This story deals with child sexual abuse, a topic that is a great concern of mine. This story, like Street Kid, is based on actual events and real people. As the proverbial "they" used to say, "The names have been changed to protect the innocent." There is one scene of moderately graphic abuse late in the story and for that reason, Macy is rated M.

I thank the owners of Quantum Leap for allowing me to use their possessions in my stories.

Macy - Chapter Five

Ziggy was in the process of figuring the probabilities in this most bizarre of leaps. On the one hand, she was being good old Ziggy. On the other, she was being belligerent and mean. She could identify Al in a millisecond, but would not let him out of the Imaging Chamber. Information about the Haller family and the mission of the leap was free flowing.

Verbena was talking to the computer in order to figure out the best way to get Al out and resolve the leap for both the leaper and the observer. "Ziggy, have you checked out the patients at the Tuberculosis Sanitorium?"

"I am in the process of running a check on Lucian Haller's patients. There are three upon whom he has a profound impact. Monica Gross, Kevin Wilson, and Karl Sorensen. Ms. Gross will be admitted in three months. Mr. Wilson was discharged last year. Mr. Sorensen has just been assigned to Mr. Haller's caseload."

Verbena was getting frustrated, "Why don't you tell me these things when they happen? Does Al know about Sorensen?"

"The Admiral has not requested information regarding Mr. Haller's caseload. He is preoccupied with Macy Haller."

"What is the probability that Sam leaped to help Sorensen?"

"97.3."

"And for Macy?"

"22.8"

Verbena collected her thoughts and adjusted her attitude. "Ziggy, what is different about your programming now as opposed to before? You have so many more capabilities than you did before the last upgrade, but you're withholding more information. Before, you used to tell us everything we needed to know without much digging. You know Admiral Calavicci is ill and needs your help, don't you?"

"Are you requesting new vital signs on Admiral Calavicci?"

"I'm asking if you understand how sick he is and how sick he will be if he doesn't get help."

"Admiral Calavicci does not need my assistance to leave the Imaging Chamber. He only needs to program the correct egress code into the handlink and he may exit."

"What is he doing wrong? He says he knows the right code and I believe him, but you're not opening the door. Why?" There was a long pause, as if the computer had to try and formulate an acceptable answer. The delay made Verbena wonder if there a true individual personality was starting to show through. In the past, Ziggy reacted in one of several ways, like a computer, like Sam, like Al or some combination. Now there was a distinct new way emerging. Ziggy was acting almost schizophrenic. Pursuing that thought she asked, "Ziggy, did Admiral Calavicci do anything that made you unhappy?"

After another long uncomfortable pause, "I do not wish to answer that query."

Verbena decided not pursue the conversation. It was time to wait for Gooshie and the reports on Ziggy's programs. She simply asked for an update on Al's physical status. Ziggy responded. Al's body temperature had risen to 101.6, an unfortunate expectation. She didn't know much about burns, but she did know that without treatment, systemic infection was a given and a serious complication. She had 35 minutes to wait until she met with Gooshie. Having warned Al about the dangers of not eating right, she opted to think about Ziggy over a bowl of cafeteria chili.

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Karl Sorensen was troubled. Sam could hear a great deal of intelligence in the man, but he still had misconception that tuberculosis was a death sentence. "It's your job to tell me I have a future, but, come on, do you really think I could have much of a chance? Look at me. I'm six two and I weigh 150 pounds. I know people think I look like Dracula. Even I think I do, but that's okay. It will make dying easier for me."

"Why should dying be easy? 'Do not go gentle into that good night.' And you're not sentenced to death here." He was getting nowhere. Another tactic was required. "Okay, let's say you're going to die. Let's give you six months. You can do nothing and just wait or you could try to plan for the possibility that you won't die. See, if you don't die, you'll be stuck. Right now I can help make plans with you. We can look at your interests, what you may want to do with your life, if you were going to have a life. Think of it as a game."

Karl looked at Luke and shook his head. "Man, this is no game. I'm going to die and I'm not here to keep you employed. I've been placed here so that I can be out of the way. Although it is nice to hear someone who knows Dylan Thomas. You like poetry?"

Sam was well read, but his gifts were science. He read poetry, understand the characteristics of the different types, etc., but it wasn't his favorite thing. He also didn't know how much poetry Luke was into. "I like it. I'm not all that well read. How about you?"

A light turned on in Karl's eyes. This was the ticket for him. "I like books, poetry, the theater. Not a lot of call for tubercular actors, is there?"

It was 1957, so the play had opened. It was safe. "What about Edmund Tyrone in Long Day's Journey Into Night? He has tuberculosis. It's a great play," and one that Sam knew Al was familiar with since Al played the role of Edmund in an off-Broadway production one summer. Al's theater stories were a lot of fun and the tales of the O'Neill play were especially prime. He could use Al right about now.

"You can't make a career on one role. Listen, you're a nice guy and I don't mean to be trouble for you, but I really don't think I have a future to plan for and I don't want to waste your time or mine. I'm like a prisoner-of-war. It's time to give up."

Boy, did he need Al for this guy. Between the prisoner-of-war thing and theater, Al probably had answers that Sam didn't. "Okay, Karl. I don't agree with you, but maybe we both need time to think a little about what's going on. Can we talk again tomorrow?" Karl nodded. "Thanks, but you know if it's nice out let's talk outside. This office is too stuffy for me. Okay by you?"

A kind smile curled Karl's lips. "I heard about you. A lot of people told me I was lucky to get on your caseload. I like outside. Same time?" And the appointment was made.

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Al and Macy were back in the front room of her flat. She was dressed in red dungarees and a yellow shirt. The little copycat wanted to look like Al. They were sitting against the wall. Macy brought a book with her, a Beatrix Potter story about Tom Kitten. She read well, without pausing or missing words. Al thought the book might be memorized, but he decided against that. She was a bright four-year-old and read the story.

He thought back to his childhood. He was reading by that age. In fact, with an absent father and a mother who couldn't handle her daughter's mental retardation the responsibility for reading stories and poems to his little sister Trudy fell to him. If it hadn't been for his persistence, Trudy may never have learned to talk, but Al sat with her for hours. The fights he had over her, with her and for her were countless, but she did learn. It took a literal shake of his aching head to push aside the sadness of her death. There was no time to dwell on that now. Macy needed him, too.

She looked at her holographic friend. "You feel okay?"

Kids knew a lot more than grown ups usually thought and Al instinctively understood that. The injured hand hidden so Macy couldn't see still ached. He didn't lie, "My hand hurts, but I'll be okay."

"Promise?"

Macy liked promises and she kept people to them. Al answered, "Yes, I promise."

They heard the doorbell ring. Julia's footsteps followed and a conversation was overheard.

"Uncle Mario, good morning. How are you today?"

The heavily accented voice of an older man echoed into the front room. "I'm fine. Just fine. I'm go for a nice long walk and I think Macy come."

Al turned to the girl, "Who's that?"

Macy whispered, "My Uncle Mario."

"Your grandmother's brother?"

Macy nodded and stood up. "I got to go. Uncle Mario and me take long walks a lot."

From the hallway Al heard Julia calling, "Macy? Where are you? Uncle Mario is here." She turned to her uncle, "I never know where that child is. She has a mind of her own. I don't know what I'm going to do when she gets older."

Mario smiled sweetly. "She a good girl, Julia."

"Oh, I know." She called out again, "Macy?"

Al's little friend looked at him, "Will you be here when I get back?"

"Sure, but can I come with you? I'd like to go for a long walk."

Macy shook her head insisting, "No, you can't come. I'll be back after lunchtime."

He let her go realizing that he wasn't feeling well enough for a long walk. Macy, at four, pegged it. He needed the rest. Smiling he said, "Promise?"

She didn't smile back, "Promise."

Al followed her out to the entryway and saw this new member of the family. Even to over 60 year old Al, he looked ancient. He was overdressed for a warm summer day. His dark blue suit had seen better days. It was old and battered looking, like Mario's face. The white shirt was too big and the dark tie too plain. Al felt sorry for the guy. Mario had a pitiful look to him. Macy matter-of-factly walked up to Mario and took his hand. They left the apartment together.

Using the handlink, Al turned off the holographic apartment and reentered his world of the Imaging Chamber white walls. He sat down again. Standing was proving too taxing for him. He was lightheaded, but whether it was his rising body temperature or the effects of his hypoglycemia wasn't apparent to him. "Ziggy, what time is it here?"

"Ten minutes before noon."

"Any more information on Sam's leap? Have you checked out the people at the sanatorium?"

Ziggy made a noise like a sigh, "You finally figured out to look beyond the family. Congratulations, Admiral."

A tired man now, Al didn't bother arguing. "Look, Ziggy. I'm having trouble thinking straight. I feel like shit and I hurt like hell. Cut me some slack. Give me the information I need. Don't make me play games for it. What do you have?"

"A patient named Karl Sorensen is willing himself to death. It is imperative he survive and continue his education as he will influence the writing of several future prominent authors and educators. Without his direction, at least three of these people will not succeed in their endeavors. Do you want more information?"

Al was getting cranky. "Why couldn't Luke do this on his own? You told me he's God gift to rehabilitation. Shouldn't he be enough?"

"Mr. Sorensen needs to be influenced by someone better versed in theater and poetry than Mr. Haller. While talented in his field, he doesn't have sufficient expertise in the literary arts."

"Neither does Sam."

"But you do. I am aware of your career in the theater and of your literary achievements. You write poetry."

Al hadn't programmed that information into Ziggy. He kept his writing more secret than his horror days in Vietnam. "How did you find that out?"

"It is not necessary to explain my logic properties."

"Yeah, well, don't spread that around, okay? I don't want anyone to know." He yawned and another shiver of fever shot through him.

"Your vital signs have been steadily deteriorating."

"No kidding." He had to get help. He'd had fevers before and each one had a feel. This was like the ones that lasted. It was settling in for a long run. Rather than tempt fate, he thought getting to Sam as soon as possible was the best idea. "Ziggy, center me on Sam. Maybe we can get him settled on this Sorensen guy.

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It was lunch time for Sam and Ron Wojcik. They were eating their hot dogs and fries at a picnic table in front of a stand on Narragansett. Sam always tried to eat right when visiting his hosts, but there was something about a Chicago hot dog with everything that insisted he forget calories and cholesterol and go for it. Swallowing down a bite of the pagan delicacy, he said, "Sorensen is a good guy. He looks a little creepy, but he's smart. I can't figure why he believes that he's terminal. From what I read in his chart, he's going to do alright."

Ron picked up a French fry. "There should be a law. People read this out of date information and get the idea that TB is always fatal. It hasn't been that way for decades. And I hate when someone comes in and talks about consumption. Hell, it hasn't been called consumption since 1920." After shoving the final bit of hot dog past his teeth, Ron continued, "You think you can talk Sorensen out of dying? His kind seems to will themselves to death."

It hadn't occurred to Sam that Karl could will himself to die. He seemed to recall some research being done with psycho-neuro-endo-immunology, the mind-body connection, that proved the importance of attitude in recovery, but this was the first time he was up against it. "I don't think he really wants to die." A familiar whistle of the handlink announced Al's arrival. Sam took his last bite of lunch and started cleaning up the food wrappers. "Hey, listen, I think I want to take a little walk before going back. Do you mind?"

Stuffing one last fry into his mouth, he mumbles, "Nah. I need to prepare for the staff meeting today. I'm presenting two cases and there's some work I have to finish. See you at three thirty."

Sam gave a nod for Al to follow. They only walked a short distance when Al started the conversation, "How's it going?"

"I got a patient who thinks he's going to die, feels like he's a prisoner-of-war and likes the theater. Seems to me, you've been in his shoes. Got any ideas?"

Al really didn't want to address any problems, but knew it had to be done. "Karl Sorensen?" Sam nodded. "He's the reason you're here. Sorensen is supposed to end up a professor of literature and teach some really good people. So you're here on a cultural mission. Kind of different. A nice change of pace, if you ask me."

Sam tried to talk under his breath, "Sounds like a job for you rather than me. He's talking your experiences, not mine. How are you feeling? You look like shit."

His pallor declared his health status. "Yeah, well, walk slow. I'm not up for hiking. I need to get some real food. I've been living on peanut butter crackers and fruit punch juice boxes and there's only one package of each left."

"A lot of empty calories there. The peanut butter is okay, but cholesterol heaven."

"Don't start on me. I'm captive in this refrigerator and I can't tell if I feel this bad because of my hand or my blood sugar." Then Al remembered Sam wasn't aware of his new diagnosis. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Right before you leaped, Verbena handed me the good news that I'm hypoglycemic. Is that going to make trouble for me?"

"It can't help. Your blood chemistry must be a mess by now. I'm worried, Al. Listen, I'm going to my office. Center yourself there and wait. I don't want you walking around. You rest. I'll be there in five minutes." Sam took off at an easy jog as Al punched in coordinates.

He reappeared in Luke's office. Standing up didn't feel too good, so he sat down on the floor again. He and the floor had spent a lot of time together the past day or so. Remembering was hard. Staying in Sam's time made it easier until he went back to his own. Sam entered in a few minutes, slighted winded.

"I got here as fast as I could." The pain and fever was showing even more strongly in the artificial light. "Let me look at your hand."

"What for? There's nothing you can do. I'm out of ideas and I have no interest in trying my egress codes again, at least not yet." Gazing at the floor he asked, "You mind if I stay down here?"

"No." walked to him. "Anything new with Ziggy?"

"Just the information about Sorensen. What's this stuff about prisoner-of-war, theater and wanting to die?"

"He used all those words when we talked this morning. He reminds me of you in a lot of ways, except he's tall and skinny instead of short and skinny." And it suddenly occurred to Sam that his friend was smaller than he remembered. "You've lost weight, haven't you?"

Al, always uncomfortable about things concerning his health, shifted his body and barely answered, "A little. About Sorensen. When are you seeing him again?"

"How much weight?"

He threw an "I am annoyed with this line of questioning" glance at Sam. He followed the glance with, "Don't worry about it. I'm not fading away. Back to Sorensen."

If the subject was that uncomfortable, Sam knew Al was concerned, too. This one he wasn't going to lose. "Not until you tell me how much you weigh."

Al figured that only a lie could stop the conversation, "149. Happy?"

"You're lying to me. You probably lost two or three pounds during the past 24 hours and you were only about 145 then. Give me the truth."

There was no reason for Sam to know, but Al was feeling sick and the only doctor available was his friend. "Okay, okay. Before you leaped," he took a breath and added four pounds. "I weighed in at 139, which is within range."

"Low end, pal, real low end." He sat down on the floor with Al. "Let me take another look at your hand." Grudgingly, Al pulled his hand out. Looking at it made Sam cringe. "You need to get out of the Imaging Chamber. This may sound like a weird question, but does your hand smell funny?"

The ramifications of the question were immediately obvious to a man who spent years imprisoned in primitive conditions. Al knew the smell of gangrene. He'd seen men's limbs amputated by camp guards or sometimes fellow prisoners, amputated under septic conditions usually leading to systemic illness and death. He could never forget the stench of dead flesh and there was no scent of that on his hand, yet. "No, there's no gangrene. I'll cut it out myself if it starts. I've done it before." As he said the words he knew he shouldn't, but somehow he couldn't stop. Sam was sure to ask, so he just told it quick and unemotionally. "I had a couple of toes go bad. I just got rid of them." His injured hand hid inside his shirt once again.

Sam had trouble dealing with Al's history. The scientist had been sheltered from the kind of ugliness Al experienced. Realizing that incredible horror could happen outside of slasher movies made him queasy. This revelation, that Al had amputated part of his own foot, gave Sam a better understanding of the sacrifice Al made to save his brother Tom. "Dear God, how did you survive? How did you survive sane?"

There was enough to deal with and getting into the shit that tormented him for five additional years in hell wasn't worth getting into. "Sorensen, Sam. Come on."

Sam saw the unease and immediately got back to Karl Sorensen. "I don't know what to do. He's killing himself slowly. His tuberculosis could go either way, but not with his attitude."

"So what do you want from me? Tuberculosis gives me the willies."

"Be here when I talk to him. He likes poetry and theater. Those are your subjects, not mine. I know he's going to make reference to things I don't know. You can feed me the information I need. See, I want to talk theater with him. You did Long Day's Journey into Night, right? Didn't you play a character with tuberculosis?"

Al laughed in surprised, "Of all the things you remember, you remember that? Man. You do have Swiss cheese for a brain. Yeah, I played Edmund Tyrone. It was my favorite straight role." He started playing with the handlink. "Ziggy says the odds are going up for Sorensen. When do you see him again?"

"Tomorrow morning."

A chill crawled up his spine. "Can you make it sooner? I don't know how I'll be feeling tomorrow."

Controlling the pain was getting more difficult and Sam heard Al's breathing getting more labored. There was little doubt now. Al's hand was infected and the infection was spreading into his system. Without help Al . . . well, he didn't want to think about it. "I'll see if Sorensen is available now. You want some time to rest first?" Al wearily shook his head. "I'll see if he can be here in an hour. Don't go back to the Imaging Chamber. Stay here. I'll turn off the lights so you can sleep."

Looking up at Sam, Al said, "No. See if you can get him now. I promised Macy I'd be waiting for her after she got home from her walk with her Uncle Mario. Get him in here and let's see what we can do." Al leaned his forehead against his right hand.

Sam followed his instructions and left Luke's office. He walked down the institutional halls toward the wards. Checking with a few staff, he was finally told that Karl was in the library. That was not surprising. Making his way down another long corridor he came upon a sad excuse for a library. Karl was at a desk with his head buried in a book. Sam tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi, what are you reading?"

"Huckleberry Finn. I haven't read it in years. Twain had an incredible ear for dialect. You really should do something about the books here. This is about the most contemporary thing here."

"Our library is 75 years behind time, but you don't have to be. If you don't mind, would you come with me to my office? I'd like to talk again."

"Not outside?"

Sam forgot that he schedule their next meeting outside. "No, that's tomorrow. Do you mind coming now? If you want to keep reading, that's okay."

"What the hell." He closed the book and left it there. He and Sam started the long walk back to Luke's office. "So, you have some miracle for me?"

Al? A miracle? Maybe not, but he came as close as anyone Sam ever knew. "I don't think it's a miracle. I just feel that we didn't really finish our first conversation this morning. Your file didn't include an interest survey."

"Interest survey? Yeah, that will help."

This guy was a tall Al. It was too bad that they couldn't talk face to face. Sam opened the door and saw Al curled up on the floor. He was startled and it hurt to see his friend looking so weak and vulnerable. Al heard Sam and Karl arrive and sat up as quickly as he could. Sensing Sam's anxiousness, the Admiral chimed in as brightly as he could, "I'm okay, Sam. I was just resting."

Sam guided Karl to the chair across from Al. He sat with his back to his friend. "So Karl, I wanted to talk to you more about your interest in theater and poetry."

"What about it?"

"Who are your favorites?"

"I can't quite figure why you want to know, but in as far as playwrights go, I like O'Neill, Williams, Shakespeare."

Al started coaching his friend, "Ask him if he's seen or read Long Day's Journey." Sam obliged.

"Sure, I've read it. It's kind of depressing. I mean the family is all denying Edmund's illness."

At this point, Sam parroted Al's comments a fraction of a second after Al made them, "Only his mother did. His problem went beyond his illness."

"Yeah, but it's a play."

Al started getting into the conversation, "Did you know that it was autobiographical, that O'Neill was writing about his own family?"

"I heard that."

"He's Edmund and Edmund lives. Even with all the shit in his life, he chose to live. See, I can't figure why you think dying is such a great thing. O'Neill was writing the truth about himself. Even with all the stuff going on with him, he knew living was still a better thing than dying. He didn't always say it, but some part of him kept open to life. Closing down was never really an option."

Karl was getting uncomfortable, "But someone cared about him."

Al paused and whispered, "Sam, tell him you care. He's got to know that you will be there."

Sam took a deep breath. It was lot easier talking through Al. "Listen, Karl. I care. I'm not going to stop caring because you get better and I'll sure as hell care if you decide to die. I think you have a lot to offer to a lot of people." He didn't know what else to say.

Al began feeding him lines again, "Do you read Edgar Allan Poe?" Karl nodded. Al started reciting, "'From childhood's hour I have not been as others were. I have not seen what others saw. I could not bring my passion from a common spring and all I loved, I loved alone.' Sound like something you can relate to?" Another nod from Karl.

The Admiral started fading. Sam continued. "Yeah well, I have a friend. He's been an outsider too. He had the wonderful experience of being MIA during the war. He ended up in a place on par with the concentration camps. I don't want you to think I'm giving you some hero to live up to, because he's no hero. He's just a guy like you, never really felt part of anything. The one thing he does know is that dying isn't an acceptable option. It's not like he's figured this out and he never wants to give up. Hell, every day something makes him want to give up, but for some reason he can't. I don't really know why. Some people are born to survive no matter what. Whether they want to or not. You're like that, Karl. You're here for a purpose. Don't ask me to explain. I can't, but I have a feeling about you. You need to teach."

Karl shook his head, "Right. Those who can do, those who can't, teach."

Sam saw his friend growing more tired. Al's part was done. Sam filled in from his own experiences. "Everything we are is a result of our teachers. Storytellers, painters, actors, mathematicians, scientists, writers, friends, they're all teachers. Teaching is the most important of all professions. You have a subject you love and the inborn skill to teach. All you need is the education. I can see you getting a PhD."

Al punched some buttons on the handlink, "You're right, Sam. He gets his PhD in 1965. The odds have jumped to 67 that he goes to school."

Karl laughed. "Me with a PhD? Boy, you are a dreamer."

"And you can be a maker of dreams for yourself and others. What do you say?"

Karl was a born skeptic, like Al. "Maybe, I don't know. I have to think about things. You seem to be forgetting about my tuberculosis."

Al stepped in with the words again, "No, I'm not. You're using that as an easy out. Tuberculosis gives you a reason not to try. That's just stupid, Karl. Believe me, once you give up on yourself nothing matters. Are you prepared to admit your life doesn't matter? Are you willing to say that you're worthless? See, if you are, then nothing I say will change your mind and you may as well leave." Sam had to start interpreting Al's words. The Admiral started speaking directly to Karl. "I've been there and it hurts like hell to think you're nothing, even more when other people think you're nothing. Life isn't much if you're worthless. Being empty and hollow doesn't do anything for you except make death a friend, but you got to pick your friends carefully. I gave up on myself, but I chose people who didn't give up on me. Without them, I would have been dead ten times by now."

Tears were in Karl's eyes. Sam wasn't sure what prompted that response. "You okay, Karl? I didn't mean to upset you."

"Where do you find someone who won't give up on you?"

Al intervened, "Sam, tell him."

But Sam had already begun, "I won't give up on you."

Karl sat very still, entrenched in his thoughts. "You're something else, Haller. I'm not sure I understand everything you've said here, but . . . I don't know. Teaching, huh? You really think teaching is such great stuff?"

"You better believe it."

As Karl made his way to the door, he said, "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Luke. We can talk some more about this teaching thing," and he left.

Sam smiled. He felt good about the conversation. It was looking good for Karl. He turned to exchange congratulations with Al, but when he did, he saw a weak, tired man who shook with fever. Sam went to Al's side, "My God. What's happening?"

Al was tired and pale with pain, infection and hypoglycemia. "I'm not feeling too good, Sam. I need to sleep. Sorry, I have to check out for a few hours. Tell Macy I'll come see her as soon as I can. It might not be until late tonight."

There was no sense in trying to figure out a way to help his holographic friend. It couldn't be done. "Al, this is nuts. Ziggy has got to let you out of here."

"Yeah, well, you tell her." Al took a shallow breath, "Listen, do me a favor, will you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "On your way home tonight, find a bookstore and buy a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit. Give it to Macy from me, okay?"

"The Velveteen Rabbit? Do I know that book?"

"Who knows? It was written by Margery Williams. Just buy the book. You're going to think it's too hard for her, but she can read it." He started getting a little agitated. "Are you going to buy it for me or not?"

Sam marveled at Al's ability to still be thinking of the child while so sick. "Sure and you do something for me. Try to bring your temperature down. Keep cold cloths on your face and keep that hand clean. Let water run over it for a long time. Then sleep, okay?" Al nodded and punched an array of lights, disappearing from the office and leaving Sam to worry and wonder if he'd ever see him again.

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