mouthed to MinJe, "What happened?"
MinJe shook his head, and said, "Steve, we'll go back together, and I will tell him to wait for you to speak."
Steve just shook his head no. He had been tested to his limits and wasn't willing to try any harder than he absolutely had to now.
"Then tell me what to order, and I will get it for you. I know you asked for a hamburger and large fries. What else did you want?"
"Drink."
"Ok, what did you want to drink?"
He shrugged.
"Well, they have Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper . . . "
"No soda."
"Ok, did you want, iced tea, lemonade, or punch?"
Steve shook his head.
"Did you want a shake?"
Steve nodded.
"Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?"
"Stawberry."
"Ok, you just wait here," MinJe said gently. "I'll be right back."
Steve nodded.
MinJe left then, and Sara reached out and put a hand lightly on Steve's arm. "Are you ok?"
Steve just shrugged.
"Do you want some of my fries?"
Steve shook his head.
"Do you want to go back to the hospital?"
Steve shrugged again.
"I forgot mayonnaise for my fries," Sara lied, doubting Steve would notice the small pond of mayonnaise on her tray. "Will you be all right while I go get some?"
Steve nodded and put his head all the way down on the table.
Sara walked over to MinJe where he was getting napkins, straws, and assorted other items for himself and Steve and asked him, "What on earth happened?"
"The blond boy was impatient. He kept interrupting Steve and made him forget his order," MinJe explained as if Sara were a child. "Steve just gave up." After a moment, MinJe hissed angrily, "I told you this was a bad idea."
"Steve likes mayonnaise with his fries," Sara said, and walked off.
Steve and MinJe were well into their meals when Sara finally came back, followed by a smiling young man with a round face and smallish features who was not much older than the rest of the staff. He sat in the booth across from Steve and said, "Lieutenant Sloan, my name is Josh," the young man said slowly and clearly so Steve could follow his words over the background noise of the restaurant. "I'm the manager here, and your friend Sara told me what one of my workers did. I am very sorry."
Steve shrugged. "Kay."
Josh waited a moment more for Steve to reply, but Steve didn't say anything more, so he continued.
"No, Sir, it is not ok. He was rude, and that is unacceptable. He will not be working at the counter any time soon."
Steve looked at him quizzically, and he replied. "Sara told me about your condition, and about the day you've had. I have an uncle with Broca's aphasia, so I know it's very difficult for you to put words together. I admire you for having the courage to go on with your day after what happened earlier, and I hope you will accept my apology on behalf of the restaurant and the staff."
Steve smiled slightly, and after a pause while he tried to choose his words, he settled for a simple, "Yes."
Josh smiled back and said, "Apology accepted?"
Steve nodded, "Yes."
"I don't blame you if you never come back here, but I hope you do." Josh slid him a twenty-dollar book of gift certificates. "Maybe if you decide not to use these, you can put them in someone's stocking for Christmas."
"Ok."
"Thank you, Sir," Josh said, getting up. As he left the table, he said, "Have a Merry Christmas."
Steve smiled broadly, clearly feeling somewhat better, and said, "You, too, tanks."
As Sara sat down, Steve sighed contentedly and said, "Tank you, Sara. Some people still nice."
Sara smiled, "They are, Steve, and Josh meant it when he apologized. He was very upset with the kid at the counter."
Steve frowned. "He not know."
"That is irrelevant," MinJe said. "I have run a clothing store in Koreatown many years. When you serve people for a living, you should be nice to everyone."
Steve thought about what MinJe had said, and shrugged. He could think of a lot of things he might like to say back, but he just didn't have the energy to work out the words right now. He, MinJe, and Sara finished their meals in silence.
"Excuse me, Sir," a youthful voice called as they were leaving the restaurant. "Excuse me!"
Steve felt a soft tug on his sleeve and turned to see the young man who had been so rude to him earlier. Under other circumstances, he might have bristled at the forced contact, but this was just a boy, and he had probably never been taught any manners, so he couldn't be held completely accountable for his poor conduct.
"Josh told me about your . . . condition. I didn't realize, and I didn't mean to make you mad. Josh really didn't tell me to say this, but I want you to know I'm sorry."
What the apology lacked in elegance it more then made up for in sincerity. Smiling, and feeling more hopeful for America's youth than he had minutes ago, he shook the kid's hand and said, "Pahgee 'cepted."
After a moment, the kid smiled and said, "Thank you, Sir. Have a good day."
As they walked out of the restaurant, Steve said, "Now, music!"
Sara looked at MinJe, her eyes clearly saying, "I told you so," and MinJe just shrugged. In his opinion, Steve had been through far too much already today.
They spent an hour in the music store, and Steve bought three CD's and a Discman so he could listen to music in his room at the hospital. Then they went to the arcade, where Sara dragged Steve and MinJe into a four-for-a-dollar photo booth where she spent three dollars getting them to laugh and make crazy faces for the camera. While they waited for their photos, MinJe surprised Sara and Steve by beating them both at the racing game Sara insisted on playing.
When they asked about his skill, all he would say was, "My grandson is thirteen."
On their way out, they stopped at a fundraising table set up by the disabled veterans and Steve had his packages gift-wrapped. He didn't have any cash on him, so he went over to the ATM machine to withdraw twenty dollars. Sara watched him closely from where she stood and could see his breathing getting faster as he tried to navigate the buttons and commands on the machine. Eventually it got tired of waiting, and spit his card back out at him.
Sara went over to him and asked, "Do you need some help?"
"No. Try again."
This time, Steve got his money, and after paying MinJe back for his meal, he donated ten dollars to the disabled vets to thank them for wrapping his packages.
By the time they left the mall, they were in the beginning of rush hour traffic, and knew they'd never get back to the hospital in time for dinner, so they stopped at a drive through on the way. This time, MinJe automatically ordered for Steve and Sara, because as the driver of the car, he was closest to the intercom, but he sat in the line and patiently waited for Steve to read the menu before driving ahead to the order window. When the motorist behind them started beeping the horn at them, Sara surreptitiously stuck her finger up at him, having had enough of people being rude to her friend for one day.
Suddenly she started to cry.
Steve finished his order, and then turned in his seat to face her. "Sara? What wrong?"
"Oh, Steve," she said, trying to dry her tears. "I just got mad at the guy behind us for honking, and I realized how people have been treating you all day, and I'm so sorry I made you go to the mall." Catching MinJe's eye in the rearview mirror, she said, "MinJe, you were right. It was a bad idea."
"Sara, no. Bought presents. Took pictures. Got music. Had fun. Not bad, just . . . difficut."
She sniffled and asked, "Steve, are you sure?"
"Yes. No harder dan Marcus. Just diff'rent."
"Promise?"
"Promise!"
"Ok."
After a few minutes, Steve turned around and looked at Sara. "Shah-woah end?" he queried.
Sara had to think a minute, but when Steve said, 'Stupid pills,' she had to laugh, and he did too.
"I've got a million of 'em," she said. "You can tell a bleached blonde she left the peroxide on too long, and tell a bald main his brain must have fallen out with his hair. For someone really short, you can put your hand on top of his head and say, 'God shortchanged you on everything, didn't He?'"
Steve laughed at that. "You collect?"
"Collect? What?"
"Ways say stupid."
Sara shrugged. "I guess. It's just something my friends and I do. If you can't think of anything else, you can just do this."
Very lightly, she massaged his head with the fingers one hand. Then, she slowed down and stopped. She left her hand resting, palm down, on his head until Steve finally asked her, "What dat?"
"My brain sucker starved to death."
Steve and Sara laughed, but MinJe tsk-tsk-tsked at them both and said, "It's very sad that such a clever young woman would waste so much time thinking of ways to shame others." He was smiling, though, so they both knew he was amused.
They arrived back at the hospital at six thirty to find Mark, Amanda, Jesse, and Marcus all waiting, frantic with worry and furious with them. After each of them took a turn reading the riot act, which Steve, Sara, and MinJe meekly accepted, Mark finally asked, "Why in the world didn't you call?"
Steve looked to his friends, who were sitting either side of him on the bed and finally looked at his dad and said, "Having fun. Forgot. Sorry."
Mark tried to continue fuming and fretting, but his moustache was twitching with amusement. Finally, he started to laugh and said, "Steven Michael Sloan, you have been using that same excuse since you were six years old. Tell me what you did today."
"Bought presents, payed arcade, took pictures, used ATM, caught tief, s'curity yet go . . . " Steve opened his mouth in a wide yawn. "I tired. Sara, MinJe teh."
It was almost eight by the time Sara and MinJe had summarized their trip to the mall with Steve. Steve truly was tired, and had been nodding off through the whole conversation, so Mark gently nudged everyone out the door. Then he sat in the chair by Steve's window while his son got ready for bed.
"I guess you had quite a day today, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Not everything went smoothly, did it?"
Steve shrugged, and from that simple gesture, Mark knew some of the things he hadn't been told had hurt his son very deeply.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"I'll be patient while you find your words, if that's why you're saying no."
"No. Just tired."
"You sure?"
"Yes, Dad," Steve paused a minute, then added, "Some peepoh mean, some peepoh nice. I ok."
"All right, Son."
Steve put a CD in his new Discman, planning to listen to it as he drifted off to sleep. It was a new copy of the Christmas Classic CD that had been in his truck when he had the accident. He wanted to work on the "First Noel" some more when he went back to Rachel's on Monday. Then he walked over to his father and said, "'Night, Dad."
Mark stood up to go, and was surprised when Steve wrapped him in a hug. He returned the embrace, gently patting Steve on the back and said, "Goodnight, Son."
As he walked out of the hospital room that night, he was sure he heard Steve say, "Love you," and had to wonder what he'd been through that day to make him so demonstrative. When he turned to reply, though, Steve already appeared to be sleeping soundly.
The next two weeks saw tremendous gains and setbacks for Steve. Though his speech improved slowly but steadily, his moods swung from good to bad more often than a pendulum. He became so unpredictable, and would get so violently angry that Jesse was considering giving him a mild antidepressant. Whenever he became terribly agitated, his speech was still horrendously hard to comprehend, but, more worrisome still, he would be very uncommunicative for a while after. Finally, after one particularly distressing incident, Mark insisted on an MRI to be sure there hadn't been some injury they'd missed earlier.
Two weeks before Christmas, on a Sunday night, Steve woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. After tossing and turning for an hour, he decided to listen to one of his Christmas CD's. He was still holding out a slim hope that his mother's violin might be found before he had to tell his father that it was gone, and he wanted to develop a good repertoire so he could play requests at his dad's Christmas party.
He reached into the drawer of the over the bed table where he kept his CD's, and found neither the Discman nor the music. Confused and befuddled, he turned the light on low and looked inside the drawer. What he sought was nowhere to be found.
"Come on," he muttered to himself, "Where'd I put the damned thing?"
He turned to the cupboard beside the bed and opened the drawer there, but still couldn't find what he was looking for. His head was starting to ache, and he was becoming more agitated the longer he looked. He was now locked into the idea that the CD's and Discman should be where he always kept them, so he never thought to look elsewhere, or he would have found them by the computer where he had been listening to them earlier as he had practiced his typing. He went back to the table, and found nothing.
"Of course it no matter anyway if dey no find the viyin," he grumbled.
Suddenly, a vast rage surged up inside of him. He could bear no more, and he shoved the table away, knocking it over. Then he turned to the bedside cupboard and grabbed the bedpan and hurled it across the room shouting, "Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Aiii dey no find? Where's my mom's viyin?"
"What in the world is wrong?" one of the weekend nurses shouted over his tirade. "Mr. Sloan, are you all right?"
Steve pointed at the bedpan and jabbered something at her. She knew that when she worked on his floor before he'd been moved to the rehab unit that he had been slightly paralyzed and unable to speak as a result of a head injury, so all she could do was fetch him the bedpan. When she handed it to him, he threw it away again and continued yelling.
"Do you need some help to get to the bathroom, Mr. Sloan?"
"No, dammit. Aiii need my CD's and my Discman and my mom's viyin . Yust breen me the bedpan and my CD's and Discman and the viyin."
Since he shook his head no, pointed at the bedpan, and continued shouting, the nurse fetched it back, and Steve beat it on the bedrails, shouting all the while, before throwing it again.
"Let's just get you into the bathroom, Mr. Sloan," the nurse said soothingly, taking his arm.
Steve pulled violently away from her, and continued shouting, "Find my damned CD's! I wan my moosic! I wan Mom's viyin!"
The nurse was beginning to put two and two together. Unfortunately, she was coming up with five. Her patient seemed to be very angry at the bedpan, and he refused to let her take him to the bathroom. He was getting more and more agitated, and was on the verge of tears. She needed to do something to help him.
"I'll be right back, Mr. Sloan. Please, just try to calm down."
"Where the hell's my moosic?" Steve yelled after her. "I want my discman and CD's now! Hep me find dem. Hep me find the viyin."
The nurse came back with a paper dose cup containing a little pink pill and a cup of water.
"No even twy to sedate me, yady," Steve yelled pointing at the dose up, "I won't let oou."
"It's just a laxative, Mr. Sloan. It will make you feel better soon." As she moved closer, Steve drew away, pressing himself into the mattress.
"Aii no need a dam laxative," Steve replied.
"Mr. Sloan, I'm sorry, I don't understand," she took another step closer, and Steve drew his legs up and moved to kneel at the head of the bed.
To the young woman's surprise, her patient grabbed the urinal that was hanging on the side of the bed and hauled back to throw it at her.
"What's going on in here?" Mark cried as he came rushing into the room to find his son about to throw the thankfully empty urinal at the nurse. He had been called in late when one of his patients took a turn for the worse, and, having stabilized the patient, he was just heading for the door and home when he had been paged to Steve's room.
"Dr. Sloan! He . . . he threw the bedpan. I tried to help him to the bathroom, but he wouldn't go. I . . . I thought . . . that is . . . This is a laxative. To help him go."
"I don't n-n-need a damnnnnned l-l-laxative," Steve slurred, "D-dad, tellll herrr."
His father stood gaping at him for a moment, and Steve repeated, "Telll herr!"
Without a word, Mark waved the nurse away. "Steve, Son, you're talking. Really talking. Say something else."
Steve remained silent a moment.
"Please," Mark pleaded.
"I love you, Dad."
Any joy Mark might have felt at hearing those words was lost in the anguish of worry he felt as his son promptly burst into tears yet again. He spent that night at Steve's bedside, first comforting him and holding him close, then trying to find out what had set him off, tracking down the Discman and CD's Steve had so desperately wanted, and finally, watching in wonder as Steve placed his headphones over his ears, sighed, smiled, and drifted happily off into a sound sleep. Music did indeed soothe the savage beast. Mark held his son's hand through the night, needing to be there even more than Steve needed him.
If Mark expected a battle the next morning when he asked Steve to consent to an MRI, he was sorely disappointed. Though he was as uncommunicative as he always was after an outburst, he was also cooperative. Whether this accommodating attitude was just a variation on the moodiness theme that had been plaguing his son for weeks or whether it was yet another new wrinkle in an already complex situation, Mark wasn't sure, but it had him worried.
In the imaging lab, Steve obligingly stepped behind the privacy screen, and without a word of complaint about the cold, changed into the paper thin gown that would cover him during the scan. He emerged from behind the screen, barefoot and compliant, and followed his father into the room with the scanner. He only balked once, when he looked at the large imaging machine and sized up the small tunnel he would be sliding into.
"I no s'pose we cud wait to dey get an open scanner, huh?" Steve said with a grin.
Mark was pleased to hear his son finally using full sentences, though some of the words were still slightly garbled, but he was also too worried to joke with him.
"No, Steve, I've been trying for years to get the board to purchase one, but this won't wait."
"Damn."
Steve had been claustrophobic ever since he'd spent one too many nights in a dumpster masquerading as a drunk on an undercover assignment. Mark knew lying motionless inside the massive machine, earplugs stuffed in his ears while the thing thumped and banged around him, would be an ordeal for him. So, after he'd helped his son up onto the rollaway table that would glide him smoothly into the scanner tunnel, he took Steve's hand and tried to soothe him.
"Close your eyes and think of the ocean, Steve, and it will be over before you know it."
Mark actually heard the gulp before Steve answered, "'Kayyy," and his heart skipped a beat. Just yesterday, he was saying, "Ok."
As the technician manipulated the controls that took Steve into the depths of the machine, Mark held his hand until the last possible moment. He heard Steve gasp when he finally had to let go, and he promised him, "I will be just over in the control room, Steve, and I'll be right here as soon as they are finished."
"'Kay, Dad. Tanks," Steve said, and the fear in his voice emphasized the childlike quality of his words.
When Steve emerged from the scanner two hours later, he was soaked with sweat and trembling with cold and fear. Once Mark helped him sit up, he wrapped his arms around his father's middle and clung to him for reassurance that he had not died in that dark little tunnel. Mark stood beside him and stroked his too-short hair and rubbed his back for a long while. As soon as he was steady enough to stand, Mark walked him back behind the privacy screen and helped him change into his own clothes. Then he coaxed him into a wheelchair and took him back to his room.
Once Steve was showered and settled comfortably in bed, Mark contacted Marcus, told him about the events of the previous night and about taking Steve for the MRI and suggested that it might be a good day for him to take a break from therapy. Then Mark sat beside the bed and watched Steve sleep the day away.
When the results of the MRI scan were delivered, they showed nothing new, and Mark worried all the more, for that meant that they still had no adequate explanation for why Steve was so volatile.