ACT V
Scene One
Johnny pounded on the door. "Fire department," he called. "Anybody home?" he added as he tried the door. It opened to darkness.
"Kelly, get the flashlights," Cap ordered.
"Fire department," Johnny repeated, taking one step across the threshold.
"Hey, help, please," came a muffled voice.
"Hello?" Johnny called again.
"My buddy," the voice replied, "my buddy's caught." Chet returned to the porch, flashlights in hand. He passed one to the captain, and moved in behind Johnny with the other.
"Let's move," said Cap. "DeSoto, Stoker, circle left; Lopez, you and I will go right. Kelly, back up Gage inside."
"I just need one guy," came the voice.
Johnny heard the click of the flashlight being turned on as he took a cautious step forward. He never saw the beam. The door slammed shut, closing him off from the light, from Chet, from the rest of the crew.
"Where are you?" Nothing. "Where's your friend?"
"Right here," something growled in his ear.
"Cap," he yelled, turning back the way he had come. "Hey, Cap!"
"Cap. Hey, Ca-ap," his echo mocked him.
He fumbled toward what he hoped was the door. His fingertips brushed the knob; before he could grasp it something grabbed him and tossed him aside. He staggered to his feet. He was grabbed again, thrown again. He tried to crawl away, but the animal in the darkness found him. He was lifted by the scruff of his neck and shaken like a rag doll.
"Guys," he called, "Roy!"
Johnny was grabbed up and thrown away, only to be grabbed again. He tucked his chin and wrapped his arms protectively around his head, then pulled his legs in tight, making himself as small a target as possible. He hit a wall and heard a bone snap. Another wall, or was it the floor, and a new pain coursed through him. Another hit, another ominous sound from inside his body, another pain. He didn't know how long it had been going on when it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He lowered his arms as much as he could and lifted his head. He looked around. Is that a light? It was light, the narrowest slivers of light coming together to draw a rectangle in the wall. A door! He held back a cry of hope, afraid the sound would draw the attention of the animal whose chew toy he had become. Please. Oh G-d, please. Slowly, so slowly, as gently and as quietly as possible, he made his way toward the light.
The journey to the door was interminable. When he finally arrived, it opened easily; he mouthed a word of thanks for that small bit of good fortune.
Johnny was as blind in the whiteness on the other side as he had been in the blackness behind him. Still, he pulled himself forward. The heat struck him hard and fast. For a brief moment he considered turning around. He could hide from the animal in the dark until the crew came, couldn't he? There was nowhere to hide from the heat. He cast a glance back to the door through which he had just come. It was gone. The house was gone. The crew was gone. And he burned.
"Johnny, Baby?"
"Mom," he tried to call back. His voice betrayed him; it was small, weak. "Mom!" he tried again.
"Honey, talk to me." Her voice was fainter, farther away.
"John, answer your mother." This voice, so much like John's own, trying to sound firm, was too filled with worry.
"Pop! I'm here!"
But that voice, too, was moving away. "Son?"
"Baby, please."
Johnny heard her tears. He felt a familiar sting in his own eyes. "Mom! Pop!" He listened to their voices fade as their distance from him grew. They hadn't heard him. He was too beaten to follow but follow he did, dragging himself toward the sound of them. He was so slow. The heat slowed him even further. "Mom," he called again as loudly as he could. "Help me! Pop? Please?" He couldn't move anymore. So hot. "Please!"
"He's a fireman." That voice, the one that had drawn him into the house. "They like the heat." So much heat. "They like the heat." Too much heat. "They like the heat." Burning! "He's a fireman." Dying.
"Mom!" Johnny woke with a start. Part of him knew it had been a dream, but another part knew just as certainly that it wasn't. His parents were there, somewhere. He tried to sit up. Panic set in when he couldn't move. He broke out in a cold sweat. His breathing became labored.
"Good morning." Another familiar voice speaking simple words, laden with concern. With concerted effort Johnny focused, slowed his breathing, and turned toward the voice. "Maybe I should say 'Good afternoon'."
"Roy." The greeting was flat, emotionless. He was more awake now, and calm. Then memory flooded in. He swallowed hard against the panic that threatened to return with it. His parents had been here. He'd sent them away. Now his friend.
"How're you doing?"
"Swell."
Roy nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. "You … um, well … you look … better."
"Gee, thanks." An awkward silence fell between them. Roy began to fidget. Rarely was there silence between them, and never before had there been awkwardness. "You don't have to stay, you know."
"Do you want me to go?"
Before Johnny could reply the door opened and a nurse swept in carrying a meal tray. "Hi, Johnny," the pretty blonde chirped as she set the tray on his overbed table. "Hello, Roy," she turned her smile to him as she raised the head of the bed so that Johnny was sitting up.
"Delores." Roy's smile fell upon seeing the grim expression Johnny wore.
She pulled what they soon realized was a disposable adult bib from the tray and shook it out. "Um … uh … Dee," Johnny balked, "I … um … I … do-do we really have to do this now?"
"Don't you feel well? What's wrong?" She dropped the bib next to the tray and lay her hand across his forehead. Finding it cool she quickly moved her fingers to his neck to take his pulse.
"I'm fine," he tried to sound reassuring. "Roy is here now."
She reached for the bib again. "I'm sure Roy won't mind."
"I mind!" The bib fell to the floor and she jumped back a step as Roy moved in.
Delores Bamford had met John Gage at the start of both their medical careers. Already a firefighter, Johnny was at Rampart training to be a paramedic while Delores was working in the ER on her final rotation as a nursing student. Their first date had been on his birthday, to a party Dixie had thrown him at her home. They'd dated for a while, and it had been fun, but, while the relationship had been affectionate, romance had never fully blossomed. There had been no heavy break-up, and fondness remained. Or so Delores had thought. She'd seen Johnny angry before, he could get quite wound up, and they'd had their share of disagreements, but in all the time they'd known one another, he'd never lost his temper with her. As she thought about it, she realized that, as intense as he could sometimes be, she'd never actually seen him lose his temper at all. He'd also never before experienced anything like what he was going through now. "I'm sorry, Johnny," she offered.
"No, Dee, I-I'm sorry. I just … I-I can't … I don't … Can-can we do it later?"
Her smile slowly returned, smaller, softer. "I guess I can send the tray down late. Not too late, though, ok? I have to … it has to be a nurse, you know." Johnny gritted his teeth. "Just this first time. This is the next step. I know it's just hospital food, but it is solid food. And Johnny, you've gotten so thin. If you do as well with this as you've been doing, then Dr. Brackett can pull that tube. That's the first real step to getting you out of here. Don't you want that?"
Yes, he wanted the feeding tube removed, and he longed for solid food, she was right about that, too. A nurse's presence was required to ensure he could swallow and that his system could handle solid food again, and, of course, to be on hand if he couldn't. I do want to get out here, but ... but there was more going on, so much more. "Please, Dee? Later."
Her response was preempted by the knock at the door. "Mr. Gage?" A man of about 40 years old entered. He was tall and trim and had dark, thinning hair. He moved with an athleticism that contradicted the suit he wore. Johnny nodded in response to his question. The man took a quick glance around the room. "Mr. DeSoto," he extended his hand to Roy, "good to see you again." He smiled at Delores. "Miss Bamford," he noted her nameplate, then returned his attention to Johnny. "I'm Assistant District Attorney George Belosi. Can we talk?"
Glad for the interruption but not eager to speak with the man, Johnny turned to the nurse with a forced grin. "Dee?"
She moved the tray to the nightstand and placed the coffee back on the table, which she then raised and positioned so Johnny could reach it easily. "I'll see you later, Johnny." In one quick move she opened the straw and dropped it into the coffee cup. "Mr. Belosi," she nodded her good-bye. "Roy," she stopped with her hand on the door, "if you leave before I get back, don't forget to leave this open," and she was gone.
Belosi turned to find Johnny staring at him suspiciously. He smiled, hoping to put John at ease. He failed. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Gage — "
"I can't help you."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry." Johnny didn't seem at all sorry. He was calm, however, somehow too calm. "I know why you're here. Detective McCluskey's already been here. I can't help you."
Belosi nodded in understanding. There had been the chance that the victim still wouldn't remember but it was a chance that had to be taken. McCluskey had come almost as soon as Gage had awakened. The doctors had warned that, although awake, that did not necessarily mean Gage was beyond the effects of drugs, especially in light of how long he'd been on them, and that, combined with the trauma, could affect his memory. The case was moving and McCluskey had insisted. Belosi had to try again. Perhaps now that there'd been time for the drugs to clear, he'd get better results. He had already achieved that with nearly everyone who had been interviewed by both himself and McCluskey, especially the firemen. He hoped his victim would be no different. "That was almost a week ago," he pointed out.
"I don't remember."
The lawyer put his briefcase on the table to open it and removed a large manila envelope. "There is a chance that we could jog your memory— "
"No!" Johnny eyed the envelope. That's when Roy saw it, the one thing in all of this he was afraid Johnny might not get past: humiliation. McCluskey had shown Johnny the pictures. Roy had learned from Brackett and Dixie when McCluskey had come. Johnny hadn't mentioned it and, though he had his suspicions, he'd had no idea how that meeting had actually gone until now. He thought about his own meeting with the detective, and the subsequent meeting with Belosi. He knew that, eventually, Johnny would have to see those horrible pictures. Eventually, but not then, not as soon as he'd awakened. And not with all the hateful innuendo. Damn it, McCluskey!
John's breathing grew faster, but, with an effort, he quickly brought it under control. With an additional effort he looked Belosi square in the eye. He was calm. So calm. "I remember the Andersons and I've already spoken with a Ms. Pierce in your office about that. I remember a couple of police officers, and something about Humphrey Bogart, I think.
"I know what happened to me happened on a run at a laundry but I don't remember it. I don't remember anything about it. And if this," his eyes trailed quickly down his body, "is the result, then maybe it's better that I don't." He swallowed hard. Without realizing it, his gaze had returned to the envelope still in Belosi's hand, only partially removed from the briefcase.
Roy stood very still. He wanted to tell the ADA to put those damn pictures away, he wanted stand by his partner, literally as well as figuratively, but Johnny was no fool. Roy knew that any overt gesture on his part and Johnny would know that Roy, too, had seen the pictures. I can at least protect you from that, Junior. For now, anyway.
Belosi returned the envelope to the case, which he quickly closed and placed on the floor, out of Johnny's sight. "I am sorry, Mr. Gage. I appreciate that this must be terribly difficult for you— "
"Difficult? You think this is difficult?"
"Johnny..." Again Roy was struck by the feeling that Johnny was too calm.
Johnny smiled at him. It was cold. John turned his attention to Belosi, but Roy was sure what his partner said next was meant as much for him as it was for the attorney. "What's so difficult? I don't go anywhere; I don't do anything. Nothing." He looked away and swallowed hard, then turned back to face his visitor, his lips curled in an effort to retain the smile that never reached his eyes. "Do you know why Dee told my partner over there to leave the door open?"
It took Belosi a moment to realize that John actually wanted him to answer. "Oh, well, I — "
"It's the same reason I'm in this room."
"This room?"
"Yes, Mr. Belosi, the room closest to the nurses' station." He stared at his visitor. Despite John's incapacitation, a lesser man might have been intimidated. A lesser public servant would not have seen the fear Gage was working so hard to conceal. Johnny pulled the straw into his mouth and took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, then held up his broken hands as much as his broken arms would allow. "I can't pick up a coffee cup, I can't press the call button for the nurse." He let his hands drop to his sides. "I'm in this room, with the door open whenever I'm alone, so they can keep an eye on me. So they can hear me call. That I can do; I can cry out like a baby." The false smile faltered. "I can't do much of anything else. I can't walk, I can't feed myself, I can't even push a lousy button, and I can't remember what happened." The façade began to crack. "Don't you think I want to? It's bad enough not remembering, but someone did this to me and they'll probably get away with it because I can't remember."
"Mr. Gage," George Belosi stared back, "I'm not going to lie to you, I need your help. The best chance at getting these guys what they deserve is in your testimony. That being said, I will prosecute them to the full extent of the law and I will do everything in my power to see that they are punished as much as possible."
Johnny held his gaze, sizing him up. Finally he nodded. "How?" He blinked. Or so it appeared. Belosi recognized the gesture for what it was. A tell. Johnny revealed his greatest concern. His eyes had flicked down toward the briefcase, the pictures.
"I offer to reduce the charges in exchange for a guilty plea. It would mean they won't get as much time as they should but it will get them behind bars sooner, with no chance to appeal. If it does go that way I will insist the deal include allocution."
"What does that mean?"
"It's a statement to the court by the defendant, in this case defendants, prior to sentencing. My purpose would be to have them state on the record what they did. If I can't keep them locked up for a full stretch, I can at least see to it that the record clearly reflects their guilt."
Johnny was nodding. "And if they won't? Make this bargain, I mean." Again, the tell-tale blink.
"I won't sugar-coat this. It means taking every piece of evidence I have into court and convincing the jury that these guys wanted to hurt you and then did."
Johnny inhaled sharply. "Every piece of evidence?"
"Including your testimony. Witnesses can put you alone in the room with the defendants, and the doctors can explain the condition in which you left that room. Ideally, you would tell the jury exactly what they did and how they did it, eliminate any doubt as to their intentions, let alone reasonable doubt. Barring that, you're the face of this case. You're not just a catalog of medical information; you're a real person who's suffered real damage and all the pain and suffering that comes with it." He paused, then locked eyes with John. "May I be blunt?" Gage nodded. "You're young, attractive, popular, and you risk your life to help other people for a living. I couldn't ask for a more sympathetic victim."
Another nod, slower, drawn out, as Johnny considered what he'd just been told. Then the tell. "What if ... What if I don't want to press charges?"
Oh, Johnny, no. Roy clenched his jaw but maintained his silence.
"I'm afraid that's not up to you," Belosi said as gently as he could. He watched the young man in the bed for a minute. He felt he'd gotten to know John Gage. He'd spent a lot of time on this case, time that included speaking with his family, friends, and coworkers. "Is that what you want?"
A glance out the window, to Roy, then back to the DA. "No," Johnny finally replied. "No."
Belosi had expected no less. "I'll do what I can." He let his own gaze flick to the briefcase then back to John. When he was sure they understood one another he smiled. "I'll be in touch."
As soon as they were alone Roy moved closer to his friend's side. "Would you really do that?" Johnny looked to him questioningly. "Not press charges?"
There was no reply for a long time. Roy was about to change the subject. "I thought about it." Johnny chuckled. It was as cold as his smile had been. "Obviously." He searched Roy's face, his eyes alight with the hope of finding answers. Roy was struck by the realization that it was the way Chris looked at him when he couldn't find his way, when he needed his Daddy. Suddenly Johnny looked very young indeed. "This not remembering …" Again he fell silent.
"Johnny …"
"I know what happened. It's kind of hard to miss from here. I got the medical details from the doctors. Detective McCluskey sh— told me the how." His eyes bored into Roy's. "It's like it happened to someone else. I felt sorry for the guy." He continued looking toward Roy, but no longer at him. Through him. "Even here, like this, I just keep imagining myself as the paramedic. I should feel something more about it, but I don't."
"No?"
"I wonder how I would have handled it if I was on that rescue. If I saw a victim like that. If I knew someone did that deliberately."
Roy stepped closer to the bed. "You would have handled it like you handle every rescue. Like a professional."
"Yeah. I was real professional with Missy Tyro, wasn't I? I left my dinner all over the street."
"That's different. Missy Tyro was …" No, Johnny. It is different. It has to be.
"Was what? She was raped, Roy, and you knew it. That poor kid. And she has to live with it every day."
"Missy will have her day in court. So will you."
"Not if I can't remember. And if I don't — I guess it doesn't matter. They're going to be prosecuted no matter what, you heard the D.A. But what if he doesn't have enough? What if they get off? What if they get off and do this to somebody else because I couldn't remember?"
"Johnny, I —"
"It's ok." Johnny tried to smile, then became quite serious. "Look, if I don't do everything I can to put those guys away and then they go do this to someone else … We can't save everybody, but we do have to at least try, right? It's why I became a paramedic. I have to try." Roy nodded his understanding. The brief silence that fell between them was comfortable, until Johnny spoke again. "I just wish …"
"What?"
"You and the guys weren't in the middle of this mess."
"Where else would we be? One of us was down, that's what matters. The guys did great, you should be real proud."
"Yeah?" For the first time since this began Johnny smiled, really smiled. It was small, but genuine.
"Yeah. Lopez and Stoker got all the equipment to me, Cap handled the biophone like a pro, and Kelly, well, he really came through. He shut down the dryer, and took care of the ice. There wasn't any, ice, so he took Stoker to bust open the pop machine. That's how we got your temp down. Things were moving pretty fast, and between the splints and the burn pack you were wrapped and ready to roll in no time." The relief in Johnny's eyes was clear. Then it dimmed. "I was concerned about what injuries might show up later, you know how some can take a while to appear, but we got you here to Rampart so fast, even if something else did come up you were already in doctors' hands." It was back, the relief, and with it, gratitude.
Johnny shifted his weight as well as he could, then leaned in for another sip of his coffee. "So how are things at the station?"
"Not too bad. Haven't had a chance to get used to anyone else, though." Johnny grimaced at that, but it was as good natured as the jibe itself. "Wheeler was with us for a while. Apparently he had vacation time he had to use but he put in for the overtime so we got him."
"Any rescues make the paper? Maybe a photo with a 51 somewhere? Or was his time off from 110's time off from the press?"
If you only knew. "No, no pictures in the paper this time.
"Belliveau covered a few shifts; it was nice to work with him again."
"When did you work with Belliveau?"
"Didn't exactly work with him. You know we were in that first paramedic class out of Harbor together. I guess I should have said it was nice to be in the field with him.
"Charlie Hagan from B shift did a couple of doubles, and Charlie Wilson from C shift pulled a few. My beef bourguignon aside, we never ate better." Johnny rolled his eyes at Roy's botched attempt to pronounce bourguignon and his smile broadened.
"I'm sorry I missed it."
"Yeah. He may only be second chef at La Pavillion, but his food sure is first rate. You were right, the guys on C shift are real lucky."
The conversation was comfortable, relaxed, Johnny was smiling, even laughing with his friend. Then Delores returned. The change in John's demeanor was instantaneous. He asked her to excuse them for just another minute, when she did he turned to Roy solemnly.
"What's wrong?"
"Listen, Roy … I'm probably getting out of here next week."
"I know, it's great! Johnny, I —" The look in Johnny's eyes stopped him. "Tell me."
He thought for a minute, struggling to find the words. "I don't know how."
"Just say it. I know you're dealing with a lot, but this is a big step, why aren't you happy about it?"
"Oh, I am. I am," he insisted a bit too earnestly for Roy's liking. "It's just …" His jaw clenched tightly as he worked to organize his thoughts. "I … I really ap-p-preciate you being here a-a-and coming as much as you do, but … Roy," he looked into Roy's eyes, using all his strength to not look away. "I-I-I … I don't … I don't want you to come back. A-a-and the guys, tell them … "
Roy inhaled sharply, but managed to maintain his cool, if only on the outside. "Why would you ask that?"
"When Dee comes back … Dee's coming back to feed me." He looked at Roy desperately, hoping he'd said enough.
"I know. So what?"
"I have to be fed, Roy." He turned away, ashamed. "A-a-and solid food … means solid —"
"Ok! Ok, I get it. But Johnny, this is temporary. It's due to your medical situation and that will change for the better. It is changing."
"I know that. I-I-I … I just … I-I can't." Deep breath. Focus. "It was different before. Broth, coffee, juice, even this tube up my nose, it's all liquid. All I needed were the straws and the Foley took care of the rest. It's not like I thought you didn't see it there o-o-or know what was going on, but it-it's different. It's hard enough to talk about, but now, I … I can't do it, Roy. I-I can't have you here, seeing me fed and cleaned up like —"
"Johnny, I won't be in the room for that. And if you're that uncomfortable I can leave the room when you're eating —"
"DAMN IT, ROY!" Once again they faced each other. Johnny's eyes revealed the war going on inside and Roy felt as if his own heart would break. "You want me to say it? Fine! I'm helpless! Does it make you happy to hear me say it? I am completely and totally helpless, and it's going to get worse before it gets any better.
"A-A-And you're right, it will change. As soon as the casts come off they're sending me to a nursing home. Don't say it; I already got the speech from Brackett. Rehab. It's still a damn nursing home a-and I … I-I-I can't … I can't do it, Roy. I-I can't do what I have to do with-with people a-around."
Roy sighed heavily. He wanted to understand. He did understand some of it. He understood Johnny not wanting anyone to see him being fed, or to be anywhere around for the inevitable result of having eaten. He'd known Johnny would hate the nursing home, but, try as he might, he simply did not understand his partner pushing him away so completely.
As if reading his thoughts, Johnny said quietly, "Roy, I'm not asking to you leave me behind or-or anything like that. But, for now, I just … It's harder now, than when I first woke up. It probably shouldn't be, but it is, and I can't stand the idea of anyone seeing me like this. I know you don't get it. I hope you never do," he added softly. "I'm not asking you to get it. My folks sure don't. I'm just asking you to respect it."
Roy nodded slowly. "Your folks. Is that why they're not here now?"
"Yeah." He swallowed. "They only left for the day … this time. They'll be back in the morning after breakfast to say goodbye, then they're heading back to Santa Barbara. Believe me, they didn't like it either. But my father said I'm a grown man now so it's my decision, and Mom said they could respect it without liking it or agreeing with it." He snickered. "She also called me a horse's tail end and said they'd call every day and be back next month whether I like it or not."
Roy smiled and thought carefully before he spoke again. "Ok, if this is really what you want. I don't agree and I don't like it either, but I guess your parents are right. But I'm also not going to go away completely. I'm going to call you every shift, even if it's from right downstairs."
"Roy, please. I appreciate that, but … Check in on me, I'll give whatever permission I have to, that's fine. I-It's … it's not your knowing, it … it's … Please?"
Roy sighed. He hated this. He hated what Johnny was asking of him, he hated that John felt this was what he needed, most of all he hated that it seemed the best way he could help his friend was to abandon him. It went against everything Roy was, as a firefighter, as a partner, a friend, as a man. He knew there was more to it than the embarrassment and that he'd never fully understand it. He hadn't missed Johnny's comment, and, while grateful, he couldn't shake the feeling that while John might not remember the specifics, there was a deeper pain than any of his physical injuries had caused, down to the young man's very soul. "Ok, Johnny, if that's what you really want. Under two conditions." Johnny eyed him expectantly. "You're expecting visitors in a month, I'm going to be one of them."
"And?"
"And if you change your mind, even for a second, you'll call me. I won't tell the guys, or call your parents, if that's what you want, but you're not alone, and you don't have to go through this alone. Remember that."
Johnny sank back into his pillows, his relief evident. "Deal. You'll have to take my word for it, though, I can't shake on it."
Delores chose that moment to return. As she stepped into the room, Roy grabbed the open door to make his exit.
"Hey, Roy?" Johnny called, stopping him. "Thanks, man."
Roy nodded and smiled sadly and was gone.
Scene Two
"Come on, Roy," Chet whined, "you must've misunderstood."
"Sorry, Chet. For now, anyway, that's the way he wants it."
"Come on," the whining continued. "Gage wouldn't do that."
Roy shook his head almost imperceptibly as he set the coffee pot back on the stove before turning around to face the rest of his crew. Although saddened and disappointed, they'd all tried to accept Johnny's wishes for no visitors. All, that is, but one. "He would. He did."
"But — "
"Look, I don't like it any better than you do, but if this is the way he wants it then this is what we'll do."
"But why?" Chet asked sullenly. "Why would he want that at a time like this? I don't get it." Marco and Mike were both shaking their heads in silent agreement.
"Neither did I," Roy admitted. "I still don't, not completely."
"What can you tell us, Roy," Cap prompted when he did not continue.
What could he tell them? What could he say that would help them to understand without bringing any further embarrassment to Johnny? Finally he realized the truth really was best. "Guys, he's embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? About what," Marco asked sincerely.
Roy smiled. It was comforting that the others not only wanted to go support Johnny, but that they sincerely saw no reason for any embarrassment on his part.
It had already been a long road. First there was Johnny's stay in isolation. Though his parents had come to Los Angeles right away, even they could only see him through the window. Once he was past the particular dangers that had landed him there, he had remained sedated until all the burns had healed and all the broken bones properly cast. His parents were the only visitors allowed during that time and he hadn't even known they were there. Then, finally, just about a week ago, Johnny was awake. Unfortunately, outside of his parents, McCluskey was his first visitor. Following that visit word had been left, immediate family only. Even Johnny's extended family, eager to come and support him and his parents, had been asked to stay away for a while longer. The word didn't reach Roy. He'd learned Johnny's room number and when he was to have been awakened. He'd waited to allow Johnny time to be with his family and adjust as much as possible, but the following day, a work day, he'd gone directly from the ER after depositing a patient. He'd known it would be a very limited visit, he knew Johnny would be tired, and have his family around anyway. He was eager to see how John was and to be there for him. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he'd been surprised by just how down Johnny was. Even in light of all John had been through, Roy knew there was something more going on. On his way out he'd gotten confirmation. He'd caught Brackett between calls at the base station, where the good doctor and Dixie had filled him in. McCluskey.
On the bright side, he'd had the opportunity to meet Johnny's parents, and they were as pleased to meet Roy as he'd been to meet them. Johnny was distant, withdrawn, but seemed to perk up when Roy came around, so his parents had asked that Roy be the one exception to the family only visitation.
At first the crew did understand. In addition to the physical damage, Gage had lost a month. More than that, since he didn't remember what had happened, he just woke up one day a month later than he thought it was, all busted up. At least it was his doctors and family that told him he'd been attacked, because, after finding that out, the first thing he'd had to face upon waking was McCluskey. A collective shudder had run through them when Roy shared that bit of information. They'd expected it to be rough for John, and they'd been eager to go show him their support. Anger, self-pity, doubt, even fear. They thought they were prepared for whatever he'd throw at them and that they'd all come together to help him through it. None of them were prepared for this.
"He's just feeling sorry for himself," Chet insisted. "If we just go in there and treat him normal he'll know he has nothing to worry about."
"It's not that simple," Cap offered. All eyes turned to him. "All else being equal, the injuries, the time lost, the memory, if the situation were due to a fire or a rescue gone bad, I'd probably agree. This was an assault. Gage was the victim of violent crime. Even if we give those bo— men who did it the benefit of the doubt, that they just intended to rope him into their fraternity nonsense and the prank went too far, they still took deliberate action that resulted in John being where he is now. He has to reconcile that in addition to his physical situation, not to mention the legal fallout, which McCluskey's style and timing couldn't have helped."
"So what do we do, Cap," Marco asked. "How do we help him?"
"For now, by respecting his wishes, and being ready when he changes his mind."
"You sure he will?"
"Yeah, Kelly." Mike chimed in. "Maybe not as soon as we'd like, but yes. He will." Cap smiled as he saw his crew take comfort in the engineer's certainty; unnoticed by all but the captain himself, Roy especially.
The door from the parking lot slammed open and a large man with a larger smile and wearing a paramedic uniform entered the kitchen. He adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder and went directly to Cap. "Captain Hammer? Name's Bellingham, I've been assigned."
"Welcome to 51's, Bellingham," Cap offered his hand, "go stow your gear. Roy, show him a locker and let Dwyer know he can hit the road. Roll call in five."
With a quick look at his watch, Chet piped up, "Cutting it a little close there, aren't you Bellingham?"
Bellingham laughed. "I ain't late yet," he replied as he followed Roy to the door.
Before they had left the rec room the klaxon sounded. The station was called upon for an unknown rescue. Only Cap noticed the clenching of Roy's fists and jaw when the address came over the speaker.
Scene Three
The squad pulled up in front of the fraternity house with the engine right behind. They were greeted by a blonde young man in a cheerleader's uniform and full makeup.
"Back there," he told them "I think he broke his leg." He turned back toward the house. Roy set his jaw and pulled the biophone and drug box from the squad. With Bellingham, equipment in hand, and the engine crew close behind, he followed the young man to the back of the house.
All eyes but Bellingham's shifted to Roy upon seeing their patient. The house, along with its neighboring fraternity houses, was backed by an open field. Laying in the middle of this field, dressed in his football uniform, lay Jack Webber.
Roy manned the biophone, leaving his partner to get the vitals and assess the patient, while Cap shooed the crowd back. Two people didn't move as far back as the rest, and stood watching with great interest as DeSoto and Bellingham worked. Stewart Zeciak and Erik Towne. Stewart was dressed in the same cheerleader uniform and make-up as the student who had greeted them; Towne, like Webber, was in his football uniform.
While the paramedics were working, Sheriff's deputy Bob Pauling came on the scene just behind campus security. "Just a friendly touch football game," Erik replied when asked what had happened. "I guess some of us got carried away."
"That'll happen when you get all geared up," scoffed the security man.
"Well, uh …" Towne stammered, "it's … um … well …"
"Only one side was in gear." Roy looked up. Stewart had stepped over to the officers.
Deputy Pauling was staring at the boys in the cheerleader uniforms. "Pledges," the security officer explained. "Hazing." Roy suppressed a shudder. He'd had enough of fraternity hazing to last him a lifetime.
"Hey DeSoto," Bellingham got his attention, "what do you think?"
"Yeah, what's the verdict?" Jack eyed the paramedic warily. The recognition had been mutual.
Roy took a deep, calming breath and met Webber's eyes. "It looks like you dislocated your knee."
"So it's not broken," Jack asked, relieved.
Roy shook his head. "I don't think so." As instructed by Dr. Morton, Bellingham administered the pain meds, then Roy gently splinted the knee. He had just finished when the ambulance attendants appeared with the gurney. He passed the biophone and drug box to Bellingham. "You ride in."
It was only a matter of minutes before the ambulance was on it's way. Most of the ball players and "cheerleaders" had made their way back into the house. Roy had gathered up his equipment and turned to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find himself looking into the made-up face of Stewart Zeciak.
"That was far out," the boy said.
Roy shook his head. "Thanks. Just doing my job."
"No, I don't mean the medical stuff," Stewart continued. "I mean, that's pretty great too, but it's not what I'm talking about." Roy looked at him questioningly. "You were so cool. After what happened to your friend, and you were totally cool. What he did ... and you helped him. Man, I don't think I could do that."
"He hurt you, too. Even if he didn't put you in that washer, he was one of the people that made that happen." Roy took another deep breath before he continued. "From the way you reacted when my partner went into that back room, you've seen it before. Maybe it was you, maybe it was one of the others. I'll bet it was all of you at one point or another. But here you are, still trying to get into this fraternity. If you make it, next year you'll be on his side."
He turned his back to the boy but before he could board the squad, Roy was again intercepted. He just stared at Erik Towne without a word. The young man fidgeted under Roy's gaze until finally he offered his hand. "Thanks," was all he said.
Roy stared at his outstretched hand, then turned and got into the truck. "You're welcome." He started the engine and, as quickly as he safely could, drove away.
Scene Four
The week was finally winding down. It had been lonely, but as he bit back the threatening tears, Johnny knew he'd made the right decision. His mind was spinning, and taking his heart and stomach along, as the orderly wheeled his gurney down to radiology. If the X-rays turned out the way Brackett and Keaton, the orthopedist, expected, the casts would come off that afternoon and the real work could begin. It also meant leaving Rampart. If only he could go home and do the physical therapy as an outpatient. He sighed. Much as he might have wished otherwise, he knew that wasn't an option. Even if he could feed himself yet, he couldn't cook, couldn't even slap together a sandwich. Besides, I'll never get my strength back on sandwiches. I could order out. But every meal? I can't afford that. Or the taxis I would have to take everywhere. And how would I get to the taxi? Mom and Pop would come back down if I asked them to. If it was just driving and cooking … Is Pop going to carry me everywhere and lift me in and out of the bathtub? Do you really want that? Sure, why not. And Mom can spend all her time caring for me just like she did when I was a baby. He laughed bitterly.
"You say something," the orderly asked.
"Nah," Johnny hoped he sounded casual, "Just thinking."
"Cool, man." They continued their trip in silence.
And now that you're eating solids and the catheter's out — Stop it, Gage! Keaton would never approve outpatient therapy. What if he would? Mom and Pop's diaper days are long gone, even if yours aren't. For now. Yours aren't done for now. Do you really want them changing your diapers? Besides, they knew about this before you did and they ok'd it. They can't take care of you and you don't really want them to. You don't want them seeing you fed and diapered let alone doing it and you don't want them to see you in a damn nursing home! Just keep reminding yourself, this is temporary, just like Roy said. Roy. You just miss them. He clenched his jaw as another bitter laugh threatened to escape. Poor wittle Johnny Gage, misses his Mommy and Daddy. I do miss them. I miss Roy, and the guys … I miss ... I miss me. He sighed.
"Ok, man?"
"Sorry." The orderly who had transported him was standing beside him in the radiology department waiting area. He'd not only not noticed they'd arrived, he'd been so preoccupied with his own thoughts he hadn't heard the man talking to him.
"'S'all right, man, you got a lot going on," the orderly smiled. "All I was saying is, have the tech call upstairs when you're ready, somebody'll be right down here to get you. Ok?"
"Sure." Johnny tried to return the smile.
There was only one other patient in the waiting area, a blonde girl in a wheelchair wearing a pink bathrobe over her hospital gown who appeared to be in her mid to late teens. There was an overwhelming sadness about her. Although she had ducked her head so that her hair hid her face, he realized that, through her hair, she was staring at him.
"Hi," he said softly. She flinched just a bit at the sound of his voice, and turned her head slightly, but continued to watch him through the curtain of her hair. "I won't hurt you," he offered gently. You can probably do me a lot more harm than I could you anyway.
"I know you," she whispered. "You were there."
"Where?"
"That night. You helped me." She turned slightly toward him and timidly tucked her hair behind her ear. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Of course I should, Missy. May I call you Missy?" She nodded once. "Thank you. I'm Johnny."
"You're wrong, Johnny," she insisted. "You should have let me die."
Johnny was as horrified by her matter-of-fact tone as he was by her words. "No, Missy. No."
"Why not?"
"What?"
"Why not let me die? I deserve to die."
Before Johnny could think of a response Missy was sitting up straight, a small bottle in her hand. She quickly opened it and poured it's contents over herself. He recognized the smell immediately. Ether! He knew the only source in the hospital was locked away in the research labs, but he had no time to wonder how she'd gotten her hands on it. "What are you going to do?"
"I told you," her voice cracked on the tears she refused to shed. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a lighter.
The tech was right in the next room, probably able to hear him if he yelled, but the last thing Johnny wanted to do was anything that might startle or frighten the girl in any way.
"Please don't do this."
"I have to, don't you see?"
"No, Missy, I don't see. You've been through something terrible, something no one should ever have to go through, and you got through it. You survived, and it will get better. It doesn't seem like it now, but it will." She was watching him. Though she was fingering the lighter, she did seem to be listening. Encouraged, Johnny continued. "What about the people who care about you? My partner, for one."
"Mr. DeSoto. Yeah, he's cool. He's been real nice to me." She paused. "You were, too. I mean, I know you were trying to help me. Thank you." She looked up and, for the first time, really looked at him. "What happened to you?"
Startled by the sudden change of subject, Johnny stammered for a moment before he replied. "I don't really know." It was brief, but he saw it. Fear in her eyes. "I mean, I know, they told me, I just … that's how I know, from what I was told. I don't actually remember it."
"What did they tell you?"
He thought carefully for a moment. He had to do more than just distract her, he had to convince her, at least until she could get the help she really needed. To do that he had to have her trust.
"Roy— Mr. DeSoto and our crew and I, we were called out to help a boy who'd gotten hurt in some prank. Seems they thought it would be a real gas to try something on someone outside their fraternity and it went all wrong. They …"
"They hurt you." He looked down his body, all taped and splinted and cast, Oh, my! He let himself smile, hoping it was as reassuring for her as it felt to himself. "I'm really sorry. No one should be hurt like this." The pictures McCluskey had showed him suddenly flashed through his mind. How badly had he been hurt? In what way? In spite of what he'd seen he still hadn't broached the subject with any of his doctors. What did she see, did they have that in common?
"You're the one from the newspapers," she said.
Again she changed the subject suddenly. "The papers?" Unable to turn the pages, Johnny hadn't bothered with newspapers.
"Mostly. I guess since there's really nothing for them to show the TV isn't really getting into it. It weird. At first it was all about how some fireman basically lost it and hurt the boys he was there to help." Johnny swallowed, but remained silent.
No wonder everybody insisted on reading to me from magazines and books. And I didn't even notice they were all avoiding the papers.
"They changed, though. The stories, I mean. They're not talking about it as much, but when they do it's all about the paramedic program and all the good stuff it does. They're printing old pictures and reinterviewing people that were helped and talking about waiting to see what happens in court 'cause maybe there's more to the story. It's almost like they suddenly remembered firemen are the good guys and switched sides."
Or they found a way to make it sexy again to sell more papers.
"Do you think you'll win? In court, I mean."
"I hope so. Fact is, I do want to see them punished. Nobody should get away with hurting somebody so viciously," he said pointedly.
"You're lucky you don't remember."
"I don't know about that. I can't testify to what I don't know, and if I don't, there's a good chance they'll get away with it, and do it again to other people."
"But they're still going to try? Your case is going to court anyway?"
"Of course." Oh, no. "Isn't yours?"
She shook her head as the tears slowly began to fall. "My father said no. He said … He worked it out with R-R ... with Ro— with his parents. As soon as the doctors say I'm well enough, we're getting married."
What! his mind screamed, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. "What about the police? There was an investigation, wasn't there," he inquired as gently as he could.
She shrugged. "We were dating. I guess it's not rape if you're in a relationship. Daddy said that's why I wasn't allowed to date, because knew this would happen. I wanted to wait until I was married, I didn't know. So now …"
"Aren't you too young?"
"In California."
"What does your mother say about all this?"
"I think she doesn't like it, but if my father said it's right then it must be. She would never go against my father. It's not her place." Not her place? She's your mother, for Pete's sake. "'Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church.' That's Ephesians," she clarified. Johnny remembered the scene in the hospital with her father and suddenly it all made sense. "Don't you see? It doesn't matter what Mom wants, or me, or the police. The only thing that matters is what G-d wants."
"And G-d wants you to marry your rapist," he asked carefully, with none of the anger he felt, afraid if he revealed it she'd see it as directed at herself.
"'If a man meets a virgin who is not betrothed, and seizes her and lies with her, and they are found, then the man who lay with her shall give to the father of the young woman fifty shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife, because he has violated her. He may not divorce her all his days.'"
I wonder how much fifty shekels of silver comes to in American money. Her father and her G-d. How do I tell her what crap this all is without losing her?
"Missy, have you spoken to the rape counselor. Or maybe the hospital chaplain?"
She looked at him as though he's just asked if she'd like a slice of sunlight on her sandwich. "Why would I do that? My father is a chaplain."
"Right, sorry." He thought a minute. "What about the counselor?"
"So she can tell me my father's wrong? That the bible is wrong, that G-d is wrong? I don't think so."
As her voice rose Johnny realized just how calm she'd been up to that point. Ok, so maybe she's not so committed to this idea of killing herself, she certainly isn't very excited about it. If only it wasn't so wrapped up in her father. He sighed.
"It'll be ok." Now she was reassuring him. She picked up the lighter from her lap. With perfect calm, she said, "Once I do this. Really it will."
That was when he remembered. Calm in a suicidal patient was often a bad sign, a sign that the decision had been made. He blew out a little breath, using it to calm himself before he spoke. "No it won't. Dying can't be the answer, it just can't."
"Of course it is. Don't you see?"
"No, I don't. Your death can't be what your mother wants, or your father," he hurried to add, hoping he was right. "Or G-d. Isn't suicide a sin?"
"Leviticus 21:9. 'And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.' See?" She opened the lighter.
"Wait! Please." His mind racing, Johnny scrambled for something to say, anything to stop her from flicking that wheel.
"I know you think you're helping me again, and I appreciate that, but you're really not." She held up the lighter. "This is the only thing that can help me now."
"No!" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, hoping he at least sounded calm. "Missy, I can't speak for your father and I certainly can't speak for G-d. I can't believe they would want this, but I do know that they wouldn't want you to kill anyone else."
She stared at him a moment, horrified. "Of course not," she whispered.
"I'm sure you think the fire will stick to the ether, Missy, but fire isn't that predictable, or controllable. Believe me, if it was, most of my friends wouldn't have a job. What if it spreads?" He watched her as her eyes scanned the room, then wandered to the ceiling. "If the sprinklers come on too soon the job won't be finished. You'll be hurt a whole lot worse than you are now, burns are excruciating. And if they come on too late, then what about me? You said you were sorry I got hurt. If the fire spreads, I can't run away. You'll burn me. You'll kill me." Man, he hated playing that card.
It was the right card to play. She closed the lighter carefully, as if just handling it would set him on fire, and returned it to her pocket. When she looked back up at him she was weeping freely. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I would never do that. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone."
"I know," he replied softly. How he wished he could go to her, comfort her somehow. Then he remembered how she had responded the last time he'd touched her and thought maybe it was better that he couldn't. "Look, Missy, is it possible maybe your father missed something?"
"What do you mean?"
"G-d is perfect, right? But men aren't. And your father is just a man, isn't he?" She nodded slowly, cautiously. "Except he's not just a man, is he? He's also a father whose daughter has been hurt. Maybe your father's just so hurt and angry about what happened to you that that's all he can see right now, anger and hurt, even in the bible." He hoped he sounded more convinced than he was, or he knew he could never convince her. "The bible also says to 'Honor thy father,' right?" Another nod. "I think your compassion and patience honor him." Even as he heard himself say the words, Johnny knew his own compassion was for Missy Tyro, and struggled to find some for her father. "Your understanding of his pain, even if he doesn't seem to understand yours." A sob escaped her, and he was afraid he'd said too much.
"How do I do that?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "How do I honor him if it's not by doing what he says?"
He thought hard. She had listened to him so far, what he said next would make all the difference.
"Could you talk to him?"
"Me?" He couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.
"You understand," she offered meekly. "You understand about G-d, and about how my father feels, and you … you were hurt, too. You understand how I feel."
Once again the images in McCluskey's photographs flashed through his mind. What exactly had caused those particular bruises? How far had the attack gone? What did Missy see in him? He shook it off, returning his attention to Missy where it belonged. "I don't think that's such a good idea." Her tears welled up again and began to fall anew. "I wish I could," he hastened to add. "I would if I really believed I would help. I don't think I will. You need someone more … more knowledgeable than I am. I really think the hospital chaplain. He's a chaplain, so he knows the bible, and he works here in the hospital, so he understands what people go through when they've been so badly injured."
Missy sniffled. Her tears slowed. "Yeah, maybe. It makes sense. Maybe you're right." Her red-rimmed eyes met his. "Maybe you should talk to him, too."
Scene Five
Johnny dropped into his wheelchair with a grunt. "If I worked … this hard … in high school," he panted, "I'd be … heading … to Munich … in October."
"You may yet," Deyvis laughed. "You're doing great, John," he continued. "Take a minute to catch your breath, then we'll head over to the table and I'll rub you down."
Johnny shook his head. "Not yet." He inhaled deeply through his nose, then blew it out slowly. Again. "Just give me … one more minute." Deep breath. "I want to go again."
"No."
"But—"
"No. For one thing, Tina's already working with another patient," he nodded toward where the other physical therapist was working with a young woman in leg braces.
"Don't need her."
"Yes, we do. It isn't safe — Why am I arguing with you? I said, 'No.' Besides, doing too much too soon can be more harmful than not doing enough. You've been here, what, four days now? And we've had this conversation four times."
"Five."
"What?"
"I've been here five days. I transferred from Rampart five days ago."
Deyvis smiled. "Right. Day one, admissions and paperwork. So we started four days ago. And you've been working your butt off, and that's great. When I first read your chart, I figured you'd need at least a year. I'm not so sure of that, anymore. But this is a process, and with hard work you can possibly speed it up, but you can't rush it. You've already made amazing progress for just four days."
"How far?"
"John —"
"How far did I walk today?"
"Seven feet."
"Seven feet," Johnny scoffed.
"Yeah, seven feet," Deyvis replied enthusiastically. "You doubled your distance in only three days. I don't know a lot people who can do that, even with relatively minor injuries. You're my star patient, man."
Johnny allowed himself a small smile. Deyvis Morancey was nearly John's height and as solid as an oak. Johnny had been sure he'd be made to wait before he was allowed to try to walk, but, on their second day together, once Deyvis was confident that Johnny could stand, with assistance, but stand nonetheless, he was allowed to take his first steps in almost two months. His legs were too weak to support his full weight; Deyvis held him up, first while he stood, then when he walked. And he had walked. Determined not to shuffle, Johnny wasn't sure what was more difficult: lifting one foot and placing it in front of the other rather than dropping it, and then probably himself, or holding any of his weight on one weak leg while he moved the other. He had walked just over three feet that first time.
"You did a lot today, John," Deyvis was saying as he lifted his patient onto the massage table and set about massaging his legs. "I understand that you're eager to walk, but you have to build your strength and muscle tone back. And don't forget your skin. The burns are healed, but the healed skin hasn't been put to work yet, either. Just because you aren't on your feet doesn't mean the exercises you're doing aren't beneficial. They are important, and you did well."
"Well," he asked sarcastically. "My partner's three-year-old could lift more weight than I did."
"Patience is not your long suit, is it John?"
"Guess not," he replied with a small sigh.
"You will get stronger. Be patient."
"Just one more stroll." Deyvis laughed and shook his head. "Five more feet." More head shaking. "Three? I know, patience."
"Especially now."
"Why," Johnny asked suspiciously.
"Well, P.T. is open seven days a week, keep up patients' momentum and strength, but — "
"But just because the department is open doesn't mean you work seven days a week."
Deyvis nodded. "You got it. You'll be working with Mona the next two days."
"Mona? I can't walk with Mona, she won't be able to hold me up."
"Not if you have no confidence in her, she won't." Johnny eyed him skeptically. "Mona is an excellent physical therapist. She won't suffer unnecessary delays. If she can't get you up herself then she'll take the chair and get someone else to take lead for that part of your session."
"Sure," Johnny replied flatly. She'll take the chair. Like Tina had done today. She had walked slowly behind him with the wheelchair, far enough back to ensure his progress was not impeded, close enough that he could just drop into it with little or no warning should it be necessary. From the beginning, his walks were a three-person affair. He had no doubt that Mona was a fine therapist, but what if there was no one available strong enough to hold him up. If he had any strength at all in his arms he could use the parallel bars, or even a walker, but his arms were even weaker than his legs. Even if they weren't, his hands were. He couldn't grip the equipment well enough to hold himself up anyway. He had to keep walking, he had to add feet every day. He had a promise to keep. On his first day Deyvis had encouraged him to set only short-term goals at first, but that wasn't in Johnny's nature. Always moving forward, always thinking about the next step, about what he could do next and then just doing it. His recovery was no different. His parents had agreed to month. He had promised himself that upon their next visit he would take them out for lunch. He knew he wouldn't be ready to drive, but he was determined to walk to the car, walk into whatever restaurant they chose, sit at the table in a regular chair and eat like a normal person. He had less than four weeks left to make that happen.
"John?"
"Huh?"
"Where were you," Deyvis asked with a grin.
With a grin of his own, Johnny replied, "Out for walk."
He was shaking his head even as his grin broadened. "You don't give up, do you?"
"Nope."
"Good." He got Johnny situated in his wheelchair. "Come on, let's get you to dinner." He waved someone over. "Keep up the good work, John. I'll see you after my weekend." With that, Deyvis swung Johnny's chair around toward the exit and took his leave.
Johnny found himself looking up at the most interesting face he had ever seen. She was pretty, but that wasn't it. She appeared to be anywhere between 30 and 60 years old; her hair, cut stylishly short, was thick and full and shone like spun silver. She was slender and at least a full foot shorter than he, yet somehow she seemed quite tall.
"Hello, boychik."
He stiffened at the name, and then she smiled at him. He looked into her eyes, deeper than any he had ever seen and a rich shade of brown that reminded him of tilled soil. He didn't know why he had reacted to the name the way that he did, but one look into her smiling eyes and he knew it was wrong.
"Come," she continued, "let's get you in to dinner."
"NO! Sorry, no, I … I don't eat in the dining room. Please, just take me back to my room. They'll send up a tray."
She got behind him and began pushing the wheelchair. "They like everybody in the dining room. How is it you rate such special treatment?" It was then that Johnny noticed a slight accent he couldn't quite identify. It was lilting, comforting.
"I didn't realize it was special," he told her. "I guess it's better than the alternative."
"The alternative?"
"They won't let me starve."
"And you should starve why?"
"I won't eat in the dining room."
"Why you will not eat in the dining room?"
"I won't eat in the dining room yet. As soon as I can feed myself —" Why did I tell her that, I don't want to talk about this. Something in the kindness of her smile, the gentleness of her voice, the depth of her eyes, almost demanded he be straight with her.
Suddenly his chair swung nearer the wall and stopped. Before he could consider how impressed he was that such a small woman could maneuver the chair with him in it so easily, she was squatting beside him, gazing up at him and looking so deeply into his eyes he was sure she really could see into his soul. "What brings you here, boychik?"
After a minute of looking into those eyes, he said, "There was a … an ac— " He didn't want to talk about the attack, but he didn't want to lie to this woman. There was no accident. "I was injured, broke a lot of bones. My legs, my arms," he began slowly. "Hands, feet, ribs," tumbled out after. He wanted to stop, not talk about this, but those eyes. "There were also … I couldn't move, or be moved, for a long time. My muscles … I can't even grip a fork." There was sympathy in her face, but no pity, and he shook off the self-pity he felt rising. "Yet," he added, more for himself than for her.
She smiled and stood. "Ok, boychik. Your room number is what?"
He returned the smile, knowing she saw his relief. "318."
She gently patted his knee before rising to retake her position behind his chair. "318. One stop first. Don't worry, boychik." She parked him by the dining room door and disappeared inside. In a few short minutes she had returned and they were on the move.
"What —"
"Ah, ah, ah," she scolded. "Patience, boychik. Patience."
She took him to his room, but rather than place the wheelchair next to the bed and calling for help to get him into it, she parked him by the window, brought his over-bed tray table to him, then dragged the extra chair in the room over so she could sit across from him.
"Are you going to … "
"Feed you? Not yet."
Despite his overwhelming embarrassment at being fed, he couldn't help a small smile. "Well, no, not without the tray. It's … easier in the bed, you could stand right next to me."
"This is much nicer, no? And you did say you want to feed yourself, yes?" His smile faded. "Trust me, boychik." She reached into the pocket of her pink smock, pulled out a small plastic bag, opened it and placed it on the table in front of him. It contained a peeled, sectioned orange. "Well?"
"Well?"
"You wanted to feed yourself, yes? So, feed."
Johnny reached for one of the orange segments. His fingers were still terribly stiff, and it took him a couple of tries to grasp it. He stared at it in his hand for a moment, then, slowly, brought it to his mouth. He closed his eyes as he bit into it; his taste of independence as sweet and bright as the orange itself. He finished the segment with his second bite. He opened his eyes to see her watching him with a pleased smile.
"Thank you … I don't even know your name. I'm John. Johnny Gage." He offered his hand.
She took it, gently enough to ensure his injured hands comfort, but firmly too. He took great comfort in that firm handshake. "Pleasure, Johnny. Sarah Gottmann." Her smile widened. "Eat."