Cottonwood House III
The Hand You're Dealt
Disclaimer: No, CSI: still isn't mine. *sigh*. I did ask them to loan me Grissom while they're not using him but they refused. Apparently it was something to do with not treating him properly...
Chapter 8
Grissom (Again)
Staring out of the window at the empty street outside, I have to admit that it was a stomach churning moment when I watched Lucy drive away from here in the Cottonwood House van. I wonder if this combination of hope and fear is similar to how some of Heather's clients feel when they enter her Dominion for the first time. Like those people I don't know if the next few hours will be an introduction to a new and fulfilling part of my life, or an agonising experience that I'll never want to repeat. The comparison may seem extreme, but it's close enough that I even had to have a 'safety word' before I felt able to agree to trying this.
Lucy is staying with a friend here in town tonight and Sara has promised faithfully that she'll call her straight away if I need her, I just need to say Lucy's name. Lucy says she'll be back here at Sara's apartment within fifteen minutes and will help me deal with any problems or, if I prefer, drive me straight home without any arguments from either of the women. I just hope that a fifteen minute wait won't turn out to be far too long.
While I sit alone in the lounge of Sara's new home I tap my fingers on the arm rest of my wheelchair, beating out the staccato rhythm of my anxiety. Since I was attacked it's been almost like making the journey through infancy and childhood all over again. When I first regained awareness all I could do was lie helpless in my hospital bed, unable to do anything more than let my eyes follow the dancing rainbows of light shed from a crystal mobile that someone had brought in to hang by the window of my room. Unfortunately, unlike a baby, I was all too aware of the indignity of being washed and having my diapers changed by the nurses and, as time passed and I became a little stronger, the shame of sitting propped upright and obediently opening and closing my mouth while my former team took turns to carefully spoon feed me my meals because I literally couldn't lift a finger to do it for myself. I was pathetically grateful to be lifted into my 'stroller' to escape my hospital room for a while and be pushed around the hospital garden, having things of interest helpfully pointed out to me. Then, just like a toddler, when my attempts to learn to walk and talk again failed over and over again, I resorted to showing my frustration in the form of temper tantrums. Now, it seems, I've reached the milestone of my first 'sleepover' away from home. The stupid thing is that, in spite of my advancing years, I think the only thing that's stopping me wailing 'I wanna go home' is the fact that I have no idea how to even start forming the words.
I'd like to get Sara to give me a hug, a little physical reassurance would go a long way right now, but she's disappeared to fetch someone she wants me to meet, a neighbour probably, since she disappeared through the door that leads to the rest of her apartment which must mean she's headed out through her back yard instead of using the door that leads out into the communal hallway. Company is the last thing I want right now, a quiet evening in just as the two of us is as much as I want to try and cope with tonight.
A few weeks ago even that would have seemed unthinkable to me but since Sara came back I've found myself more willing to try new things, although I have to admit that I'm not always certain how much of it is for myself and how much is to show Sara that I'm not a lost cause. My recent attempts with the walking frame were probably an example of the latter. Some of my decision to try it again was simply that I agreed with my physical therapist when he suggested it would help strengthen my legs still further, and some of it was because I wanted the flexibility to be able to move around in places which aren't so wheelchair friendly, but most of it was just because I didn't want Sara to have the image of me as a wheelchair bound cripple in her head. I can't do much more to improve my speech than I am already and my right hand is literally beyond my control but being on my feet and back on Sara's eye level was something that seemed doable and felt really important. Once I'd decided to do it I wanted to surprise Sara by suddenly doing something she probably wouldn't expect. Then, after Sara sat down and had a long talk with Lucy, there was the session with Jim and Sara when they learned how best to rescue me after a fall and I realised that the last thing I want is for Sara to have to keep picking me up after I've fallen flat on my face so, although I intend to continue using the frame for therapeutic and convenience reasons, I've made it clear to Dan, my therapist, that I'd like to try other ways to strengthen my legs and I've accepted that Sara needs to go through the process I did and learn to take progress as and when it happens and not put on some faked performance to give the impression that I'm progressing in leaps and bounds. The big 'reveal' of me 'walking' across the room towards Sara has been scrapped – I'd probably just have screwed it up anyway.
There's the sound of a door opening. I perform a careful three point turn using the space Sara has left conveniently clear of furnishings and make sure I'm facing the closed door with a polite smile on my face, ready to make as good an impression as I can on Sara's friend.
To my surprise the door is pushed open not by a hand but by a nose and a rather lugubrious looking brown and white Boxer dog with black smudges around his nose, ears and on his legs enters the room. Seeing me he comes to a halt, eyeing me suspiciously. I back my chair up a little – purely to give the dog more room to come in, of course.
"Do you like him?" Sara asks, following the hound into the room. "He was kind of a leaving gift from the rescue centre. They knew I'd fallen in love with him and offered to take care of him until all the mess and disruption was out of the way and I had a safe and stable home to bring him back to."
I nod my understanding. I can't help thinking that those are probably the same reasons why Sara hasn't invited me here until now either. I feel myself warming to the dog; I guess he and I are both Sara Sidle rescue projects in our own ways.
It seems the animal has sensed something too. He's been perfectly still until now, regarding me with his head tilted to one side but, accompanied by the patter of nails on Sara's new wheelchair and, it seems, paw friendly hard floor he approaches me before placing his head on my lap, right where it's convenient for me to reach and pet him. I find myself breaking into a smile as I use my left hand to gently scuff the fur between his ears.
Looking up at Sara I see that she's grinning too.
"His name is Bruno." Sara looks at me expectantly.
Continuing to scratch gently at Sara's new friend's head I feel my eyes narrow slightly and my brow furrow as I try to figure out how to say the dog's name. I already know it's probably not going to come though, when I try to say a name my mouth often starts making little practice movements of its own before I've quite worked out how to proceed and those twitchings haven't started. My speech therapist thinks those little actions may be why I often fail to sound the first part of a name, because not everything is falling into place at the same time. On this occasion nothing is falling into place at all, for whatever reason clearly the word 'Bruno' wasn't stored in the tiny bit of my spoken lexicon that has survived. Giving up the struggle I just look up at Sara and shake my head slightly.
"OK, well perhaps we could change it, he only got that name after he arrived at the shelter, one of the guys thought that it would be fun to name him after some British fighter. I think that boxer's first name was Frank. Maybe we could try that?"
I nod to confirm that the guy's name was indeed Frank. I'm not entirely sure it's an ideal name for a dog, but this time my mouth does seem to be willing to co-operate, so I give it a try.
"'Ank."
The dog lifts its head slightly, tilting it to one side in a listening stance. I wonder what he's been making of my silence up until now. Pleased that he's listening I try again, hoping to get something that sounds a little more like the word I'm aiming for.
"'Ank."
The dog tilts his head to the other side. I look at Sara apologetically. I may be managing to get my initial 'G' sounds in these days, and I'm making headway with my 'S'es, but that's all I've achieved so far in that respect. Not having any friends whose names begin with 'F' that sound isn't even on the list my speech therapist and I put together for me to begin working through.
Sara walks over and stoops down to pat her pet. Looking up at me she smiles.
"How about we just make it 'Hank'?"
I raise an eyebrow to register my surprise but Sara just shrugs.
"I think we've both been through too much over the last few years to still be worried about my disaster of an ex-boyfriend, don't you?"
I couldn't agree more. Determinedly I fix my gaze on the hound in front of me and speak as firmly and clearly as I can.
"'Ank."
"Woof."
"Well, I guess that's settled then."
For a few minutes we both fuss over the hound, repeating his new name frequently to encourage him to learn it. Then Sara stands up and, wiping her hands on the back of her pants in a businesslike manner, suggests that it's time to give me the guided tour. Obligingly I follow her through the door which leads to a central hallway from which all of the apartment's rooms can be accessed. It's actually quite large for one of these little crossroads and there's plenty of room for me to manoeuvre in spite of Hank's large bed being located in one corner. First I'm shown the kitchen which is smart and clean but without any fancy extras except for a built in coffee machine which can apparently produce a single cup of coffee in about thirty seconds. It seems that Sara's priorities still place a good, fast, caffeine hit over producing a gourmet meal. Proudly Sara points out that the refrigerator is at a good height for me to reach and that she chose the stools for the breakfast bar because they are easy to climb onto and have curved back supports so I shouldn't fall off too easily once I'm up there.
Next I get a quick glance into Sara's bedroom which is much as I'd imagined it would be like, although a little tidier than I expected, but that could just be because she knew I was coming to visit. Directly across from that is the guest room where, if all goes according to plan, I will be staying the night. Painted in a greyish blue with cream woodwork and with light coloured wooden furnishings; like all the rooms it's sparsely furnished. Apart from the built in closet there's just a queen bed, a couple of lockers and a low chest of drawers against the wall with a small TV set standing on top.
"I'm sorry the bed isn't as adjustable as you're used to, but I've put plenty of pillows on there if you need to prop yourself up."
I nod in acknowledgement and drive up to the bed. Pressing with my hand I check to see if the bed is as high as it seems or if it's just an extra thick duvet. I'm pleased to note that the mattress is both high and firm, it will be easy to transfer to and from my chair and to sit on it while I change my clothes. The choice of a duvet over a comforter and blankets suits me too, there are fewer layers for me to fight and get tangled up in. I smile my appreciation at Sara.
"I wanted this room to suit you as much as possible, it's not like I'll be having hordes of other guests to stay, although I stopped short at putting bugs on the walls just in case someone else does use the room, I wouldn't like them to have nightmares."
I smile at the joke but secretly I'm hoping that I won't have my own bad dreams tonight or at least that Sara won't hear me if I do.
The final room inside the apartment is the bathroom. It's the only one in the property but the layout means that it's convenient for both bedrooms. I know Sara's worked hard on this particular room because she was telling me about her efforts to get the builders to understand exactly what she wanted, like placing the rectangular wall tiles in straight rows rather than stepping them like bricks, which she thought would make the place seem too institutional. I prepare myself to show some appreciation of her choices, even though I'm expecting to have to ask for Sara's help to use the room and probably keep my ablutions to the minimum until I get back to the specially equipped facilities in my own home.
No.
I swallow deeply and close my eyes. Seeing what Sara's done in the bathroom creates one of those 'Grissom moments' as they used to call them in the lab; only this time it's not because I've reached some sudden insight, it's because I've been ignoring the other evidence I've seen before now. The fact that Sara chose a ground floor apartment I put down to her desire to have access to her own little back yard, which made even more sense when I met Hank. The convenient ramp up to the street door of the block and the lack of a raised doorstep between the kitchen and the back yard I dismissed because most reasonably modern buildings have disability friendly access now. I thought that the new floors were just more to Sara's taste than carpets and that the height of the fridge was simply a happy coincidence; and if Sara was choosing stools and was trying to narrow down her final choice then, fair enough, she probably would take my needs into account. But this bathroom, this whole new bathroom, says there's so much more to it than that.
I thought Sara understood my choice to remain living where I am, that she'd at least give our changed relationship time to settle before asking me to reconsider; I might even have been agreeable, in time and without pressure. Seeing what Sara has done in this bathroom makes the pressure come thudding down on me so hard I can almost feel my head pulsate. In fact a lightning flash of pain causes me to raise my hand to the left side of my head where the damage is focused.
I could have dismissed the large, walk-in shower as Sara's preference, except I know how much she liked a bubble bath now and then and with the shower so big there's only room for the smallest of tubs tucked away in the corner, but it's the fold down seat and grab rails inside the shower stall that are yelling at me, together with similar rails around the toilet and the fact that the hand basin is higher than normal with no storage underneath, oh so convenient for someone sitting in a wheelchair. Even the taps are operated by easy to manage levers. If it weren't for that tiny bath tub this might as well be my bathroom at Cottonwood House.
"Do you like it?" Sara asks.
She wants me to like it because she wants me to live here. She thinks that by making the place wheelchair friendly she'll convince me that I should move in with her. Does she imagine that 'if she builds it Griss will come'? I can't cope with this.
Another flash of pain reminds me to check for a different kind of evidence. Is this the start of one of my tantrums? My hand is still raised to my head but, lowering it, I see that it's clenched into a fist. I try and remember where the pains in my head have focussed, above and behind my ear usually means my blood pressure is up, underneath my ear means I'm clenching my jaw and putting strain on the repair that was done there. Right now I'm getting signals from both. Finally I realise that my head's swinging motion has increased to the point where my brain has ceased to filter it out. I have to get away fast before I blow.
With only the barest glance to check that Sara and Hank are out of the way I reverse my wheelchair and somehow make it into the guest bedroom, flailing the deadweight of my right hand enough to slam the door behind me as I pass. Briefly I wonder why Sara hasn't had this door replaced with a sliding one, but then maybe she's hoping she'll need that for the master bedroom instead.
Somehow I get out of my chair and fling myself onto the bed. Randomly I propel every single stupid one of the stupid over large heap of stupid over stuffed pillows and cushions that Sara left in a great big stupid pile at the top of this stupid bed around this stupid room, grunting loudly as I lob each one through the air. I don't know what I'm going to do. I should get Sara to call Lucy and have her fetch me home, but I'm almost as hurt by my caretaker's betrayal as I am by Sara's decision to ignore my wishes. Lucy visited here last week to check if I'd be able to manage an overnight stay but she gave me no warnings about what I'd find. Maybe she wants me to leave Cottonwood House as well; maybe she wouldn't even want to come with me if I did. I thought Lucy cared but can I be sure? I didn't read that side of people well even before I was attacked, have I got it completely wrong all this time?
With no pillows left to throw I flip over onto my stomach and begin to pound the mattress with my one good hand.
God I wish I was back in the time when it didn't matter to me whether anyone cared or not. I wish I was still in control of my own life.
Sara's head appears around the door, doesn't she get that I shut it for a reason?
"Gil, baby, are you OK?" she asks.
Don't call me 'baby', I am not a baby! I glare at Sara and let loose a sound not dissimilar to a snarl. Her eyes actually widen for a moment.
"I just wanted to know if I should call Lucy."
I shake my head vehemently, maybe fifteen minutes from now I'll wish I'd said yes, but right now I don't want anyone near me. I point Sara out of the door and, thankfully, she only pauses a second before going through it.
My head's hurting so much by now that I'm trying to hold it with both hands, even though one just won't cooperate. I need my blood pressure and anti-inflammatory meds or I'll be in pain for a week. That small piece of logic clears the red fog of anger enough for me to remember that the drugs are still in my backpack and that the bag is still hung on the back of my wheelchair. There's probably a bottle of water that I can use to swallow them with in there too.
The chair is a few feet away; I must have forgotten to lock the brakes and then shoved it backwards when I threw myself out of it. Rolling over to the edge of the bed, I stand and start to head across the room.
Suddenly the room shifts around me and, with a horrible thud, I find myself on the floor gasping to get my breath. Logic may have told me to get my meds but it forgot to remind me to hold onto something while I tried to walk.
The shock of falling is as effective as a bucket of ice cold water in snapping me out of my mood. What the Hell have I done? I guess I've just changed Sara's mind, if she wanted me to share this apartment with her before I'm sure she doesn't now. I curl up into a ball, knowing that I'm stuck here on the floor until Sara decides to check on me again, which would be some time next year if I were her.
What is that noise? There's a scrabbling just outside the door. A whimper follows and suddenly I remember Sara's new pet.
"'Ank?" The name comes out as more of a whimper than a shout. I don't do yelling anymore, the louder I try to get the more incoherent the sound.
The dog barks and scratches again.
"Come away boy, I think Gil wants to be left alone for a bit."
"'Ara."
It's not loud enough for her to hear unless she's listening very hard, but Hank's sensitive ears catch the sound. He yelps and scratches harder. I hope Sara doesn't drag him away, even if she leaves again at least I'll know that he's there and cares if I'm OK.
"Gil?"
I remain silent, hoping that Sara remembers that no response actually means 'come in'. I daren't try calling her name, if it comes out wrong or isn't loud enough to make out properly she might think I'm sending her away again.
"I'm coming in Gil, but just to check you're OK, I'll go away again if you want me to."
Thank God. The door opens but Sara is beaten through it by Hank. He rushes towards me and gives me a hurried sniff all over before stopping at my head, his pink tongue darting out as if he wants to lick away the tears that I suddenly realise are running down my cheeks. I push the dog's head away gently before he actually slobbers on me and then, using him for support, I manage to sit up. Wrapping my arms around him I hide my face from Sara by resting my forehead on Hank's shoulder.
"Oh, Gil, have you been down here long?" Surprisingly Sara's voice is soft as she squats down beside me and her hand rubs gentle circles on my back. I shake my head without lifting it from its place of safety on Hank's back. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I can't bring myself to face Sara. I'm still hurt by what she's done, but that's no excuse for my behaviour.
Seeing that I'm not letting go of Hank, Sara tries to jolly me along. In a tone that quite closely imitates the one Jim uses in hostage situations she tells me that I need to let the dog go, that I'm going to have to release him eventually and that while she's willing to negotiate we both know that she only has to say the word... She spells something at this point, presumably so that Hank doesn't understand, but unfortunately it also means that I don't. Still, I get the hint, sooner or later my 'shield' is going to get bored and wander off seeking food, exercise or a trip into the back yard for other reasons. Slowly I release my grip, only for Hank to turn around, give me another quick sniff and then sit down close beside me on the opposite side to Sara, a solid warm presence for me to lean against.
Sara gives a slight sniff of amusement. "It looks like somebody's nominated himself as your unofficial service dog. Now, is there a chance I could get one of those hugs from you as well?"
I respond with my own sniff, in my case it's to clear my nose of the slight blockage brought on by my tears. A hug would be perfect right now, comforting and giving me a little extra time to compose myself. I start to lift my arms but then wince and for the first time I realise that I must have injured my shoulder when I fell.
Seeing my grimace Sara suddenly remembers her training session with Lucy. It looks like my hug is going to have to go on hold. Stroking the creases that spread out from the corners of my eyes she says, "You're in pain, I should have seen that before. It's the first thing I should have checked."
Shifting onto her knees so that she can start to check me over visually, Sara asks me to point out where I hurt. I indicate my right shoulder and then, because I get another sharp pain from behind my ear, I automatically move my hand to my head.
"Gil, did you hit your head when you fell?" Sara sounds alarmed. I shake my head and then turn it so that she can see that I'm pointing at the site of my old wound, and then I mime taking a handful of pills, following up with a finger pointing towards my wheelchair and the bag that's suspended from its handles.
"You have a headache?"
Nod.
"And your meds are on your wheelchair."
Nod.
"Is that where you were headed when you fell?"
Nod.
"So why didn't you use this?" Sara reaches forward and taps me on the chest, or rather on the spot where my emergency button still hangs around my neck, tucked safely underneath my shirt. I close my eyes in disbelief at my own stupidity.
"Did you forget that Lucy gave me the receiver before she left?" I nod even though that's actually only a half truth, grateful for a slightly less embarrassing admission than that, in the red haze I was in at the time, I actually forgot about the damn thing altogether. Sara shakes her head at me an affectionate smile on her face. At least she doesn't call me an absent minded idiot out loud.
"OK, so you've done something to your shoulder. Apart from that and your headache, are you hurting anywhere else?"
I shake my head.
"OK, then I'll just check your right hand for you and then we'll get you up and onto the chair or bed before I fetch your pills and see what kind of patching up job I need to do on that shoulder."
I offer Sara my right hand, the one part of my body that I wouldn't necessarily notice if I'd damaged. As soon as I do I realise that I did hurt it. I can see now that there's a nasty scrape across the knuckles and the redness that's an early sign of future bruising.
"Nasty," Sara comments, "but the evidence suggests you didn't do it when you fell." At my questioning look she points out that the scrape has already started to scab over in the few spots where there was a little bleeding and that there are a few tiny drops of blood on the bed sheet. It looks like I did the damage when I slammed the bedroom door using my dud hand and was too busy ranting and raging to notice at the time.
Sara remains calm, she doesn't seem to be judging me; I think she knows that I can manage that for myself. "OK, so I need to patch that up for you as well as your shoulder. I can't use ice on it though, can I?" I shake my head, I've heard the rule often enough; 'never use ice or heat on a patient with limited movement or sensation in that area'.
"OK, let's get you more comfortable and then sort you out. Bed or chair?"
I choose the bed and Sara gets me up, working from my right side to avoid hurting my shoulder or hand any further. Hank keeps out of the way but wanders up to the bed and tucks his head under my left hand, nudging for attention while Sara wordlessly rescues enough of the scattered pillows to make me comfortable in a sting position.
By the time Sara returns from fetching water and a small first aid kit Hank has jumped up on the bed and is lying against my left side. Sara shakes her head at the sight but I just look back innocently, even if I'd known that Hank wasn't supposed to be up here I could hardly tell him 'down boy' could I? With the air of somebody who knows they're beaten before even starting an argument Sara just shrugs and continues around the bed so that she can work on my right side. The t-shirt I'm wearing has loose sleeves, so Sara only has to help me take off the loose, collarless, casual jacket I'm wearing over the top to access my shoulder.
"The skin isn't broken, but it looks like you're going to get a nasty bruise, I think you must have hit something going down, maybe it was one of the footrests on your chair. I'll just put some Witch Hazel on it; I find it really helps soothe me and get the bruising to come and go quicker when I give myself a nasty bang."
After dabbing at my shoulder with moistened cotton wool, Sara moves onto my hand.
"Well, at least I don't have to warn you that it's going to sting." I watch in a disconnected way as she cleans the damaged skin and then dresses my hand, wrapping a light bandage around it to keep everything in place.
"I'm going to be in so much trouble with Lucy for not returning you in the same condition that she left you."
I shake my head, it's not Sara's fault that I got hurt; I managed it all by myself. I wish that Sara wouldn't talk like she feels that she should have been watching me like she would a young child; I'm a middle aged man and take responsibility for my own actions, Sara's not my baby sitter any more than Lucy is my Mom, and no-one should place the blame for my injuries anywhere but with me. I heave a sigh, realising that there isn't much hope for an adult relationship between me and Sara if she doesn't even see me as a grown man anymore. Not that I haven't encouraged that perception by the way I've behaved today. Sara is concentrating on my hand too much to notice my hurt at her casual comment, but perhaps that's for the best.
"Well, there's not enough swelling to make me think that you've broken anything, but there is some so, if it can't be iced, I'd like to put your arm in a sling so that your hand is raised above your heart which might keep the swelling down a bit. Then, if it doesn't go down by tomorrow morning, you can get one of the Cottonwood House doctors to look at your knuckles properly. A sling will take some of the pressure off your shoulder too."
I nod my acceptance of the suggestion, it's not like I'll be much more handicapped with the sling in place than without it. Sara folds the scarf she's found for the purpose and then ties it in place.
"You haven't asked me to call Lucy for you." she states, "I'm pleased about that, I'd hoped that we could spend some of this evening trying out a few of the communication methods that Lucy's been teaching me, maybe cover some ground that we wouldn't with her around. I want to try that even more now, because I'd like to understand why you got so spooked when you saw my bathroom just now. I wouldn't have stopped you leaving if you wanted to go but I was worried that if you did I might never know about what was so upsetting for you that it made you behave that way."
Sara moves back and gently strokes the side of my face.
"You don't have to run away from me, Gil, let's work through this, not around it, OK?"
I nod my head, I want to try and 'talk' about a few things too, including why Sara's being so kind to me when I've just given her every reason to want to hand me back to Lucy as soon as possible. Maybe, if I work really hard for the rest of my stay, this might not be the last Sara ever wants to see of me.
A/N OK, yes, I know that some of you were hoping that the big 'talk' would at least begin in this chapter, but I'm afraid that you're just going to have to wait a little longer. That's because this chapter would have ended up being far too long and posted much later if I'd included everything in it that I originally intended to. The good news is that means that this story will have at least one more chapter than I previously said – I said 'at least' just in case the next chapter gets away from me too!