Chapter 4

"And do not be comforted, you should not be comforted, do not be comforted, but weep."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

There were very few situations that made Alfred feel incapable. He had learned to be level headed and solid when even his vigilante charges could not. But after the disaster at the hospital, he knew he needed to call in the artillery, as it were. Thus, he was now sitting at a corner table in a quaint little French restaurant, waiting for his dearest friend in all the world to come join him.

He had requested the table quite specifically for its privacy, but the dimmed lights were a welcome addition. The maitre d', a kindly if enthusiastic gentleman, had the nerve to wink at him as he left the menus on the table. Alfred smiled and told himself it was only to be polite… but even he wasn't convinced.

"Alfred!"

Smiling broadly, he stood up and turned to see Leslie walking towards him. She was dressed in pressed black slacks and a light pink blouse that he thought perfectly set off her blue eyes. Only her sensible shoes showed that she had just come from the clinic she ran in one of the worst parts of New Gotham. He held out her seat for her and sat down after her. "It's good to see you, Leslie."

Her eyes wrinkled as she smiled. "It's always nice to see you, Alfred." She paused and then added, "I'm doing well and the clinic is doing fine. There haven't been any emergencies, so I'll have a list of supplies for you at the regular time this week."

As that had been exactly what he was going to inquire, he blinked at her several times.

Leslie's expression was half smile and half smirk as she enjoyed the rare occasion of taking Alfred by surprise. But when she realized what that meant, she immediately grew sober and leaned forward. "You seemed very tense when you called. I assume this has to do with our favorite patient?"

Alfred nodded with relief and told the whole story starting with his conversation with young Master Tim about Helena's problems. Leslie's face grew graver and graver with each new twist. At the end, she was silent for several long moments before she finally sat back and sighed.

"Barbara's reaction surprised you?" she asked meaningfully, her eyebrows up.

"Miss Barbara has always been so quick to help anyone in need-" he started, already aware from Leslie's demeanor that he had made a mistake somewhere.

"Alfred," she said firmly, stopping him. "Barbara has always been a gifted young woman. She had an extraordinary capacity to help others."

Alfred would never, ever stoop to interrupting someone, but as soon as she paused, he said, "She still has that capacity for helping others."

"And how is she supposed to know that?" Leslie asked pointedly, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. "She's been sitting in that hospital bed ever since she was shot, having every single thing taken care of for her. She has some very real limitations, and she has absolutely no idea what her capabilities even are."

That changed the picture entirely, and Alfred suddenly found himself rethinking the situation all the way from the beginning. Leslie waited patiently.

"She still won't look at the brochures," he finally said.

The kindly doctor nodded. "It must seem very overwhelming for her. But if we take the decision out of her hands, it will do more harm than good."

"Agreed," Alfred said quickly. "But what else can we do to convince her?"

Leslie grinned and picked up her menu. "Who said her rehabilitation couldn't start until she picked a center?"

The cafeteria was swarming with students, so Helena sat out on the bleachers in the back of the school. She didn't care. Really, she wasn't hungry anyways. As a matter of fact, now that she was thinking about it, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been hungry. Briefly, she tried to figure it out… obviously, since she wasn't dead, she had to have eaten. But when was she hungry?

It was a good question; nearly as good as the one about why she had opened up to Gibson, of all people. She tried to think about that one, too… but somehow she just didn't care about the answer. Nothing seemed to be able to distract her for long. It was like her mind was being drawn down the same path over and over.

They hadn't even gotten mad at her.

Sure, Helena had gone to school for half the day and that was definitely an improvement, but the people at the home hadn't even cared that she'd ditched for the second half. They didn't even ask her where she'd been. She was almost disappointed that her behavior hadn't caused a confrontation.

And, for a reason she was careful not to think about, it made her even more depressed.

She pulled her knees almost all the way up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She didn't want to cry here… she didn't want to cry at all… but the hurt was building down deep in her chest and she suddenly didn't have the willpower to keep it walled up where it belonged. Besides, no one ever came back here. So she squeezed her eyes shut and allowed them to blur and burn with the sadness.

"Helena!" an annoying, whiny voice called out.

'Oh, yay,' she thought sarcastically. She didn't even bother responding. 'Gibson. Just the person I wanted to see.'

Hurried footsteps rang a metallic, hollow sound on the bleachers as they approached her. "Helena! Are you okay?"

Seeing as Gibson had been nice to her the other day at the park, she felt an annoying obligation to be civil to him. So she took a moment to compose herself before she looked up at him and said quite calmly, "Leave me alone."

To her surprise, she saw not only Gibson, but a couple of his nerdy friends. Tim (he was actually kind of cute, in a little boy kind of way)… and some other guy that Helena never saw the need to put a name to.

Tim was standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets as he tried to look like he wasn't nearly as concerned as he was. Bert looked outraged that she had turned away their pity. Gibson fretted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wringing his hands in front of him.

Suddenly Gibson stilled his frantic movements and straightened his back. "No," he said firmly.

Helena blinked at him in shock for a few seconds. When she finally accepted what he had said and that he was obviously refusing to back down, she stood up menacingly. She stared him down (smirking on the inside when he seemed to shrink just a little) and raised an eyebrow. "No?" she repeated threateningly.

Gibson gulped and took a step back involuntarily, but managed to look straight into her eyes. He took a breath that was disturbingly shallow, and said not quite as firmly, "No. You've been different ever since-"

Helena went rigid and clenched her hands into fists, her face a mask of absolute anger and betrayal.

Gibson paused, then went resolutely on to the sentence he'd never dared to finish in her presence. "You've been different ever since your mom died, Helena."

Helena's eyes went wide.

"You won't talk to anyone."

Her eyes went wider.

"You don't even like the same things-"

She pounced.

She and Gibson fell down the stairs of the bleachers. It was a lucky thing that she had decided to sit near the bottom. They landed in the grass in a heap, but Helena recovered more quickly. She stood up, and then socked him right in the face as he got up. He went right back down, and Helena had to get on top of him to keep hitting.

"I'm not the same! Don't you get it?" she yelled, punctuating her point with another hit. "She's gone!"

Then someone was pulling her off of Gibson, so she whirled around to hit him, too. It was Tim, and she attacked him as indiscriminately as Gibson.

"She's never coming back!" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'll never be the same again! I don't want to be the same again!"

Tim blocked or dodged every wild punch, intent on letting her wear herself out and confident that she wasn't able to hurt him. He remembered the horrible grief and guilt and fear. She was taking it even worse than him, but then he had people who stood up for him and were there when he was desperately afraid that no one would.

She was so angry that she didn't even notice that her punches weren't connecting. Everything blurred into a haze, until she felt a person tackle her from behind. Then, just as quickly, that person was yanked off of her.

"What's your problem?" Bert yelled.

Helena was about to hit him, too, when she noticed he wasn't talking to her.

"She's crazy!" Bert continued. He looked around and pointed to Gibson, who was just beginning to sit up and had a split lip and a bleeding nose. "She hurt Gibson!"

Helena stared at the blood coming from Gibson's nose and lip, horrified. The blood brought her back to that night… seeing her mother lying in a pool of it. She took an involuntary step back, trying to get away from the image in front of her and the memories it conjured.

"I know," Tim said calmly, his expression clearly saying 'duh!' "I pulled her off of him."

"Just help me get cleaned up," Gibson said, standing up shakily. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not. She-"

"Bert!" Gibson yelled, and his eyes had more fire than when he was challenging Helena. He ground out firmly, "Just help me get cleaned up."

Bert stared at him disbelievingly for several long moments. Then he just shook his head and walked away from all of them.

Helena couldn't believe it. She could hardly think straight. That man had hurt her mother just like she had hurt Gibson. 'How did this happen?' she wondered desperately, not sure which incident she was thinking of.

Gibson and Tim both turned to her angrily, but her wide eyes and the absolute fear in her stiff posture made the looks soften.

"I'll be okay, Helena," Gibson said softly, wiping some of the blood away and making even more of a mess of it.

Tim grimaced sympathetically, both at his friend's face and at Helena's still terrified look. "Face wounds bleed a lot," he said reassuringly, going back to the bleachers for his abandoned backpack. "They look more serious than they are."

Helena swallowed. She remembered hearing something like that once. Maybe Gibson would be okay.

"Here, man," Tim said, handing Gibson some tissues from his backpack and an unopened bottle of water. "Better get rid of the worst of the damage."

Gibson reached for the offered objects and then pulled his hand back. His eyes took on a wicked gleam and he looked straight at Helena. "Or we could blame it on those guys who broke up the last chess club meeting."

Helena laughed out loud. It was relief laughter. Gibson had to be all right if he was scheming to get the guys picking on him. She hadn't really hurt him.

Tim frowned for a moment, but soon he was laughing as hard as Helena. "Go for it," he said. "I'll be right behind you to back your story up."

Gibson grinned, a truly ugly sight with all of the blood. He took a moment to get into character and then stumbled towards the school melodramatically. Absently, Helena hoped that he didn't try something like fainting in front of the school nurse or principal. On second thought, that would actually be really funny. Maybe she'd follow him. But as she was still considering, Tim stopped her with a quiet, steady voice.

"You won't be the same, Helena," he said, looking down at the ground. He continued to stare at his feet for a few more seconds before he visibly gathered his courage to look her in the eye. "But… eventually… you will be okay."

An all too familiar lump seemed to all but leap into her throat, and she tried to push it away angrily. "How would you know?" she demanded.

"Because…" Tim had to pause and swallow a few times before he could go on, and Helena was surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes. "Because my mom died a couple of years ago. You don't have be the same as you were. Just… know that it'll get better."

At Helena's incredulous look, he added quickly, "You'll still miss her… but the pain gets more bearable. It will get easier."

And suddenly Helena could only summon up enough anger to turn and walk away. She desperately needed to find some place to be alone.

She was crying again long before she got there.

From a coffee shop across the street, a man pretending to read the paper watched the entire scene unfold. Sneering at the waste of so much potential, he shook his head in disgust as he wrote his report.

He couldn't watch anymore.

But, just the same, he couldn't leave.

'There's just no goddamn strength left,' Jim thought mournfully, burying his face in his hands. Batman was gone. Barbara was hurt… that deep kind of hurt that would break her or make her into an entirely different person.

Maybe both.

And he was just so tired of watching. It didn't seem like there was any strength left in anyone in the world.

He couldn't even summon up enough courage to be mad at Dick or Alfred. Oh, sure, he had been mad at first. He'd been mad as hell. And then, when a day had passed and Barbara hadn't said so much as a word to anyone and hadn't eaten anything all day long, he'd been even more angry.

But as he sat in the same chair in the same corner of the same hospital room… he couldn't be mad. Not when he continued to watch his daughter lie in that bed without any life… without herself. They'd just been trying to wake her up. That was all.

And even when their attempt somehow managed to push her further from the world, he couldn't be angry.

Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it should be him in that bed.

'Oh God, I wish it was me.'

Foot steps from the hall woke Jim up from his reverie. Something inside him warned that the steps were wrong. He'd been in the hospital long enough to know just about anyone who had any business to be there… and this new person didn't.

Cautiously, he stood up and tried to look as imposing as possible as he listened for any signs of danger. But there was some murmured conversation, and then the door opened to admit a nicely dressed young woman wearing a generic white "doctor's" or lab coat. She met his gaze squarely, and smiled. But, after that first gesture of greeting, she ignored him entirely.

The woman (Jim wasn't quite sure whether to assign some sort of medical title to her yet) instead turned her attention to the young woman lying in the hospital bed. "Hello, Barbara. My name is Jessie. I'm here to get you started with some basic physical therapy."

The redhead deigned to look at her and said irritably, "That's impossible. I'm not ready to start yet."

Jessie gave her the most serious expression she had and crossed her arms and clipboard in front of her chest. "Your chart says you've been cleared to begin basic movements for more than a week. No twisting or bending for a few more, but we'll be focusing mostly on getting you enough core strength to sit up in a wheelchair so you can start your occupational therapy."

"No," Barbara said firmly, a lump beginning to settle in her throat from a new swell of powerlessness and vulnerability.

"No one cleared this with me," Jim said, echoing his daughter's sentiments. He wasn't sure he liked this new person's attitude.

Jessie looked at him as if her gaze could pin him to the wall. "No one has to. Your daughter is clearly old enough to make her own medical decisions. I was referred by Dr. Thompkins, and all the exercises were personally approved by her doctors."

She paused a moment and then turned her attention back to Barbara. "There's no reason you can't do this," she said firmly.

When Jim saw the stunned expression on his daughter's face, he decided he liked Jessie's attitude after all. It was as if all thought had ground to a halt.

Or maybe forced a new direction.

Just then his cell phone rang. He excused himself to walk out of the room while he fished it out of his pocket. "This is Gordon."

"Might I suggest you watch the proceedings from out here, sir?"

Jim whirled around to find Alfred standing across the hall, holding a cell phone.

Babs watched Jessie warily as her father left the room. For a moment she felt a stab of bitterness and a swell of jealousy at the fact that Jim could get up and leave and Jessie could stand there at the side of the bed. What the hell did they know, anyway? They weren't the one lying in the same hospital bed for weeks.

Then her instincts kicked in and she was sizing up the physical therapist. Five foot six and petite, but she moved with an ease that suggested underlying strength and coordination. If Barbara had met Jessie as Batgirl, she would have treated her with caution and tried to take her out from a distance. The quiet confidence Jessie exuded as she stood calmly under the scrutiny only reinforced Babs' conclusions.

This woman was not to be trifled with.

And she was trying to become her physical therapist…

This could be bad.

"Shall we start?" Jessie asked, placing her clipboard on the small table next to Barbara's bed.

The redhead tried not to gulp and said after a moment's hesitation, "I think I'd rather wait for my father to get back."

Jessie nodded amiably. "We could do that if it would make you more comfortable. But I have to warn you that this won't be very flattering. I need to check your range of motion in your arms and legs, and we need to see how much control you have over your torso, specifically your abs and the muscles in your lower back."

Barbara blinked and tried to remember the anatomy classes Bruce insisted she, Dick, and Tim all take. Yes, that made sense. She would need those muscles to sit up.

"When we get to the actual exercises," Jessie continued, looking at Babs frankly, "they'll be very difficult and unimpressive at first. You're very weak after spending so much time in bed, and your body is still expending a lot of energy recovering from the shock of your accident and the surgeries you had after. Many people prefer their family to not see their physical therapy, especially at the beginning."

"They do?" the redhead asked, the question on her lips before she was even aware of it.

The physical therapist nodded patiently. "Some people do. But some people want their family to be with them at the beginning until they become more confident. It's up to you."

For a moment, Barbara froze as her breath caught in her chest. She felt panic she hadn't known since she was a child. It welled up inside of her, consuming her entire being with its presence. For several long, terrifying moments, she couldn't figure out what she was afraid of.

It was the choice.

"Now!" she cried, startling even herself.

Jessie took an involuntary step back at the sudden shout. "What?"

"I want to start now," Barbara said more calmly, her cheeks feeling hot with embarrassment.

Jessie grinned. "I had a feeling you were going to say that."

Alfred smiled and allowed himself to put his chin out smugly.

Jim growled and resisted the urge to smack that look right off his face. "Can't you just say 'I told you so' like any normal person?"

"Perish the thought, sir," Alfred said, looking genuinely horrified at the very notion.

Jim didn't buy it for a second.

They stood silently then for several minutes, Alfred standing properly with his hands clasped behind him and Jim standing rigidly at attention with his arms crossed in front of his chest. They had an astonishingly similar look of grimness and cautious hope, as if all of their bets were on this one last hand winning. In fact, it was just that look which started a rumor in the hospital that Alfred was actually Barbara's uncle.

Each watched carefully, just out of Barbara's line of sight, as the physical therapist began a series of quick tests, writing things on her clipboard after each one. The redhead seemed very uncomfortable with the whole procedure, but as time passed and the discomfort did not increase, each of them began to relax just a little.

"Jessie's certainly very patient," Jim finally commented, watching the physical therapist with his little girl.

"She should be," Alfred said, not looking at the commissioner either. "Master Bruce has said that he will take care of all of Miss Barbara's medical bills. I took the liberty of reserving the entire day, and any future days whenever Miss Barbara should wish an appointment."

That actually got Jim's attention. He stared at the butler in open shock for several moments as Alfred still looked straight ahead, seemingly unaware of his surprise. Finally, a grin spread its way across his face and Jim looked back into the hospital room. "A little angry at old Bruce, huh?"

Alfred was actually startled out of his dignity enough to stare wide-eyed at the person he was rapidly beginning to consider his friend. For the life of him, he couldn't understand how the commissioner was the only one to notice.

The series of short tests was one of the most humiliating things Barbara had ever suffered through. It felt as if her entire person had been judged by – and reduced to – her abilities and disabilities. And, depressingly, the latter outnumbered the former. It was the first time the reality of what had happened really hit home.

Oh, sure, the doctors had explained all of this in detail already. A completely severed spinal cord… very rare (who cares?)… no sensation or function below the injury… She had known that in her head and it had even sunk down into her soul, but her heart? Her heart had still been reeling under the vicious attack and the fear and the helplessness. It had kindly ignored the permanence of what had happened.

But as Jessie moved her legs, checking for spasticity and making absolutely sure Barbara had no sensation, or helped her move her arms to check for strength and range of motion, it finally truly hit her. She was useless. Worthless. Every single thing she did from then on out would be an uphill battle of willpower against mobility. She would never have the strength left to make a difference.

She would never live.

How was she going to do this on her own? She was going to be dependent for the rest of her life. It was all her fault.

'No!' she thought, recognizing where that train of thought was taking her. She didn't have time for that now. Not yet.

Through sheer willpower, Barbara put a wall up around her heart and kept herself together. She focused on every minute thing the physical therapist did, recalling everything she knew about anatomy and trying to figure out what Jessie was doing before she told her. She could get through this. She would get through this. But, as she concentrated, one lingering thought concerned her.

The exercises hadn't even started yet.

"She's breaking," Jim said worriedly, standing even more stiffly.

"She won't break," Alfred said calmly.

Neither of them looked at the other, their entire world focused on what was happening in the hospital room.

Jim shook his head. "She's going to break," he insisted.

"She must face her emotions and new realities in order to stay strong."

"So she doesn't break?" the commissioner asked, glancing at Alfred sideways.

"She won't."

Jim sighed. "She needs to."

"Afterwards," Alfred agreed, nodding.

If the tests had been one of the most humiliating things Barbara had gone through, the "exercises" were the most frustrating. They weren't like any exercises she had ever done. And, as someone who'd been trained by Batman, that was saying something. She was used to seemingly random and pointless exercises that worked obscure muscles… and she was used to being incredibly sore the next day when she realized just how important those muscles were.

But these exercises?

For one thing, exercises were supposed to involve movement. She was fairly certain of that. But everything Jessie had her do could be done on her back from the hospital bed. And if that wasn't bad enough, she needed help. Sure, she was used to spotting a partner or being spotted, but by definition exercises had to be done on one's own so one could get stronger.

As they progressed, Barbara's heart sank further and further. She used to fly across the rooftops with acrobatics that only Dick could match. She would wade into shooting mobsters and come out completely unscathed. Before she had gotten her height, she won competitions with her skill on the balance beam and the uneven bars.

And now?

Now she needed help to move her own damn arms.

And that was the part of her body that still worked.

The anger and frustration welled up inside of her, coursing in waves from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers. The rage energized and drained her at the same time. She felt like she could take on an army, but didn't have the strength to make a proper fist.

Only a stubborn pride born of being the only woman in the bat club kept her from bursting into tears at the fact that she couldn't even control her own emotions.

When they got to her lower abdominal muscles, still healing from the bullet wound, Barbara found she couldn't get them to respond. Her heart froze in terror, and for a moment she was sure that the doctors had somehow made a mistake and she had lost even more than she thought. The fear almost let loose the tears that had been building inside of her, but she rallied with a strength she didn't know she had and pushed them back down.

For a brief, disconnected moment, she wondered why it was so important that she not cry this time. But then Jessie was talking, and Barbara found herself extremely willing to let that train of thought go.

"It's all right," she said gently. "You'll get the use of those muscles back. But your body has been in pain for a long time… long enough for it to know that what you're going to do will hurt."

"So it won't let me?" the redhead asked skeptically, valiantly trying to engage the logical part of her brain.

"Yep," Jessie said, giving her a small grin. "Your body's smart." When she continued to look skeptical, the physical therapist asked, "Have you ever broken an arm or a leg?"

"Years ago," Barbara said, nodding. "My arm."

"Do you remember when you got your cast off? And even though your arm was healed, you really had to force yourself to use it?"

"Oh," she said, understanding hitting her.

"We'll have to go a little bit more slowly," Jessie warned, "but you'll get those muscles working again."

By the time they did, Barbara thought her body had been right.

She was completely drained, body and soul. Her head ached like she had stayed up for three nights straight to study for a couple dozen finals. Barbara's gunshot and surgical wounds were on fire, lancing out pain that radiated outward whenever she tried to move. Her body had long since stopped begging, and was now screaming for sleep.

But Barbara wanted to sit up. She was going to sit up. She'd done all those ridiculous exercises and she had earned the right to sit up. If there was any justice at all in the entire world, she would.

But if there was any fairness, she'd be walking.

"Are you ready?" Jessie asked, her forehead etched with concern. She wasn't sure Barbara could do this… but she felt rather than understood that the redhead needed to do it. What happened this day was going to set the tone for the rest of her rehabilitation.

For her part, Barbara just tried not to look skeptical. Was she ready? She was hurting so badly she almost couldn't think straight, and she was so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Everything that she could still control felt awkward and heavy, making the numbness of her legs stand out even more by contrast. The lack of sensation was annoying her, like a buzzing in her ears that never quite went away.

Or a silence that was too loud.

Was she ready? No. A feeling of dread was growing inside of her, bringing fear along for the ride. She needed to do it. Her heart needed her to sit up. Her soul needed her to sit up. But there was no way. There was just no way. She wasn't going to sit up that night.

Maybe not ever.

She was just so tired…

Was she ready?

"Yes," she finally said, and that one word took more strength than a month of lying in the hospital bed.

Jessie nodded, trying not to show any of the trepidation that she felt. As gently as she could, she positioned her hands on Barbara's back to help her up. The redhead's face twisted with the strain, but they soon had her sitting up.

That was a small victory, at least, but Jessie knew the one that really mattered was getting Barbara to stay up on her own. That was what would make the difference Leslie said the young woman needed. So, even though Barbara's arms were already trembling from fatigue, Jessie coached her in the placement of her hands to take up the weight the physical therapist was holding.

Jessie began to slowly ease up the pressure on Barbara's back, but felt the redhead begin to lean with her instead of taking the burden herself. She quickly stopped and restored her support, even as a muttered, "Damn," confirmed that Barbara noticed as well.

"It's all right," she said quickly. "No one gets it the very first time. Let's try it again."

But it didn't work the second or even the third time.

Jessie was about to suggest that they lay Barbara back down again to rest before they try again, when a very soft, "No more," broke the silence. One look at the redhead told Jessie that her patient not only had nothing more to give, but she was on the edge of the breaking point.

"Okay," Jessie agreed quickly, helping her lay down on the bed again. She paused, and then said, "You already have an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Is that all right with you?"

Barbara looked away, but nodded. She couldn't keep her tears contained anymore when the physical therapist left. The sobbing didn't even slow when her father came back in and held her, crying softly himself.

The tears were raging inside of her, ripping her apart and stomping out any attempt at rational thought. The tears stirred up her mind, forcing a repeating litany of hurt and accusations to parade past her consciousness.

Why had she opened the door?

She couldn't even sit up on her own. She had failed at the very first thing she had tried. She would never be able to do anything ever again.

Why had she opened the door?

It was so frustrating! It wasn't fair. It hurt. Everything hurt.

'Why the hell did I open the fucking door!'

The guilt and frustration and terror and anger and pain all coalesced into a darkness that swallowed her whole.

The shadows stretching out into the night, coming for her. The dark smoke rising from the gun and enveloping her. Her cowl and cape smothering her. Her black jumplines tangling around her. The street rising to smash her.

And then, bringing a terror that eclipsed all the others, Jessie's words came back to her.

In two days, she had to do it all again.