No greater Love

by Polgana

Gary stumbles across an ad for a most unusual resort and decides that he and Marissa need a break. They both get more than they had bargained for.

1. Welcome To Fantasy Island

No Greater Love

By Polgana

Tracy Miller issued a challenge, then Mike Paterno suggested this theme and Vicky Jo elaborated on it.  Their ideas struck a chord in me that simply would not let go.  This takes place shortly after 'Four And a Half Days,' when Marissa only thinks she may be pregnant.  Basically, Gary sees a chance to make a dream come true for his closest friend, but the price may be more than she is willing to pay.  Come join Gary and Marissa on a tropical paradise known as:

 

Fantasy Island

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The tall, slender man read the tiny blurb on page fourteen for the umpteenth time since it had appeared so mysteriously that morning.  Originally, that same space in his 'Early Edition' of the Chicago Sun-Times had held an article describing a minor collision between a delivery truck and an escaped Tibetan Yak.  Once the hairy bovine had been safely returned to the local zoo, Gary Hobson had checked to see what tale of woe had taken its place, as had become his routine.

What he found was a most unusual ad.

'Have you ever had a dream fulfilled?' it read.  'Do you believe that wishes can come true? Have you faith so strong that the lame can walk and the blind can see?  Then come to a land of mystery and enchantment, where all things are possible, even the impossible.  Come to Fantasy Island, where all your dreams can come true.'

At first, Gary had dismissed it as an elaborate come-on, a way to lure in the gullible and unwary.  Still, his eyes were continuously drawn to the same four words: the blind can see.

Once, for a very short time that had seemingly lasted an eternity, Gary had stepped into a world of darkness, where he found himself dependent on every sense but the one he no longer had; his sight.  It was a world that his partner and closest friend lived in every day.  Marissa Clark had lost her sight at a very early age due to meningitis.  In spite of that, she was one of the most capable, grounded people that Gary had ever known.  She also had an unshakable faith in God and miracles.  Even though she had never seen The Paper with her own eyes, she had believed Gary when he told her about it and became the voice of his conscience, spurring him on to do whatever it took to avert disaster, even minor ones involving exotic bovines and delivery vans.

Mud-green eyes peered from beneath raven dark bangs as he gazed out the window of the El at the rapidly passing landscape, seeing only the face of his dearest friend.  The blind can see.  Just the idea set his mind to reeling.  Could they really restore her sight, he wondered.  If so, for how long?  Nothing was mentioned about any guarantees.    

He didn't have to tell her what was on his mind.  That would be so mean to get her hopes up like that.  But, would the effects be permanent, or would they extend only to the confines of the island?  If that were the case, how cruel would it be to offer her this gift on just a temporary basis?  No, he had to let her decide.  Anything less would be a betrayal so vile that, even if she forgave him, he could never forgive himself.

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"Well?" Gary asked hopefully.  "What do you think?  D'ya wanna give it a shot?"

Marissa sat back in her chair, her lovely, exotic features composed in a mask of confusion.  What would prompt Gary to even make such an offer?  Of course, she wanted to see again!  Who wouldn't?  But to think that it could be accomplished on some little known tropical island was sheer foolishness. 

"Look," Gary sighed, reading her expression, "I know it sounds crazy, that they can maybe wave a magic wand and let you see again if only for a day, but is it any crazier than what we do with The Paper?  For all we know, that might be where it comes from!  Think about it!  'Where all things are possible.'  C'mon Marissa, isn't it at least worth a shot?"

"It just sounds like wishful thinking, Gary," Marissa sighed.  "Just another trap for the desperate and gullible.  I'll bet the price is astronomical."

"No more than it would be for any other luxury resort," he lied.  Gary felt just a twinge of regret for his deception, but he felt that Marissa might be wavering.  Truthfully, it was almost twice the going rate for a week in that Atlantis resort in the Caribbean.  Still, if it meant even one day of sight for his friend, he felt it a bargain that he couldn't afford to pass up.  "It's just for one weekend," he persisted.  "A-and what have we got to lose?  If nothing else, we have a nice little vacation on a tropical island.  Mom and Dad can take care of The Paper for that long.  And they'll have Peter Caine and his dad for back up.  Emmett's gonna be away at a legal seminar for two weeks, and you'd be stuck in that apartment all alone.  Think of it, three days, and two nights of warm sun and sandy beaches, balmy breezes blowing sand in our food, drinking fruit-juice and rum concoctions with those little umbrellas poking us in the eye . . ."

"Mosquitoes," Marissa added with a grin.  "Second degree sunburns, heat rash, killer hangovers . . ."

"And let's not forget the occasional shark in the lagoon and jellyfish stings," Gary chuckled, sensing victory.  "Now, how can you pass up a deal like that?"

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The warm breeze was redolent with the pleasant aroma of plumeria, bougainvillea, and passionflower.  The joyful laughter of children rang out clear and pure as they chased each other among the palm trees and tropical foliage that covered most of the landscape.  Beautiful young women in bikinis and sarongs, strapping young men in lava-lavas all raced for the clearing as the solitary bell clamored for their attention.  High in the bell tower, a diminutive man dressed all in white pulled at the bell cord one last time before leaning out over the rail to address his audience.  Pointing needlessly into the air, his thin, gravelly voice joyfully announced to one and all:

"The Plane!  The Plane!"

As the growing crowd fled for the boat dock, Tattoo descended from his lofty perch as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him.  Moments later, he skidded to a stop next to a tall slender man whose regal bearing left no doubt as to who he was.  The dark-haired man looked down at his miniature companion and smiled indulgently.  They wore identical white suits and dark ties, although the little man wore his tie in a bowknot.  Tattoo's hair was still thick and dark, marking his relative youth while Mr. Roarke's curly hair was now streaked with gray and his face lined with years of experience, not all of it pleasant.

"Smiles, everyone," the elegantly dressed man instructed his staff.  "Smiles!  Make our guests feel welcome!"

Turning his attention to the docking seaplane, Mr. Roarke spoke quietly to his younger friend. 

"We are being granted a rare honor, Tattoo," he murmured.  "A Guardian is gracing our fair island."

"A Guardian?" Tattoo responded in his thick European accent.  "Guardian of what, Boss?" he asked in puzzlement.

"Of many things," was Mr. Roarke's cryptic reply.  "He is fairly new to the task and still has many questions of his own that may never be answered.  They are a rare breed, for few possess the courage and the will to tamper with Fate as these must.  Yet, even amongst such singular individuals, one may stand out."  Accepting a glass from one of the young ladies, he used it to indicate the dark-haired young man assisting a lovely African-American woman from the plane.  "Take our young Mr. Hobson, for instance.  He has already sacrificed much for the sake of others, doing whatever he must to make their lives safer, and better.  Often at the risk of his own.  Yet, his fantasy is not for himself, but for his companion, Mrs. Marissa Brown."

Tattoo frowned at this revelation.  "Mrs.?" he lisped, dragging out the s.  "He is consorting with a married woman?"  This did not set well with the heroic image that his boss had just painted.

Mr. Roarke shot his friend an admonishing frown.  "You are too quick to judge, Tattoo.  Gary Hobson and Mrs. Brown have been very close friends for several years now.  It is a very deep, Platonic love that is hard to describe to an outsider.  No, although he has often been accused of being self-absorbed and inattentive to others, Mr. Hobson is quite possibly one of the most compassionate and caring men you will ever have the honor to meet.  He would willingly lay down his life for his friend.  It should then come as no surprise that he has asked to be allowed such a little request.  I just pray that the price does not exceed the gift," he added in an ominous tone.

Quickly pasting a dazzling smile on his handsome features, Mr. Roarke turned to face his guests, raising his glass in his trademark greeting.

"I am Mr. Roarke, your host.  Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

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Carefully guiding his friend into the unfamiliar room, Gary helped Marissa into one of the comfortable wingback chairs that graced Mr. Roarke's sitting room.  Fighting his instinct to hover protectively over his sightless companion, Gary awkwardly settled into an identical chair facing their host.

"You, um, you're sure this isn't gonna hurt her?" he asked nervously.  "I-I mean, when we talked on the phone last week, you promised that this . . . process would be painless."

Mr. Roarke nodded, recalling their conversation.  Gary had asked some very pointed and intelligent questions regarding the ad.   He had also explained exactly what he was hoping to accomplish with his fantasy.  It had been a most enlightening . . . and disturbing conversation. 

"I can assure you, Mr. Hobson," he replied, "that Mrs. Brown will feel nothing more than a brief period of . . . disorientation.  A bit 'dizzy,' if you will.  Absolutely no harm will come to her."  He paused, staring at Gary over his steepled fingers.  "Did you bring the advertisement with you, as I asked?"

"Y-yeah," Gary stammered, carefully extracting the clipping from his wallet and handing it to the enigmatic gentleman.  That was how Gary saw their host, as the very definition of how a gentleman should look and act.  He sensed an 'old world' air about the man that made him think of drawing rooms and 'matters of honor.'  "I, um, ran across it on page fourteen of the Sun-Times the day I called you."  Actually, it had been the day before, but he saw no reason to elaborate.  "That part about . . . about the blind . . . it just sorta jumped out at me," he added lamely.  His mud-green eyes cast a quick glance at his friend and partner, then focused on his fidgeting hands.

"I imagine it would," Mr. Roarke murmured with an indulgent smile.  He carefully read the advertisement, his dark brows knit in a puzzled frown.

Marissa turned her sightless visage toward the silent man.  "I want you to know one thing, Mr. Roarke," she stated in clipped tones.  "I know that Gary is almost convinced that you can work miracles, but I'm not.  What I want is your assurance that he's not being ripped off."

Gary squirmed uncomfortably, sure that Marissa had just 'queered the deal.'  He wanted this to happen, wanted it so bad that he was willing to pay whatever price was asked without so much as a blink.  He relaxed just a little when Roarke gave his friend an amused chuckle.

"Mrs. Brown," he said, "you have my most solemn vow that your friend is not being 'ripped off,' as you so eloquently put it.  He will get exactly what he has asked for, and more."  Rising from his chair with fluid grace, the older gentleman waved the hand holding the clipping toward a closed door.  "Could we step into my office for a moment, Mr. Hobson?  I would like to discuss this advertisement with you.  Privately."

That was Gary's cue.  Promising Marissa that he would be right back, he practically leaped from the chair, ducking through the door almost on the heels of his host. 

Marissa sat back with a sigh, certain her friend was setting himself up for a hard fall.  It was sweet of him to go to all this trouble for her sake, but it was a road she had been down too many times before.  She had learned a long time ago that it didn't pay to get her hopes up.

"Ahem!"

Jumping slightly at the sudden break in her reverie, Marissa turned toward the sound.

"Could I interest you in some refreshments, Madam?" Tattoo asked with an ingratiating smile.

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"Tell me exactly when and where this article appeared," Roarke insisted.  "And please do not insult my intelligence by lying.  You are a terrible liar, Mr. Hobson."

"So I've been told," Gary sighed as he slid into another chair.  "Look, Mr. Roarke, I'm not sure how much I can tell you, or how much you'll believe."

Roarke settled back in his desk chair and leveled his piercing gaze on the younger man.  "Try me."

Sinking deeper into the chair with a weary sigh, Gary scratched the back of his neck as he tried to get his thoughts in order.

"I guess I should start back when I first met Marissa," he murmured distractedly.  "I'd just started at Strauss and Associates, as a stockbroker, where she was a receptionist.  I was, well, I was pretty green, just out of college, been married a coupla years and, um, things were kinda rocky.  It didn't take me long to realize that I hated my job, but I stuck with it to help my wife finish out her law degree and internship at this firm.  Anyway, Marissa seemed like a really nice person a-and maybe someone I could talk to about . . . things, b-but I didn't know her all that well a-and I'd never tried being friends with a person who was . . . was different."

"You mean handicapped," Mr. Roarke regarded him with an arched eyebrow.

"Um, yeah," Gary admitted, squirming uncomfortably under that penetrating gaze.  "I didn't want to say anything that might offend her, ya know?  A-and it seemed like everything that started to come out of my mouth sounded so . . . lame.  I finally worked up the courage to ask her out to dinner.  As a friend," he hastened to add.  "Just two friends getting to know each other better.  Well, she agreed, and I was trying to . . . to just figure out the ground rules and she, well, she got the wrong idea.  Marissa sorta thought I was, um, tryin' to proposition her," he winced.  He rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling at the memory.  "I thought I was gonna die of embarrassment.  By the time we got it all straightened out, we were well on the way to being the best of friends.  Later, when my marriage broke up, she was right there in my corner, trying to bolster my spirits and cheer me up.  Then . . . then I started getting tomorrow's newspaper . . . today."  He paused, trying to judge his host's reaction.  When Mr. Roarke merely nodded without comment, Gary felt relieved.  "At first I thought it was a misprint, then a sort of . . . of a lark.  I kinda had a little fun with it at first, even quit my job.  Then a friend was hurt and I realized I could've prevented it.  It was Marissa who finally forced me to face my responsibilities, and she's been my anchor through this whole thing.  When that ad replaced an article about . . . about an accident that I'd just prevented, it was . . . well, the timing was perfect," he added, leaning forward in his eagerness.  "You see, today is the anniversary of that dinner where we first became friends, and I wanted to give her something, a gift so special . . . you know?"

"A gift from the heart," Roarke nodded.  "A rare and precious thing, but my concerns lie more with this advertisement.  You say it simply appeared?  Did you check to see who might have placed it?"

"Well, no," Gary replied, clearly puzzled by such an odd question.  "I-I guess I just . . . You didn't . . .?  Then who . . . why would someone else place an ad for your resort?"

"Mr. Hobson," Roarke replied with a wry smile, "we have no need to advertise.  Our . . . facility provides a unique service.  Our reputation is spread strictly by word of mouth.  That is why this," he added, waving the news clipping, "intrigues me so.  You see, I did contact the Sun-Times, and they have no record of this, nor was it in any other copy of that day's issue, only yours."

This revelation sent a chill up Gary's spine as he once more sank back into his chair, his gaze darting back and forth between Roarke's face and the inexplicable ad.  Not for the first time, he felt as if he were trapped in a surreal game of cat and mouse, with himself cast as the chief rodent.

"Do you have any enemies, Mr. Hobson?"

"A few," Gary admitted, his voice almost too low to be heard.  "I, um, I may have to testify against a couple within the next few months.  Th-they work . . . worked for this guy . . . Everyone thinks that he's dead, but . . . what if he's not?"

"That is certainly one possibility," Roarke mused.  "Another would be . . . Has this . . . periodical of yours ever . . . misled you before?  What I mean is, has an event ever been described which did not occur as expected?"

"Three times," Gary replied, his eyes widening in understanding.  "Each time I needed to have something happen to me . . . so that I could be in . . . in the right place at the right time," he added with a wry grin.  "These were all sorta . . . special occasions and I . . . I almost died the first coupla times, and just missed being arraigned for murder the third."

 Roarke let the clipping fall to the desktop as he settled back more comfortably in his chair.  He stared at Gary over his steepled fingers without comment until the younger man began to squirm under that steady gaze.

"This has not been an easy task for you, has it, Mr. Hobson?"  His tone was more that of a statement than a question.  "You are still a fairly young man with a long life ahead of you."  Roarke's eyes narrowed slightly as Gary flinched almost imperceptibly.  He had struck a nerve.  "I would imagine that, along with the day-to-day pressure of dealing with your omniscient periodical, you are also being 'encouraged' to remarry and start a family of your own."

"They nag me to death about it," Gary admitted with a rueful sigh.  Licking his lips nervously, he stared down at his hands to avoid returning that penetrating gaze.  "It's not like I don't want to have a family.  I love kids.  It's just . . . it wouldn't be fair t-to start something that . . . that I can't devote th-the time and attention to that they deserve.  I don't want my wife and kids having to deal with a part-time dad.  Or worse."  He finally looked up, meeting his host's unwavering stare.  "Is it wrong of me to feel that way?  Am I being . . . selfish o-or self-centered for not wanting to put myself in the position of, maybe, having to choose between the life of a stranger and the welfare of my own flesh and blood?  It's bad enough when it's my parents or . . . or my friends.  What if I was forced to choose between my child and someone else's?  How'm I supposed to make a choice like that and still face myself in the mirror?"

Gary lunged from his seat and began pacing the length of the room, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as the other provided punctuation for his mumbled tirade.

"A-and what about all the other weirdness?" he grumbled irritably.  "I've found at least four or five cousins that look enough like me to be clones.  I've been kidnapped and tortured twice because of mistaken identities and once for revenge.  Hell, I'd only been rid of that stupid sling a couple of days when I saw that!" he snapped, waving at the article.  "I've been . . . been haunted a-and possessed, for cryin' out loud!  There's more than one maniac out there that would pounce on the tiniest chink in my armor.  Armor!" he snorted derisively.  "More like cheesecloth.  The first things I look for in The Paper each morning are the names of my friends, my family, anyone that I might be personally involved with.  I-it's second nature, I guess.  How can I add a wife and kids to that list?  What possible good would it do to bring a son or daughter into this world just to make them potential targets for the next lunatic that stumbles on my secret and decides to force my hand?"

"It appears that you have given this considerable thought," Roarke mused, his even tone belying the sympathy in his eyes.

"Just every day for the last six years," Gary sighed.  He paused, staring out the window at the magnificent view and seeing only the bleakness of his future.  "I've watched my two closest friends walk down the aisle, and one of them became the father of twins.  They even named the boy after me," he mused with a dry chuckle.  "I've helped save marriages that were on shaky ground, and spared people the agony of burying their loved ones.  Or at least, I've tried to."

An uncomfortable silence stretched out, filling the spacious, book-lined room as Gary continued to stare out the window at nothing.  Mr. Roarke was contemplating how best to proceed when Gary released an explosive sigh.

"It was all a setup, wasn't it?" the younger man murmured dismally.  "The ad was just a lure to get me here for some . . . some hidden purpose that I have to dig around and uncover for myself, or blindly stumble across.  Blindly," he repeated in a strained whisper.  Alarm was written all over his face as he turned back toward his host. "Marissa!  H-how is this gonna affect . . . I mean . . . Can we still . . .?"

"I think we must," was Roarke's grim reply.  He leaned forward, propping his forearms on his desk as he nodded for Gary to resume his seat.  "The way the article is worded would seem to dictate that course of action.  Whatever you are here to do must be accomplished within the limitations thus imposed.  I am not speaking only of your physical limits, but also of time.  You have only until sunrise of the day after tomorrow before the process is . . . irreversible."

Gary slowly sank into his chair as the color drained from his cheeks, a look of near-panic in his muddy green eyes.

"I-I'll need help," he murmured in a shaky voice.  "Once we . . . once this is done, I won't be . . . I mean, I'll have to learn things in kind of a hurry, won't I."

Mr. Roarke's estimate of the younger man's character was raised several notches with that half-whispered comment.  Not once had young Mr. Hobson suggested canceling his fantasy, or even amending it to give himself an edge at the sacrifice of his friend. 

"Do not despair, Mr. Hobson," he replied with a confidant smile.  "You strike me as a man to whom nothing is impossible.  And you have come to the right place.  This is, after all, Fantasy Island."

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They returned to the drawing room to find Tattoo flirting so outrageously that Marissa was hard pressed to keep a straight face.  The endearing little man's cherubic smile was lost on his intended target, but that didn't stop him from trying.

"Tattoo!" Roarke gently admonished his friend.  "What was it you were saying earlier?  Something about 'consorting with a married woman'?  Mrs. Brown, from what Mr. Hobson has told me, is quite happily married."

"That does not mean that she must stop enjoying herself," Tattoo spoke up in his own defense.  "It would be a terrible waste if such a lovely creature were to hide herself away and not enjoy all that I, um, we have to offer."

Gary had to choke back a laugh at the little man's antics.  When he saw Marissa bite her lower lip and turn her head away, one hand brushing suspiciously at the corner of her eye, he almost lost it.

"You, um, you won't have to worry about that," Gary assured him.  "In just a little while, Marissa will be able to come and go as she pleases.  On her own."  He kept his gaze fixed on his friend, who now wore a skeptical look.

"Gary . . ." Marissa sighed.

Gary quickly knelt to take both of Marissa's hands in his and chewed his lower lip nervously, avoiding her eyes for the moment.

"Please, Marissa," he murmured softly.  "At least give it a try.  The worst . . . the worst that can happen is we waste a little time.  This place is incredible!  I'd really like you to see it for yourself."

"With you as my guide?" Marissa asked with a mischievous smile.

"I am afraid that will not be possible," Mr. Roarke quietly informed his guests.  "You see, the 'price' for this fantasy is that Mr. Hobson must perform a . . . 'service' for us in return.  If all goes well, we will add an extra day to your visit at our expense.  That way the two of you will have at least that one day together."

Marissa sat up straighter in her chair, her concern for Gary evident in every line of her petite frame.  What kind of 'service' could a man like this mysterious Mr. Roarke possibly need from Gary?

"Do not worry for his safety, Mrs. Brown," Mr. Roarke continued, as if reading her mind.  "I ask nothing of him that is not within his ability to perform."

"I don't like this, Gary," she murmured, still unconvinced that, as usual, her friend had not bitten off more than he could chew.

Gary gave Roarke a troubled look.  Without her cooperation, this would never work.  Giving her hands a gentle squeeze, he fidgeted nervously, his gaze shifting about, looking anywhere and everywhere for inspiration.

"Marissa," he murmured in a pleading tone, his eyes downcast, "do you trust me?"

Marissa sat back, pulling her hands from his grasp as she did so.  After all they had been through, how could he even ask such a question?

"You know I do!" she insisted.  "With my life!"

"But not with mine?" he asked pointedly.  "Don't you trust me to take care of myself?"

"N-, I mean yes," Marissa stammered, caught off guard by his bluntness.  Imagining the hurt look on Gary's face at her inadvertent slip, Marissa racked her brain for a graceful way out of this mess.  "Gary," she sighed.  "I know your heart is in the right place, and that you're only doing this for me, but . . . you have this . . . this knack for finding the kind of trouble that can get you hurt, or killed.  I'm just asking you to be careful.  For my sake.  Please?"

"How can I say no when you put it like that?" he chuckled, letting her off the hook.  Gary reclaimed her right hand, holding it in both of his as he continued to plead his case.  "So, you'll do this?  For me?"

Marissa knew when she was fighting a losing battle.  She had never seen the face of her dearest friend, had only a vague idea of what he looked like based solely on touch, yet she imagined that he now looked like a hurt puppy, begging at her feet.  It was an image that she was finding hard to resist.

"You, Gary Hobson," she sighed, "are a rat.  Yes, I'll go along with whatever insanity you have in mind.  What do I have to do?"

"All you have to do, madam," Mr. Roarke told her, "is to open your eyes a little more and tilt your head back.  I am going to put some drops into your eyes so I need you to hold very still."  He suited action to words, then waited a moment as Marissa blinked reflexively to distribute the liquid evenly.  "Excellent.  Now lift your head just a bit and try not to blink anymore for a few seconds.  Good.  That's very good."  He nodded to Gary.

Gary licked his lips nervously, a sudden feeling of foreboding sending a shiver up his spine.  This was one of the hardest things he had ever been asked to do.  But it had been his idea.  And it was for his dearest friend.  Tilting his head back, Gary held still as Mr. Roarke repeated the procedure, blinking rapidly to let the drops coat the surfaces of his eyes.  Slowly, he lowered his mud-puddle green eyes until he was staring directly into her warm brown ones. 

The change was so gradual, he almost missed it.  It started with just a tinge of lightness in those dark brown orbs, a slight twitch in the pupils as they began to react to the light for the first time in decades.  They widened in amazement as Marissa began to return his gaze, really seeing him for the first time since they had met.  Gary gave her a tremulous smile as he tried to maintain a brave front, for her sake.  He squeezed her hand a little, to hide the trembling in his own.

At first, Marissa was only aware of a tingling, a sort of itch in the front of her eyes.  Then the darkness seemed a little less . . . intense.  Shadow patterns began to take shape, just faint outlines of black against a slightly lighter background.  The shades began to resolve into colors, the patterns into shapes.  For just a brief moment, a pale oval hovered before her eyes.  Gradually, she began to make out the smoothly chiseled features that she could only have imagined before.

"You really do look like a Boy Scout," Marissa murmured faintly, just before her eyes rolled back into her head.  With a sigh, she slumped back in the chair, overcome by the rush of sensation and emotion.  Mr. Roarke stepped forward quickly and conducted a brief examination.

"She is fine," Roarke quickly assured Gary.  "Merely fainted, as I told you she might.  Now," he continued, giving the younger man a hand up from the floor, "let us get you safely out of sight.  After all, part of your fantasy is that she not be told the price until the process is to be reversed."

 It took some effort to pull Gary to his feet.  The dark-haired younger man was actually trembling with fatigue, the transference having taken more out of him than he had anticipated.  He rubbed at his forehead with his free hand, trying to dispel the sudden pounding behind his eyes.

"Sh-she's gonna be okay?" Gary asked tremulously as he allowed himself to be led from the room.  "You won't let anything happen to her?"

"She is fine," Roarke repeated as he guided his young charge into an antechamber where two white-suited orderlies waited with a stretcher.  He motioned for them to take charge of the unconscious woman.  "She will be taken to her bungalow, where she will soon wake up to a bright new world.  Now, I must know how you are feeling?"

"A-a little dizzy," Gary admitted.  "Scared.  I, um, I thought that it'd be easier the . . . the second time around.  At least . . . at least I knew what to expect this time."

"It did not help, did it?" Roarke asked kindly as he helped the younger man to a chair.

Gary groped blindly for the arm of the chair, easing into it slowly as his head turned to face his host with deep brown eyes, sightless eyes, that were not his own.

"No.  No, it didn't."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For Gary, it had been a much different experience.  He, too, had been given the eye drops, blinking rapidly to clear his vision before moving back into position in front of his dearest friend.  As he watched, her eyes began to change, lightening to a unique shade of mud-puddle green, as his own world began to close in.  It had started as just a rim of darkness out of the corner of his eyes, just a shadow that began to creep its way across his field of vision.  As the shadow continued its relentless encroachment, it grew stronger . . . and darker.  Soon, all he could see was Marissa's face, and even that had been reduced to a blurred field consisting of varying shades of black.  The angular planes of her face were softened until they blended into one smooth mass, which finally disappeared into . . . nothing.

It was done.  Marissa now had his eyes, and his oft-unappreciated gift of sight, while he would spend the next thirty-six hours with her eyes . . . and in her world of eternal darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tattoo watched as the lovely young African-American woman was eased onto the stretcher and carried from the room.  He had some idea of what was in store for her and secretly wished that he could spare her the ordeal. 

Looking up, he spied his employer and friend as Mr. Roarke dealt with the young man.  Even from the doorway, Tattoo could see the trembling in Mr. Hobson's hands as he ran them over his face, as if to remove the barrier that was obstructing his sight.  The young dwarf found himself in awe of the bond between these two, the strength of a friendship that could spur a healthy young man to, in effect, cripple himself in order that another might see, if only for a day or so.

Tattoo waited patiently until his boss had the young man settled, murmuring some words of comfort before straightening to his full height, and turning to face the door.  The look on his face was one of concern.  Mr. Hobson, in spite of his assurances to the contrary, was badly shaken by the loss of his sight. 

"Are you ready to begin your instruction?" Roarke asked, clearly speaking to Mr. Hobson even though his troubled gaze was fixed on Tattoo.

"No time like the present," Gary sighed.  He blinked reflexively and gave his head a tiny shake, still trying to clear his vision.  He knew it was a lost cause, but instinct conspired against him.  "Where do we start?  Um, th-the cane, maybe?  I need . . . need to be able to . . . to maneuver, at least."

"That would be an excellent place to begin," Roarke nodded, relieved to see that his guest was still able to reason.  "I have arranged for a qualified instructor.  He should arrive shortly."

"Good.  Good," Gary murmured distractedly.  "Marissa.  She's really . . . really okay?"

The desperation in the young man's voice, the constant need to be reassured of his companion's welfare, tore at Tattoo's heart.  In all the time that he had lived and worked on Fantasy Island, he had seen many devoted couples, and couples yet to be.  Few had displayed such fidelity as this man, whose companion's heart belonged to another.  It made Tattoo wonder; would her faith in him prove as true?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marissa wasn't sure exactly what it was that awakened her.  Was it the warm sunlight caressing her face?  Or had it been the insistent twitter of birdsong outside her bedroom window?  Whatever it was, she felt in no hurry to answer that persistent call to awareness.  Stretching languorously, she rolled away from the bright sliver of light that lay directly across her eyes.

Her eyes.  Light. 

Slowly, memory of a cultured voice, a heavy continental accent began to stir her to wakefulness.  A deal had been made, a bargain struck. 

Blinking rapidly, Marissa opened her eyes.

The room was dimly lit in deference to her newly sighted status; still the incredible variety of shapes and colors was almost overwhelming.  Stunned, speechless, Marissa slowly levered herself to a sitting position, her eyes scanning the ornately decorated room hungrily.  She could see!  In spite of her assurances of faith, she had not really believed that Gary was not letting himself be deluded on her behalf.  That it wasn't just another empty promise by what amounted to a carnival trickster. 

Mr. Roarke had delivered on his promise.  She could see.  True, he had said it was only for a short time, but the things she could do in that time!

For the next several minutes, the newly sighted woman was all over the room, touching things to be sure that they were real, that she was really seeing!  She caressed the rich mahogany of the four-poster bed, smoothing down the brightly colored star quilt upon which she sat.  A silken scarf held up against the sunlight delighted her with its vivid display of colors. 

So enrapt was she with all the subdued brilliance, Marissa almost missed the modestly framed photograph on the dresser.  It was an 8x10 of a man and a woman.  The man was wearing a tuxedo, and the woman a long white dress.  A wedding dress.  Both were smiling as if their hearts were about to burst from happiness.  Hesitantly, Marissa looked up to see that woman's face reflected back at her from the mirror.  It was her and Emmett, on their wedding day, it had to be.  Fighting to breathe through a sudden constriction in her throat, Marissa's gaze was drawn back to that picture.  Emmett.  For the first time, she could actually see the face of the man who had stolen her heart.  Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to blind her anew.  But they were tears of joy for the wonderful gift her best friend had given her.  If she had ever harbored any doubts about how much Gary valued her friendship, they were forever dispelled by this one miraculous gesture.

A tentative knock drew her attention to the door.  Her first thought was that it was Gary, come to see the results of his handiwork.  Rushing to the door, she yanked it open, prepared to throw herself into his arms and hug him until he begged for mercy. 

"Oh, Gary!  I was . . ."

The words died in her throat as she looked up at the imposing figure standing before her.  Who was he, and where was Gary?

"E-excuse me," she stammered.  "Do I know you?"

"Forgive me for disturbing your explorations," he said with a slight bow.  "I am Mr. Roarke, your host.  We met only a few hours ago.  I gave your Mr. Hobson my word that I would 'check in' on you from time to time.  He is most touchingly concerned for your welfare."

"Oh," Marissa murmured, immediately relaxing as she recognized his voice, but unable to hide her disappointment.  "He can't see for himself?"

"Not . . . at the moment," Mr. Roarke replied, an ironic smile tugging at his lips.  "He is currently indisposed and has asked that I explain his fantasy for you in a little more detail.  Would you care to join me in a light repast while we speak?"

"I-I suppose," she murmured, her earlier joy dampened by the absence of her friend.  She wiped at her cheeks, trying to erase the evidence of her tears as unobtrusively as possible.  "He's okay, isn't he?  You aren't having him do something . . . dangerous, are you?"

"At the moment," Mr. Roarke assured her as he escorted her to the dining room, "Mr. Hobson is in no more danger than yourself.  His service, at this time, consists of . . . re-education.  He must . . . acquire new skills in order to perform the agreed upon task.  Please, have no worries as to his welfare."

"That's easy for you to say," Marissa grumbled as she allowed herself to be seated.  "You don't know him as well as I do.  Gary has a big heart.  He'll do whatever it takes as long as he feels that he's helping someone else.  But he gives up on doing things for himself too easily.  He blames the, I mean his, um, other . . ."  'Oh, dear,' she thought.  'How do I explain this?'

"It is alright, Mrs. Brown," Mr. Roarke assured her with a smile.  "Mr. Hobson informed me of his most 'special subscription.'  You may speak freely of it here."

"Okay, then," Marissa sighed.  "Gary blames the Paper for his lousy love life and uses it to keep people at a distance."

"Are you so certain that he is wrong?"  Mr. Roarke asked as he signaled the waiter.  A sumptuous brunch consisting of a flavorful quiche and a variety of exotic fruits was quickly set before them.  Coffee and fruit juice completed the meal.

"He has others who know about the Paper and how to handle it," she told him.  "He doesn't have to go it alone anymore.  Yet he insists that it's his responsibility and no one else, that it comes to him for a reason.  But it'll go to anyone it has to if he's unable to handle it for any reason.  If he really wanted to, he could take more time for trips like this, meet a nice girl, and settle down.  But he won't even try anymore.  Sometimes, he can be so . . . so pig-headed.  He's so wrapped up in the Paper and himself that he has no time for anything else, including his friends and family.  It's like he's given up."

Mr. Roarke nodded thoughtfully throughout her little speech, the bulk of his attention apparently on his meal.  Mr. Hobson was right, he decided.  She had no idea the kind of stress her friend had to deal with each day.  It saddened him to taint the gift the young man had given up so much to arrange for his friend, but she needed to understand just what was at stake.

"You say that he has others who can help him," Mr. Roarke mused aloud.  "Yet, do these others not have lives of their own?  Would they not soon resent Mr. Hobson for . . . how do you . . . ah, dumping.  Would they not come to resent him for dumping his burden on them?  And would they make the same decisions, in the same way that he would?  Even a slight variation in technique can mean the difference between success and failure."

"I see your point," Marissa sighed as she toyed with her food.  The absence of her friend had put a damper on her appetite.  "Still, I don't see why he won't even try to date again.  Surely, the Paper doesn't mean for him to spend the rest of his life alone!  True, he's been through a lot of disappointment, and a lot of pain lately, but that's no reason to simply give up!"

With a quiet nod, Mr. Roarke silently conceded defeat to his unseen 'clients.'  Mrs. Brown would have her fantasy.  She would see all that Gary had wished for her to see; just not the way in which he had planned. 

He only prayed that their friendship could survive the ordeal.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Running.  He was running in an endless maze, enveloped in a blanket of Stygian darkness that seemed to be sucking the very breath from his tortured lungs.  His stomach roiled as another wave of nausea threatened to send him to his knees.  A bitter, cloying taste lodging in his throat as he fought back a wave of dry heaves and dizziness; neither condition aided by the vicious pounding in his head.  Jackhammer blows slammed at his brain, centered around the oozing gash over his left eye.

"Mr. Hobson."

Startled, Gary turned his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of that disembodied voice.  All he saw was unrelenting darkness.  He didn't even have the normal 'static' that usually appeared when he closed his eyes.  There was nothing at all.

"Mr. Hobson, I need you to awaken, please," that smooth voice murmured.  This time his shoulder was taken in a firm grip and given a gentle shake.  "You must wake up, now.  We are somewhat pressed for time."

He tried blinking his eyes.  Still nothing.  Then, he remembered.  Mr. Roarke.  Marissa.  The gradual darkening of his vision, his world, to a dim blur that slowly faded to black.

"I'm awake," he mumbled, running one hand over his face to dispel the last traces of drowsiness.  He struggled to sit up straighter in the chair where he had fallen asleep.  "What time is it?" he asked, trying to massage away a lingering headache.

"It is time for you to begin your training," Mr. Roarke replied.  "Your instructor will be joining us for dinner.  I am told that the two of you are well acquainted.  How is your headache?"

"S'okay," Gary mumbled, his brows coming together in a puzzled frown.  He couldn't recall having met anyone who was qualified in the type of rehab he currently needed, especially in so short of a time frame as he had to work with.  He shuddered, recalling the months of grueling therapy he had been forced to endure after he had fallen down the stairs leading to his loft.  And that was just to walk with crutches!  How was he supposed to learn to navigate without his eyes in just hours?

A firm hand on his elbow helped Gary to his feet then guided him around unseen obstacles.  He kept his left hand raised slightly away from his body, trying not to bump into things.  Thus, he touched the edge of the French doors before he was actually led through them.  He raised his head to savor the feel of the sun on his face, a warm breeze tugging at his dark hair. 

"Feels nice," he murmured. 

"Yes," Mr. Roarke softly agreed.  "It is a beautiful day.  Be careful here, just a little step down.  Very good.  Now, it is ten steps over to the table where your instructor awaits.  I have taken the liberty of ordering a hearty lunch for the two of you.  You are doing quite well, Mr. Hobson.  You must still recall what it was like before."

"Yeah," Gary snorted.  "Scary as Hell.  If it hadn't 've been for Marissa . . . Is she okay?  H-how's she adjusting?"

"She is doing quite well," Roarke assured him.  "Here we are.  The back of the chair . . . very good," he murmured as Gary quickly found his seat and eased into it.  "Now, your dinner is directly in front of you.  On the plate, you have braised chicken at six o'clock, rice pilaf at ten o'clock and glazed carrots at two.  Around the plate, there is a fruit compote, salad with vinaigrette dressing, and a glass with a blend of tropical fruit juices at ten, one and three o'clock respectively.  Your eating utensils are at three and nine.  Very good.  Now, I will leave you two alone to enjoy your meal and discuss how best to conduct your lessons.  Good day, gentlemen."

"W-wait!" Gary pleaded.  "Aren't you going to . . . I mean, who else is here?"

"Don't worry, Gary," a softy accented voice chuckled.  "I promise to take care of you."

Gary's head jerked around, trying to orient on that familiar voice.  "Dr. Griner?"

"We're not here on business, Gary," the psychiatrist replied, his voice laced with amusement.  "I think we can drop the titles.  Now, just what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I made a wish," Gary sighed.  He went on to explain about finding the ad and his idea for giving Marissa 'the gift of a lifetime.'  "Trouble is," he sighed as he attempted to load his fork, "Mr. Roarke says that we have to keep things in balance.  In order for her to see, he needed . . . a donor."

Gary could almost feel William's astonishment.  It hung about them like a tangible web that tingled as it brushed against his skin.  That was an eerie sensation for Gary, actually being able to feel another person's emotions.  Perhaps that was Marissa's secret, how she always seemed to know how he, himself, was feeling at any given moment.

"Is that possible?" William murmured.  "Can he actually swap senses from one person to another?"

"Apparently so," Gary chuckled grimly.  "I'm sitting here blind as a bat, and totally clueless as to how I'm supposed to fulfill the rest of this deal.  You see, the price of all this was kinda steep, this being such a special request and all.  So, I agreed to perform a, ahm, a service in return."

"What kind of service?"

Gary shrugged as he began to get the hang of bringing the food from the plate to his mouth without spilling it.  He quickly chewed that first bite, washing it down with a gulp of fruit juice before answering.

"Sorry," he murmured sheepishly.  "I forgot that we're in the same boat, now.  He hasn't told me what he wants, yet.  But he seems to think I'll have no trouble doing it."

"But you don't share that opinion," William cannily observed.

"That obvious, huh?" Gary chuckled dryly.  "This . . . situation is, well, I managed okay the first time I lost my sight, but only because I had someone to hold my hand and show me the way.  This time, unless he plans to recruit you, too, I'm on my own.  So, yeah, I have my doubts.  Is that so unreasonable?"

"Not at all," William assured his younger friend.  "In fact, I'd be worried if you didn't have doubts.  This is foreign territory for you.  By my understanding, we only have today and tonight to get you adjusted enough to function for this 'task.'  Knowing what it was would help us formulate a plan of action.  Should we start with the cane, or work on your 'shadow vision'?"

"Shadow vision?" Gary mused, unfamiliar with the term.  "What's that?"

"It's a sort of . . . extension of your other four senses," the sightless psychiatrist tried to explain.  "It's hard to . . . When you came through the French doors a moment ago, why did you bring you're hand up?  I heard the sound when you grabbed it," he quickly explained.

"I don't know," Gary shrugged.  "I just felt . . . like there was something there.  I didn't want to hit it."

"Exactly," William grinned.  "That's shadow vision.  I have it, apparently Marissa has it, and so do you.  Surprisingly, few people develop it unless they've been blind from birth.  Others, like me, seem to luck into it.  It made the adjustment a lot smoother for me.  Hopefully, it will for you, too.  As soon as we've let our lunch settle, we can start with getting you used to the cane.  It probably wouldn't hurt you to learn a little Braille but, from what you've told me, that would be a waste of time.  Braille isn't somethin' you can learn in a hurry."

"That leaves us with what?" Gary sighed.  "The cane and what else?"

"That's the main thing, right there," William replied.  "You'd be surprised just what goes in to using that stick.  It's not just tapping it on the ground.  That thing is an extension of your sense of touch.  Outside, without the aid of a guide dog, there's all sorts of stuff that can trip you up, or that you can fall into.  Inside, that's less of a risk, although you still have to be careful in stairwells, elevators and escalators.  The techniques for inside and outside take things like that into account.  You also have to learn to focus on your other senses: smell, hearing, touch, and even taste to a certain extent."

Gary sat back, his appetite suddenly diminished by the enormity of the task ahead of him.  "All that in just a few hours?" he squeaked.  "Is that possible?"

"Gary," William chuckled, "one thing I've learned since taking you on as a patient is that nothing is impossible.  Unlikely, yes.  Improbable, most likely.  Impossible just isn't in your dictionary."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marissa just stood there for several seconds, staring at the door to which the enigmatic Mr. Roarke had led her.  Her hand trembled slightly as she slowly reached for the handle.  On the other side of that dark, wooden portal was her future, or so she had been told.  In spite of her close association with Gary Hobson and his knack for twisting 'coincidence' to the breaking point, she was having a hard time believing that anyone could manipulate the future.  She had even said as much to their host.

"The future is not yet written, Mrs. Brown," Mr. Roarke had agreed.  "All that I can show you are the possibilities that lie before you if a given path is followed.  Every decision you make from this day forward opens, and closes many doorways."

"I've often wondered," she had mused at that point, "if I could handle The Paper any better than Gary.  If I could see, that is.  I mean, it can't be that hard to juggle a few rescues and a family; can it?  Especially since he has someone to help him now.  I'm not saying he doesn't do the best he can," she hastened to add.  "It's just that, well, his heart doesn't seem to be in it anymore.  Sometimes he acts as if he'd like nothing more than to dump everything and go running off to hide from the world; like he did once before."

With those words, Marissa had unwittingly 'sealed the deal', so to speak.  So intent was she on absorbing the bright, colorful scenery of the tropical island, she failed to see Mr. Roarke's eyes close momentarily, his shoulders slumping with a sigh of resignation.  It was then that he gently took her by the arm and led her to the room in which she now stood. 

Aside from the door through which they had entered, six others led into other rooms of the building, two in each of the three adjoining walls.  Mr. Roarke had guided Marissa to the first portal on her left.

"You will start here, Mrs. Brown," he told her in a solemn tone.  "At precisely noon, you may open this door and experience up to one hour of your future."

"Possible future," Marissa reminded him with tiny smile.  She glanced up to see a clock directly over the doorframe.  Looking around, she noticed that each door had its own clock.  Each showed a quarter 'til the hour.

"The doors are each on a separate time lock," Mr. Roarke explained, noting her puzzled glance.  "Each will open at a given hour, and only at that time.  You have no more than a two-minute window in which to enter before it is sealed until the following day, at the same hour.  However, you may enter each room once, and once only."

He had then excused himself, saying that he had 'other matters' to attend to.  Marissa suspected that he had gone to assign Gary whatever task he was supposed to perform in return for this fantasy.

That had been more than ten minutes ago and Marissa was beginning to think that all of the clocks, including her watch, had stopped.  She began to pace restlessly, unconsciously closing her eyes in order to listen for the almost inaudible whirr of the mechanisms, the faint click as the minute hands advanced one more notch.  She became so focused on this one, highly tuned sense, that her mind was soon filled with the images of hundreds of clocks, each marking the inexorable march of time with a cacophony of clicks, whirrs, ticks, and tocks.

The tiny snick of the lock's release almost gave her a heart attack.  In her extremely focused state, it had sounded like a gunshot.  Marissa stared at the door handle as if it were a snake preparing to strike.  The sudden realization that she had only a brief window of opportunity shocked her back to her senses.  She snatched the door open with a jerk that almost unbalanced her.  Quickly stepping through into a wall of mist, she wondered what scene in her future Mr. Roarke had laid out for her.

As the mist cleared, Marissa found herself standing in a brightly lit room painted to mimic a sunny day.  The walls were a pale blue with little puffs of white scattered about the upper half.  Stenciled shapes of sheep, cows, puppies, and kittens were strewn liberally over the lower portions.  Her rapt gaze quickly took in a small chest of drawers, a changing table, a rocking chair, and a bassinette. Finally, almost fearfully, she approached the focal point of the gaily-decorated room, the baby's bed.

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to blind her anew, as Marissa gazed down at the tiny form dozing peacefully in the middle of the bed, the infant's tiny little mouth suckling on a perfectly formed fist.  Marissa leaned forward for a closer look, careful not to awaken the sleeping baby.  Her heart swelled as she realized that she was looking down on her child, her first-born child! 

"A daughter," she murmured softly, awed at the discovery.  "I'm going to have a little girl."

Her voice must have been louder than she had intended, for the infant's face scrunched up, the tiny mouth puckering in a grimace that was almost comical as the baby awoke with a high-pitched wail.  Instantly, her maternal instinct kicked into overdrive as she reached in to lift her daughter, cradling the child carefully close to her heart. 

"It's okay, little one," she crooned to the squirming child.  "Everything is alright.  Momma's here and she won't let anything happen to her precious baby."  Marissa soon discovered the reason for the little girl's fussiness, and put the changing table to good use.  "There we go, sweetie," she purred as she once more cradled the contented infant in her arms.  "Is Momma's angel hungry?  Let's see what we have to feed my precious girl."  Beneath the changing table, she found a number of bottles holding premixed baby formula.  Taking one, she carefully removed the seal and screwed on the sterile nipple.  Settling herself into the chair, she gently rocked her baby as the infant made short work of the formula.  "Oh, my," she giggled.  "That's quite an appetite you have.  Now, what would you like to do?  You're a little young for bedtime stories, and I don't think I can take you for a stroll.  Not that I wouldn't love to, it's such a beautiful day.  I just don't know what will happen if we leave this room.  Oh, I know!  Why don't I sing you a lullaby?"

"I thought I'd find you here."

Marissa looked up at the sound of that wonderfully familiar voice.  For the first time, she gazed lovingly upon the face of the man who had won her heart, and her hand.

"Emmett!" she murmured in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.  Suddenly, she was in his arms, kissing him passionately, yet careful of the child in her arms.  Breaking away only when she could no longer deny the need to breathe, she leaned back only far enough to look into his eyes.  She drank in the sight of him, like water after a week in the desert.  "I never thought . . . You are so handsome!"

"Whoa!"  Emmett looked down at his petite wife, love all but glowing in his eyes.  A playful smile spread across his mahogany features as he rocked her gently in his arms.  "You act like you've never seen me before!  It hasn't been that long since breakfast, has it?"

"No," Marissa sniffled, leaning her head against his broad chest.  "It just seems that long."  She glanced up at the Mother Goose clock over the changing table.  "Are you ready for lunch?"

"No time," Emmett sighed, letting his arms drop only after giving her a brief kiss on the forehead.  "I just came home to pick up that deposition I was going over last night and to see my favorite girl," he added, cooing at the giggling infant.  "Daddy couldn't come home and not check in on his Angel.  I'll have to grab something on the way to the office.  What about you, are you gonna have time to eat, or is that Paper running you ragged again?"

Marissa fought to suppress a shiver, telling herself that it was a chill brought on by the sudden absence of his arms.  She took a moment to lay the now quiet infant back in her bed, tucking the covers about her carefully.  It gave Marissa time to get her scattered thoughts in order.

"P-paper?" she stammered.  "What . . . what do you mean?"

"You know," Emmett shrugged as he turned for a door that she had yet to notice.  "Tomorrow's Paper."  He paused to eye her clinically.  "Are you okay?  You look a little tired.  Did something happen?  You did save the little girl from that dog, didn't you?"

"Um, yes," Marissa replied, hoping that she wasn't lying.  "E-everything's fine.  Wh-when did . . . I mean, how long have you known . . .?"

"About the Paper?"  Emmett still wore that worried look as he answered her.  "Since shortly after Gary disappeared.  Don't you remember telling me?  Everyone was so worried, wondering what happened to him.  You and Lois finally told me at his memorial service.  That's also when you told me that you'd been getting it since the day after he vanished."  He stepped closer, placing both hands on her shoulders.  "Are you sure you're okay?  How could you have forgotten that?"

"I-I'm fine," Marissa hastened to assure him, trying to hide how shaken she truly was.  Gary was gone, and she was handling The Paper?  How could that be?  His replacement had already been chosen, and she was nowhere close to being old enough to take on the burden, or was she?  How far in the future was she and where was Lindsay?  More importantly, what had happened to Gary?  She looked up to see Emmett eyeing her with concern.  "Really," she sighed, trying to present a front of normality.  "I'm just a little tired, I guess."

Emmett stared at her a moment longer, then evidently decided to take her at her word.  He let his hands drop to his sides and turned for the door once again.  Picking up the jacket that he had tossed over the back of a chair, he flashed her a strained smile.

"Well," he murmured, "you'd better let Robin know what time you'll be back.  Lois said that she'll be over later to fix dinner for us since you still have two more accidents and a fire to prevent.  And please be careful at the bank today.  I've never been comfortable with you and anything involving guns."

"Mmm," Marissa agreed, not really sure what he was talking about.  "Maybe I should let Peter handle that one."

"That would be nice," Emmett sighed, "except that he's still in the hospital with a head injury, remember?  If I had my way, I'd take the bank robbery.  Unfortunately, I have to be in court while that's going down."  He paused with one hand on the doorknob, shaking his head with a sigh.  "You know, as much good as you're able to accomplish with that thing, I often wish that I'd never seen it.  Or that Gary was still around to handle it.  I'd been hoping that, now that you have your sight back, we could go places, do things that normal couples do.  Now, you can't go anywhere without checking with that damned rag first.  Maybe that's why Gary disappeared.  He just couldn't take it anymore."

Stung, Marissa wasn't sure how to answer that.

"You really can't believe that Gary could be so irresponsible," she finally replied.  "He almost ran himself to death for more than six years and seldom got so much as a 'Thank you' for all that he suffered through.  He had to put up with suspicion, ridicule, and ingratitude; even from his friends.  But he hung in there because . . ."

"Because he didn't know how to live with the guilt if he let it go," Emmett finished for her.  "Well, he found a way around that problem, didn't he?"  He looked at his watch.  "Sorry, Baby," he sighed.  "I know he didn't get himself killed on purpose.  I honestly didn't mean to imply that, and I'd be happy to stand here and apologize all day, but I have to get back to the courthouse.  If I screw this case up, I'll be back to preparing briefs for the 'real lawyers' until Hell freezes over."

With that, Emmett snatched the door open and stepped through.

"Wait just a minute, buster," Marissa snapped, hastening to follow her husband.  "You don't start something like this and just . . . walk . . . away."

Her words trailed off as she was once more enveloped in the misty shroud.  When it cleared, she was back in the central antechamber where her sojourn had begun.  Emmett was nowhere in sight.  Turning quickly, Marissa tried to stop the door from closing, hoping to have just a few more minutes with her little girl.  Her hopes were dashed as the latch clicked shut.

"That's not fair!" she moaned.  "I was supposed to have an hour!  You tricked me!"

"Not so." 

Marissa spun around at the sound of that high-pitched, gravelly voice, to find Tattoo standing beside the front door; the only one without a clock over it.

"You were given up to one hour," he reminded her.  The tiny assistant manager glanced at the clock above the next door.  "You have almost thirty minutes before the next one will open.  Would you care for some refreshments?"

With a moan of frustration, Marissa sank into an easy chair that had not been there when she was first escorted to this strange room.  Or had it been there all this time without her noticing? 

`

Thirty minutes!  How was she supposed to kill thirty minutes?

"Yes," she sighed.  "I'll take a Mai Tai.  A large one."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gary paused, listening intently to the sounds of leaves rustling to three sides of him.  A warm, gentle breeze stirred his hair, lifting his bangs and letting them fall across his forehead.  The wind felt strongest on the right side of his face, as did the warmth of the afternoon sun, yet the sounds of the leaves was muted only on that side.  He was in another cul-de-sac. 

Turning to his right, Gary retraced his steps.  Pausing to listen, he tried to recall how many turns he had made, and in which directions.  Cautious probing with his cane encountered no obstructions to either his right or left.  He had turned left to enter the dead end branch of the maze, therefore he should turn left again to get back on track, he hoped.

The next intersection turned out to be a V-shaped junction that Gary discovered by running into the point of the V, face first. 

"So much for shadow vision," he grumbled, spitting out a crushed leaf and brushing something that felt like a cobweb from his face.  "Okay," Gary sighed.  "Right or left?"  Angling one way, then the other, Gary clapped his hands smartly in each direction, pausing to time the echoes down each lane.  "Right," he decided. 

The tip of his cane swept the ground in front of him and a little to each side as he proceeded down the narrow branch of the maze.  Two more rights and a left finally brought him to the exit and kudos from his host and his 'teacher.'

"Very good, Mr. Hobson," Roarke congratulated him.  "You navigated the labyrinth in less than an hour.  Most sighted people need at least an hour and a half."

"Most sighted people don't end up getting their veggies along the way," Gary mumbled irritably, after turning to expel another leaf from his mouth.  "I think we can forget the 'shadow vision' deal," he added, turning to face where he assumed William to be.  "I think I ate half that hedge."

"Don't let that discourage you," William chuckled, stepping up to wrap Gary's arm around his left elbow.  One of the few things that he didn't have to teach his younger friend was that blind people don't like to be led; they preferred to be guided.  Close association with Marissa over the years had taught Gary the difference between the two.  "A lot of the newly blind have the same problem.  I didn't know how to handle it myself, at first," he admitted as he guided his student back to the patio and a pitcher of cold fruit juice.  He waited until they were all comfortably seated before he continued.  "It's kinda like a driver switchin' from an automatic to a manual transmission.  You already know you have to switch gears, you're just not sure how or when.  I think your problem is that you're tryin' too hard to focus on everything at once."

The blind therapist rubbed thoughtfully at his chin as he tried to think of an analogy that would help in this bizarre situation.

"Have you ever watched that 'Star Wars' movie?" he finally asked.  "The first one, not the sequels."

"Well, yeah," Gary murmured, uncertain as to where this conversation was going.  "Did you?"

"A friend took me once," William chuckled.  "The sound effects were pretty good, and the plot was okay.  Can't say much for the visuals, though."

Even Mr. Roarke had to groan at that one.

"I'm not exactly Han Solo," Gary grumbled, pausing to take a sip of his juice.  "Besides, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Just give me a minute," William told his audience.  "I'm getting' there.  Besides, you're more the Luke Skywalker type, and I'm wise old Ben Kenobi.  Do you recall the scene on the Millennium Falcon where ol' Ben was tryin' to teach Luke about the Force?  He told the kid to let go of his other senses.  He didn't say not to use them, but not to let them confuse him.  That's what you have to do, Gary.  Stop tryin' to focus on everything at once.  Just set your other senses on autopilot and let yourself feel your environment."

"Great," Gary mumbled half under his breath.  "Now I'm in the Jedi Academy.  Do I get one of those nifty light-sabers, too?"

"I heard that, Gary," William admonished with a dry chuckle.  "Now, let's get back to work.  You seem to be doin' pretty good with that cane on level ground, so why don't we see how well you handle rough terrain?  Are you up for a little stroll?"

"Yes, Master Obi Wan," Gary sighed as he pushed himself to his feet.   "But I better warn you, if Darth Vader shows up, I'm outta here."

"Sit down and finish your juice, Grasshopper," the older man laughed.  "We're not in that big of a hurry."

"Now you sound like Mr. Caine," Gary mumbled good-naturedly.  He angled his head toward where he was sure he had heard Mr. Roarke take a seat.  "We may be in trouble here.  I think my therapist is having an identity crisis."

Mr. Roarke chuckled dryly at the attempted humor, thankful that neither man could see the despair in his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marissa stepped into the mist once more, not knowing what to expect.  She was still feeling frustrated by her earlier encounter with Emmett.  How could he possibly believe that Gary would be so irresponsible as to simply disappear and leave her to deal with The Paper?  True, Gary was finding it harder and harder to commit himself to anything resembling a schedule, but that was an 'occupational hazard.'  After all, he had no way of knowing what lay in store him each day until he had The Paper in his hands.  This weekend was the first break he had given himself that didn't require at least one day in the hospital in months. That is, if one could count that disastrous 'vacation' he had taken with Jake and the twins over the holidays.  Gary had come back from that sounding as if he were barely able to move!

The mists finally cleared and Marissa found herself standing in an unfamiliar kitchen.  It was a spacious room with what appeared to be very modern built-in appliances.  The counter was laid out in an L-shape, leading to her right, which put everything within easy reach, with the range built into an island that occupied the center of the room.  To her left was a breakfast nook situated in front of a bay window.  Next to the booth, warm sunlight streamed in through sliding glass doors that led out to a spacious back yard.

"Momma! Momma!"

Marissa turned just in time to catch the miniature whirlwind in her arms.  She instantly knew that this was her daughter, now approximately six years of age.  The little girl wrapped her arms tightly around Marissa's neck and gave her a wet kiss.  Pulling her head back, the bright-eyed charmer grinned inches from her mother's face.

"Did I do it right?" she asked, stepping back and spreading her arms wide. 

"Um, yes, sweetie," Marissa stammered, not exactly sure what 'it' was.  From the stance the child had taken, she had to assume it had to do with the way she was dressed.  "You look wonderful!  Is this a special day?"

How could a six-year-old have mastered the 'Du-uh!' look so well?  Maybe she needed to have a talk with Emmett about something other than the Paper!

"It's the first day of school, Mommy!" the little girl replied in exasperation.  "You were gonna take me, remember?"

"Oh, um, right," Marissa murmured, suddenly realizing she didn't even know her child's name.  "Just, um, just let me check something first."  She had spotted an orange tabby sitting just outside the sliding doors, sitting on a newspaper.  Marissa was sure that neither had been there just a moment ago. 

She found that her hand was shaking as she reached out to move the door aside.  This was the first time she would actually see The Paper for herself.  Always before, she had taken it on faith, knowing that Gary would never lie to her.  In a way, this would be a confirmation of sorts. 

The cat took one look at her and gave a dainty sneeze before settling more comfortably on its 'mat.'  Marissa reached down to lift the orange feline off The Paper, only to draw her hand back quickly when it greeted her with a low growl.

"What is wrong with you?" she whispered, not wanting to alert her daughter to the fact that she was arguing with a cat.  "How can I read the Paper if you're sitting on it?"

The cat just glared at her, its green eyes narrowed to mere slits.  Grudgingly, he gave another snort, then stiffly rose and stalked away.  This behavior puzzled Marissa.  The cat had always been so friendly to her before!  Keeping a watchful eye on the irate feline, she slowly took the Paper and straightened up.   She waited until the door was safely closed, putting a barrier between her and the cat.  There would be plenty of time to ponder this new development. 

The little girl had managed to climb into the breakfast nook while Marissa was retrieving the Paper.  She now sat with both hands on the table in front of her, a sour look on her cherubic face.

"I hate it," she grumbled, glaring at the back door.  "I wish it would go away and never come back."

"Why do you say that, honey?" Marissa asked, kneeling at the end of the table and looking up into those deep brown eyes.  "It's just a cat."

"It's a bad cat," the little girl pouted.  "He's always mad at you, and he makes you go away sometimes."

"But not all the time," Marissa pointed out reasonably.  She was a little bothered by the child's observation, but more concerned with her daughter's attitude.

"Enough."  The dark-skinned little beauty gave her mother a look that would have melted the heart of a glacier.  "You're still gonna take me to school, aren't ya, Momma?"

"Of course I am, sweetie!" Marissa promised her little girl.  "I wouldn't . . ."

"Shouldn't make promises you can't keep."

Marissa looked up to see Emmett scowling at her from the archway that evidently led to the rest of the house.  He stepped up to snatch the Paper from her hand.  Quickly skimming through the headlines, he pulled a pen out of his pocket and began circling articles.  He seemed to be circling a lot of them.

"Looks like you've got another busy day," he murmured thoughtfully.  "I'll call the office and tell them I'll be a few minutes late.  That way I can take our little pumpkin to school while you see what you can do about that overturned bus and the hit and run.  If you like, I can take an early lunch and deal with this choking incident while you're busy with the woman in the lion's enclosure at the zoo.  I eat at that restaurant every day.  I'm not sure what we can do about this hit and run, and the woodshop amputation.  They happen within half an hour of each other and I'm going to be in a meeting most of the morning and in court all afternoon."

"M-maybe I can ask one of the others to help?" Marissa suggested, wondering at what point Emmett had become so involved with the Paper. 

"What others?" Emmett snorted.  "Peter Caine is off on a another of his 'Dragon's Wing' escapades, his father disappeared two years ago, Bernie spends all his time at the nursing home, praying for Lois to recover from that stroke she had last month.  Who else is there?  Chuck?  We haven't seen him since that last movie of his grossed over two hundred million.  Jake?  The twins?  Buddy's on tour.  Clay and Jake still haven't given up on finding Gary.  They've used up a lot of the foundations resources, and quite a bit of their own on the search.  It's been almost seven years and those three are the only ones besides Lois and Bernie who refuse to face facts.  Gary is gone.  Even if he is still alive, he must have no intention of coming back.  No, it's just you and me, babe."

Marissa was stunned.  She had assumed, illogically it seemed, that there would always be someone they could turn to for help.  Evidently, that wasn't to be the case.

"Wh-what about Crumb?" she asked, fishing for a solution.  "O-or the police?  Detectives Armstrong and Brigatti used to . . ."

Ooops!  Emmett was looking at her strangely again.

"Crumb died last March, a heart attack," he told her.  "Brigatti quit the force to take his place at the Foundation.  Paul Armstrong has been in a wheelchair for the last two years.  Remember that suicide attempt that went sour?  We both decided that the police were better equipped to handle it since it was some kid strung out on dope."  A rueful grimace crossed his face as he turned his attention to fixing their daughter's breakfast.  "We were wrong."

At a loss for words, Marissa slid into the seat across from her daughter, her face a mask of shock and confusion.  So much had happened in just six years, most of it in the last two.  Lois in a nursing home with a stroke.  Crumb dead from a heart attack.  Would he still be alive if help had gotten to him in time?  Had she known about the imminent attack and chosen not to do anything, or had she been forced to choose between their old friend and something more catastrophic?  And Paul!  How could they have failed him like that?  Gary would never ever have pushed off his responsibilities like she evidently had. 

And she was still looking for someone to help her.

Gary had carried the burden alone, basically, for almost seven years, and she had evidently been leaning on others for almost that long.  Was it because she was so weak in character that she felt overwhelmed with the task?  Or had she welcomed the help that was offered initially, coming to depend on it as Gary had refused to?  She had often scolded Gary for refusing his father's and Peter's help when things were tough, telling him that he had no business complaining if he were going to be so stubborn.  Yet, he had, on occasion, accepted help when needed and usually in such a way as to accomplish more than one goal.  Was it his stubbornness as well as his compassion that had made him so good at what he did, or was it something more?

Looking back, she could recall only three occasions when Gary had failed to save a life.  The first was Jeremiah Mason, the homeless man who had slipped from Gary's hands, falling to his death while escaping from a burning apartment house.  That had thrown Gary into an almost suicidal depression, making the prophesy of his own death seem . . . right.  Marissa was thankful, yet as mystified as everyone else as to how he had come out of his ordeal practically unscathed.  Gary never spoke of it, and she had stopped asking.

Next had been Frank Scanlon, a muckraking investigative reporter for the Sun-Times.  The 'dog with a bone,' as he liked to call himself, had fallen victim to the very murder for hire scheme that he had been investigating.  Because the time of death had initially been reported wrong, Gary had arrived too late to save the arrogant newshound, and just in time to be accused of his murder.  It had taken determination, luck, and six kinds of miracles to catch the guilty parties and clear Gary's name.

The third had been Earl Camby, a local Good Samaritan whom Gary had been unable to save from being injured by a large piece of glass from a broken skylight.  He had stayed with Earl as long as he could, trying to keep the injured man from slipping into shock and succumbing to the below zero temperatures.  Yet, because Camby had died, another man, Cliff Morning, was saved.  Not only saved, but reformed.  He had been a bitter, miserly man with few redeeming qualities, none of them visible.  His brush with death, however, and the knowledge that another had to die so that he could live, had brought about an almost miraculous change in the man.  Gary had spent hours telling him all about Earl Camby and the good the man had done. 

It was almost as if it were fated to happen that way.  If Earl had died alone, his body would not have been found in time for his organs to be harvested.  If Gary had not inadvertently goaded the foul tempered landlord into a heart attack, his condition might have gone undiscovered until nothing could save him, perhaps succumbing to an attack while alone in his empty apartment to lie undiscovered for days.  

How many others had also benefited from the precious gifts Earl had left behind?  They might never know.

"Honey?  Are you alright?"

Marissa snapped herself back to the present with a quick shake of her head.

"I'm fine, dear," she murmured softly.  "Just . . . just thinking."

"Well, you'd better get to thinking of how you're gonna keep that bus from flipping over," her husband reminded her with a quick kiss on her cheek.  "You've only got forty-five minutes to get there."

Looking around, she noticed that her daughter was taking an empty cereal bowl to the sink, where Emmett was rinsing out an empty coffee cup.  Just how long had she sat there lost in thought?

Emmett folded the Paper and handed it back to his wife.  "You'd better hurry, babe," he told her as he led their child toward the front of the house.  "Um, you might try flagging it down a couple of blocks before that blind turn.  That way she won't be going so fast."

"Uh, sure," Marissa murmured, feeling that things had already started spiraling out of control.  "Wh-where . . .?"

"It's right there on page three, honey," Emmett called back over his shoulder.  He and the little girl were almost through the arch.  The child suddenly turned, racing back to throw her tiny arms around her mother's neck.

"I love you, Momma," she said, then gave Marissa a kiss on the cheek.  Before Marissa could respond, the child, her daughter, had raced back to join her father.

With a sigh, Marissa turned her attention to the Paper.  It only took her a moment to realize that she was in trouble.

For most of her life, she had been blind, able to read only in Braille.  The printed alphabet was only a variety of odd shapes she had learned to draw by feel.  How was she supposed to relate those abstract shapes into coherent words and phrases?  Given time, Marissa was sure that she could.  But did she have that much time?

Feeling lost and confused, Marissa jumped up from her seat and ran to catch up with her family.

The mists rose up to meet her the instant her foot crossed the threshold. 

"No!" she whimpered.  "Not now!"

When the mists cleared, she was back in the antechamber with four more doors to go.  Looking at her watch, Marissa saw that she had been in that other time for almost forty-five minutes.  Forty-five minutes!  And she had wasted most of it on introspection and recriminations!  Why couldn't she have paid more attention to what she had gone there to see, her husband and child?

With a low growl of frustration, Marissa flopped down in the chair.  Less than fifteen minutes now until the next door opened.  She vowed that this time would be different.  This time, nothing would keep her from her family.  Absolutely nothing!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"We need to talk, Gary," William murmured.  The two sightless men were relaxing on the patio after a grueling trek up and down a nearby hillside.  When the therapist had warned his student about uneven ground, he had not been joking.

"About what?" Gary sighed.  "The weather?"

"No," the older man chuckled.  "Although it does feel nice here.  Seriously, Gary, if I'm gonna be able to help you, then I need to know everything."

"Everything?" Gary squeaked, startled by the request.  "Wh-what do you mean by 'everything'?"

"I need to know whatever it is that keeps putting you in these situations," William elaborated.  "Do you just have a knack for stumbling into trouble, or is 'trouble' stalkin' you?  You have to admit, since I've known you, we've met more often at the hospital than my office."

Gary considered the request.  Just how much could he expect the psychiatrist to believe without being able to actually see the Paper?  True, Marissa had accepted his word on faith, but her entire life was based on faith.  Faith in God, herself, and the friendship they had built over the years. 

It was a different matter with Dr. Griner.  In spite of the rapport they had developed, Gary had to remind himself that William was trained to be impartial and analytical.  Was he capable of the same kind of faith, and trust, that Marissa had always displayed, or would he be on the phone within minutes, reserving a padded suite?

"Do, um, d-do you believe in God?" he finally stammered.  "O-or the supernatural?"

William wasn't sure how to answer that.  Before Viet Nam, the answer would have been an unequivocal 'yes.'  His mother was a devout Lutheran and had raised him the same way.  On the day he had lost his sight, however, that faith in the Lord had been badly shaken.  It had taken being kidnapped and almost dying to restore that ingrained belief to some extent, not only in God, but also in himself.

"I'd have to say my world pretty much revolves around faith," he hesitantly replied.  "Even before I lost my sight I, well, I was still young enough to find 'miracles' in some pretty unlikely places.  After . . ." he murmured, his voice trailing off.

"A little harder to believe after something like that," Gary admitted.  "What . . . what if I told you that . . . that I get tomorrow's newspaper . . . today?"

Gary could almost hear the wheels turning in William's head as the silence stretched out to unbearable lengths.

"If a fella did get something like that . . . every day," Gary cautiously continued, "it would be only . . . only natural t-to use it, don't you think?  N-not for personal gain," he hastened to add.  "That would be, well, wrong.  But think of all the trouble you could stop before someone was actually injured o-or killed!  I mean, what kind of person would . . . would let a child be hit by a car if he could stop it?  O-or wouldn't stop a robbery before the gun was even drawn, if he could?"

"I think we're gettin' into uncharted waters here," William murmured.  "Has anyone else actually seen this . . . this, um . . .?"

"My parents," Gary sighed, rubbing one hand over his face in a gesture of weariness that was not entirely lost on his companion.  "My former partner, Chuck Fishman, Peter Caine, and his father, Kwai Chang.  My ex-girlfriend, Erica Paget, and her son, Henry.  A couple of kids who didn't really understand what they were seeing.  Oh, and a fella who heard about it from someone who knew the last fella to get it."

"Will any of them vouch for what you say?" William persisted.  "It's not that I don't believe you, Gary.  At least, I want to believe you; it would explain so much.  But you do understand the situation I'm in?  This is a little outside my field of study."

"Yeah," Gary chuckled dryly.  "I don't suppose a degree in psychiatry includes 'Twilight Zone 101' or remedial 'Outer Limits' in the prerequisites."

"Or even 'Beyond Belief for Dummies'," William snorted.  "They train us to analyze every word that comes out of a patient's mouth, in which case you are in serious trouble, my friend."  He paused, as if considering what he had just been told.  "I do believe you, Gary.  Too much has happened to you in just the short time I've known you to discount some divine influence.  It would certainly help explain how you survived everything you've been through the last couple of years."

"You mean like that fall down my own stairs?" Gary replied with a grimace.  "I've been told that I was going for a record on Near Death Experiences that day alone." 

"Or that God awful vacation you went on with the twins and Jake Evans," William nodded.  He paused to take a sip of his drink.  "And let's not forget your restful little trip to our nation's capitol.  Do you still have nightmares about that train ride?"

"Ooo, yeah!" Gary chuckled grimly.  "I may never ride the rails again!  I even get chills riding the El!"

"We'll have to work on that while we're here, if we have the time," William promised his patient, and friend.  "In the meantime, how do you get this fortune telling newspaper?  Does it just . . . appear out of thin air?"

"Not exactly," Gary reluctantly admitted.  "It kinda shows up outside my door every morning, with the cat."

"The cat?  What cat?"

"Mrrowr!"

"That cat."

William's brow crinkled in confusion as he felt a tiny body rub up against his leg.

"How do you know this is your cat?" he asked.  "For all you know, this little guy belongs to someone on this island.  Or it could be some stray off a ship."

The psychiatrist jumped as sharp claws nicked his hand at the same time that the feline let out with a grumbling snort.  If he didn't know better, William could have sworn that he had just been insulted!

Gary chuckled at William's startled yelp.

"Yep.  That's muh boy!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~

Marissa stormed out of the third door, slamming it angrily behind her.  How dare he?  How dare Emmett say such things in front of their daughter?  He had practically accused her of hiding behind the Paper to avoid having another child, and to avoid her parental duties to their twelve-year-old daughter!  Apparently, she had missed seeing her little girl hit a homer that had won the state finals in her softball league.  To hear them, it was only the latest of a long string of missed opportunities and disappointments.  The scene had quickly turned ugly as Marissa tried to explain herself, a task made even more difficult by the fact that she had no idea why she had been unable to make it to the game.  Emmett had countered by saying she could have made better use of her time, citing several examples of how he could have done it better.  The child, whose name Marissa had yet to hear, had tried to defuse the situation, saying that she understood, that someone's life was more important than a stupid game, but Emmett was too incensed to listen.  Hearing his little girl belittle her shining moment only served to fan the flames of his ire.

This time, it was Marissa who left first, unable to take another moment of the loud debate.  Pleading a headache, she practically ran from the room, thankful when the mists arose to envelope her.

Now she stood before the fourth door, unsure if she had the courage to open it when the time came.  If the time progression continued at the same pace, then her daughter would be eighteen, a young woman in her own right.  How would she feel towards a mother who had never been there for her as a child, a mother who put the lives and welfare of strangers above the needs of her only child?  Would Emmett still be there, or would the Paper have driven them apart? 

"It's not fair!" Marissa wailed.  "It's not supposed to be like this!  The damned Paper is supposed to be Gary's responsibility, not mine!  Why does he disappear?  Where the hell is he during all this?  Why . . . why would he abandon me?"

"Perhaps he felt that you, of all people, would understand."

Marissa spun around, seeking the source of those softly spoken words.  She quickly spied her enigmatic host sitting at a low table, sipping from a porcelain cup.

"Understand what?" Marissa snapped.  "That dealing with that blasted Paper is hard?  I already knew that!  That it's a wonderful excuse for avoiding commitment?  Believe me, he's demonstrated that on more than one occasion," she added with a derisive snort.  "Or that he's better off without the added responsibility of a wife and child?  If he really believes that, then why does he complain about being so damned lonely?  It's not like he intends to do anything about it!"

Mr. Roarke set his cup aside and arose to his full height, towering over the irate woman.  His face was composed in a neutral expression, but a look of infinite sadness seemed to shine from his dark eyes.

"Is that truly the way you perceive your friend?" he asked her as he stepped closer.  "Do really believe that he is so unreliable, constantly whining about his fate and the unfairness that he cannot have what so many men desperately crave, a home and a family?  Is he truly such a small person in your eyes?"

"I used to think he was a lot better than this!" the petite woman grumbled, crossing her arms as she paced angrily about the room.  "How could he be so . . . so mean?  He knows that I'd give almost anything to be able to see again, and he throws me this . . . this bone of being able to see for a few days, of looking on the faces of my husband and child, then makes me take the blasted Paper in the bargain!  I thought he was my friend!  I believed in him!"

Mr. Roarke suppressed a sigh as he heard her refer to her friendship with Gary Hobson in the past tense.  He truly hoped the guiding forces behind this ill-conceived fantasy knew what they were doing, or it could cost the young guardian a lot more than his sight.

It could cost him his soul.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~