Hey, Look! Two chapters for the price of one! It's a little Christmas miracle!
Author's note: I realize I've been a little hard on Catherine in this chapter. I really do like her character, she just seems like the type of person who doesn't put up with any nonsense. And keep in mind, the whole story is written through the filter of Nick's perceptions. So blame him. :-)
By the way, I have no idea whether they have "In-N-Out" Burger in Las Vegas. We don't have them here (the Pacific Northwest), but I've been to them in California. Anyway, it's not important. On with the story.
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Chapter 4: Videostroboscopy
I put the file in my nightstand without opening it. Sleep doesn't come. Instead I lie awake, trying not to scratch, staring at the ceiling until the gray light of dawn washes over me and drowns out the nightlight that I keep burning.
Catherine comes over after breakfast. As soon as she arrives, Grissom's face lights up. His bag is already packed and waiting by the front door. I'm sure he can't wait to get away from me.
Catherine drives me to the voice specialist, which is outside of town. Dr. LaMer's office is very posh--cream-colored walls, oak furniture, expensive artwork intermixed with dozens of plaques listing awards and professional affiliations. I wander around and examine the awards and diplomas while Catherine checks me in.
There are several people ahead of us, so we have a while to wait. Catherine picks up an "Architectural Digest" off the table, smiles at me, and starts to read. At least she doesn't fill the air with pointless chatter.
I try to read a fancy cooking magazine, but I'm having trouble concentrating. My eyes stay glued to the page, but really I'm wondering how Dr. LaMer plans to "take pictures of my vocal folds" and whether it involves sticking a camera down my throat.
After forty minutes, during which Catherine checks her watch at least a dozen times, my name is finally called by an impossibly young woman wearing an improbable nose ring. I grab Catherine's hand and drag her along with me into the small, claustrophobic exam room, of which one side is packed with electronic equipment of unknown function. As soon as we get into the room Catherine drops my hand and gently pushes me into a chair.
The young woman introduces herself as "Marci", a student, and proceeds to ask me a list of questions. She doesn't seem to understand that I can't talk, keeps asking me the same questions over and over, using different words, exaggerated intonation, slower rate. I stare at my hands so I don't have to see the exasperation on her freckled face.
Marci: Can you tell me about your vocal hygiene habits?
Me:
Marci: For example, how much water do you drink in a day?
Me:
Finally Catherine takes pity on me and steps in. She translates Marci's questions into yes/no form, and I nod or shake my head at the appropriate times, while I sneak fearful glances at the wall of equipment.
After what seems like a very long time, the door opens and a middle-aged man, tall and muscular with wavy dark hair graying at the temples, enters. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Marci," he says with an affable smile.
"No problem, Alex," Marci responds tightly, stuffing her pages of notes into a file folder. "We were just finished." She stands and walks out without another word, handing him the file folder on the way out the door.
"You must be Nick," Dr. LaMer says to me, hand out. I shake his hand, trying to match his firm grip, and he turns to Catherine.
"And you are?" he says to her, hand outstretched.
"Catherine Willows, a friend," she responds, smiling, with a note in her voice that I recognize as flirting.
The examination turns out to be just as horrible as I had imagined. The camera is at the end of a pole that Dr. LaMer sticks straight back in my throat. In between making lighthearted banter with Catherine, he tries to get me to make voice sounds, but all I can do is gag and choke on the camera. Finally he gives up and pulls the pole out of my mouth with a grimace.
"What's your opinion, Alex?" Catherine asks with her eyes just a little too wide, voice a little too breathy. I decide that I hate her.
"Well, it was difficult to tell because he wasn't able to produce any voice." The doctor is talking to Catherine almost exclusively, with an occasional glance in my direction. "There was some irritation of the lining of the trachea, but I didn't see any polyps or cysts, and I was able to observe some movement of the vocal folds when he coughed, so there doesn't appear to be any paralysis."
"So that's good news?" she asks,
"As far as the larynx goes, I suppose it is. However," now the doctor turns to me, smiling, "there is still the question of why you are having difficulty speaking."
I nod. That is exactly the question I was hoping he could help me answer.
Dr. LaMer crosses to his desk, pulls out a piece of paper and a pen. "Look, Nick, there are a number of interdependent systems involved in speech production." He props his clipboard on his knee and sketches a series of circles connected by arrows. Words go in the circles, such as "Conceptualization," "Linearization" and "Lexical access".
"Now," he shoots a quick smile at Catherine, who is leaning over his shoulder. "All of these systems are controlled by various parts of the brain, and all are interconnected. If a breakdown occurs at any point, the rest of the chain will be affected, disrupting speech production."
"So are you saying there might be something else wrong?" Catherine asks breathily.
"It's possible that Nick" (he's not even talking to me anymore) "suffered some sort of neurological damage during the incident which is disrupting his ability to speak."
The words "Neurological Damage" catch my attention. He's talking about a stroke, brain damage. My grandpa had a stroke when I was ten; he never spoke again. I stare at the diagram, trying to make sense of the overlapping arrows. Fear sneaks up behind me and blows an icy breath down my neck. I desperately want to grab Catherine's hand, to feel connected, but all of her attention is directed at the doctor. I let their easy banter flow over me without hearing it.
When I focus in again, Dr. LaMer is saying something about a CT scan. He scribbles on a prescription pad and hands the page to Catherine. Then he smiles at me and hands me the diagram. "The CT scan will just help up rule out organic damage, Nick. Nothing to worry about."
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On the way back to my house, Catherine decides we should go through a drive thru for lunch.
Catherine: Do you like burgers or chicken?
Me:
Catherine: Or you could get a salad. Which would you prefer?
Me:
She sighs. "Ok, let's take this one at a time. Burger?"
I shrug. I don't really care what I eat. It all tastes like cardboard anyway. I stare at the doctor's diagram, trembling in my hands.
Catherine makes an exasperated noise. "Fine, you're getting a burger." She stops by In-n-Out, and orders me a cheeseburger with the works, fries, and a Coke, without asking for any more input from me. For herself she gets a salad and Diet Coke.
She hands me the bag of food, but I just put it down on the seat and keep studying the diagram. Neurological damage, I think. Brain damage. The little circles and arrows swim on the page. I clench my teeth, hard, working my jaw back and forth until it hurts. I picture little dead brain cells, floating around in gray jelly, their dendrites shriveled, synapses disconnected.
Catherine doesn't talk to me the rest of the way home. I can't say I blame her.
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