Since I'm going away for a few days, I'm posting this chapter a little earlier than usual.
Chapter 5 An Intriguing Question"So, why are you here?" The stocky, blonde man with wire-framed glasses and graying temples posed his question from his seat in his black leather office chair.
Grissom ignored him and examined the office: the stark modern décor, the black leather couch and chairs, the impressive array of diplomas framed on the walls, the tomes of psychiatric texts filling the wire bookshelves, and the family photos perched on top of his relatively clutter free desk.
Dr. Walker cleared his throat to attract his attention. "A-hem."
Grissom stared at him. "I have no idea."
"Why did you come, then?"
"I made a promise." He ruefully admitted. This wasn't going to work. This stuff was soft science; it wasn't well documented. The research wasn't the least bit objective. This was a waste of time.
"To the lady in the waiting room?" the doctor suggested.
"That would be none of your business." Grissom used his infamous dismissive tone to indicate that subject was off limits.
Sensing some hostility, the doctor asked a different question. "How do you feel?"
Grissom balled his hands into fists; he wasn't comfortable in this realm. With growing frustration, he answered, "Who cares how I feel, it doesn't matter."
Dr. Walker's expression remained neutral. He tried another approach. "Tell me about yesterday. Your friend sounded pretty scared when she spoke with me over the phone."
"I did something stupid." Grissom sheepishly admitted while staring at his clenched fists.
"Why?"
He sighed, wondering once again how Sara had convinced him to do this. Yesterday had been horrifying in many respects. He wouldn't feel comfortable talking about it with his closest friends; it was out of the question for him to discuss it with a complete stranger. He couldn't do it.
As the silence dragged on, the doctor casually made notes on his legal pad. Strangely enough, the lingering quiet didn't bother Dr. Walker. In his years of interrogating people, Grissom had noticed that after a minute, most people became so uncomfortable that they would blather about anything just to fill the void. Yet, Grissom wasn't like most people, that trick wouldn't work on him.
He continued to examine the office, though his gaze kept lingering on the photos on the desk. In the past, he would've been madly skimming the diplomas to discover which institution actually accredited this doctor, or he even would've examined the titles of the journals, purely out of intellectual curiosity. In fact, if he'd been in this situation only weeks ago, he would've selected a journal article to read, being sure to laugh loudly at poor experimental designs, and make comments, emphasizing any specious research practices.
As time plodded by, Grissom begrudgingly admitted that Sara was right about taking better care of himself. While he despised the idea of a stranger assisting him with bathing, his overall appearance and general odor had greatly improved, which consequently impacted his morale. The toast he'd eaten for breakfast, along with the sandwich Sara made him for lunch, helped his medication settle better in his stomach. It wasn't a miracle, but it was an improvement.
His inner battle over Sara had quieted, momentarily. A truce had been drawn. With yesterday's events, he didn't have much of a choice in accepting her help. Yet, she didn't pity him; that he felt in his bones. Somehow, something in those beautiful brown eyes told him that it was okay -- to rest, to trust her. He didn't fully understand it, and he wasn't in any condition to analyze it. Whatever it was that he sensed within her, he hungered for it and he wasn't about to torture himself dwelling on whether or not to accept it. He clung to what he needed.
After a lengthy interval, Dr. Walker commented, "I'm sure your doctors have told you that it will take some time for your body to heal. How do you feel about that?"
There was that word again. He said the first thing that popped into his mind. "Impatient. I want my old life back."
"That's understandable. But it's going to take a while. Are you finding this to be a difficult adjustment period?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He tried to ignore the questions but Sara's words continued to haunt him.
You have to help yourself.
Once again, his thoughts reminded him that she'd been right so far. And yesterday was a clear indication that he wasn't handling things well on his own. He'd acted illogically and the grievously sad part was that he still didn't fully understand why his plan hadn't succeeded. There had to be a solid reason, he just couldn't figure it out with the murkiness encompassing his brain.
It had to be the drugs fogging his head, making him stupid. Even Brass had agreed with that assessment. Yet, that morning, another disturbing possibility had popped into his head.
Perhaps he should try to play along with the doctor. He didn't know any of the rules for coping with his new and limited existence. He'd never been good with his feelings, and suddenly they were overpowering him and attempting to take over. He needed help.
This was going to be incredibly weird. "I can't…I can't think clearly."
Although he realized this was a substantial admission, the doctor maintained his even tone. "I'm sure your doctors have assured you that the medication you're taking is responsible for the majority of this."
Grissom rolled his eyes and sighed, he was sick of hearing this.
"It's understandable that a man of your intellect would be concerned about this. Do you have any reason to believe that it's not the medicine?"
Grissom's heart began to thud louder. Why in the hell was his brain being so capricious? He could remember some things but not others. He wished he couldn't remember this. "Severe dehydration can produce brain damage," he recited as if quoting from a textbook.
"That's true. Have you discussed this with your doctor?"
"I don't think so." He was ashamed that he couldn't remember. Yet at that very moment, he had a hazy recollection of his doctor frowning and telling him that head injuries were very tricky and that he wanted to be sure to do a CAT scan at his next appointment. That didn't sound promising.
"I'm sure they're monitoring you for this possibility. But bring it up during your next appointment, for your peace of mind. Even if that is a possibility, at this point nothing else can be done, only time will tell."
Grissom couldn't vocalize his intense gnawing fear that he would never be the same again.
However, Dr. Walker seemed to eavesdrop on his thoughts. "In your situation, you need to take one day at a time. Don't focus too much on the future; it will just frustrate you at this point. Instead of driving yourself crazy trying to be who you were, create some new habits for who you are right now."
"Like what?"
"If you can't concentrate on reading, try listening to music or going for a walk."
Grissom's eyebrow arched sarcastically as he patted the rim of the wheelchair.
"You know what I mean. Explore new venues. Try to make the best of your situation. And keep reminding yourself that, most likely, it's only temporary."
That wasn't very helpful.
Dr. Walker checked the clock to discover that their time was up. "Same time next week?"
Grissom reluctantly nodded then placed his hands on the wheel chair to prepare to maneuver it towards the door, he was weak and still a novice at this, it took him some time. The doctor made additional notes on his legal pad then placed it on top of the desk. When Grissom managed to reach the office doorway, Dr Walker cryptically commented.
"It was all clear, wasn't it? Just before you accepted that you were going to die."
Grissom hesitated. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He stared at the doctor, his attention fully captivated.
"You know I'm right. Think about it, it'll come to you. What were you thinking about?"
He had no idea what the doctor was talking about. If he'd experienced such a revelation, it was lost somewhere within the dark recesses of his mind.
Ignoring his patient's confusion, Dr. Walker confidently stated, "You can tell me about it next week."
With a flourish, Sara laid her tiles down on the game board. Beaming, she claimed, "Q-U-A-N-D-A-R-Y, quandary, that's gonna score big time." She eagerly leaned over the board to tabulate her score.
Grissom trusted her calculations; he closed his eyes to better absorb the beauty of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", which was filling the room. Sara had moved his stereo system to a lower shelf so he could access it more easily. It was amazing how a little thing like music soothed him. He still couldn't concentrate but he wasn't as irritable.
On the other hand, Scrabble was another story.
"Your turn."
He stared at his letters. He was becoming discouraged. He'd played scrabble with Sara once or twice before and while she was a worthy opponent; he'd usually beaten her. Now she had a hefty lead. Typically he enjoyed the challenge of coming up with obscure words that utilized the high point value letters, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It wasn't as much fun to play using boring, conventional words, not having the competitive edge.
He placed his tiles on the board. "M-A-S-K, mask."
Sara sensed that his interest in the game was waning. "You want to continue this another time? I have to go soon."
Grissom checked his watch. It was a few hours before night shift started.
"I promised Catherine I 'd go in early to process something. I owe her a favor," she explained.
The all too familiar twinges of fear about being alone gripped his stomach, though he wouldn't admit it. He'd had enough emotional honesty for one day.
He hated to have her leave. Her presence was strangely comforting. Sara didn't seem to expect highly stimulating conversation. Surprisingly enough, she didn't even grill him about the psychiatrist or try to discuss yesterday's fiasco. Perhaps she was as tired as he was, he thought, for he wasn't sure when she'd had time to sleep in the last twenty-four hours.
"Okay." He maneuvered his wheelchair away from the table.
"What are you doing for dinner?" Sara asked.
"I'll figure something out," Grissom assured her. It wouldn't be fancy, but eating regularly made a huge difference in how he felt.
She didn't believe him. More sternly she reminded him, "Grissom, you have to eat right."
"I know, I will," he emphasized. "I'll be fine." Although he wasn't entirely convinced himself, she needed to go to work.
"You're taking your medication?" She didn't want to be a nag, but she had to ask.
"Of course."
Somewhat reluctantly, Sara gathered her things to prepare to leave.
"So, do you need anything?"
"Sara, I'm fine. Go to work."
As she strode towards the door, he wondered if he was using Sara. Was it fair for her to play nursemaid to an older man who might never be whole again? He valiantly tried to ignore those voices.
After opening the door, she turned back to ask, "Um…would you like me to come by sometime, maybe bring some movies?"
Firmly burying his doubts, he replied, "Yeah, that would be nice."
Grissom was inordinately proud of himself. Somehow, he'd managed to prepare a sandwich and heat up some tomato soup without any disasters occurring. Clean up seemed a bit more challenging. He'd piled his dishes in the sink and was just contemplating whether he wanted to put them into the dishwasher or try to wash them himself, when someone knocked on his door.
"Hello." It was Brass, who let himself in.
Grissom wheeled out of the kitchen to meet his friend in the living room.
"What are you doing here?" Only two nights before, Brass had stopped by on his night off. He was pleased to see his friend.
Brass attempted to make himself comfortable on the leather couch. Making a face, he said, "You need to get more comfortable furniture. Something with decent cushions."
Somewhat sarcastically, Grissom responded, "Thanks for the advice."
Brass was good at getting to the point. "I don't have much time, I have to get to work but…are you okay? Sara didn't give us any details but Catherine said she was pretty upset about something that happened here yesterday."
Grissom was becoming exasperated; he almost wished Sara had relayed all the details so others wouldn't keep bothering him about it. He had no desire to rehash any part of yesterday. Though, Jim was a friend and he had stopped by just because he was concerned. He owed him something.
"Something did happen. But it's under control, everything's okay."
Brass seemed satisfied; he knew he wasn't going to get any more information than that. "You look better. How are you feeling?"
"Maybe a little better. I'm getting more practice moving around like this," he explained as he yawned. Being clean and eating right helped a lot as well.
"Everyone in the lab says hello. Nick wants to drop off some weights for you so you can strengthen your arms, and Warrick wants to know if you'd like to play chess sometime."
Grissom was touched by everyone's concern. He wasn't offended that Nick and Warrick hadn't dropped by on their own, even though they most likely had copies of his keys too. There was an unspoken agreement among most men that you got together to do things, not just to chat. (Although he was grateful that Jim stopped by.) They understood that most men didn't care for company when they weren't at their best, especially if the injured party was their supervisor. And they were respecting his privacy as well.
An unsettling thought occurred to Grissom.
"Does Greg have a copy of my key?"
Brass grinned, "Of course. We had to cover all bases. Don't worry, I don't think he'd abuse the privelege." Giving up on the couch, he walked towards the dining area.
"Tell Warrick I'm not up for chess. I can barely play Scrabble," Grissom mumbled.
Jim examined the game board on the dinning table. "Have company today?"
"Yeah, Sara was helping me. I was surprised that she stopped by." He was trying to be nonchalant about it, but not really succeeding. He wasn't sure how Jim would feel about him spending time with Sara. She was his subordinate and significantly younger than him. Grissom couldn't consider these issues presently.
Brass raised an eyebrow. "I'm not. You really don't remember much about the hospital, do you?"
Sensing his friend had information he wasn't ready to deal with, he simply shook his head then changed the subject.
"How's Catherine? I haven't seen much of her."
Jim seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I think your accident bothered her more than she lets herself admit."
Grissom was concerned about Catherine, but he wasn't the type to initiate a phone call.
"I'll tell her you asked about her."
After Brass left, Grissom decided to go to bed. Although it was still early, the sun hadn't even set, it would take him a while to change clothes and physically get into his bed. He was dead tired and he hoped he had the energy to even perform those tasks.
As he struggled with his clothing, he wondered what was going on with Catherine. Her absence was perplexing, of all of his co-workers, she'd been over his house the most. She'd never had any qualms about interfering in his business. She'd even taken it upon herself to visit him, uninvited, in the hospital before his previous surgery. He hoped that she was okay and that she'd stop by soon.
Maybe he was reading too much into this, Catherine was covering for him at the lab. He didn't envy her the mountain of paperwork that greeted her. And he'd only been home for three days.
The quietness of his townhouse bothered him, he felt uneasy. He hated that he felt that way. Would he ever feel comfortable alone in his home again? He actually took his psychiatrist's advice and consciously tried to stop thinking about his future, or even about tomorrow, which loomed ahead with its gapping emptiness. One day at a time.
Although it had taken great effort to get into his bed, it was much more comfortable than sleeping in that chair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the support of his mattress, expecting sleep to overcome him at any minute.
Just as he was about to drift off, out of the blue, it came to him.
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. (Mark Twain)
He nearly sat back up, painfully jarring his ribs in the process. He was shocked by the clarity of that memory. That was it; that was part of what he'd been thinking while lying on the bathroom floor. But what did he conclude from it?
From where he sat presently, he couldn't imagine what might've been missing from his old life, which he so desperately longed for. What could've been lacking? He had a thriving career, sufficient income to suit his needs, dozens of exhilarating interests, and the respect of his peers. Had he contemplated any regrets? If so, what were they? Had he been able to conclude that he'd fully lived his life?
Dr. Walker was wrong; he was still lost.
TBC