Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person, real or imagined.
Author's note: Jim quotes 'All About Eve' with his reference to seatbelts. It must be my favorite movie.
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"Hi, I'm Jim Makinac. Today I will be your guide through the wonderful world of occupational therapy."
Alan, Don, and Charlie tried to focus on the mid-twenties man who stood bopping up and down on his heels in front of them, his irritatingly expressive energy tossing his neatly cut but mid-length blond hair about his broadly smiling face. His two hands continuously alternated between rubbing and quietly clapping together. While the occupational therapist talked, the light that beamed down from over their heads seemed to bounce off his large and perfectly-capped teeth. They were patiently standing in the institute's exercise and physical therapy room. A stream of brightness reflected off a large glass window set in the office wall in front of them; the window would allow any of its occupants a view of the equipment available to patients, including various weight-lifting equipment, exercise machines, large medicine balls, parallel bars, and thick mats. There was a hallway besides Jim's office that led to a large, Olympic-sized pool for full-body swimming and two smaller-sized ones for individual therapy, dividers partially encircling them to provide semi-privacy. Two lifeguards were always on duty, their seats positioned so they were afforded a view of all three pools. Two doors leading to locker rooms were set midway down the hall, one for each sex.
"We are entering a fascinating world of mystery and secrecy." Jim whispered, bending forward and popping his eyes back and forth between the men. "Come follow me, and we will begin our journey." He beckoned the men to his office with flailing arms. While the Eppes men hesitantly followed, Jim bounced into the room, dropping into a seat and then right back out again, shutting his office door when his guests were seated. Jim briefly sat on the corner of his desk, picking up a ball and tossing it twice in the air before doing a rim shot into a corner basket full of similar balls. His energy would not diffuse and he began pacing as he talked.
"Fine motor skills- that's what we're dealing with here. Don," Jim stopped and pointed at his patient, who was scrunched wide-eyed in a chair situated between his father and brother, "does not appear to have any gross motor skills problems. You know, he can walk and move his limbs all right, doesn't have any balance issues- he needs to rebuild some muscles, but other than that, we're not looking at major work- got it?"
Before he received a response, Jim continued pacing and talking, his hands in a perpetual massage mode with each other. "Now, our focus is on Don's ability to grip and move his fingers as one- a.k.a. fine motor skills. Oh, and social and life skills- definitely needs help with those. We'll even throw in some cognitive functioning, be a twin set with what Olivia's having you do. Let's take this one trip at a time, shall we- which road do you want to travel down first?" Pursing his lips, Jim stopped and stared expectantly at Charlie and Alan. They waited silently, not sure if the therapist actually wanted them to answer this time or not.
"Come now, gentlemen." Jim clapped twice, jumping up and down. "Speak up- your travel package is waiting- shall we visit fine motor skills first, or would you like a tour of life skills?" The therapist moved his body sideways, gesturing with his hands as if he were a model on a game show. "Our special this month is cognitive functioning- why, I do believe it's half price." Jim nodded his head enthusiastically. Don nodded his head, parroting the man; he smiled to himself, only somewhat mistaken in the belief that he was being entertained by a clown. His usual tendency to flee an unknown person was momentarily controlled by a childlike awe of the silly behaviors of the man before him.
"Ah, Don- are you all ready and packed to go?" Jim asked, dropping on the desk in front of his patient while he broadly wiggled his eyebrows. Don nodded his head again; he didn't understand what he was being asked, he was just enjoying the show. "Well, then, young man," Jim stood at attention, his voice suddenly stern while he saluted Don, "let's be all that we can be and take an air ride to our first destination. Ready to go, private?" Don smiled, continuing to be entertained by Jim's antics. Alan, however, was possessed with the distinct desire to pin the guy to the wall- just long enough to keep that large head from moving again, he thought as he rose from his seat. At the same time, Charlie's natural energy bowed to the superior power; he obediently followed behind as Jim helped Don to his feet and led them to an adjacent room, Jim keeping his arms straight out to both sides and making a 'zoom' noise like an airplane.
Once inside the room, Jim dropped his arms to his sides. "All aboard!" he crowed, patting a seat at the head of a long table and crooking a finger at Don, who sat down anticipating more fun. "We don't seem to be prepared for our trip," he loudly whispered behind his hand, pretending that only Don could hear him. Charlie sat next to the table. Alan pulled his chair to a corner in an attempt to distance himself from the manic therapist.
"Where do you want to go first? This man's army goes everywhere- just pick a ride and I'll tell you where it's scheduled to go." Jim pointed to the twenty-odd items that were spread out on the table. Don looked at them, squirming in his seat before turning his attention to Charlie, his eyes asking him to choose. Jim saw the plea and maneuvered between the two brothers. "Why Don, just take your hand like this," Jim picked up Don's right hand and held it over the contents of the table, "and put it on one of the things you see on the table- anything at all." Jim nodded his head to encourage Don to make a decision. Charlie leaned around Jim as both he and Alan watched on the edge of their seats- this would be the first decision Don made in determining his own therapy and they felt it was an important step.
Don looked at the table, his hand wavering in the air. There were so many things and he found it impossible to focus on just one of them. He began to squeeze Buddy under his left arm while his left hand went to his ear, his fingers beginning to twist the soft skin nervously. Jim watched with interest.
"Well, soldier, it seems you have some natural talent there, now don't you?" Don looked up, his right hand still hovering over the table. Back on target, Jim continued to encourage Don. "Parachute drop!" Jim suddenly said, plopping his own hand down upon one item. Jim lifted his hand off the table, held it over another item and repeated the movement again. "Parachute drop!" Again, his hand landed on an item. Don watched, his own hand starting to twitch from the effort to keep it elevated.
Jim clutched Don's hand and moved it in circles above the table. "Round and round he goes- where he'll stop, nobody knows." Jim suddenly released Don's hand, throwing his own up in the air- "Parachute drop!" Without thinking, Don repeated Jim's previous movements, dropping his hand to the table. He cautiously looked up at the therapist, seeking approval.
Jim clapped his hands, and then went stiff, bending to Don and saluting. "Good job, soldier. We are finally on our way. This calls for a promotion- you are now a corporal." Don sat back and proudly smiled at Charlie and Alan, who quietly clapped with their own hands.
Pretending to hold a mike in front of his mouth, Jim made a buzzing noise with his lips before saying in a sing-song voice, "Please keep your seats in an upright position. Keep all hands and feet within the compartment- and whatever you do, fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen- we're in for a bumpy night."
Jim grabbed the item that Don's hand had fallen upon; it was a cylinder-shaped container. He popped open the lid, humming while he pulled out what appeared to be red-colored clay and dropped it in front of Don. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Our first destination today is fine motor skills. I hope you packed all your belongings- this may be a l-oooong trip."
Jim put the clay in Don's right hand, put his own hand over Don's, and began to squeeze the dough in-between their fingers. "In order for us to have a successful trip, it is important that we are trained soldiers. Boot camp training will involve strengthening our grip, coordinating the use of our fingers, and manipulating our wrist movement."
Jim quickly sidestepped to the other side of Don, who dropped the clay to the table. Picking up Don's left hand, Jim spoke in his soldier's voice again. "Corporal, you have good thumb and index finger control of your left hand. I think we'll make you a sergeant." Showing the digits to Charlie and Alan, Jim ooohed and ahhhed loudly; Don sat beaming in pride. "Have you noticed how he uses his left thumb and index finger to manipulate his left ear lobe?" Charlie and Alan told Jim that yes, they had noticed the ear manipulation. "Staff notes say he can use them to pull up lightweight sheets and his boxers- and in taking care of more delicate and private needs." Jim spotted Buddy's balding ear. Knowing that Don's tugging was the guilty culprit and that the manipulation had an emotionally stabilizing effect on him, Jim cocked one eye at the rabbit and told Don, "Well, now, it seems we have another foot soldier available to help us on our mission." Jim flopped Buddy's left foot. Don nodded, knowing that Buddy would always help him. "I think we'll give him the same rank as you- that way, you can keep working together." Don nodded again. He absolutely did not understand the specifics of what Jim was saying, but he recognized the encouraging and flattering tones that came from the therapist, as well as some specific words- ones like good job, help us, successful, and together. It also helped that Jim had that ingratiatingly syrupy smile- one that entranced Don and disgusted Alan.
"Okay, soldier. We are going to take advantage of your obvious expertise in manipulating items with your left thumb and index finger. But first, boot camp." Jim looked pointedly at Alan and Charlie. "Boot camp procedures will be as follows: gripping practice once an hour, five hours a day. Keeps us in line with Olivia, so it should be easy to remember- and heck, it's just good procedure. Can everyone say five, please?" Because Jim stood tapping his foot with seeming impatience, Alan and Charlie felt obligated to respond and recited five together, satisfying the therapist. Jim added, "Of course, they don't have to be the same five hours, and there should be down time between this practice and his speech therapy."
Jim bopped back to Don's right side. "Alllll- righhht. This clay is pliable and easy to manipulate. Have Don grip it and squeeze it…Fun, fun, fun." Jim did a little jig. "Notice there are other containers of clay- as his grip gets stronger, have him use the next clay in the series; each one is less pliable than the one before it, and will challenge Don as his grip becomes stronger." Slipping to a window set in the door of the room, Jim tapped on the glass, his fingertip pointing at a man lifting weights. "It's like adding weights when bench pressing- when your muscles get stronger, you add more resistance if you want to keep increasing muscle strength."
Turning back to Alan and Charlie, Jim raised the pitch of his voice. "Children, our special word today is resistance. Can we all say resistance?" Alan and Charlie sighed; now they were both becoming irritated with the therapist. But one glance at Don's happy face and they mechanically said resistance despite themselves. They each had the distinct and unhappy feeling that they would be stuck with Jim Makinac for the duration of Don's rehabilitation.
"Good job. Please try to reach a resistance-training goal of ten minutes each time. And don't limit it to the clay- everyone knows good training involves using various techniques. Lucky you, lucky you- once you enlisted, it entitled you to some of these basic supplies. However, I will suggest you take some of my super-duper secret skill-building catalogues and buy some supplemental activities. A bored soldier is an ineffective one."
Jim returned to his voice of authority as he addressed Don. "Soldier, we are going to need more weapons to use in our mission. Do you think you can pick another one out for us?" Don sat staring with incomprehension shaping his face. Jim skipped to his side, lifted his right hand up again and placed it above the item he wanted Don to 'choose'. Standing at attention, Jim exclaimed, "Parachute drop!" It was all he had to do to get the response he desired; Don dropped his hand down to the table, once again waiting for approval.
"Soldier, you deserve a medal. I think I'll make you and your buddy lieutenants." Jim jumped to a file cabinet behind Don, rifled through a few files and came back with two charts and a set of small stickers, each one a bright red star. For once settling his motions, he carefully wrote Don's and Buddy's names on the charts, aware of the rabbit's name from his earlier perusal of his patient's file. When he finished writing, he pressed a sticker on each of the charts, and put them in Don's line of sight on the table.
After giving a grandiose salute to his 'soldiers', Jim picked up and then dumped out the contents of the box that Don's hand had conveniently chosen.
Don was becoming more and more attentive. He did not know why, but he was aware that the stars meant something good. And that the something that was good had to do with him. He cautiously glanced at Charlie and Alan. Each of them smiled back at him and mouthed 'you're doing great'. Feeling that maybe he was doing more than he had thought he could before leaving for the doctor, Don rubbed the chalk in his left pocket. Maybe he was doing good enough that Charlie would still want him, maybe as much as the chalk.
Maybe more.
Don tried to concentrate on the ever-moving Jim and his activities. The therapist was rummaging through a pile of wooden blocks, deftly putting them to the side of the table. When he was done, he turned over a wooden tray that had individual holes that matched the shape and size of one block each. Shaking the box to make sure he wasn't missing any of its contents, Jim put it aside and addressed Don. "Soldier, sir, we need to organize our unit in preparation for a gripping assault. Can I rely on you?" Jim nodded his head, only having to wait a minute before Don copied his movement.
"Good. Now let's take advantage of your left-handed skills." Jim pointed to the biggest block; it was a solid-wood cylinder six inches in length and four in diameter. "Soldier, put the first member of your unit in his home base." Jim put Buddy on the table and brought Don's hand to the block. "Open your finger and thumb, soldier, and pick up the block." Don did as he was told, lifting the cylinder off the table for a few seconds; when he lost his grip and dropped it, his eyes welled up with tears and he clutched at Buddy, sinking into the back of his chair, afraid to look at any of the people in the room.
"Soldier, we do not give up in the face of persecution," Jim ordered. He gently took Don's left hand in his own and wrapped their fingers around the cylinder, pulling Don back up to the edge of the table. Don refused to watch, shutting his eyes with the fear of another failure. Together, therapist and patient picked up the cylinder, moved it a few inches across the table and positioned it in its slot within the wood tray. Releasing Don's hand, Jim strutted back and forth, gloating. "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! We did it soldier. Our first mission is a success!" Don opened his eyes and looked at the block they had moved. When Alan and Charlie chimed in their praises, Don sat straighter and smiled, waiting for further directions from Jim.
"Woo-hoo!" Jim yelped. "In order to graduate from boot camp, we need to pick up our blocks and put them in their little fox holes. We start with the big guns- Don should pick up the biggest blocks first, and then he can work his way down to the smaller ones." Jim picked up a clipboard from his file cabinet and pointed it at Charlie and Alan. "Support personnel are responsible for record-keeping: make sure you write down how long it takes Don to pick up an object, how long he can hold an object, and how far he can carry it. That is what we here in the army call keeping track of progress."
Jim hopped to the file cabinet, and then hopped back to Don. He put two more stickers on Don's chart. "You are going to be the most decorated officer in the army," he promised Don. Running his left index finger over the stars, Don's smile continued to grow.
Jim stopped in front of Alan and Charlie and began writing letters in the air, spelling the word manipulation while he said the name of each letter out loud. When he finished, he asked Charlie-who hadn't kept track of the letters- "And what does that spell?" Blushing, Charlie stole a glance at his father, who smiled and mouthed the answer to him.
"Manipulation!" Jim exclaimed. He positioned Don's hand over a large toy. This time, Don readily knew what was expected of him and quickly put his hand on the toy when Jim yelled parachute drop. Jim marched back and forth, waving a stiff arm up and down like a toy soldier; he stopped in front of Don and gave him another salute. "The president called and has issued this proclamation- Don and Buddy are hereby assigned as captains of all troops stationed within the Los Angeles area." Don looked at the charts, expecting to be given stickers. Seeing this movement, Jim shook his head while he waved a finger back and forth. "Oh, no. We only award medals after engaging in battle. Would you like to go back out into the field?" Jim waited to nod his own head, wanting to see if Don would respond without the prompt. Staring at the stickers, Don finally nodded; he wanted to get another star.
Putting his attention back on Jim, Don's eyes never strayed from the movements of the therapist as Jim dropped to a crouch, put a hand over his eyes and looked about the room. Jim darted under the table, jumping up on the other side of Don. He quickly pushed the large toy in front of Don and leaned over his patient, his arm draping across Don's shoulder as he whispered in his ear, "This is a top secret mission. Are you ready to proceed?" Don did not hesitate this time, and immediately nodded.
The toy in front of Don was a common child's toy. Various bent metal bars were attached at either end to a wooden base. There were small and large wooden beads through which the bars had been pushed; they were able to be pushed along the twists and turns of the metal.
Jim moved Don's left hand to a large bead at the end of one bar. He whispered, "Now, our mission is to get this soldier back to his home base. Just use your finger and thumb to push it along." After several attempts and encouraging words from Jim, Don was able to close his thumb and finger behind the peg. Clasping his wrist, Jim helped Don push the bead along the metal path until it rested at the opposite end.
Giving another salute, Jim pealed off two more stickers and awarded them to Don and Buddy. "Soldier, I am very proud to have you in my unit. With these medals, you now qualify to be majors." He gently patted Don and Buddy on their backs while Alan and Charlie complimented their success.
Flopping to the floor in-between Alan and Charlie, Jim crossed his legs and looked up at the two puzzled men, his face bouncing to one and then to the other. "Manipulating our basic supplies is important. Not only do we have to be able to pick up an item, we have to move it to where we want it to go. This involves finger, hand and wrist movement." He threw his head back toward the table. "This is one secret weapon we have in the fight to improve our troop movement." Talking to the men behind his hand, he whispered, "I included the names of some other devices you can use in the secret-for-your-eyes-only file that you'll get at the end of our session with Olivia; but don't leak a word of it to the enemy- the Geneva Convention outlawed every single one of our devices." He nodded his head as if in all seriousness.
Charlie sighed inside. He had been adverse to the therapist's behavior at first, but had politely waited to see if his methods would be successful with getting Don to participate in the therapy. To Charlie's chagrin, the methods had been extremely successful. He recognized that his brother was not only participating in the activities as they were offered; when they were finished, it was obvious Don wanted to do more. Charlie also recognized the changes in behavior Don was exhibiting from the first time Jim had shown him how to do the parachute drop. Don had gone from imitating Jim to actually responding on his own: immediately dropping his hand upon hearing the prompt parachute drop without having to be shown what to do, and nodding his head when Jim asked him a question, without Jim having to nod his head first.
The teacher in Charlie also recognized the purpose of the stars. Olivia had pointed out that eating food was immediately gratifying, so he knew that Don would probably practice his tongue exercises if he had something good-tasting to lick because the reward would be instantaneously given through the sense of taste. However, the gripping and manipulating therapy would not necessarily supply immediate gratification or satisfaction, especially if Don continued to be unsuccessful in his attempts; so, Charlie reasoned, Don needed the token reward of the stars. Having knowledge of reward systems that were utilized to teach, Charlie was aware of two things: one, that the tokens would build up to a tangible reward- something like letting Don choose a game or even giving him a treat; and two, that the reward system would eventually be phased out as Don became more aware of himself and would no longer need childish reinforcers to perform the tasks. Charlie was confident that at some point his brother would again have the cognitive ability to understand the need for the therapy and would perform based on reasoning- not because he and his stuffed toy received a star.
Alan did not have the advantage of the teaching background that Charlie did. Even though he tried to encourage Don in everything he was doing, Alan could not help but be irritated by Jim's overbearing smile and seemingly uncontrolled movements. When Jim started talking to them about secret files and the Geneva Convention, Alan had had more than he could tolerate; he was about to say something untowardly to the young therapist when a young woman interrupted his desired tirade and informed Alan that he had a telephone call. Happily excusing himself, he left to answer the phone.
"Well, let's do a few more troop maneuvers while we wait for our support personnel to return," Jim said, popping up off the floor, swaying across the room, and landing on his knees at eye level next to Don. "Would you like to drop out of a few more planes and earn more medals?" he asked. Don nodded. He rubbed at the chalk in his pants pocket, looked at Charlie and was satisfied when he received a smile, and then put his right hand over the table, his eyes flashing between his brother and the stars on his chart.
"Parachute drop!"
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"Alan Eppes here."
"Alan. It's Harvey Johnson, your world-renowned attorney."
"Harvey, I am not really in the mood for joking right now. Is there something wrong?" Alan was concerned. Why would the attorney track him down here? It must be something important and he had been afraid to ask, but had anyway. His heart beating fast in his chest, Alan listened, his hand on his hip and his left eye starting to twitch again.
"I'm sorry, Alan. The news is actually good. I got a call today from the probate court- they've scheduled Don's hearing for next week."
Alan's eye stopped twitching as he let out a slow breath of air, his heart starting to beat regularly in his chest. "How is that possible? I thought you said it would take weeks for me to get a hearing for permanent conservatorship of Don?"
"Trust me, Alan. I was as surprised as you. But a judge can waive the required timelines and apparently one has. And be grateful that my secretary is as good as she is; we have to notify all interested parties that you are applying for permanent conservatorship. It has taken some scrambling on her part to type up the required letters and get them posted; they all had to go out certified so we have proof the recipients received them on time. By the way, Charlie will be getting one of these letters in the mail- tell him to just sign for it and put it aside. It's nothing to worry about."
"Is there anything I need to do to be prepared?"
"Just one thing: since Don is now at home, he needs to attend the hearing. The judge will probably want to ask him a few questions."
"I don't know if that's possible, Harvey. Don has only been home a few days and I don't think he's emotionally prepared to be in a crowded courtroom." Alan was also thinking about his thirty-five year old son appearing in public with his thumb in his mouth and a stuffed toy clutched in his arms; he had been trying to keep anyone but the necessary people from seeing Don that way, knowing when his son got better it would be hard for him to accept that he had appeared in front of others that way.
"I'm sorry, Alan. If we make up an excuse to keep him from attending, the judge may change the hearing to another date until Don's appearance is guaranteed. You have to understand that conservatorship takes away a lot of Don's basic civil rights- most judges don't want to make that move unless absolutely necessary and like to have the opinion of the proposed conservatee when making a ruling. In Don's case, his appearance can only help you in obtaining permanent papers of conservatorship- I'm sorry, but one look at him and I think any judge would see his need for permanent care."
"All right. I'll have Charlie prepare him for it. I just want to get this done and over with."
"After Monday, it will be. I'll call you later this week and give you the specifics. I wanted to prepare you for the letter Charlie will be receiving, and thought you'd like the good news."
"If I seem ungrateful, Harvey, I apologize. Of course I wanted to know. I thank you, thank your secretary for me, and thank that judge."
"Oh, I plan to." The men said their goodbyes.
As Johnson laid the phone back on its hook, he began to ponder the situation. He had been just as surprised as his client that they had received such an early hearing date. Not that he was complaining, he thought, but he had a funny feeling that something was not quite right.
Johnson tried to shrug off the uneasy feeling, but failed; deciding to take Alan's advice, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the probate judge he had been told had changed the hearing date. Because the judge who had changed the hearing date might not be the one hearing their case, Johnson did not believe it would be improper to call him with the excuse of thanking him; besides, they had attended law school together, and Johnson knew the judge would not mind his call. While they talked, he would try to get some information.
When he was put through by the judge's secretary, Johnson put his most ingratiating voice into the phone:
"Kenneth! Long time no see."