Chapter Seven: Demons Built Up Inside

"Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into."

- Mohandas Gandhi

My cellphone rings ten minutes later; it's work. "It looks like I have to go in. Do you want me to drop you off at home first?"

She braces an elbow against the car frame and rests her head in one palm while the fingers on the other hand run through my hair. "It won't delay you?" I shake my head. "Ok, yes." She digs out her own phone from the pocket of her jacket.

"No, wait. Let me guess who."

She wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at me. "You have your counterpart, I have mine." I hear the line connect on the end. "You heard? No - bring the kids over anyway. We have cake - yes, of course, where else? Incentive for our spouses to hurry home for dinner, right?" She laughs. "Brunch - his parents. How'd he take it?" She peers over at me. There's mirth in her voice. "Oh, you know. Yep, see you in a bit."

When she hangs up, I say, "You know, if I didn't know better..."

Her eyebrow raises to mirror mine. "The same could be said about you as well."

It makes me laugh. "See, that's how I know there's nothing going on between the two of you. No, no - someone like me could never go against the Golden Boy." The moniker sends her into a fit, the kind where she's clutching her stomach.

Shortly after I have safely deposited my wife in the driveway of our house, I'm in front of the gold-embossed sign of Thousand Oaks Center. The facility is privately funded by nearly all the residing patients' families. Most of them won't be able to live independent lives, and, luckily, they are well provided for. But, occasionally, Thousand Oaks will admit someone on a pro-bono basis. And this person just happens to be the reason why I'm here on a Sunday afternoon.

A tall figure in a white lab coat is waiting for me as I walk up the few steps to the front door. "Dr. Gibson, I hope I didn't interrupt you from anything too important."

"Just preparing the house ready for our guests later this evening, Dr. Cobb." I'm shrugging on my own white coat as I say this.

My partner-in-crime smirks. "Very important guests, I'm sure."

I pull the stethoscope from the pocket and wrap it around my neck. "My wife thinks your husband will actually get there on time with the kids."

Mal laughs. "Perhaps, but I'm fairly certain that he won't without losing a few years to his life span. Children are a handful, even with two of us." She hands me a clipboard, which is filled with her meticulous handwriting.

I spare her a glance as we walk indoors. "Did you have my car wired? We were just talking about that, not ten minutes before you called."

"Children? Oh, Arthur!" She claps her hands together.

"Well, it's not a done deal yet - we're still in the consideration stage." I flip through the charts. "Is this what I think it is? She was scheduled for surgery next week. Tell me, Mal, is it possible for a patient to recuperate from a risky procedure without having said procedure?"

It's hard to believe; all the doctors before me predicted she would remain in a lifelong vegetative state. Her parents refused to give up hope. They came to me six months ago, having run through the top neurosurgeons on the East Coast. She was - is - a young woman, but she has spent the last ten years in a coma. Her family used up all their savings - and then some - to keep alive the belief she would wake up one day. After all the diagnostics and one pending, experimental surgery, it seemed likely I would be yet another doctor in an increasing line of doctors giving the same verdict, over and over, to her loved ones. Until today. "Have you assessed her preliminary behavior?"

"I ran a basic series of psychological tests on her earlier. There's visible signs of disorientation and confusion, but, it appears not to be out-of-the-ordinary, considering she has been in a coma for the last ten years."

Mal isn't exaggerating; our patient is awake and sitting up when we enter her room. She's watching the news on the television, riveted by the images on the screen. "I've been watching since I woke up. I can't believe all that's happened."

Mal introduces me to her. I check her vitals - they are all at healthy levels. "Can you tell me what you remember before waking up?"

"I was in a dream; I was married and living in Paris. It felt so real." She stares at her hands as if somehow they are her anchors to reality. "If I try hard, I feel like I could recall speaking French." She meets my eyes; her pupils are dilated, her irises are clear. "But it wasn't ten years in my dreams."

"You've probably had a series of dreams which you don't remember anymore. What I meant was if you recall anything from before the coma. The accident, perhaps?"

Mal looks over at me but I ignore her. I am staring at the patient. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her head is tilted. "There was a party... On the beach... And we were drinking." She looks around. "Oh my God. Where is he?"

"He's fine. What happened at the party?"

"Arthur, what are you doing?", Mal asks in a lowered voice.

I don't know what I'm doing, all I know is that I need to know what happened. It's important. "Do you remember? Were you behind the wheel?"

The patient begins to breath at a shallow and rapid pace. She turns pale. I realize I'm nearly towering over her; Mal's gripping my elbow and I step back. "Arthur, I do not recommend this. She's having a panic attack. We can test her cognitive state when she's had more time to absorb everything." Mal is glaring at me over the woman's head.

She's right. I take a step back and address the patient. "You should rest up. Your family will, no doubt, be here soon. No more television for today. Just rest. Dr. Cobb and I will be back tomorrow, but there will be staff to check on you every few hours."

As soon as we are out of earshot, Mal rounds in on me. "What was that about?"

We've known each other a long time, so even if she weren't a trained pyschologist, she knows when I'm trying to deflect. "Sorry. I, uh, I thought she could take it."

"You thought she could take it?" She skips ahead of me by a few paces to try to catch my gaze.

"We should start her on a regimen of central nervous system stimulants as well pyschoactive medications. Let's see how she reacts to ritalin and neurontin. I'll make a note to the nurses and aides to let us know if any signs of aggression or agitation appears in the next few weeks." I stop abruptly when I receive no response. She's still trying to reason out my behavior. "Mal, one apology is all you're going to get."

I resist the urge to squirm under her owl eyes. After a few more seconds of scrutiny, she nods. "Most comatose emergents exhibit some degree of antianxiety. I'd also recommend valium or ativan, starting at low dosages. She seems to be relatively stable but who knows what demons have built up inside of her", she says.

"How many TBIs have we seen throughout the years, Mal? Hundreds? Some of them were in better or worse conditions and they never wake up. Some of them remember every detail, some memories are completely destroyed."

She radiates sympathy. "There's no formula. It's just the way things end up, Arthur."

My hand makes a fist. I stuff it into a pocket. "It's not fair, Mal. People shouldn't be left wondering." This is why I'm here, isn't it? It's why I went through all that rigorous training, right? What am I doing if I can't help them in that capacity?

"We make do with what we're given. It's a good day for every day we wake up, having what we have and who shares our lives. I don't think anyone would say you haven't done everything you could, for every one of your patients. That's nothing to sneeze at either, Dr. Gibson." She squeezes my hand. "Let's finish up here. Dom's going to start losing all that lovely hair of his if I don't help with the kids soon." She manages to wring a small laugh out of me and we head back towards the exit. Her words rattle inside of me, small, sharp, ineffectual.

AN: It occurred to me as I started to write this chapter that Arthur's relationship with Mal would be closer than Arthur's relationship with Dom. Hence, in this alternate state, with Mal being alive and well, Arthur's interactions with Dom would be more limited. Anyway, the story will progress in the next chapter. Promise. (But, I hope you enjoyed this other reality as much as I did!)