Chapter 6

"I felt as if I were a man of snow at long last beginning to melt. The melting was starting in my back—drip-drip and presently trickle-trickle. I rather disliked the feeling."
- C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

Most of the flowers were gone, and the few that remained were beginning to wilt. Even as she wondered when the nurses had taken them away, her gaze returned to the wheelchair.

She ripped it away, and chose to look out the window. From her seat on the bed, she could see the overcast sky. It looked like it was about to rain –

The wheelchair.

Her father and Alfred were both standing outside. How often Alfred had been coming, she had no idea but –

The wheelchair.

"Now, I guessed at the size," Jessie explained, and Barbara tried her best to look at her. "You'll want one that feels the most comfortable to you, but a good indicator will be the level of your knees. When you have your feet on the rests, you want your knees to come up to just a bit above your hips."

There would be no going back. But, when she thought about it, there already wasn't any going back. There was the option of going forward or staying where she was… and staying where she was really wasn't an option at all.

"You'll probably feel the urge to lean forward if you are going for any speed," Jessie continued, "so you won't want to do that today. Your back isn't quite strong enough for that, yet."

She didn't want to get in it. She didn't want to!

"Are you ready?"

Panic rising up in her chest, Barbara wondered what would happen if she said that she wasn't. Would the physical therapist try to force her?

Barbara shook those thoughts away, disgusted with herself. Jessie was there to help. It was just that an overwhelming sense of vulnerability was clinging to her. Unfortunately, Barbara knew exactly where the paranoid thoughts were coming from… and the fact that the Joker was influencing the way she thought made her angry enough to take on the entire world.

She could do this. She was Batgirl. A bullet in the spine didn't change that.

No, that was exactly what a bullet in the spine changed.

Again, her gaze went of its own volition to the wheelchair.

Fine. The Joker had stolen Batgirl. But he hadn't taken her bravery. She wouldn't let him have that.

She wouldn't be beaten.

"Barbara?" Jessie asked, her brow furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?"

The redhead's eyes were clear for the first time since Jessie had met her when she looked up at her and said, "That's a different question."

There was a long silence, and then Jessie finally nodded in acknowledgment. "Are you ready?" she asked again.

"Better get started," Barbara answered.

"Okay. Later on, you'll be able to make these transfers yourself, but I'm going to get someone to help me move you, all right?"

Barbara nodded, the intensity of her gaze on the wheelchair surprising the physical therapist.

"Do you want me to get your father, or would you prefer hospital staff?"

"Hospital staff," the redhead replied immediately.

Jessie chuckled. "Don't blame you. I'll be right back."

A moment later Jessie returned with a rather burly nurse who must have been waiting right outside. Together, they got Barbara into her wheelchair with a minimal amount of jostling, which was still enough to send small jolts of pain up her spine.

"You want me to wait?" he asked.

Jessie's gaze never left her patient as she answered him. "No, I think we're going to be a while."

He followed her gaze to see the redhead sitting stiffly, her knuckles white with the strength of the grip on the wheelchair's armrests. Her expression was one of bewildered, overwhelming fear, but there was something about her silence that told him she was going to ride it out.

"Okay," he said. "If you can't find me, ask the people at the nurse's station for Ryan."

Jessie nodded at him absently.

For several long moments, Barbara didn't move as the tactile sensations overwhelmed her. For weeks, her upper body had only touched the hospital bed or pillows. Now the sensation of the leather underneath her arms and the shifting behind her back whenever she moved felt alien and slightly unreal.

She looked around herself, hardly even noticing when the muscular nurse left, trying desperately to ground herself in the familiar view of the small hospital room. But the angle was different than it had been in bed. Her current vantage point was actually just a bit lower, since the bed was raised. She sighed in disappointment – both at her situation and at herself – as she realized that she had expected to be higher… to be able to see more.

It had been a long time since Barbara had been short. Oh, sure, she had been a relatively late bloomer and her height had come later than some of the other girls, but it had been a long time since she had been small.

Feelings of weakness and vulnerability followed that realization. She felt powerless. Helpless.

Hopeless.

"Bet you're sick of the room, huh?" Jessie asked, her normally easy manner slipping slightly to show the tension underneath.

Barbara startled, and her gaze jerked upwards to the physical therapist. Then, as the redhead looked to the door, a wave of fear rushed over her and she shivered involuntarily. What if something happened? What if one of her enemies found her? What if she fell out of the wheelchair? What if she couldn't get back in? She would be all alone and she would be stuck and no one would ever find her.

Gritting her teeth, she chided herself for being childish and – worse – irrational. Her father, Alfred, and Jessie would all be there.

Unfortunately (and illogically) all that knowledge did was give the fear more strength. Her cheeks grew hot at the embarrassment that hadn't even occurred.

Jessie misread the blush, and moved towards the exit. "I don't want you twisting your back, yet, so let me get the door, okay?"

"Were you afraid I'd beat you to it?" she asked sarcastically, suddenly furious that the physical therapist thought she had her all figured out.

Jessie opened the door and stepped back to get out of the way. Raising an eyebrow and holding the door open, she said, "You have no idea how many times I've been run over by people hurrying out."

'Couldn't be the company,' the redhead thought. She looked away for a moment, trying to work up the courage to go out into the hallway, when she saw the beige colored chair in the adjacent corner. Her father had spent most of the month sitting in that chair.

She didn't really want to move forwards… wanted her own bulk and that of the wheelchair to be more than she could push. But when she put her hands on the metal rim an inch outside of the rubber wheels and pushed away from herself, she went forwards.

The muscles in her abdomen and her back protested, but her fears stilled just a little, as she gave two more powerful pumps forward.

Carefully, Barbara increased the pressure of her grips on the circular metal bars on the wheels to slow her speed as she approached the hospital room chair. She stared at it a few seconds and then backed up a couple of feet. She turned left as much as she could, and then stopped. With her left hand, she held the metal rim of her left wheel, and then pushed the right wheel forwards, turning in a clumsy circle. Then she backed up to the wall, right next to where her father had sat all those hours.

"Barbara?" Jessie asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

"The view isn't any better from here," the redhead muttered softly, staring straight ahead.

Why had she never noticed that she was keeping her father trapped in a chair?

"Then why don't you try the one outside?" the physical therapist asked.

Barbara nodded absently, her gaze lingering on the cushy hospital chair. Still trying to make sense of it, she wheeled away from the wall and crossed the small room to approach the door. It was too small. She'd never fit through it.

As she got closer, she noticed that her chair wasn't quite as wide as she'd thought, but it would be a tough fit for her hands and arms. She stopped a few feet away to think it through a moment.

"You might want to-"

The redhead studied the opening a moment more, and then gave a mighty push forwards. Her chair followed the push, and she pulled her hands in as she went through the doorway. As soon as she had glided through, she put her hands back on the rims and to slow herself down.

"Or that'll work, too," Jessie muttered.

Barbara looked up and to her left to notice her father, Alfred, and the policeman guard all beaming down at her. The looks reminded her of proud parents of babies just learning to toddle. The comparison made her cheeks flush in embarrassment and anger. She could just picture her father crouching, spreading his arms wide and saying, "Come on, Barbie. I know you can do it!"

She decided that if he did, she'd sock whatever part of his body she could reach.

"How does it feel?" Jim asked tentatively.

The gentleness in his tone made Barbara irrationally angry. So did the question. What was it supposed to feel like? She almost said that it hurt, just to shut him up. But she had been forced to show too much weakness in the past month to fake one.

"Feels like a wheelchair," she said, shrugging. 'Like an embarrassment. Like a weakness. Like a trap.'

Only, her chair wasn't really a trap, was it? Traps were supposed to keep you in one place. Keep you from escaping. The chair her father had been sitting in was a trap. Her chair was a liberation.

But the wheelchair was freedom only as long as she kept moving… kept fighting.

Jim, Alfred, and Jessie all three exchanged glances as the silence lengthened.

"How's the view from out here?" Jessie finally asked.

"I don't know," Barbara said, trying to contain her frustration at the physical therapist's fixation on the view. She looked around and picked a direction at random. "Let's see."

The guard who had been assigned to her hospital room looked panicked for a moment and then hurried forward. For a split second, she was desperately afraid that he was going to stop her, but all he did was follow behind her. Her father, Alfred, and Jessie also followed. All in all, it made for an unusual entourage.

As Barbara carefully wheeled forward, she felt some of the tension that had been slowly building unacknowledged begin to drain away. She couldn't quite understand why for several minutes. 'It's certainly not the view,' she thought wryly. Hospital sounds, smells, and visuals remained remarkably similar as she passed through hallways and caught glimpses into rooms.

But the movement…

"I didn't realize this hospital was so big," Jim commented.

"Oh, New Gotham General has to be big," Jessie said. "It handles emergencies and long-term patients from all over the city. And the whole thing's accessible, too. Most government buildings have to be. The city council's building, libraries, schools…"

"Hey, you hear that, Barbara?" Jim asked.

The redhead only clamped her mouth shut. She was paraplegic, not deaf.

Still… that was good to know. She could move on her own –

All thought in Barbara's head ground to a halt, and her pace slowed as she forgot to keep turning the wheels. 'I'm moving on my own!' she realized, slightly in awe. The fact that it was such a big deal made her sad for just over two seconds, and then the happiness returned.

Maybe not pure happiness… more like finally remembering what being happy felt like.

She was still despairing over what she had lost. She was still overwhelmed by just the thought of all of the adjustments she would have to make in her life. But somehow she didn't feel quite as exhausted. For the first time since she had been hurt, life no longer seemed like an out of control steamroller kept haphazardly at bay.

When Jessie finally said it was time for her to go back to her hospital room, the redhead was just beginning to imagine life outside of it.

"Here, let me help you," the guard said, stepping forwards and reaching for the handles on the back of Barbara's chair.

Her eyes widened in horror, as the feelings of vulnerability and insecurity rushed back to the forefront of her consciousness.

Not noticing the change in her demeanor, the well-intentioned guard started to push her forwards.

Jim, Alfred, and Jessie all three moved to stop him.

"No!" Barbara cried, clenching her fists around the wheels until her knuckles turned white. They jerked to an immediate stop. Barbara felt herself start to slide forward, but her death grip on the rims kept her from falling.

Everyone froze at the vehemence of her uncontrolled outburst. Even a school-age kid about to put a dollar in the vending machine at the end of the hall stopped his hand in midair.

The redhead took several deep breaths to try to bring herself back under control, before trying to look behind herself at the guard. She couldn't quite make the angles work, so she gave up in frustration and settled for looking as far back as she could to make it obvious she was talking to him. Then she said in a voice struggling for – but not quite reaching – polite tones, "I can do this myself."

"I… I didn't…" the guard stuttered, stepping away from the wheelchair. He looked behind himself and winced when he saw the commissioner, butler, and physical therapist all three watching him carefully. "Sorry," he said to Barbara, taking another exaggerated step away from her.

Alfred and Jessie released slow breaths they hadn't been aware they were holding. Jim had to suppress a smile at the way Barbara had refused to let someone else's strength propel her. The kid at the end of the hall finally got his cherry coke.

Barbara ignored them, and slowly – deliberately – wheeled herself back to her room, some of her dignity returning. The guard resumed his post outside of the room, and Jessie went to find the nurse's station.

Only Alfred and Jim entered the room with her, making sure to stay out of her path. But, instead of going straight to her hospital bed, she stopped at the small table next to it. One last bouquet of sunflowers was still cheerfully blooming, even if it did look a little tired.

"They're the last of the 'get well' flowers," Jim commented.

"Good," Barbara said, dumping them in the trash.

"Gibson!" a voice hissed.

The teenager shot up with a start and only barely managed to keep himself from falling out of bed. His heart hammering in his chest, he frantically looked all around the dark room, trying to find the source of the maniacal voice. The only light came from his window, and the street lamp outside.

A demonic figure was silhouetted against the light.

Frozen with terror, Gibson's perfect memory began assaulting him with lists of criminals and tried to fit the frame of each body into the outline he could see right outside his window. As he decided that it was too small to be the Joker, too large to be the Mad Hatter, and too thin to be Killer Croc, it spoke.

"Gibson!" it said more insistently. Now that he was awake, he recognized that specific mix of exasperation, amusement, and attitude.

Shaking his head ruefully, he threw off his blankets and stomped to the window. As he opened it he whispered, "Geez, Helena! Do you always have to do that?"

Helena raised an eyebrow. "What would you rather I –" she frowned as she noticed the hopeful look on his face. "You know what? Never mind."

Gibson shrugged and tried not to look disappointed. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going out again," she said, giving him a half smirk. "You wanna come?"

Gibson's heart sank. He just knew there had to be a down side to going with her last time! His parents would flip if he snuck out again!

"Aw, come on, Gibson," Helena pressed.

He frowned, trying to rouse his still sleep-fogged brain… but he was almost positive there was something wrong with that.

"We can go to someplace different this time," she continued. "There's this really great club where they don't check IDs."

'She's trying to convince me to come!' Gibson suddenly realized, awestruck. 'Helena Kyle is trying to convince me to go to a club with her!'

Yep. Something was definitely wrong.

"Can't you wait until this weekend?" he asked. He still didn't want to go, but something told him that it would be bad if Helena went alone.

She rolled her eyes, once again in control of the situation. "What? You're busy sleeping?"

"I was busy sleeping," he insisted.

"You can do that this weekend," she said, dismissively waving her hand.

"Hey, why do I have to wait 'til this weekend?"

Helena shrugged. "You'll have more fun with me."

Well, she had him there. 'No!' he told himself. 'Focus!'

Reminding himself that something was wrong with his friend, he asked gently "Why do you want to go now?"

Helena started at the change in his tone, suddenly wary. "I just feel like blowing off some steam," she said, shrugging tensely. "It wasn't a problem last time."

She was right. If he wasn't so hung up on getting to party with Helena, he would have noticed that something was off before. He'd been so stupid!

"Helena, what's wrong?" he asked again, growing frustrated. "Why do you want to go now?"

Strangely, she seemed better able to handle the frustration than the gentle tone he'd asked with the first time. Instead of leaving as he'd half expected her to, she just got quiet.

"What happened?" he asked again, sure now that he was on the right track.

She was quiet for a long time, and Gibson wondered if she even knew why she needed to party so badly. "I won't be here, soon," Helena finally admitted, looking away.

"What do you mean, you won't be here?" he demanded, fear making his voice go shrill.

Her gaze jerked up indignantly, and he was relieved to see that he'd misunderstood her. "God, Gibson! How could you think I meant that?"

"I don't know," was all he said out loud, but inwardly he wondered if Helena was angry because he'd been wrong… or because he'd been right. "I'm sorry. But, if that's not… I mean, where are you going? Did they find a family member?"

Helena shook her head, some of her anger fading into sadness. "They've decided that I might do better at a different home. They think someone's being a bad influence on me or something."

Gibson almost choked with the effort it took to control his laughter at that. Luckily, Helena wasn't looking at him, so he didn't think she noticed. As he pulled his mind back to the main issue, he immediately sobered. They wanted to pull her away from the last thing that was familiar to her?

"But they can't do that, can they?" he asked hopefully.

Helena nodded sadly. "I think they would have done it sooner, but they were waiting to see if Barbara would be my guardian. But it looks like she doesn't want to. If she was going to get me, she would have already."

When he heard Barbara's name, Gibson's jaw dropped open. There was no way. It was just too big of a coincidence to be real. It couldn't possibly be the English teacher at school… who had been hurt the same night as Helena's mother, now that he thought about it.

No, it couldn't be.

"Barbara who?" he demanded, the question coming out much more urgently than he would have liked.

"Ms. Gordon," Helena said, the question leaving her too surprised to remember to be angry or sad. "You know, one of the English teachers. Why?"

"You… you weren't at school…" he mumbled, his eyes wide open and staring into space. "The announcements… the grief counselors…"

"Gibson, what's going on?" Helena asked, suddenly afraid.

"Ms. Gordon was shot," he blurted.

Helena's eyes opened wide in horror, as her world was once more rocked to its foundations.

Gibson cursed himself under his breath and added hurriedly, "She's alive. But she was hurt. They said on the news that she's paralyzed from her waist down."

Helena shook her head vehemently. "Someone would have told me," she said, desperately trying to make him believe her.

"Who?" he asked bluntly. "You haven't let anyone talk to you since you came back to school. Did you check her classroom?"

"There was a sub," she mumbled, eyes not quite focusing. "But, Barbara's been so busy the last few weeks with her other job… I just… I thought…"

"She's still at the hospital," Gibson supplied gently. "Tim went and saw her a few days ago. Her dad's with her."

Helena took huge breaths, trying to gulp down the air. "No…"

Gibson tried to think of something to say to calm her, running through all sorts of soap operas and sitcoms, but none of those responses seemed appropriate. When he looked up at her, Helena was slowly backing away from the window, as if distance from the speaker could prove the words false.

But the roof of the porch wasn't that wide… Frantically, Gibson looked for the edge, and saw that she was only a few inches away from it, unknowingly backing towards it.

"Helena!" he yelled, scrambling out the window. "Watch out!"

Instead of stopping, she turned and jumped from the roof of the porch. By the time Gibson reached the edge to look at the ground below, she was gone.

One of the shadows across the street from the Kafka household shifted as the Kyle-Wayne child ran. She was becoming more and more reckless… self-destructive. If the Batman were to make his return, now would be the time.

He would have to be more cautious.