.
.
.
There was nothing sensational about Derek's breakdown; it merely left him depleted and ashamed of having borne himself so openly in front of a stranger and a person he could barely recognize. He left, seeing no other option to deal with the moment.
Distressed and in need of his own consolation, he defaulted to his last resort. Dr Henderson was unavailable at the time while tending to other patients, and the team was in the middle of a case.
In the passing weeks and months, Savannah had been spared the grimmer details of Spencer's abduction. But due to the publicity of the investigation—and from Derek's own watered-down testimony—she knew more than most. They weren't yet at a point in their relationship where Derek could even disclose intimate details of his own past to her, so she was unaware of how personal the matter was for him. But while seated at his hotel bed, he had called her, disclosing his distress in vague, undetailed strokes, voice hushed with panged uneasiness.
She mostly offered her reliable listening ear, but the conversation didn't end without a suggestion:
'Yeah, so, I think it'd be a good idea for you to speak to the hospital psychologist, Derek,' she had said. 'For your friend, of course, but for you. You take care of yourself before you can take care of someone else—make sure you're in the right place. And then check in on that interpreter, too, please? 'Cause lord knows she took that with her.'
He hadn't thought about her—Cassandra—but after Savannah's suggestion, he couldn't help but recall what he had discussed with Luke and Alex many weeks ago regarding vicarious trauma.
So after returning to the hospital, he spoke to the interpreter for a few minutes outside the room—thanked her for undertaking this assignment, smiled with her when he sought to establish some kind of connection with her by asking her about herself, her family.
'My clients are my greatest joy,' she had said. 'I've worked with all kinds of patients in various facets of healthcare for almost thirty-five years, Agent Morgan. Never married, never any children of my own—but I grew close enough to some of my clients and their families that I could comfortably say they were like my own. About twenty years ago, I had the opportunity to learn and utilize new skills that've only expanded my reach and help more people. I wouldn't have it any other way.'
Derek's throat tightened at her warm declaration. He was overcome with gratitude for her and a sort of sorrow that her work—with all its woes and its delights—was all that she knew.
In the following few hours that stretched towards dusk, Dr Kane had come and gone, Derek and Spencer—through Cassandra's diligent translation—were given progress updates and prognoses from the gastroenterologist, the other interpreter arrived to relieve Cassandra, Derek dipped in and out the room, Dr Goswami came in for just a brief visit to see how Spencer was coming along, and the nurses had returned to handle whatever Spencer could tolerate.
Spencer was walled off somewhere, eyes lowered or shut. If he wasn't still, then he was continuing with the gentle strokes across his jaw and with his body or head turned toward the door. But the moment anything regarding a bath was brought up, he was in the present, alert, and distressed in subtle ways that were manifest on the machines.
Derek didn't have the heart to have a bath forced on him. As soon as the nurses would back away, it was like the veil fell over Spencer again.
As the evening drew on, Derek simply fell asleep by Spencer's bedside, and it was dawn when he was awakened by ruffling. Rubbing the crust from his eyes and intrigued by the sound and movement, he observed the focused intensity at which Spencer stared at the door.
Spencer's hands wriggled atop the sheets like a spider, bunching and loosening the fabric beneath it. His chest expanded and collapsed with such force that Derek was prepared to hear a rib or sternum snap. There was a strange mixture of desperate fear and yearning creasing his face.
Derek thought to look at the screens to detect the physiological changes in Spencer and knew the warning signs before the machines would even send their alerts. He pressed the nurse call button, and it wasn't long before a small team of nurses were attending to what soon and sure enough was a seizure. Derek stood out their way and let them handle it properly.
Once Spencer was resting, the nurses went about suctioning or cleaning his stomal sites and pouches without disturbing him, conducted blood drawing, replaced anything that needed replacing, administered anything that needed to be administered, did light massaging to his extremities—all with practiced, expeditious, feather-light touches—taking advantage of whatever time they had without him tensing.
Derek, too, took advantage of that time to go to his hotel, freshen up, gather his things, and check out of his room.
Before noon even hit, Spencer suffered another seizure. The team of neuro nurses and physicians attributed these to his sleep disturbances, which were also contributing to his overall emotional state—none of which served him well—and they increased his anticonvulsant medication.
As soon as Dr Henderson was available, Derek sought her out to determine what he could improve to help Spencer. It wasn't entirely what he wanted to hear.
"Continue to give him time, Agent Morgan. As a reminder, Spencer is likely dealing with feelings of entrapment and powerlessness. It's he who has to adjust, and this will take time. What he's experiencing now is in the same vein as the captivity, so while there may be some vast differences in the circumstances, there's no break from the fantasy he was thrust into."
And: "Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do if Spencer is unable or unwilling to engage or maintain his engagement. We just keep grounding him. He absolutely needs to sleep, though, because the lack of sleep is only serving to increase the anxiety. He's displaying all the hallmark signs of post-traumatic amnesia, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's experiencing hallucinations at this point. He's likely sorting through a lifetime of experiences and months of trauma and reconciling these with his current condition. Time and patience, agent."
And: "If sexual violence was used during his captivity as means of punishment or to correct wayward behavior, that examination from yesterday may have served as a reminder for him to stop resisting, to comply. Overall he's a cooperative patient. Although, it seems, the general hygiene is aversive to him. There's possibly an emotional component to bathing that's unable to be breached, and I would suggest waiting on him instead of forcing it on him—give him that bit of agency. It's not the end of the world."
And: "I'm concerned about his act of recreating an instance of asphyxiation. It could be another form of self-injury, or it could be that the act was eroticized during the captivity and that the invasiveness of the assessment put him in the mind of one of the instances of rape. It could be that they coexist to him, that he doesn't know one component—the rape—without the other—the erotic asphyxiation. This could potentially shape or effect future sexual encounters if or when he chooses to pursue any."
And: "Preventative measures will only serve to agitate and or retraumatize Spencer further, but they absolutely must be taken. We can't allow for self-injury."
And the most sobering: "I'm going to tell you something I'm sure you already know, Agent Morgan. Rehabilitation aside, when Spencer is transferred from this facility and until these severe reactions to stressful stimuli are at a controllable level, he will absolutely require round-the-clock assistance just to help guide him from his psychological duress. He needs a touchstone, and he needs assistance in being grounded when he experiences his intrusive memories—proper and constant monitoring. We all understandably have our own personal lives, so there may be a need to have him either remain in a proper inpatient facility or have a constant rotation of private caretakers."
—
Spencer finally rested again of his own will, but not for long before he reawakened and his trembling fingers wriggled towards the IV catheter, scratching.
Derek took Spencer's twitching hands into his, voice elevated with worry and frustration as Spencer tugged and jerked in a futile effort. "Hey, Reid. Kid. Hey hey. Don't do this, please. Don't do this."
Spencer stilled as if struck.
As Derek slowly released his wrists, he watched in heartache as Spencer withdrew again. His knuckles didn't brush against his jaw, but his thumb did in slow, deliberate strokes.
The desperation was evident. He wanted to sleep. Derek could see it in the lingering, uneven flutter of the eyelids, the jittering of his chest with each breath. Spencer ached for a peaceful and fulfilling repose, but insecurity prevented him.
Derek invited Dr Henderson to try to reach Spencer, which didn't get anywhere, either. So he called Aaron.
"I think it's obvious what needs to be done," Aaron sighed out. "After he wakes up, he'll have more clarity, and he might better attune himself to what's actually going on around him. May help to realign some of his faculties, and he may get the better sense that we're here to help and not hurt him."
Derek sighed. "Okay. Right. This just . . . destroys any trust we're trying to build with him. Just like Henderson said, there's no distinct break between his captivity and this reality. Conditions are too similar. This won't help."
Despite this, he moved forward with requesting that Spencer be given a sedative. Dr Henderson, in turn, gave Derek and staff a warning that safety measures might be needed after he would reawaken.
It was a well-warranted warning. When Spencer awoke in the late afternoon hour, he dazedly scratched at his arm and dislodged the IV catheter; he reached down to his groin and snapped away at his external catheter; his fingers scratched at his belly between the gastronomy site and his colostomy pouch and he nearly dislodged those, too.
Derek gently held him down until staff arrived, trying to calm him with empty platitudes. To prevent him from continuing his course of self-injury, restraints were used.
Derek watched as the recognition of their sensation rippled through Spencer's frame before he stilled: the relaxation of every limb and the closure of his eyes; the wrinkles in his face smoothing out and his chest heaving just the once. He didn't like seeing these as the nurses re-sited or replaced everything properly and addressed the new scratches.
It was deplorable to leave Spencer alone like this, Derek knew, but he stepped out the room to gather himself, unable to bear the sight of seeing his friend comfortable with the restriction. He didn't return until the early evening.
—
Sometime before Alex arrived in the late evening, the restraints were removed. Through the interpreter, a woman named Janice, Derek offered empty apologies.
Spencer hadn't reacted to their removal, and he didn't react to Derek's apologies.
Nothing seemed to break past this wall, so he merely sat there until Alex entered the room with a single rap.
"Oh. Wow—hoo." Alex reared her head back, nose wrinkling.
Derek puffed out a soft chuckle and stood. He tapped Alex at the elbow and kicked his head to the door.
"Yeah, let's step out for a sec." Once the door was closed, he turned to Alex. "Room's startin' to smell a little raw."
"Mm. Gross understatement."
"Yeah, my bad. You can breathe through your mouth, but nurses also taught me the trick of using VapoRub under my nose, so I didn't even think about it. Kid's lucky he can't smell anything. They're gonna bring a few bags of coffee grounds next checkup tomorrow morning."
Alex's eyebrows peaked, and she pointed at the door. "He's still reluctant to bathe," she theatrically whispered.
"Yeah. I don't have the heart to force it on him, you know? Dr Henderson suggests we give this choice to him."
"Ah."
"Either way, I'm not sure if Hotch told you guys about what went down yesterday during and after his examination with the gastroenterologist. Wasn't good. Let's talk a bit before I head out."
—
It wasn't good.
By Derek's account and according to his conversation with Dr Henderson, it wasn't good at all. She waited in the corner of the room, lips straightened as Derek tried to pass along a farewell to Spencer. After she and Derek parted ways, she dismissed the interpreter and began the process of collecting her thoughts in between receiving sporadic text messages from Jennifer.
Derek had moved one of the chairs to the other side of the bed, presumably to have direct visual contact with Spencer, who preferred to face at the door or curl on his side, both of which were to his right.
Spencer was like a wall, Derek had told her, and nothing was truly getting past him. He was deteriorating.
Four days after coming to full consciousness, yet it seemed that any progress had stopped upon fully emerging. She could better appreciate Dr Goswami's words from the day he'd awakened: this road to recovery would be triply as difficult, and they as a team would either contribute to its success or collapse.
Alex reached out once to engage with him, to let him know who was with him before he was drawing back.
And the hours dragged on—beyond midnight and towards another dawn.
In the early morning, she too awoke to the shuffling and groaning of sheets and bed. Bleary, she straightened upon seeing that not only was Spencer alert, but he seemed to be attempting to sit up in the bed with a hand braced against it and his head tilted to the door. She got up and helped him sit upright. He, in turn, plastered his hand down for some stability.
She texted Derek, apologized for the early hour, and confirmed her suspicions through their exchange.
Weeks ago, when the EEG readings had detected that Spencer had transitioned to a sleep-wake cycle, Dr Kane and the nurses had confirmed that there was some regularity—almost to the very minute—with awakenings around a quarter after six.
Derek's text indicated that Spencer's first seizure yesterday had been some time before six-thirty.
And now, it was about a quarter after six.
This was a subconscious, ingrained routine.
As the minutes passed, the soothing motions began.
"You're waiting for them," Alex sighed out, disheartened. She tilted her head, and her next words came out in a murmur. "Is it fear or anticipation?"
And the hand that had rubbed against his jaw moved to his thigh, the fingers curled, and he dragged it—knee to pelvis to knee and back—with a reddening face.
"Spencer, please don't do this," Alex rushed out, voice more elevated and assertive than she intended as she stretched forward and stood in front of him. She was taken aback when he seemingly acted on her demand—freezing, eyes shut, head jerking down and away—but it passed. The motions resumed. She tapped his hand, tucked hers underneath to prevent the scratching, and he in turn curled them.
"You're not there anymore," she asserted. "You're not there. You're in a hospital and you're not there. No one's coming to hurt you."
His hands clasped and unclasped above hers, and his quivering brows drew upward.
She sighed. This just wasn't working. She glanced around the room—passed over the updated low-light décor that Penelope had added to various spaces but paused at the window, where the blinds were shuttered.
She pulled away from him, stepped toward the window, and opened the shades a bit, taking a sweeping look of everything outside before she was in front of Spencer again. Upon reaching him, she found his hand at his leg again and the other plastered against the mattress.
"How often did they engage you with anything outside the room where you were kept?"
His eyebrows curled.
"Anything as simple as the day, time, or weather—did they share these kinds of things with you? Allow you to experience anything?"
He pulled a hand away and teetered on a response. It never came, so she continued, tucking her hands underneath his again.
"It's 6:43 in the morning on January the first of 2014. There's a window a few feet behind you. Outside is a tree with a dust of snow on bare branches." She paused. "It looks like a sycamore tree."
And then she asked the question that seemed to be the only one to elicit any kind of response from him—positive or otherwise.
"Do you understand?"
There was no hesitation; his hand flicked up toward his head, but his expression was removed from the words. "I understand."
She straightened her lips, letting out a nasal huff. But she continued, speaking slowly and feeding him portioned sentences so he could form the mental picture. "We're eight floors aboveground in a hospital. You can see down into the main street, two lanes per side. There are other buildings, but none more than three to five stories. Their styles are mostly colonial brick, and they're all surrounded by trees. There isn't much snow. It's enough to be appreciated. In the distance you can see many hills with bare trees dusted in the snow." She paused to look over his shoulder through the blinds. "We can see a portion of the sunrise from this window. It's still below the hills, and I think there's a new moon. It's a typical vibrant winter sunrise."
His head twitched a certain way, and she paused at seeing his rapid blinking and puckered eyebrows.
"Do you know these words?"
With closed eyes, he tilted his head and flicked it left to right as if he were scrolling across the pages of a book. It seemed like he was arriving at or seeing undesirable things and moving past them.
He drew his hands to himself, and the look of concentration—that of his furrowing brows and pursing lips—deepened.
It was a clear, familiar flicker of someone Alex hoped was still within the shell of a person before her. She ached to see more of him.
And then his shoulders hunched further. He tilted his head away from her, and his tremorous hands moved in slow and hesitant gestures.
"I'm sick," he eventually answered. "I'm sorry. I forget because I'm sick."
Alex gave a brief, displeased hum, but chose to continue her course.
"I'll help you understand. If you don't know a word, lower your left hand and grip my wrist. Can I see you do this as a demonstration? Can I see if you can grip my wrist? Good."
And so she provided a description of the sunrise in rich detail, the wash of colors, the clouds rippling and breaking it up, fingerspelling where needed.
Spencer's jaws loosened, tightened, worked as if her words were a delicacy upon his tongue. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his head tucked toward his left, shoulders tilted as if he dared look behind him. But despite this, his eyes had slipped closed.
"These aren't your favorite clouds, by the way. They're cirrostratus. But it is beautiful—if you would like to see it. It's right behind you. You can see it all behind you."
His hands grasped hers and trembled.
"I can help you face the window if you would like. No one is preventing you from looking."
He pulled back his hands from some electric sting. They twiddled, his head lowered, and Alex waited.
"You won't look."
She tilted her head and pursed her lips for a moment in distraction before she sought to break this. "You're in a hospital, and you're safe. There's no danger here. None. You can do as you wish."
But that didn't work, either. It seemed he was falling into a distress that she hadn't intended for him. His brows furrowed, he gave a twitch of his head, and then his expression evened again before the measured, tremulous words were expressed.
"We demand. You do what we say. You take what we give. All the time."
That was twice now. And so she wondered if he might be feeling some ache in his right hand or if he was finding it difficult to control with his jerking muscles. He'd switched to dominating his words from the right to the left.
Despite this, she responded. "There are no demands here. You have a choice in everything. You don't have to bathe if you don't want to. You don't have to go through with the examinations later if you don't want to. They're to help you heal and get better, but you can refuse them for now. There would be no repercussions."
His head tilted, and he swayed.
Alex was perturbed when the hand she thought to be aching became dominant as he spoke slowly.
"You don't understand . . . you don't understand how sick you are. You have to trust us. Trust us. This is all so that you can come back to me. I'm going to make you better and you'll come back to me."
And then he wrung his shaking hands around each other again.
"Spencer," Alex sighed out in frustration.
Feelings of powerlessness like that of his captivity—Derek had told her this last night. This was what Dr Henderson had told him. Powerlessness, yes, while having bonded with his captors.
Perhaps through this flawed bond that had developed, perhaps with the precarious cycle that he navigated daily—the deprecation, and the explicit dependence on his captors for even the most basic needs—maybe these all manifested into a warped craving for the familiarity of force. Perhaps he felt that being dominated was his only recourse. Such would be familiar to him. And for Spencer, familiarity was a safety net.
Agency and autonomy—it was as if he feared and resisted these. It was as if he wanted boundaries and firmer approaches. It was a manifestation of regressive behavior. Children, after all, craved boundaries. As she'd thought days ago, this might be his baseline, and they would have to build from this.
Okay. So, choices. Dignify him with limited, unobjectionable, and seemingly unpunishable choices.
Later, at a more reasonable hour, Alex would discuss the effectiveness—or ineffectiveness—of her next approach with Dr Henderson and see if this might be a direction they move in. She didn't want to do anything that could cause retraumatization. But for now, while Spencer was responsive and partially engaged, she would try to keep him here.
She tap-tapped his hand. "You don't want to be sick. Is that correct? You want to . . . you want to heal?"
Spencer's nostrils flared, and he worked his jaw like a response was at the tip of his tongue and ready to burst out. He pulled his hands to himself.
"Yes. Please."
And Alex's hands were under his. "But you're not sleeping."
His fingers wrung over Alex's hands.
"I want to remind you of where you are. Remember—every time you don't understand a word, I want you to squeeze my wrist. You're in a hospital in New Jersey. It's been four days since you've awakened from a 35-day disorder of consciousness. The quality of your sleep is significantly fragmented while you're in the ICU. Frequent disturbances and changes in the circadian rhythm lead to delirium and increased anxiety. Somewhere in there, you know this. This inhibits your ability to make decisions and make sense of what's going on around you. The lack of sleep also leads to changes in electric activity in your brain. Imbalances. You know all this already. I know you do. But you have a seizure disorder now. Your lack of sleep is aggravating your disorder. Do you understand this?"
His brows were curled, his nostrils twitched, his lips and chin quivered. "Yes, I understand."
"Proper sleep can alleviate some of the confusion and anxiety you're feeling, and it may help lessen your seizures. While you're free to do as you please, this won't do. You have to make a choice in order for us to assist you with getting the proper sleep. This choice won't be easy, but please—"
'You have to trust us,' he had recited earlier.
Alex was left with no choice. Her assurance would be a mere mimicry of the same destructive words that had been used to inundate and manipulate him. She wrinkled her nose. She didn't like this, and she was especially displeased with treating Spencer in this manner.
"Please trust that this is all to help you. I'd like for you to choose. One: tell us what is making you feel unsafe or uncomfortable. There will be no"—she sighed, and her hands faltered—"no punishment. Communicate with us so we can provide steps to help you get proper sleep. It may be something physical, such as massaging or a warm bath. They may involve relaxation therapy, such as a sleep mask or use of certain sounds. If you prefer the relaxation therapy, especially one that involves sound, the audiology test can help us determine how to best meet your needs. Two specialists are scheduled for short bedside tests today. Each can assist you with prognoses that will help promote sleep. That's your first choice."
Spencer's face was pinched.
"Your second choice is simpler, quicker, and will involve less physical interaction. Drugs will be used to assist your sleep. If your seizures are too frequent, then the sedative may be necessary anyway. So these are the two choices: we help you sleep, or a drug is used. "
For a moment, Spencer was still. And then his hands pulled away. Again, that swaying motion. One drew to his chest.
"I—"
Alex paid rapt attention.
And then his hand went toward his head. "I understand. Please, I—" His lashes began fluttering, and his brows tucked upward as his face reddened. But he continued: "Please. I'll cooperate. You can do all of this without giving me drugs."
She puffed out an exasperated breath aimed at the situation and not toward him, trying to fight the heat building behind her own eyes. "This isn't punishment. None of this is punishment. This isn't the same. But I understand. We'll avoid giving you any drugs to make you sleep. Nurses will be coming in about an hour to attend to you. Two more hours from then, the first assessment will be with the neuro-ophthalmologist. It will require physical interaction. You have time to prepare yourself before either of these, or you might want to rest."
His head swiveled down, and he swayed.
"Are you tired?"
His lips and chin twitched again. He nodded.
She had to help ease him back down as he teetered. "Try to rest."
Occasionally she caught him tilting his head to the window behind him, eyes still closed.
—
The examination was routine—adjusted to fit to his needs but routine—and surprisingly unencumbered until the ophthalmologist placed the simplest of her testing tools directly against his face.
There was no questioning that Spencer could see. Rather, what was in question was what visual disorder—or disorders—he might have.
Dr Henderson was invited to observe and assist if Spencer had any emotional or psychological disturbances—if she wasn't with another patient. She came and lingered in the corner.
It left Spencer fatigued and drained—and Alex equally so as she had to act as both conduit and comforter.
The doctor's aborted hums and Spencer's responses to instructions—his jittering eyes in place of fixed focus, his missed aim when grabbing at a simple object, the slight tilt of his head in place of a forward gaze—were just as discouraging.
When the time came, Dr Henderson was put to use, assisting Alex in grounding Spencer when he lost touch with reality during the examination. Even afterwards, when Alex thought she was comforting him, he seemed to have been thrown into an intrusive memory.
Spencer was currently recovering. Alex, however, was a few floors down, taking a small break and calling Aaron.
"Alex, what's going on?"
"Hey, Aaron. Just the first report of the day, I suppose. And I also spoke with Dr Henderson a few minutes ago. Spencer and I had something of a . . . an understanding early this morning. Most of his responses seem to be either the McAllistars' or his own recitations during captivity. He just keeps being unintentionally thrust back into these emotionally charged memories."
"Yes, Derek's mentioned this in so few words. Dr Henderson mentioned that there'll be a need for constant monitoring. I've been looking into various options. I'm vacillating between inpatient care at a top-tier brain trauma facility in DC recommended to me by Dr Kane. The other choice is, of course, at-home care."
"Pricey."
"Either choice is, honestly. His insurance barely covers the cost. Dave's been sticking his card out every opportunity he can, and apparently another party is trying to assist."
"Another party?"
"It's a little complicated. Won't get into it. Once we have a more complete and realistic scope of what his needs will be, then I'll see how to better move forward. On that note, how did the ophthalmologist exam go?"
"Right. So. Dr Westin feels that this assessment wasn't entirely reliable due to Spencer's fatigue, stress, and sleep deprivation. These can skew the findings. But if it's to be taken at face value, then Spencer has a visual disorder or visual disturbances that may lessen over time alongside his rehab, with medication, and with vision therapy exercises. In Dr Westin's own words, what he has isn't uncommon with any kind of brain injury, and there's a slew of things that can be done to usher the rehab process. She wants to keep an ophthalmologist on the rehab team so that there's regular reassessment throughout its course."
"What exactly are the symptoms he's displaying?"
"Aside from photophobia, there's double vision, loss of visual acuity and pursuit, and more prominent is a visual balance disorder: visual midline shift—which affects his balance and posture; mild nystagmus; slight disorder with his depth perception, and oculomotor dysfunction, which"—she sighed—"which boils down to reading problems. So Dr Westin wants to introduce the use of yoked prism glasses on occasion to retrain Spencer's vestibular and proprioceptive systems to assist with balance. In the long run—should rehab go well—the worst that Spencer may have to deal with permanently is the oculomotor dysfunction, occasional double vision, and an increase in headaches, dizziness, and or nausea."
"Okay. So he's looking at inconveniences but nothing gravely disabling."
"Correct."
"Mm. Okay. How was he during the examination?"
Alex hesitated, and Aaron detected it, she suspected.
"Did something happen, Alex?"
Alex sighed. "I'm pretty sure they threatened to remove his eye or eyes, Aaron."
There was no response on the other end.
"Aaron? Are—"
"I'm here. I'm just . . . I'm processing."
"I think it was pretty clear. As soon as the occluder was placed against his eye under his glasses—which, well, that in itself was challenging for him to accept wearing—he began to assert that there was no punishment needed, that he wouldn't look which he then switched to didn't look, begged that it not be removed, and then he pressed his fingertips to his eyes. Dr Henderson had to walk me through grounding him at that point."
"Mm. It suggests that there was an opportunity on at least one occasion where either they had removed the blindfold, or where he had managed to remove it himself."
"Mm-hmm." She paused. "Seems more like the former. And the whole premise might suggest a system of trust. I want to do everything in my power to prevent invading his privacy, Aaron, I do. But I wonder if I might need to—to begin watching his footage."
"Alex—"
"I already know that it'll only serve to take on Spencer's trauma and expose myself to highly intimate, possibly humiliating interactions, but I feel like I'm the only one properly equipped to dissect some of the nuances—"
"Except you aren't the only one equipped, Alex. What you're feeling is a misplaced responsibility. Don't take that on. There are a team of third-party translators who are doing their job and cataloging everything that they can. The forensic psychologist working with Luke—she'll attack this on all sides, I assure you. And once Reid's able to handle it, she will be fully assessing him as well. Obviously it'll be in a more investigative capacity, but even that will yield insight into what's going on in there. With her connections, she may be able to recommend a preferred trauma psychologist. Spare yourself from seeing him in this manner, because you'll never see him the same again."
Alex puffed out a breath, shaking her head.
"That besides, the chasm widens daily on what we have access to in an investigative manner anyway. So we help Reid with what matters—his recovery, his emotional needs—here, now."
"Right, okay. You're right, Aaron."
"Anything else going on?"
"Hm. Yeah. So. He's also switching hands when he's signing. It's like speaking in another accent that isn't your own. Or, Aaron, it's like speaking in another voice. It's encouraged to use one's dominant hand and be consistent, even if one might be ambidextrous. In general, Spencer knows this."
"This is when he's speaking in their voice?"
"Yes."
"So if I personally were to be learning, I should use my left hand since that's my dominant one."
"Yeah, yep."
"So some of what he's saying—he's articulating them in the voice of Russell McAllistar."
"That's my conclusion, yeah. I think this understanding is ingrained in Spencer and that this is subconscious. It's just . . . I hate to see it, Aaron. He's still not quite here with us; he isn't using his own words that are appropriate for the moment—he's parroting them—Lorraine and Russell—in reaction to what's being said to him."
"I think it's hard to shut off the linguist in you and not dissect everything he says, Alex. It's hard for any of us as profilers not to do this. We just need to . . . we just need to give him time, and we need to give him the right kind of attention and help."
—
After the call with Aaron, Alex had gone to the hospital gift shop. By the time she returned to the room, Spencer's bed was back in an upright position, the horn-rimmed glasses were still perched on his face, and his eyes were slipped closed.
She sat, though, and weighed her upcoming actions for a few minutes, sipping her coffee. She unbagged the item she bought and held it in her hands.
Either this next experiment would end in horrific failure or dreadful success.
Standing—not wasting time in engaging—Alex plopped it onto his lap before stepping back, observing.
After tens of seconds of wringing his fingers, Spencer—eyes still closed—tilted his head toward his lap and tentatively reached forward. He first brushed his knuckles over it, and then his shaking fingertips. Alex surmised that he might be getting a sense of the soft texture. He next grasped and traced along it, brought it to his nose as if to smell at it.
It wasn't the same, of course. What the McAllistars used was made of hardened leather and softened suede, fastened with locks. This was an oversimplified, innocuous design intended to induce rest by blocking out aversive visual stimulus.
Alex cleared her throat when Spencer tentatively touched his glasses, then gave his hand a double tap. He, in turn, tilted his head toward her and twitched his hands in his lap. She took it as an allowance.
"Would you like me to help you put this on?"
The dip of his head was nearly imperceptible. But she again took it as an assent, wasting no time in removing his glasses and fitting on the sleep mask without disturbing any wiring. There was a looseness in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. Indeed, the body said just as much as letters on a page or the spoken word, and those lax sagging muscles spoke of relief.
He tilted his head to where she stood, and then he tapped his own hand. Alex, in return, blinked at him. When his shaking hand wavered out in the next moment, Alex tapped at Spencer.
"Is something wrong?"
But Thank you was all he said.
—
"Is this something you'd like to discuss, Spencer?" Alex, who sat near the window, made sure her voice was elevated. "Are you ignoring everyone? Everything?"
The audiologist's examination was intentionally nonburdensome and took mere minutes, with abbreviated but effective tests that were combined with EEG readings used to gauge Spencer's neural responses.
"Why?"
The assessment from the audiologist confirmed everyone's suspicion.
'So he can generally hear our current conversation.'
The audiologist had responded in an even voice. 'The neural responses are there, yes. Whispering and quiet conversation not so much, but yes for conversation above a certain decibel. In the left at least. The right is showing profound, mixed hearing loss.'
'We'd had our suspicions when he was in his minimally conscious state, and since he's awakened there have been occasional indications that he can hear us, but nothing overly reactive.'
"That's why I'm sitting on this side. It's why I'm elevating my voice."
'Regarding the left ear, it's difficult to pinpoint the actual cause for the moderate hearing loss. Low or completely non-existent oxygen levels from hypoxia and or anoxia could well have caused a reduction in his blood supply to his inner ear, permanently damaging the tiny hair cells responsible for hearing. This can be unilateral or bilateral, and it could explain a bit of the hearing loss for the right ear, too. Ototoxic drug-induced hearing loss is far more common than you'd think and can also be unilateral or bilateral, permanent or can partially recovered. Lots of other causes—prolonged noise exposure, physical trauma. Any one of these can cause some sensorineural hearing loss, which is often permanent once someone has gone beyond a certain timeframe to address it. This might have to be investigated further.'
The audiologist had expressed concern for Spencer's right ear, though, and viewed Spencer's CT scans—those from intake and those taken while he was in a coma.
The face mask had remained, so Alex couldn't truly gauge if Spencer was still with them or if he had gone somewhere. He'd been generally unresponsive to most of the testing.
'From the CT scan during intake back in November, you can see on the side here that there are bridging calluses formed in the temporal bone.'
'That's healing bone.'
'Yep. Indicative of acute blunt trauma. Also present is dislocation of the ossicles and a rupture in the tympanic membrane in the middle ear, which can also happen due to blunt force trauma. This latter causes conductive hearing loss, which can usually be dealt with surgically and is generally reversible. But the temporal bone trauma caused what looks to be an oblique fracture, meaning that it was both longitudinal and transverse. This makes me confident in it being one of the empirical causes for the sensorineural portion of the hearing loss in this ear.'
And so the audiologist had asked Spencer—with Alex's assistance—if he could remember the trauma that had caused this dangerous injury and if he had at any point afterwards experienced severe headaches, dizziness, tinnitus, vertigo, vomiting, leakage from his nose or ear, and or seizures.
And then it came. Spencer tilted his head back, his breathing stuttered, and then his hands tucked to his neck, curling into claws and scratching. Alex wedged her hands between his, drew them down, and tucked her hands under his. She guided one of his hands to his wrist and brushed his curled knuckles against it—encouraged him to take in the shape of her hands—to ground him, to remind him that there were no restraints here—just as Dr Henderson had suggested earlier in the day.
His fingers kept trembling and moving to his neck to relieve himself from the imagined choke hold. His chest had jerked and Alex wondered if there just might be some specter in the room attacking him at that moment. It was an ongoing cycle, so she eventually had to dismiss the audiologist.
But now, after the calm, Spencer was silent in response to Alex's questions. She, in turn, prodded him no further.
—
"Report number two, Aaron. He's going to need hearing aids. That is, if he accepts them. That and surgery in his right ear to correct a middle ear fracture—again if he wants it."
There was a heavy sigh on the other side of the phone. But then: "Okay. This ends nothing. None of his diagnoses end things. What did Dr Norris assess?"
"It's profound loss on the right, Aaron—with a near complete inability to hear—but he only has a mild to moderate inability to hear on the left."
"So he can hear us."
"There's no question that he can. There are neural responses indicating that he can hear."
"Huh."
"I'm not sure what to make of it, Aaron—make sense of why he's just been going on these past few days as if he's been unable to hear anything at all. I mean—he's reacted sometimes when the door opens, but that sound isn't enough to reach the threshold that he can hear. Earlier this morning, I'd raised my voice in worry and he seemed to pause then, but I hadn't thought much of it because it was so brief before he was self-soothing again."
"We'll figure it out, Alex. We will, eventually. If he experienced hallucinations while he was in captivity, some of them may have been auditory, and he may still either be experiencing these because of lack of sleep or believing that anything he's hearing, feeling, or seeing may be hallucinations. He may have eventually learned how to deal with them, and one way is by—well—"
"Ignoring them," she croaked out.
"Yeah."
She sighed. "Well. According to Dr Norris, Spencer experienced acute cerebral trauma at some point, focalized to the right temporal bone. When we tried to prod him for a series of events and possible symptoms he suffered, Spencer experienced another intrusive memory. Hands at his neck, struggling for release as if his attackers were actually there, doing him harm. It's sensorineural hearing loss that's gone untreated far too long for productive restorative treatment, as normal treatment for this is done within the first week or so of the onset of symptoms—if it can be done at all."
"We'll"—a sigh—"we'll help him through it all. This ends nothing."
—
Just as she had done earlier during the day, Alex resignedly placed a small, plastic container onto his lap before stepping back.
"I hope you're able to sleep tonight with those, Spencer," she said, voice elevated.
And just as he'd done earlier, he tentatively reached forward. When he finally had a weak, shaking grip on the item in hand, he tilted his head down, tightening and loosening his grip on it.
So Alex stood at his bedside again, took it from his hand without hesitation, and pinched his jaw lightly to tilt his head.
He showed no signs of resistance as she tucked one in his left ear—just the loosening of his shoulders—then moved to his right.
She'd offered this avenue this morning, had she not? Relaxation therapy, she'd told him, with the use of a sleep mask, and intervention after the audiologists' assessment.
"Not at all another indication that you were conditioned by your captivity," she whispered with an acerbic lilt. "This shouldn't have come as a surprise."
As she pulled away, he merely said a gesture of thanks. She, in turn, placed a hand on his before sitting back in her seat.
And she watched him and the machines.
He slept but not for long. Alex kept watch another night.
—
"I feel like I'm bothering you with all my reporting, Aaron."
It was the following morning after the latest assessment with the otolaryngologist.
"Not at all, Alex. Your reports are indispensable. How did the visit with Dr Johnson go?"
She sighed. "Variation on a theme. There was"—she struggled to get out the words—"the examination triggered an intrusive memory. Something I said turned what started out innocuous into something volatile and—" She huffed, and her voice took on a simultaneous edge and a tightened tremor. "It happened again, Aaron. I swear that it was as if that son of a bitch had been right there with his hands or a garrote around Spencer's neck."
"What happened?"
She tutted. "Well, any laryngeal exam is invasive, and a dynamic voice evaluation is conducted. So after assessing breathing and swallowing, another step is phonation—or attempts at such—to make a more thorough diagnosis and determine what treatment is needed. It just deteriorated at the mere request to get him to say anything. Scratching at his neck, unable to properly breathe beyond the rattling breaths he was already taking without the cuffed trach. Like I said, it was as if he was being strangled right there. I couldn't break past it, and he eventually just had one of his blackouts."
"That was a short-lived streak," Aaron said, to which Alex puffed out a mirthless laugh. "Are you alright, though, Alex?"
"It's all taking an emotional toll for sure, but I'll be fine. The abject terror at just the idea of actually speaking—it's—it's pretty damn awful. Far too much to undo."
"Was Dr Johnson able to determine a prognosis and treatment options, or . . ."
"Healing of the tongue continues to be uneventful and showing signs of improvement. Sutures are still in place and will dissolve in time."
"I feel like any good news is far and few, but I'll take it."
"Well, there was some concern on Dr Johnson's part regarding the lapse in proper oral hygiene since Spencer's woken up, only because he doesn't want anything to introduce infection. So I'll have to try to get Spencer to cooperate regarding that and the bathing, though I don't think I'll have any success."
"He's still averse to these."
"He is. Although I think that I might be getting somewhere or another with him."
"The sleep mask helped?"
"Yep. That and the earplugs."
A sigh. "What are Dr Henderson's thoughts on these? I have my own opinion behaviorally, but . . ."
"She doesn't advise that we prolong this beyond what's necessary, as it recreates the conditions of his captivity, even if it seems to be a comfort for Spencer. But it's also a genuine means of diminishing ICU-related sleep disorders, so the proper sleep promotion will help alleviate his current symptoms."
"Mm. Understandable. So what about his laryngeal trauma?"
"He has unilateral vocal fold paralysis, which could've resulted from the corrective surgery a few weeks ago but is likely caused directly by the laryngeal trauma itself. So breathing on his own is labored, though not entirely impossible. The trach has to stay for just a few more weeks or a couple more months. It's an issue that in most cases resolves itself spontaneously within months or a year down the line. Dr Johnson wants to get him started on bulking injections to see if those might help, and he recommends voice and speech therapy sessions after proper breathing is restored."
"So vision is traversable, hearing deficit is permanent—"
"But can absolutely be dealt with if desired."
"Right. And tongue and throat also traversable. But currently, we have a vision-impaired, hard-of-hearing, and basically mute trauma survivor with a brain injury."
Alex sighed. "Dr Goswami did not lie."
"She didn't. But we're all hands on deck. He won't go through his recovery alone."
"He won't. So long as he wants it."
—
"I told you yesterday morning that we would find ways to help you sleep," Alex said to Spencer, who was seated upright. "The sleep mask and earplugs should help. But is there anything else you need to help you sleep? Are you aching anywhere? Do you need a massage? Or would you like a bath? Anything you might need to be more comfortable?"
What she could see of his face scrunched. His chin puckered and his nose reddened as his hands trembled.
"More comfortable," he repeated.
Alex tilted her head, but she tapped at him, something bubbling within her at the prospect that they might share an actual interchange. "Yes. Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you need to be more comfortable?"
But he teetered. He didn't answer. Alex glanced at the machines—at the rising numbers—before she patted his hand in a soothing gesture.
"It's okay. Don't worry about this. Tomorrow evening, JJ is coming and will stay for the weekend. I'll be leaving soon to go back to DC. Do you want to talk to me about anything?"
But he didn't, and so Alex left quietly within the hour, leaving Spencer without any of his teammates since he first awakened.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 30–FRIDAY, JANUARY 3, 2013
"I hate you, Mama. You're mean." The words were punctuated with globular tears, a pout, a reddening face, and crossed arms.
Jennifer didn't take the words directed at her to heart, having come to learn in time that children—unable to properly work through their emotions—expressed themselves the only way they knew how: in extremes. It didn't mean that there wasn't some residual sting.
She and Will made habit of quiet and careful conversations, but Henry had managed to breach their bubble on Monday morning—and caught wind of a name he hadn't heard in a while.
Specifically, the words he latched onto were: see if maybe your mom can come at the end of the week so I can go up with you to see Spence this weekend.
The first was the revelation that Uncle Spencer wasn't lost anymore. The second was that they were going to be seeing him. Naturally, if Mama and Daddy were going to be seeing Uncle Spencer, then Henry would be, too. Sound reasoning for a child.
But the word No led to pouts and Why nots that finally trickled to the declaration of hate and distaste.
"We need to figure this out, Babe," Will said, hands wrapped around Jennifer's. "'Cause now that that gremlin in there knows we're gonna see his uncle, he's gonna keep fixing to come with. He's been missing his favorite person, then he hears that name out the blue? Of course he ain't gonna like us much for stopping him."
And then in the evening into the following day, Will and Jennifer had to keep recycling the same argument whenever Henry renewed his requests.
"We can't let Henry see Spence yet." Jennifer was adamant. "He's not ready."
"Maybe you're just projecting onto him," Will retorted.
The conversation ended right there. But with enough prodding, they had a sit-down with her son.
"Henry, remember when we explained to you that Uncle Spence was lost? Well, we found him, but while he was lost he . . . he got very hurt. It's going to take a long time for him to get better. Daddy and I are gonna visit him to make sure he's okay and help him out."
She knew, though, that this would only make Henry ask her and Will questions—questions that she felt that he was still just too little to get the answers to. And surely they came:
"So where did he get lost? How come he couldn't come back? What hurt him? Did you rescue him, Mama? Were there bad guys, like criminals? Where's he hurt? How long is he gonna stay hurt? When can I see him? Where is he? Can I help, too?"
"Uncle Spencer's in the hospital, Henry, and it might be a little scary," Jennifer said before she realized what the weight of the words might do to Henry. She didn't want him to associate hospitals with scary places.
He puffed out his chest. "I don't want him to be scared, Mama. I won't be scared."
"He doesn't look the same either, Henry. He looks very different."
"Can I wear my new t-shirt so he can see it, Mama? I wanna see him, Mama."
"He won't be able to talk to you or hear you very well, Henry."
"That's okay, Mama. I said I won't be scared."
So Will and Jennifer discussed it together. She was still—and might forever be—of the belief that children should be shielded and protected from things like these. She didn't know how it would affect Henry. Will, on the other hand, argued that it would be good for Henry, and for Spencer, too, especially considering what Jennifer told him about the photograph that Spencer used to have in his wallet.
She had doubts, and she expressed them to Will, but he reasoned with her each time. It was the last bout of back-and-forth that shifted Jennifer's resolve.
"Imma put it this way, JJ. Something happens to us, and Spence is still on the table to step in and be a part of Henry's life. In my mind, that hasn't changed, so long as he can do it, so long as he still wants to do it. But even if he can't, Spence is always gonna be a part of Henry's life. He's a part of mine, and he's a part of yours. That ain't ever gonna change. So how long are you going to have Henry avoid those things? Henry'll be curious, and he'll ask us questions. So what? We'll answer 'em together best way we can. Or are you prepared to cut Spence out of Henry's life? 'Cause I ain't.'
"I don't want to—I'm not trying to cut Spencer out of Henry's life. I would never want something like that." Her offended expression slowly morphed as her eyebrows bunched up. "I'm not, Will. I'm just . . ."
"Scared?"
"Terrified, Will. God." She weaved her fingers through the roots of her hair before clasping them together, tucking them under her chin. "Terrified of what this means for all of us—of how this all changes. Because you're right—Spence is a part of this family. He is, and he always will be. And what he's gone through . . . that doesn't change that. But things have changed, Will. The dynamics have changed. The baseline. And I don't think it's good, safe, or even fair to thrust either of them into a fragile situation yet."
"Okay, but change ain't always that bad, babe. Bad things happen in life, and we adjust. Life isn't unicorns and rainbows. It's accepting that there are dragons and dark forests, too—that good can always change at the drop of a hat, and just because he's our son doesn't mean that we hide those things from him or that he's a special exception to the rule. He learns that fact of life firsthand without all the sordid details, and the only thing this does is make Henry a more responsible and mature kid. All sounds good from where I'm standing."
So on Wednesday night, she called Dr Henderson to consult with and get her opinions on whether it might be inadvisable for Henry to visit, explaining the relationship between him and Spencer.
"Normally, I do encourage visits from small children because when one member in the family—or grafted family in your situation—is seriously ill or injured, everyone will sense and be affected by it, including children," Dr Henderson reasoned over the speaker.
Will gave Jennifer a knowing look.
"Your worry, your stress, and your anxiety can 100% be intuited by that child, but they might not understand it. There are rarely ever any ill effects after visitation, but psychological intervention will always be available if needed. But. Spencer's case is multifaceted, so I hesitate to fully endorse letting a five-year-old child visit someone in such a condition."
And it was Jennifer's turn to give Will that same knowing look.
"He has a brain injury, yes—an illness if you will—as well as other physical ailments. If that were it, I would have a much more lenient stance on this. But there's also the deep psychological trauma that we're dealing with. This has to be considered and should be treated like that of your son visiting someone in psychiatric care instead. There's an element of unpredictability. There's a chance that this visit could put Spencer under duress and that his reaction might traumatize Henry. Of course, this is fifty-fifty. And on that note, children can and do visit these kinds of wards, and it can be beneficial for both parties. You probably don't want to receive such a neutral answer. I can only advise caution and acceptance of the reality that whatever script you might try to dictate that your son follows, he will undoubtedly go off script, considering his age. Children are naturally inquisitive and unpredictable. But I can neither yea nor nay your decision."
After the brief conversation, Dr Henderson emailed Jennifer a standard digitized booklet and links regarding children visiting the ICU, children visiting psychiatric wards, links to a few age-appropriate videos, and suggestions on ways to keep Henry entertained when his interest would pass.
"Let's let him come," Jennifer decided on Wednesday evening.
Together with their son and in order to mentally and emotionally prepare him for his visit, they watched a couple of the videos before he went to bed, or she and Will prepared Henry for Spencer's appearance or potential sightings he might come upon in vernacular he could understand:
"Sometimes, Uncle Spence's brain gets confused and it makes his whole body shake for a little while. It's called a seizure."
"Does it hurt?"
"It looks like it hurts, but it doesn't. But because a person having a seizure can't control themselves at all, they may end up getting hurt by falling or hitting something. Since Uncle Spence is laying in bed, he's safe. It just takes a lot of energy out of him, so he's very confused and sleepy afterwards, sometimes for a few hours."
Or: "Right now Uncle Spence has a problem with his mouth and throat. It's making it hard to breathe, talk, or eat, so they had to poke a hole in his neck. He can't speak for now."
"Does the hole hurt?"
"No, it doesn't hurt, but sometimes the nurses have to come and clear it out so that he can keep breathing."
"Clear what out?"
"Well, you know how when you get sick or when you cry and you have to blow your nose? It's like that."
"Ew. Boogies? Did the hole turn into Uncle Spencer's nose? He has to blow boogies from his neck?"
"No. Well. No. No, it's not his nose. He can't smell through it, but he breathes through it."
"Is he like a whale? Can he blow out water and boogies from the hole like a whale?"
"Right, okay, so, JJ, I'm tagging you in. Somehow we got to boogers and whales."
"Can he eat from the hole? If his mouth doesn't work, how does he eat?"
Or: "Uncle Spencer's hair isn't the same color for now. It's blond like our hair."
"Then we'll match, Mama!"
Or: "Something's wrong with Uncle Spencer's eyes, and too much light hurts them. So right now, Ms Alex says that he likes to keep his eyes covered."
"I can wear my sunglasses!"
Among other things that they knew Henry might happen to see—the wires, the catheter collection bag, the colostomy pouch, his EEG headband, his behavior:
"Sometimes Uncle Spence will forget where he is and think he's still lost. He forgets that we found him, so it makes him a little scared."
"I'll bring the flashlight he gave me!"
"Right now, Uncle Spence is having a little trouble hearing, and since he can't talk either, he uses his hands."
"I remember that's called Sign Language! Ms Dyers showed us some words forever ago!"
But above all, they explained to Henry in simple words that while nothing that Spencer was going through was fun, he—Henry, that was—could let Spencer know that he wished he would get better and how much he loved him.
So here they were now early Friday evening, standing at the reception area of the ICU after the three had gone to a family bathroom to change into a new, clean set of clothes and wiped themselves down with moist towelettes. The excitement Henry had at seeing his uncle waned as they walked through the halls. He had pulled his hand out of Jennifer's grasp and latched onto his father's leg.
"How is he today, Ali?" Jennifer asked after she exchanged pleasantries with the nurse and introduced her husband and reticent son. "This is one of the nurses that helps Uncle Spencer, Henry. You can say hi to Ms Ali."
But he shook his head.
The nurse smiled down at him but trained her attention back to Jennifer. "He's really exhausted. He had two seizures since last night, but thankfully he's able to recover between them and they're not quite as severe as the previous days."
Henry tugged below. "Mama," he whispered—attempted to, at least—tugging until she bent down. "Mama, Uncle Spencer was shaking?"
"Yes, Henry, Uncle Spencer was shaking. Good job on remembering that word."
The nurse smiled down at Henry before redirecting her attention to Jennifer and Will. "I'm sure you already know it, but these past few days, EEG has shown that he's gotten maybe a couple of hours of sporadic sleep when he's not sleeping postictally. It's exacerbating the rate of occurrence for the seizures. We thought that the sleep mask and ear plugs would help, but it's not done much. He wants to sleep, but he just can't abide sleeping for too long. And the assessments have depleted him. We've been talking to Aaron about readministering something."
"Mama." The tugging. The overt whispering. "Mama, is Uncle Spencer scared to sleep? Is it 'cause of sleep monsters? Uncle Spencer says sleep monsters aren't real, but sometimes you see them when you're waking up. Did you know that's called sleep pearlses? You should tell her, Mama."
Will ruffled Henry's hair, and Jennifer bent down to her son's level again. "Whoa, hey, Henry—thank you! I think you mean sleep paralysis. It's not exactly the same, but I still think that really helps nurse Ali."
The nurse nodded fervently at Henry, humming in agreement before she was addressing Jennifer again. "And on a more positive note, JJ, he's not quite as agitated when we're doing any checkups. But he's still uncomfortable with the bathing. We've been dabbing just a spot of VapoRub right at the tip of or under our noses to help with the smell, and we now have some coffee grounds in the room. You guys might wanna do the same thing before you go in there. Felix, one of the interpreters—he's in there right now. But why don't we discuss these things after you've seen Spencer?"
She handed the three a dab of the VapoRub on a paper towel, and Henry giggled when his mother poked his nose with it.
Jennifer and Will thanked the nurse, and in they went.
"Uncle Spencer!"
"Oh, hey, little man—remember, we ain't gonna scream or run," Will admonished, having gripped Henry's shirt the moment he had lurched forward. "Not what we learned."
Henry's little shoulders tucked up to his ears, and his hands went over his mouth. Pulling them away, he unsuccessfully whispered, "Uncle Spencer! Uncle Spencer!"
The interpreter, who was sitting off to the side while reading a book and who had perked up to attention, grinned. Jennifer and Will both drew closer to the bed and introduced themselves.
"This is one of the people who helps us understand and talk to Uncle Spencer, Henry," Jennifer said. "Say hi."
But Henry didn't. Having been properly chastised and having had his singular focus torn from him, Henry could now take in the interior of the room, could see the machinery by the bed beyond Penelope's decor and soft lighting. He became reticent again, fingers clasping onto his father's pants as he shook his head.
Jennifer didn't let it phase her. "Felix, would you be able to say something to Spencer for me?"
Felix edged toward the bed. "Yeah, sure, Agent Jareau. Just talk directly to him."
So she did. "Hey, Spence. It's, ah—it's JJ." She paused, waited for any kind of reaction. But for the slight shift of his head, there was nothing. "Will and I are here. And so is, um—so's Henry."
There it went. Spencer's head swiveled and rolled before it was tucking downward. His nostrils flared and his fingers gripped around the translator's.
"He's here, too. He'd like to say hi."
He retracted his hands and straightened his lips.
"Um, Felix, might we be able to have a few minutes with Spence?"
Felix's eyebrows flew up and his head tilted in Jennifer's direction, voice coming out in a drawl. "Uh, yeah, I guess I can just sit outside? Just let me know as soon as you need me."
"We will, thank you." Once the interpreter was out the room, Jennifer bent to her haunches, pulling Henry to face her. "Remember what you learned, Henry, okay?"
But he shook his head again, gripping his father's pants tighter, shuffling further behind the wall of protection.
Will, in turn, twisted around as far as he could, patting Henry's hair. "Hey now, bud—you were about to jump outta your skin just a second ago to get to Uncle Spence. You don't wanna see him anymore?"
But Henry mumbled into the pants.
"One more time, buddy."
"He looks weird!"
"We don't call people names, Henry. Ain't nothin' wrong with weird. Weird is only different, and different is only new. But then you get used to it, and it's not so weird anymore."
Henry said nothing, so Jennifer spoke up. "Don't you still want to talk to him and tell him how much you missed him and give him your drawing?"
Henry tilted his head. "His eyes are covered."
"He'll be able to see it later."
Henry peeked past Will's leg before shaking his head more vehemently.
Will finally made a fuller rotation and bent down, too. "Alright. You and me—we can go outside and we can sit with Mr Felix and you can make another drawing. But Mama's gonna stay in here with Uncle Spence for a while."
"Um, no."
"No? So you wanna stay?"
Henry nodded.
"You wanna say hi to Uncle Spence even though it's weird?"
A hesitant nod. "Mama's staying."
"You wanna say hi with Mama?"
"Nope."
"Nope?"
"By myself."
"Oof. You're one brave kid. Even braver than Spiderman or Superman."
Jennifer placed a hand on Henry's head. "Okay, then, Henry. Remember what we talked about."
"Okay, Mama."
"Henry, Mommy's very serious right now. This isn't a game. It's very important that you remember what you learned."
"O- kay, Mama, okay, okay!"
"Go say hi to Uncle Spencer."
At that, Henry tugged away from her and did as told, creeping up to the bed.
"Uncle Spencer," Henry whispered when he reached the bed, touching it with both his hands and standing at the tip of his toes as if bracing to climb up. He reached up a hand and gripped the blanket above Spencer's leg. Spencer, in turn, tilted his head as his chest began to pulse. "Daddy said no names, but you look really weird, Uncle Spencer," Henry declared.
Jennifer dropped her head in her hand, and Will puffed out a long-suffering chuckle.
Henry poked the blanket, and then he flattened his hand against it, moving up to pat at Spencer's thigh.
"Mama says you got hurt and sad when you—Mama says you got hurt and sad when you got lost, Uncle Spencer."
Spencer's head was still tilted down to Henry. They couldn't make out what he was thinking, but by the flaring of his nostrils, the trembling of his hands, surely he was aware.
Henry's voice dropped into another badly-masked whisper as his hand patted. "Were there scary monsters where you got lost, Uncle Spencer?" His large eyes darted all over the person before him who bore only a passing resemblance to his uncle, who was never without stories, magic tricks, or responses to his inquiries.
Henry pouted, his eyes watered, and he no longer whispered.
"Did you stay lost and got hurt because I stopped using the flashlight you gave me?" He turned, bunching his hands and giving his parents a tearful stare. His woeful voice came out thick. "Mama, did Uncle Spencer get hurt and stay lost because I—I got sleepy or forgotted?"
"Oh—Henry, no." Jennifer was nearing the bed and bending down again. "No, no. What happened to Uncle Spence is not your fault, okay? It isn't. There were . . . he couldn't see it, Henry. Where he was—it was just too dark. It's not your fault, okay?"
"It's not?"
"Not at all."
"Okay."
"You did your very best, okay?"
"Okay." Henry looked back at Spencer, sniffling as he began to wriggle and shimmy the straps of his backpack. "Um, can I read Uncle Spencer a book?"
Jennifer helped him weave out the straps. "Hey, yeah, that's a great idea, Henry."
"Can I go up, Mama?"
Will walked over and lifted his son up from the pits of his arms. Jennifer, in turn, began removing Henry's shoes.
"Yay!"
"Careful with the feet, buddy," Will warned. "Careful, careful."
Spencer, during all this, had kept his head tilted and his hands bunched on the blankets, but at all the activity, at the new weight and shifting upon the bed, he twisted his head to his right.
As Henry situated himself into the preferred spot by Spencer's right side, Spencer was stiffened, no more than a prop in this. Henry took it upon himself to remedy that, quickly lifting Spencer's arm—
"Oh, hey, Henry—"
—wedging against him, and wrapping the stiffened arm around him to curl more comfortably into Spencer's body. And then he took his hand and began twiddling with it.
"Which book, Henry?" Will asked, unperturbed.
"That one!" Henry pointed. "But I don't 'member all the words so you—you gotta help, Mama."
Jennifer sat at the chair, and Will brought another over. As simple as her butting up against Spencer's arm so she had an awkward but better angle to hold out the book for Henry, who took one corner of the book with his left hand and who released Spencer's hand to use his own finger as a guide as he read. It was as simple as Jennifer leaning closer to the bed and helping Henry sound out words he didn't know. As simple as her right hand reaching over, grasping Spencer's wrist, and glazing her thumb over it. As simple as Will reaching out and placing a firm hand above Spencer's knee.
There was no grand display. Henry just read for minutes, and Jennifer helped him sound out difficult words. Until:
"That feels tickly, Uncle Spencer." Henry tilted his head to look up at Spencer while giggling through the words, and then he returned his attention to the book.
But Jennifer and Will both looked.
Spencer hadn't stopped. His jaw and cheek were butted up against Henry's crown, where he slowly rubbed against the hair. His nostrils were reddened, twitching, flaring, and his chin was wrinkled.
Jennifer tightened her lips. "Henry," she started, "is he making you uncomfortable? Do you want him to stop?"
Henry hummed in indecision.
"Remember what we've told you, Henry," Will spoke in an even tone, eyes glued to Spencer's hands. The left was gripping at the bed sheet over his stomach. But the right—while it hadn't moved, the thumb continued to make small strokes along Henry's pant leg in a soothing motion, not unlike what Jennifer had done against his wrist.
Will continued. "No matter who it is, if someone is touching you or making you uncomfortable, you can always say . . ."
Henry's face scrunched. "Stop! That's not appropriate and I'm going to tell on you! And then I run away."
"Would you like to get off the bed, Henry?"
"I'm okay."
"You sure, Henry."
"Mm-hmm."
"Okay, buddy. Where'd we leave off?"
"Um . . . right here!"
Jennifer flicked her gaze to Spencer as her son read, and she could see it. It was an expression she had caught briefly nearly a year ago—when he had fallen to his knees, when his whole body quaked and jerked as he tried to contain his abject misery, when she holstered her gun and rushed down to him. It was that same flash of agony she had seen before she was wrapping her arms around him to keep him upright. It was that same loss.
Her hand soothed over his arm. Below, her husband's hand moved above the blanket, squeezed at the knee.
Henry never finished reading his book. In the passing minutes, his voice began to drift, his gliding finger began to slide down, and his head grew heavy against Spencer's side.
And that was when Jennifer and Will noticed that Spencer's head was heavy against Henry, too.
—
With the help of two nurses, Jennifer and Will delicately maneuvered Spencer's limbs and unraveled Henry without disturbing either of them, and they turned away to give Spencer some privacy as he was suctioned.
As the bed was lowered to a more comfortable angle, Jennifer looked up at Will, at Henry's limbs hanging loosely around Will's body.
"I think I'd like to stay with Spence tonight, Will."
Will smiled. "Hey, that's okay, Cher. I'll see you in the morning?"
"Yeah." Jennifer nodded.
Will clasped his hands around Henry's back and head as he reached down and kissed her. She gave her sleeping child a kiss too, putting her hand through his hair.
"I think it was good. Good that he came."
"I do, too," Will agreed. "Do we got ourselves a brave little gremlin or what?"
Jennifer chuckled. "We sure do. And you were right; I really think that Spencer needed it in a way." She puckered her eyebrows, smiling at her husband. "Thank you. For convincing me to let Henry come. And thank you for coming, too. I love you, you know. So much." Her voice shook, gritted out. "You're a great catch, William LaMontagne."
"Oh"—Will chuckled and winked—"you know it, Cher. Don't you forget it." He pivoted when Jennifer playfully swatted at him. "Sleep well, babe. See you tomorrow."
"Night."
When the door closed, she turned to Spencer, taking her time to adjust the blanket before wrapping the throw on the chair around her. Reaching out her hand again, she simply took Spencer's and held it, thumb resuming its brushing as she tightened her grasp until she fell asleep.
Come morning, she would learn that Spencer slept the whole night without incident.
DATE UNKNOWN | LOCATION UNKNOWN
He peered over his shoulder for the third time as he skulked through the skid row, hoodie pulled down to obscure his face. Pace even and unhurried, he lowered his gaze. And then he turned into the chasm of a darkened alley, weaving past the garbage cans and bums huddling in their tattered fabrics on cardboard boxes before turning another corner, having memorized this location from the text sent to his burner phone.
This wasn't their familiar meeting place, and changes were irritating.
He waited, and then he heard it—a six-knock rapping. Following the sound, a fellow who was bred by this seedy underbelly emerged from the shadowed corner, light cutting across him.
He noted how the man kept his distance as if disgusted to be near him. He wrinkled his nose at the very thought—he was upper crust; this man was the burned leftovers at the bottom of the pot.
He spoke, voice even. "You don't contact me, Steve. I contact you. That's always been our deal."
"Yeah, I know, okay?" It was said with a shift of his eyes and a slur of his tongue.
"Then why am I here? I'm good for a couple of months."
The person standing opposite him sniffed and swiped a finger under his nose. "Yeah, I know you are, but, um, word is that you've been talking to the cops. About me. This."
He barked out a laugh. "You realize the kind of mess I'd be in if I talked to them? Someone like me getting mixed up with you? It'd ruin my career. I dunno where you're getting this from, but it's a lie."
"It's not"—his eyes shifted again—"not what I'm hearing."
Something wasn't right.
He shook his head. "So what is this—some kinda warning? A threat to scare me?"
"Listen, man . . . I'm"—again with the shifting gaze beyond his periphery—"listen, I'm sorry, okay?"
It wasn't the cold that caused his skin to bubble up. The light caught a bead of sweat rolling down the other man's forehead, the rim of red underneath his eyes, and the shift of his eyes again.
He straightened. "What's going on, Steve? You on right now?"
"I'm sorry, man."
"What the hell for?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Mm. No. You know what? I think we're done, okay? I think I'll find someone else." He readied to turn. "You're trash. We're d—"
But he would never get the chance to tilt his body to exit. Something tightened around his neck. He spluttered, his hands flew up in his surprise, and he caught Steve from afar reaching his dirty hands into his hair—
"Oh god. Shit shit. I'm sorry, Wyatt. He made me—Wyatt, I'm sorry!"
—before stepping back.
The garrote coiling around his neck tightened as his vision dimmed and the sounds of shuffling were reduced to white noise. It released, and his coughs were like sand to his throat as he fell to knees and hands. Something punched against his shoulder.
Voices faded in and out, and figures blurred before his tearing eyes as everything before him began to undulate. In the next blink, he was laying on the dirt-caked ground and trying to catch slivers of fading reality.
Two sets of feet. He still saw them.
But he blinked again, and when he tried to retrain his focus, one of those sets of feet was parallel to the ground with him, attached to a crumbled body.
He knew then that he was a dead man.
Into the night he was disappeared, not to be seen again until it was just right. It wasn't very long.
.
.
.
Thank you so much for your patience. If you visited my tumblr, you were aware of why this update took so long to get out. Additionally, this chapter and the others following are going through another rigorous editing phase, so they will take a little time to come out. Again, thank you so much for your patience, thank you so much for your comments, and thank you for your encouragement. I hope you enjoyed this chapter (and a couple of the lighter moments weaved in).
