From the moment Sarah saw the crumpled heap that had once been their Jeep, she was hard-pressed to hold in her anger. Her discontent wasn't aimed at her son, but at the circumstances that had led to this in the first place.
"It's a miracle he walked away from this," Derek said, slowly walking around the now-junk heap.
"He didn't walk away from this. He was carried out, in an ambulance."
"You know what I meant, Sarah."
"Yes, I know what you meant. He was lucky. Very lucky." She strode over to the driver's side and pulled the door open. "And ironic, isn't it, that he nearly gets taken down by a drunk driver, but manages to survive how many attacks by Skynet?"
She glanced around angrily, spotted John's cell phone near the gas pedal, and pocketed it without even checking to see if it still worked. She tried to open the glove compartment but the door was jammed. Several sharp raps with the heel of her hand got that sucker open.
"You can't blame yourself for this," Derek grunted as he opened the trunk.
"Can't I? If I had put my foot down, had stopped him from seeing that girl—"
"And what good would that have done? He'd have been even more determined to be with her."
She placed the contents onto the driver's seat, took out the few CDs John kept in the storage box between the seats, and then peered in the back seat to see if there was anything worth salvaging.
"I could have..." She stopped, hating to admit there was nothing she could have done to prevent this. No fate, but what we make for ourselves. This was her fault, not John's. Her search for the Turk had led Sarkissian to them. She'd underestimated the man, and John was the one who'd paid the price.
"Sarah?"
She realized she'd been crouched inside the Jeep, one knee pressed on the back seat, staring into space. A quick glance confirmed there was nothing here and she backed out.
"Got everything?" She gathered the papers from the front seat and walked away, not waiting for Derek. He slammed the trunk shut and she heard his footsteps coming up behind her.
________________________________________
Once in the truck, Sarah took out John's phone. On seeing that it still worked, she began scrolling through the last calls he made. Riley. Sarah. Riley. Riley. Cameron. Riley. Riley. Charley.
Sarah's breath caught in her throat. John had called Charley just minutes before the accident.
She checked his voicemail, listened to four messages from Riley, each one whining about him not calling her back. Feeling no guilt, she deleted the messages, wishing she could delete the girl right out of their lives.
"He's not going to be happy about that." Derek frowned as he watched her put the phone back into her pocket and started the engine.
"I know."
She'd hoped the drive back to the house would have calmed her, but her anger continued to fuel her. It took all of her control not to honk at every idiot on the road and to keep to the speed limit.
She steeled herself as she went up the stairs, took two deep breaths in front of the door, and walked inside, hoping to exude calm. One glance at John, curled up on the couch which was several inches too short for him, called up the anger once again.
"You should have gone to bed. You'd be more comfortable." Her voice was curt and she pressed her lips together, trying to calm down.
"Stairs," John mumbled as she rubbed her fingers lightly against his too-pale jaw, testing for fever. He didn't pull away, just watched her with eyes that were glassy. That he'd needed another prescription pain killer added fuel to her fire.
"Right." She was so focused on his memory loss, she kept forgetting how banged up he was. "Go lie down in my bed."
John blinked at her, his eyes slowly going wide.
Damn. The poor kid had done nothing wrong; there was no reason for her to take out her frustrations on him.
"My bedroom's closer, and you'll be more comfortable if you can stretch out." She slowed her words, trying to make her tone lighter.
"That's okay. I can make it up the stairs." He pushed upwards, forcing her to move as he sat up. "I was just too lazy to go up."
"Don't. If you'd rather sleep on the couch, that's fine. Don't tire yourself out for nothing."
When he wavered, she tried coaxing. "Come on. How can you resist a king-sized bed over the Lilliputian one you've got?"
"I, um..." He seemed uncertain, and she realized with a virtual slap to the forehead that to him, she was a strange woman offering him her bed. "I'll wake you up for supper," she added lamely, her anger draining from her, leaving her tired and frustrated. "Come on." She put her hand out, waggling her fingers, and he stood and hesitantly took her hand.
"How was the car?" John asked as he limped next to her.
"Total wreck."
"I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault." She let go of John and pulled a pillow out from under the comforter, slapped it a few times invitingly and watched as he lay down on her bed. He sighed softly as he turned onto his side.
Walking around the bed, she pulled at the comforter until she was able to cover her son with it.
"Who's Cameron's parents? She's not really my sister, is she?"
What the hell did that Metal tell John? "Of course she's your sister. What did she say?"
"Nothing. Just the way she worded a phrase." His eyes widened suddenly, as if he'd just thought of something. "You don't like her, do you?"
"Why do you say that?" She fiddled with the comforter, making sure it covered John's bare feet.
"Because you don't do anything like this for her."
"Maybe I'm doing this for you because you're hurt?"
"It's like you just tolerate her."
"John." Sarah sat on the bed, deliberating what to tell him. He needed to know the truth but if she threw everything at him, she knew, from experience, how people took the whole Judgment Day scenario and yelled for those nice, young men, in their clean, white coats... "Your sister has Aspergers." She'd done some research on the diagnosis Doctor Sherman had given Cameron and used it now with a smidgeon of guilt. "Which means she has problems with social interactions..."
"Is that why she's so..."
"Weird?"
"I was going to say focused," John mumbled, seemingly more asleep than awake, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Sarah laughed softly. "Yeah, that's the reason why she's weird and focused."
"Makes sense now." He closed his eyes, mumbling the next words. "Because I was starting to think she was some sort of robot from the future."
Sarah froze, waiting for John to say more, or to turn to her and grin. But his breathing was slow and deep, and he was obviously fast asleep. She stared at him, willing him to wake up, to explain what he'd just said, but John continued to sleep on.
________________________________________
"How's John?" Derek was waiting in the living room, leaning against the bookcase.
"Sleeping."
"Any change with his memory?"
She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so." Cameron entered the living room, coming out of the kitchen. "What did you say to him?"
Cameron stopped in the middle of the room. "I said many things."
"He doesn't believe you're his sister. You said something to him."
"I told him he shouldn't have wandered around. He found the guns. He was concerned."
"He found the guns?" It hadn't occurred to Sarah that John might have been ambulatory enough find their arsenal. "What did you tell him?"
"That he was proficient with them."
"I meant about why there were guns in the house," she hissed, trying to curb the urge to yell.
"Oh. That they were for protection."
Derek winced. "Exaggerate much?"
Cameron gave Derek a look of pure innocence and confusion. "But they are for protection."
"How did he react to that?" Sarah demanded.
"He said he didn't like guns. He was scared."
"Damned right he would have been. How would you feel if you woke up with a bunch of strangers who had weapons hidden all over the house?" Sarah ran a hand through her hair in frustration. John didn't need this stress. She didn't need this stress.
"Maybe it's time to tell him the truth."
Sarah turned on Derek, crossing the few feet separating them, her hands fisted together in anger. "What do you think he's going to think if we tell him the truth? Do you think that's going to help him? Help us?"
"He's too vulnerable like this, Sarah. If Skynet sends more metal, he's going to be a sitting duck. He needs to remember, and we need to jog his memory."
"Yes, he needs to remember. But we're not going to put him through hell and scare the shit out of him until he does. Give him time to recover first. Maybe when the headaches ease, his memory will come back."
"I don't like this—"
"I don't care," Sarah snapped. "I don't want you saying anything else that'll make him suspicious."
"Derek's right." Cameron's head swiveled between Sarah and Derek. "John's life is in greater danger as long as he doesn't know the truth."
"Then you make sure he stays safe." She glared at Cameron, then gave Derek a hard look, driving home the direction that he was also included under that directive before stomping away. "I have supper to cook," she growled.
________________________________________
It took John a while to acknowledge that it was the knock at the door that had woken him, but it was the angry voices that brought him to full consciousness. He heard his mother arguing with someone else, someone young, someone not his sister. He turned onto his back, stretching on the comfortable bed, half-listening until he heard his name.
"John's sick and he's sleeping. What part of that don't you understand?"
"Too sick to answer his cell?" The stranger's voice held a trace of sarcasm.
"Too sick to answer his cell," his mother repeated, matching her sarcasm.
"He was fine yesterday."
"He's not fine today."
"You'll tell him I stopped by?"
"I'll tell him."
"Tell him to call me. When he feels up to it."
His mother mumbled something that John didn't catch.
"Bye, Mrs. Baum."
The door snicked shut, the finality matching the steel in his mother's voice. He groaned as he sat up slowly, his body having stiffened up again while he'd slept. He was in the midst of rubbing his gritty eyes with his knuckles when the bedroom door opened and his mother popped her head in.
"Hey. Been awake long?"
"No." John lowered his hand to stifle a yawn. He sniffed appreciatively as the aroma of something cooking followed her into the room. "Something smells good."
"Supper's just about ready. You hungry?"
His stomach gurgled at the thought of eating. He laughed. "Sounds like it is."
________________________________________
"This is really good," John said as he took a second bite of the spicy chicken concoction. With his headache nearly gone, his appetite seemed to have woken up and he couldn't get enough.
"You made this?" Derek was staring at the steaming plateful before him with what seemed like a doubtful expression. Cameron sat at the table with them but the space before her was empty of food and plate.
"Yes." His mother ignored Derek and scooped up some rice, dragged it through the sauce and ate it.
"It's really good," John repeated with his mouth full. He grabbed a roll and broke it in two, dropping it for a moment to take another forkful before buttering it.
"It was one of your favorites when we lived in Mexico."
"But you cooked this, right?" Derek hadn't yet picked up his fork.
"Are you insinuating there's a problem with my cooking?"
"We lived in Mexico?" John paused in surprise, the roll he'd brought up to his mouth forgotten for a moment.
"For a few years." His mother turned to Derek and pointed at his plate with her fork. "Eat. It won't kill you. Hell, if there's any bugs living inside your intestines, it'll more than likely kill them for you."
"Why did we live in Mexico?" John raised his eyes from his plate when his mother didn't answer right away and caught the tail end of a weird glance between her and Derek.
"I was tired of being a waitress and wanted a bit of excitement."
"Did you find any?" John was partially distracted at the sight of Derek carefully teasing a few morsels from the edge of his fork before chewing cautiously.
"No, not really."
It was almost comical to see Derek start coughing and reach for his glass of water, downing it in several gulps.
Cameron stuck a roll in front of his face. "This will ease the burning from the spices." With his face quickly turning red, Derek grabbed the roll and stuffed half of it into his mouth.
"Aren't you eating?" John asked Cameron, changing the subject because he couldn't help feeling that no matter what he asked, his mother wouldn't tell him the truth.
"I don't eat—"
"She doesn't like the spices." His mother's answer seemed hurried. "She ate earlier."
"How come he can eat that?" Derek gasped as John helped himself to seconds, tears running down his face.
"He was brought up on the stuff. Don't tell me you can go head to head by a triple eight and not be able to eat a couple of hot peppers?"
The food nourished John's brain cells and he was able to remember the reason he was awake. "Who was that who came by earlier?"
"Earlier?"
"While I was sleeping. I heard you tell someone I was sick."
"That was nobody."
John ignored his mother's obvious lie. "She seemed kind of concerned that I wasn't calling her back. You didn't tell her about my memory?"
"I don't want to deal with Riley right now so no, I didn't tell her."
"Why not? You told our next door neighbor." His appetite was suddenly gone and he put his fork down.
"Let's just say you and I haven't seen eye to eye over your girlfriend and I didn't want her to start pressuring you to remember."
Girlfriend? Now his curiosity was more than piqued. But he'd learned in the short time he'd been here to not try to force the issue. He tried a different tactic. "Maybe she's what I need to remember things."
"You've known Riley barely two months. You've known your family all your life." Cameron's voice sounded sweet, almost too sweet. "If being around us doesn't help you remember, then talking to Riley won't help."
John stared at Cameron a long moment, trying to figure out if he was imagining her being jealous. "I should at least talk to her."
"When you're better."
"I'm better now," he snapped at his mother. The moment the words were out of his mouth, his mother's glance went to the bruise on his temple. "I am better."
"Give it another day or two, okay?" His mother stood and took his plate. She came back for Derek's, which was untouched. Derek had made a dent in the pile of rolls; at least his face was back to a normal color again.
John helped clear the table, the chore coming easily to him, making him wonder if they had done this together routinely. Cameron, on the other hand, continued to sit there, watching them.
When John put away some of the supper items, he couldn't help but notice that the weapons he'd come across earlier this afternoon were gone. He didn't say a word about their disappearance but simply acted as if they had never been there in the first place.
They settled in front of the television afterwards. Despite his assurances, John tired quickly, having trouble concentrating on the game show they were watching. The questions suddenly were over his head, and even when Cameron kept answering them correctly and he realized post facto that he did know the answers, he couldn't come up with them on his own. He wanted nothing more than to go lie down in relative peace and quiet, without the drone of the announcer or canned laughter or having someone constantly looking over his shoulder.
"Are you all right?" His mother, who'd been curled up on one of the couches, leaned towards him.
"I'm fine." He fidgeted on the couch, trying to get comfortable.
"How's your head? Do you need some Tylenol?"
"I said I was fine." John had trouble holding in his irritability.
"You're tired. Do you want to go to bed? Are you feeling sick?"
"I said I was fine." This time he lost the fight, the words coming out angrily. Before he could spout something that he'd regret, there was a knock at the back door. Cameron was the first one up, heading for the door before his mother was on her feet.
"Is Sarah here?"
The voice wasn't familiar, but the way his mother sped up to meet the man at the door, he figured she was someone very familiar to her.
"Hi, Charley."
"I'm sorry. I said I'd call but today was just one of those days. I figured I'd drop by on my way home from work instead."
"Come on in."
"How's John?"
"Better." She turned and smiled at John, and the man looked past her to stare at him. He began to feel like a bug on a stick.
"Hey, Johnny. You're looking a helluva lot better."
"Have we met?" There was something vaguely familiar now about the man.
"Yeah, yesterday, at the hospital. It's okay if you don't remember; you were pretty much out of it." Charley sat down on the couch next to him and peered at him with an intensity that was a little nerve-wracking.
"No, I think I remember." Then John noticed the uniform Charley was wearing – EMT – which explained the look-over he was getting.
"I'm Charley Dixon." He extended his hand, which John slowly took and shook. He liked this guy, liked the way he greeted him. Everyone seemed anxious or overly-attentive around him, but Charley seemed relaxed while being concerned. "Your mom and I, we..."
"We were engaged to be married a few years ago," his mother said in that tone of voice that made John think she was lying or covering something up again.
"Engaged?" His stomach twisted, and he wondered if he had something to do with their break-up.
"It was a long time ago." Charley sounded sad as he looked at his mother, who suddenly couldn't seem to meet Charley's eyes.
"Not that long," she whispered.
"So. John. How's the head? Having any headaches? Nausea? Dizziness?"
"He had trouble with headaches earlier today but he's a lot better tonight," his mother answered with a forced smile.
"Headache's better?" Charley repeated, speaking to John, and he nodded slowly.
"It's still there but nowhere as bad as this morning. The nausea's pretty much gone but I get dizzy if I move too fast."
"That's to be expected. You'll probably also get tired more easily. Also you might have trouble concentrating and remembering things." Charley laughed suddenly and John couldn't help grinning. "Wow. That was sort of stupid, wasn't it?"
"Just a bit." John couldn't help laughing again, collapsing against the back of the couch as he snorted.
________________________________________
Sarah watched John laugh uninhibitedly, something he hadn't done in her presence since his birthday. Something Charley had always been able to do – make her son laugh like he truly meant it. And here he was, obviously more at ease with Charley than with any of them.
She couldn't blame John; he knew something was up. She knew her son, knew his moods, his fears, his ways of thinking. Knew he'd noticed the guns were gone; knew he knew she was keeping something from him. He didn't trust them, and it was all her fault.
She sat back, enjoying watching Charley tease John about his memory loss, making John laugh, all the while assessing John. It was obvious John was tired; hell, he was almost as cranky as a six-year old past his bedtime. Charley coming over had been a pleasant diversion; she could only hope Charley noticed how tired John truly was. Because the laughter was slowly reaching a pitch where it was obvious John's emotions were reeling out of control.
Charley stopped teasing John, allowing the laughter to slowly die off. John sat there, giggling occasionally, leaning against the couch's cushions, arms wrapped around his ribs while he moaned and groaned, complaining that laughter was not the best medicine. She wished she could have made John laugh; made him this happy. She felt her lips stretch into a smile when John glanced at her and he smiled back, his eyes shining bright for a second, seeing happiness reflected that she hadn't seen in weeks.
Blinking back tears, she cleared her throat. She ignored Charley's gaze on her; next to John, he understood her and knew, obviously, something was bothering her.
"Now, I'm no doctor, not in the true sense of the word," Charley said, patting John's leg. "But I'd prescribe an early night and eight hours' sleep. A lot of times the memory loss and lack of concentration is due to fatigue rather than the concussion itself." He pointed to John's knee where John was slowly massaging the area around it. "Plus sleep helps heal the body. You might want to put some ice on it when you go to bed."
"I can get the ice." Cameron stood, like an obedient dog, just waiting for the order to go fetch.
"I can get the ice." John stood, nearly losing his balance and laughing as he steadied himself. As he limped into the kitchen, Sarah swore to herself for not insisting he ice his knee again.
"He's okay," Charley said softly as they heard John rummaging in the freezer. "It's the memory loss that has me concerned."
"Night, everyone." John waved the bag of ice at them as he headed for the stairs. He climbed slowly, laboriously, and once again Sarah wished that he was a child, small enough that she could carry upstairs and put to bed, tell him a bedtime story and watch him drift off to sleep.
After Charley left thirty minutes later, Sarah went upstairs and knocked softly on John's door. She poked her head inside and saw that he was fast asleep. She entered the room, picked up the ice pack that had fallen off his leg and pulled the blankets around her son's shoulders. "Sleep well." She kissed his temple, taking guilty pleasure in something she hadn't been able to do for months.
________________________________________
John came awake with a muffled cry. He found himself half-sitting and cursed in pain as his ribs and shoulder complained. Then cursed again when he fell back onto the mattress and bounced painfully again before settling.
His heart was racing and he was covered in sweat, but he couldn't remember what the dream was about, only a sense of fear. And danger. And needing to fight a war to save mankind. He tossed the blankets off and lay there, pulling his damp tee shirt from his chest, trying to get it to dry more quickly.
His head hurt, throbbing in sync with his pulse. He tried concentrating on his breathing until his heartbeat slowed. By the time the sense of fear dissipated, he was feeling calmer.
But now sleep eluded him. He was still tired but not sleepy. Tossing and turning, he finally gave up and got out of bed. The house was dark but he managed to make his way down the hallway to the stairs. Those were more difficult; his knee had stiffened up and he had to take them slowly. He found the ice again in the freezer, sat down at the dining table and powered up the laptop.
"What are you doing?"
John started so badly, he nearly fell off the chair. Cameron, still in her clothes, was staring at him in the dark.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he hissed, willing his heart to settle down, again.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" she countered, handing him the ice pack that had slipped off his knee.
"I can't sleep. I just thought I'd do some research on amnesia. Maybe I'd find something boring and it'd make me sleepy again."
"Warm milk can make you sleepy."
John made a face. "Why don't you try it and let me know." He looked up at Cameron when she didn't move. "Mom said I could make myself at home. Is there a problem?"
"No. No problem." She turned around and left him in the dim room.
The laptop was ready and while he truly had been planning on looking up amnesia, now that he had privacy, he decided to check the contents of the computer. A huge portion of the files were encrypted, and those that weren't held information that meant absolutely nothing to him.
Previous searches on the internet had been for company logos containing three dots. He scratched behind his ear, skimming through the hundreds of sites someone had painstakingly googled.
By the time he had satisfied his curiosity and had moved on to his own reason for researching, the letters on the monitor were beginning to blur. He read a few articles, like he'd told Cameron he would, but his concentration was shot and he couldn't understand the medical jargon. Two hours after he'd gotten up, he decided to try for bed again.
He powered down the laptop and stood. The next thing he knew, he hit the floor with a spine-jarring thud, bringing down a chair which clattered over his legs. He raised his hands over his face instinctively and left them there in embarrassment when running feet pounded down the stairs. The overhead light was blinding when Cameron flicked it on.
"Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." He repeated the words more loudly when his mother ran into the room. "I'm fine. I got up too fast and got dizzy."
"What were you doing down here?" his mother asked as she threw herself to her knees next to him.
John slowly got up onto one elbow and when the world didn't spin away again, sat up. "I couldn't sleep."
"He wanted to read about amnesia." Cameron crouched down, touched his wrist, kept her fingers there for a moment before standing. "He was using the laptop."
"Can you stand?"
"I'm fine."
"Can you stand?" his mother repeated.
"I can stand."
It took both her and Cameron to get him on his feet, and they held him steady until the room stopped spinning enough that he was sure he could take a step without falling flat on his face.
"C'mon. Let's get you back to bed."
It was embarrassing enough that he'd woken his mother up, but she kept a solid hold on his arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong. He baulked, however, when she tried to lead him past the stairs.
"I'm not sleeping in your bed." He reached out for the wall, locking his arm to steady himself and hold himself in place at the foot of the stairs.
"And you're not going up those stairs with that knee and vertigo."
"I'm okay with the stairs—"
"And I'm not okay with you on the stairs."
"I can sleep on the couch—" He turned quickly to go back and stumbled, hitting his bruised shoulder against the wall. "Ow."
"I rest my case. You can sleep in my bed and I can sleep on the couch."
"I don't want to take your bed." He averted his face, beyond mortified.
His mother's fingers were cool against his skin as she firmly took his chin and pulled his face towards hers. "You've been injured. You need to rest and it's just plain recklessness to have you go up and down those stairs." She smiled at him with a look of tenderness that touched his heart. "Trust me, it's not the first time you've slept in my bed."
"Can you at least take mine?" he asked, unlocking his elbow and giving in. He was too tired to argue.
"I'd rather take the couch; that way I'll hear you if you need me."
"I can sit with John," Cameron began, but quieted when their mother glared at her.
"Get the Tylenol and some water," his mother ordered as she sat John down on the edge of the bed.
He sat there, uncomfortable, until she gently slapped his legs. "Move 'em, and get under the covers."
Slowly he listed to the side, the room dipping around him dizzily until he put his head onto the pillow and raised his legs. His mother pulled the blankets over him then sat on the edge of the bed.
"How're you doing?"
"I'm not going to puke in your bed, if that's what you're worried about." He'd spotted the ensuite bathroom and figured he could make a run for it if the dizziness escalated into nausea.
"Good. I don't feel like doing laundry in the middle of the night." She reached over and pulled her garbage can close to the bed. "Just in case."
"I brought Tylenol," Cameron said, walking into the room. She handed their mother the bottle of water and upended two tablets into the palm of her hand. "These will help your headache but they won't help your vertigo. I brought Dimenhydrinate for that." She pushed out two tablets from a blister pack and added them to the Tylenol. "Here."
"Take them," his mother said when he hesitated. "The Dramamine will help the nausea and dizziness and the Tylenol will help your headache."
He raised his head just enough to swallow the pills with a few sips of water. He handed the water back to Cameron, who capped it and placed it on the bureau.
"Close your eyes," his mother coaxed.
"I'm not six." He stared at the two women who were looking back at him expectantly.
"I'm sorry. We're making you uncomfortable, aren't we?"
"A little."
"I'll be just a call away, if you need anything. If you feel sick, if you need water or—"
"There's water right here if I need it." John pointed over his shoulder at the bottle Cameron had left.
"You know what I mean."
"I know. Thank you."
He dozed off almost as soon as they left him, waking up again from a dream that left him with a sense of fear and anxiety. All that he remembered were eyes, red, glowing eyes, staring at him from the dark, accompanied by the sound of metal rubbing on metal. He sat up, glad to see that his dizziness had eased as he squinted at the alarm clock which showed he'd slept for almost two hours.
John rubbed at his eyes, feeling groggy and dry-mouthed. He eyed the bottle of water, wishing he didn't have to get out of bed to go and get it. Moving sluggishly, he got up, staggered to the bureau and knocked over the bottle when he reached for it. He made a grab for it and managed a clumsy catch before it fell to the floor. He paused, waiting to see if he'd disturbed anyone.
He peered into the living room, the dim light from the windows exposing the edge of a blanket pooling over the edge of the couch. When the blanket didn't move, he chugged down three quarters of the bottle before coming up for air.
When he put the bottle back, he noticed two cell phones on the bureau. Curious, he glanced once more towards the living room, and when there was still no movement, picked up one of the phones and checked the address book. Cameron. Derek. John. Only three names.
He shut the phone, picked up the second one and checked its address book. Cameron. Charley. Derek. Mom. Riley.
Bingo.
He had voice mail, but had no idea what the code was to retrieve it. Instead he checked the list of received calls. Five of them were from Riley. All of them had been sent within the last several hours, the last one registered just past midnight.
Limping into the ensuite, he shut the door, turned on the light, and with a sense of intrigue, dialed Riley's number.
She answered on the third ring, sounding half-asleep and a lot worried as she whispered, "John. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I woke you. I'm sorry."
"No. No, it's fine. Although my foster parents might not be too happy with my phone ringing at four in the morning."
He suddenly felt horribly guilty for calling. "Am I getting you into trouble?"
"Trouble's my middle name," she answered with a soft snort.
John relaxed and leaned against the sink. "My mom told me you came by earlier," he lied.
"Is that why you're calling me in the middle of the night? So your mother won't know you're calling?"
"No," he fumbled for an answer. "I just wanted to..."
I was worried. You didn't answer any of my calls."
"I was sick." Not exactly a lie.
"I understand that you're mad at me. I'm so sorry, John. I should never have pushed the issue. The handcuffs were a stupid idea and I really thought you would get a kick out of them."
"Handcuffs?" He lowered the phone to look at his wrist; suddenly the bruises there made sense. Hurriedly he raised the phone again when he heard Riley talking, gently massaging the bruises with his free hand.
"—Sorry I got the wrong vibes from you, John. I was stupid and I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."
"It's fine."
"Is it? Is that why you sent your sister over yesterday?"
"Cameron?"
"And the handcuffs have disappeared."
"I didn't take them."
"I never said you took them."
"You think Riley—"
"I'm sure it's not my foster mother. She probably has her own set of handcuffs."
Even though John didn't remember the woman, he shut his eyes against that particular visual. "Look, Riley—"
"Just tell me that you're okay."
"I'm okay."
"Can we go out tomorrow? Maybe grab some lunch? Take a walk to the pier and visit that sex shop I was telling you about? Maybe we can find something a little less... threatening—"
"That's maybe not a good idea." He didn't know this girl but although she sounded sincere, he had a feeling she didn't know him at all even though they'd apparently been dating for several weeks. If he were to try and pinpoint his feelings, he'd say she made him uncomfortable.
"I thought you said we were okay."
"No, I said I was okay. You didn't ask about us."
"You know, after what happened in Mexico, I'd never have expected you to freak over a stupid pair of handcuffs." Her voice was sarcastic and even though John had no idea what she was talking about, it grated on his nerves.
"That's not it." John was suddenly sorry he'd called Riley. "I told you I'd been sick. I just don't feel like going out."
"I thought you said you were fine." The concern was back in her voice, overriding the derision of her earlier comment.
"I am fine. I'm just a little run down. Look, I'll give you a call when I'm feeling better."
"Call me anyway."
"I'm sorry I woke you up."
"I'm not."
"Good night."
"Call me, John."
"Bye."
He hung up, trying to come to terms with his emotions. Apparently he'd been upset when he'd left Riley just before the accident. He couldn't help but wonder if his emotions had played a part to causing the crash. He looked at the bruises around his wrist again – he'd have had to have struggled pretty fiercely to have attained this kind of bruising. His other wrist wasn't injured so Riley had probably freed him of the restraints when he'd raised a ruckus.
Even as he peed and washed his hands, he tried to picture how he'd react if someone tried to tie him up. From the way his shoulders tensed at the idea, he figured most likely pretty violently.
He picked up the phone, positioned himself by the door, hand on the handle as he flicked the light off. Opening the door softly, he started to limp back to the bureau to replace the cell when he saw his mother leaning against the bureau, the lamp she'd turned on next to her illuminating the room dimly.
"Riley apologize?" she demanded, her gaze not even moving to the phone still held in his hand.
"Yeah." He tossed the cell onto the bureau and hobbled back to bed.
"Did you tell her?"
"About my memory?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Can I ask why?"
"Like you said, I didn't feel like dealing with Riley right now." He sat on the bed and sighed heavily. "What happened in Mexico?"
His mother's expression caught him by surprise, just like his words apparently did her. She raised a hand and rubbed at the back of her neck. "You ran off with Riley."
"We ran away from home together or we ran off for a weekend of hot sex?"
"I'm thinking weekend only, and trying not to picture any hot sex."
John couldn't help smiling at her words. "So you got pissed at us for taking off?"
"No. I got pissed at you for getting arrested in Mexico."
"I got arrested?"
"Some guy tried to take your picture and you shoved him away. He dropped his camera, claimed you broke it and you and Riley took off. Cops caught you, called us, had us come down to Mexico to release you."
"Oh." Somehow Riley's tone had made it seem like it had been something more. "Sorry."
"Water under the bridge."
"I seem to be quite the handful."
"Actually, Riley's the handful. You just get caught up in her schemes." She walked over, rubbed her hand over his hair and cupped the back of his head. "Go back to sleep."
He nodded slowly as she took her hand away. He let her tuck him in again, closed his eyes, and tried to picture himself in a jail cell in Mexico. As he drifted off, he pictured himself, instead, standing in a small church, a feeling of peace coming over him, as if he'd accomplished a goal that had been almost impossible to achieve.
________________________________________
Three dots.
Red.
Bright.
Glowing in the dark.
No matter where he ran, they followed him.
He ran on.
They pursued.
Terror.
Muscles burning.
Dead end.
Out of breath.
Dread.
Three dots.
Red.
Bright.
Glowing.
Coming nearer.
John gasped, coming awake, overcome with dread.
"John? Are you okay?"
He twisted sharply in bed, seeing his mother sitting on the bed next to him, reaching for him. He glanced around anxiously, searching for the three dots, the three harbingers of doom.
And saw nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's wrong?" he asked, still feeling the effects of his dream.
"Nothing's wrong. I came to check on you and you looked like you were having a pretty uncomfortable dream."
"Dream," he sighed, falling back against the pillow. "Yeah." He scrunched his eyes and rubbed them. "Weird dreams."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No. It's nothing, really. Just, images. Feelings."
"Memories?"
"I seriously doubt it." He opened his eyes, noting for the first time that the sun was up. "What time is it?"
"Nearly eight. Hungry?"
"Yeah..." he said slowly, taking stock of himself. Headache was a dull throb; dizziness hadn't made itself known yet, shoulder and ribs hadn't twinged when he'd turned, and his knee wasn't hurting although that would probably change when he got out of bed.
"Go shower. I'll make pancakes." She nodded towards the ensuite. "I put clean clothes in there."
He slipped out of bed, feeling self-conscious as he slowly limped to the bathroom. It was a relief to shut the door on his mother. He glanced at the clothes she'd laid out – a pair of jeans, a well-worn tee-shirt as well as a long-sleeved one to go over it. Underwear. Socks. Boots. As well as deodorant, shaving implement and toothbrush. She'd thought about everything, he thought to himself as he checked himself out in the mirror.
________________________________________
Stuffed to the gills, John stretched out on a lounge chair on the shady side of the deck, enjoying the morning before it got too hot. He tried not to feel guilty about the cell phone he'd pocketed, tried to convince himself that it belonged to him, that he had every right to hang on to it. He could see Cameron through the curtained window watching him and he closed his eyes to her scrutiny.
He wasn't tired, he wasn't sleepy, but still, soon he began to drift. He let himself go, the sounds and smells of the neighbourhood slowly disappearing. The good feeling of relaxation disappeared when he found himself in a barren landscape of charred metal, the murky gloom of acrid smoke impeding his progress.
"John!" His mother's voice echoed dimly from his right.
"Mom!" He began walking in that direction, stumbling past melted steel girders. Something shifted and he froze as metal rubbed against metal.
"John, where are you?"
"I'm here." He climbed into the darkness between two demolished buildings, trying to peer into the gloom. He spotted his mother kneeling on the ground. He broke into a run, stumbling over debris as he threw himself next to her. "Mom. Mom, are you all right?"
"John." Bloodied and battered, she smiled at him, her split lip oozing blood as she raised a filthy, scratched hand to cup his cheek.
Something moved in the darkness behind her. Three red dots appeared out of the darkness and advanced slowly. The top two coalesced into the eyes of a metallic skeletal face, the third was a laser beam from a weapon held in skeletal hands, the stock of the gun against its shoulder, the sight aimed directly at him.
"Mom," John hissed as she became aware of the monster behind them.
"John."
Not his mother's voice as he jerked awake, but that of a teenager girl, her worried face next to his, just where his mother's had been a heartbeat ago. He looked around anxiously but there were no monsters anywhere in sight.
"Hey." The blonde smiled and he recognized the voice.
"Hey." He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, trying to shake the nightmare from his mind. His racing heart and sweaty palms, however, kept that from happening. "I thought I said I was going to call."
"Well, you know me. I'm not very good at waiting," Riley said as she sat down next to him. "I woke you. You really are sick."
"I told you I was." He refrained from looking into the window to see if Cameron was still watching. He hoped she hadn't run to tattle to their mother.
"I thought you were making up an excuse to stay away from me."
"Would I lie to you?"
Her silence told him that he had at some point.
He sat there, awkwardly staring at the panoramic view just so he wouldn't have to look at her.
"What happened to your head?"
"It's nothing," he said with a slight shake of his head, not wanting to get into the whole car accident scenario and resulting amnesia at the moment. When he finally gathered enough gumption to look at her, he saw she was staring at his wrist.
"This is my fault." She ran a finger lightly across the bruises and her touch sent a shiver up his spine. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
"It's okay." He didn't move; he let her fingers trace a circle around his wrist.
"I thought you were tough. I mean, you broke us out of jail in Mexico. You went after the madman with the gun. You put me on a bus and never looked back. But a pair of handcuffs scared you to death."
He tried to hide his shock at her description of their sojourn south of the border. "It's not fear." Even now, the idea of being restrained put him on edge. He'd need to trust someone implicitly to allow him or her to tie him up willingly, and he had a feeling he'd never had it with Riley. He didn't realize he'd pulled his hand away from Riley's until he found himself rubbing at the bruises.
"You never explained about what really happened in Mexico, and I'm okay with that. I just want you to tell me you're okay with what I did."
"Why don't you tell me what you think happened? In Mexico."
She pushed back handfuls of hair from her face and stared at her feet. "It was the same guy who came knocking at your door the other week. The one that spooked you so much. I think when you lived in Mexico, your mom got into some trouble, with men, you know? And someone sent that guy after her to get, I don't know, revenge, maybe? That's why you changed your name from Connor to Baum, so he wouldn't find you." She raised her head to look at him. "So, am I right?"
Connor? Baum? He stood up, his knee twinging as did so. He ignored it as he walked towards the house, intent on confronting his mother.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Riley yelled after John.
He stopped, having forgotten momentarily about Riley. "I'll call you," he said simply as he walked through the patio door, entering the house.
"Everything all right?" his mother asked, bent over the dryer as he walked past her into the dining room.
"Fine," he said over his shoulder, searching for Cameron. He found her in the living room, reading a book. "What did you do with them?" he hissed at her so that his mother wouldn't hear.
"Do with what?" she asked, looking up from the book.
"The handcuffs you stole from Riley. Why did you take them?"
"So she wouldn't hurt you again with them." Cameron's gaze moved pointedly to his wrist.
"You don't think I can take care of myself?"
"I know you can."
"But still you stole them from her."
"She won't be able to use them on you again."
"What's stopping her from getting another pair of handcuffs?"
"Knowing you have a pair, too." Cameron reached into a pocket and pulled out the handcuffs, and held them out to John.
"This is such a fucked up family," he growled, raising his hands into the air in frustration.
"But it's your fucked up family," Cameron said calmly.
"Why did we change our name from Connor to Baum?"
"Why don't you let me answer that," his mother said as she entered the living room. "But first, mind telling me how you found out about it?"
"Maybe that tryst I had in Mexico might have included a little more than hot sex? Maybe a madman waving a gun? Breaking out of jail? Any of this ring a bell? Someone who might have held a grudge against you because you might have been, I don't know, sleeping around?"
"John, there's an explanation for all this and it's not what Riley told you."
"What did you do?"
"Everything I did was for you. To protect you."
"Am I even your son? Did you kidnap me, Mom?"
"You need to tell him, Sarah."
"I can't." She ignored Cameron. "John, I can't tell you now, because if I do, you're not going to believe me."
"And when. Am I. Going to. Believe you? When you've made up more lies to placate me?"
"I haven't lied to you."
"Baum or Connor?"
"Connor. But you've gone by many names—"
"Am I your son?"
"Yes."
"Is she your daughter?"
Both Cameron and Sarah answered simultaneously. Cameron's "No," was negated by his mother's "Yes."
"Good thing you haven't lied to me," he snapped at her.
"I never lied to you, John. You're probably the only person I was always honest with."
"But now—"
"I had to lie, because the truth is so far-fetched—"
"That I couldn't even tell Riley why we got attacked in Mexico?"
"You should never have taken her there in the first place—"
"Are you sleeping with Derek?"
"No."
"Then who is he? Who's she?" He tilted his chin towards Cameron.
"Friends of your father."
"And my father is..."
"Dead."
He deflated suddenly. He'd slept too much, but he was still exhausted. "And Charley?"
"A wonderful man who wanted to marry me and take you in as his son."
"And he and Derek know all these outrageous secrets that you won't tell me?"
"They know."
"So if I went to Charley and asked, would he tell me?"
"John, they locked me up because I kept trying to convince people that I knew something about the future that they didn't. There's a look people get in their eyes when they try to be polite as they back away from the crazy woman spouting nonsense. I don't want to see that look on your face. I want to wait until you start to remember things on your own—"
"What if I never do?"
"It's only been a few days. Charley and I think your amnesia is more of an emotional issue than physical—"
"Your mind needed a break from reality, John." Cameron's voice was gentle, her expression warm as opposed to her normal vacant look. "We think the incidents with the handcuffs and the accident were your breaking point, and you've shut down for a while until you're ready to face everything again."
"What happened to me?"
"A lot of things. Stress, mostly." His mother tried to smile, but failed. She swallowed, her voice hoarse. "It's been a rough couple of months."
"Is it because my father died?"
"Your father died before you were born." Cameron's voice was back to being neutral.
"Please. Let's give your memory a couple more days. If it's not back by then, I promise we'll talk."
"You'll tell me everything?"
His mother looked away. "I'll tell you everything."
John turned to Cameron. "The things she was locked up for. Were they true or is she crazy?"
"They were true."
"One day. If I don't remember in one day, you'll tell me tomorrow."
"Two days. I'll tell you in two days."
John recognized her mind was made up. "I'm going to lie down."
He headed for the stairs, defiantly taking them recklessly despite the pain in his knee. He went to his bedroom, hating the tiny room compared to his mother's roomier one, and slammed the door.
He lay down on the bed, decision already made before he'd gotten halfway up the stairs. Using the speed dial, he called Charley.
"How's it going, Johnny?"
"Tell me what happened in Mexico."
"Mexico? We never went to Mexico."
"Me and Riley. What happened there?"
"Riley's your girlfriend? Am I right?"
"You don't know."
"Sorry. I don't know."
"Who's Cameron?"
When Charley didn't answer, John pushed on. "Why did we change our names? Why was my mother locked up?"
"John, I don't think it's a good idea that I answer your questions. Your mother—"
"Wants to wait until my memory comes back. It's never coming back, is it? So why wait when I can know now?"
"I want to tell you—"
"You don't trust me with the truth."
"That's not true."
"Then tell me."
"I want to respect your mother's decision—"
"It's driving me crazy." He found himself yelling. He stopped, took a deep breath, took another, and went on more softly. "Not knowing is driving me crazy. All I've got are half truths and hints. Hell, Riley knows more about me than me. Please, Charley. Mom said you cared. Please. Help me?"
"Your mother is so going to kill me." Charley sighed and John heard the creak of worn springs as Charley either sat or shifted his weight. "I once told you I wished I'd known the truth and wished your mother had trusted me enough to tell me. You told me you did. That you trusted me. So now you have to trust me agai, when I tell you. Because it's probably going to sound so far fetched, you'll want to call 911 and have the crazy people arrested."
"That's what my mother said."
"Okay. Let me tell you what I know. I met you and your mother eight years ago."
"Mom said you were willing to take me in as your family—"
Let me finish. Okay, Johnny? Let me get through this and then we'll talk."
"I'm listening."
"Eight years ago. You were fifteen years old."
________________________________________
"Nice of you to show up." Sarah kept her back to Derek as he walked past her, heading for the stairs.
She heard him pause. She could picture him turning around and staring at her in surprise. She continued reading the data John had printed out for her days ago, before the accident.
"My cell's on. Last time I checked, you didn't call."
She wasn't going to bring up the fact that he hardly spent any time around the house anymore; she knew the signs – he was seeing someone. Not that it was any of her business. But damn it, she hated that she'd come to rely on his expertise and truth be told, she'd have loved that he'd been around when John had made his demands known earlier.
"That girl told John about his trip to Mexico." She still didn't look up, even when Derek walked to the table and stood next to her.
"Told her what?"
"Enough to make him suspicious. He began demanding answers."
"You told him the truth, I hope."
"Some of it." She put the page she'd been perusing down and picked up the next one. She was about to put it down and move to the next one because she honestly didn't believe in UFOs, but a photo in the bottom corner caught her eye. Three lights in the sky; three dots.
"He needs to know."
"I told him I'd tell him in a couple of days if his memory doesn't come back—"
"Did you ever think that maybe he needs to know the truth in order to jog his memory?"
Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the picture and met Derek's angry gaze. "I can't."
"And in two days he doesn't get his memory back, what'll you do then? Lie to him and tell him you'll tell him on April 19, 2011? Give him two days to prepare?"
"Please, Derek. Let him have a couple of days to be normal—"
"Have you even thought what John is going through right now? All the uncertainty, the questions, the confusion? How do you expect him to believe you, if you keep lying to him now?"
"Am I being selfish? Or am I trying to let my son have a few days without the weight of the world on his shoulders? You tell me."
"Well, seeing that he doesn't know what he's missing, he's not exactly appreciating it, is he?" Derek's footsteps were loud in the room as he strode away from her and she hated herself for admitting that he was right. For the first time ever, since she'd been dreaming about the three dots, John had doubted her. He'd never doubted her before. And the last thing she wanted was to add disbelief, disgust and contempt – and have him think the woman who was his mother was actually a raving lunatic.
"Derek's right—"
Sarah raised a hand to ward off Cameron. "Please, no comments from the peanut gallery. One nut in the family is more than enough."
________________________________________
John didn't like the truth. Despite Charley's assurances that everything he'd said was true, John was sorry he'd asked the man for explanations. He was just as crazy as his mother and he was starting to suspect that the two of them had met in the asylum where his mother had been locked up. He was sitting up, fighting nausea that was slowly growing.
"John?"
"Yeah." He realized Charley had stopped talking and there'd been silence between them for several minutes.
"That's all I know. Do you have any questions?"
He pressed his lips together, but couldn't come up with anything other than, how stupid do you really think I am? So he kept quiet.
"Now you think I'm crazy, too."
"I didn't say that," John managed to ground out. Of all the scenarios he'd expected – running from the mob – running from a scorned husband or lover – running from the police for a misunderstood crime – he had never, ever, expected a story this far fetched and over the top.
"I didn't believe it at first, either. Until I saw the proof."
"Proof? A few pieces of metal—"
"A complete metal skeleton, John, covered with flesh. You just look at that pretty little girl and you tell me if you can tell she's not human. One of those things killed my wife. Michelle died so you could live. That's what it boils down to. Your mother tried to save her, God help her, she tried. But it was too late. That piece of metal killed her to get to you. You have to—"
"Okay. I get it." He leaned his elbows on his thighs and ran his hand over the back of his neck. Far-fetched and over the top all this may be, but damn it, what about the metallic skeleton in his dreams? Coincidence? He couldn't bring himself to admit it was more than fluke because otherwise it would mean what Charley was saying was true.
"No, you don't. You don't get it at all and I know you don't believe me. But remember, you asked for this. You wanted to know what your mother was hiding – don't go whining about how you don't like what you just heard."
"Do you know how insane this all sounds?" His voice sounded strained, even to his ears.
"Believe me, I know. I was in your shoes just a few months ago, remember?"
"Actually, no, I don't," John said sarcastically.
"Just think on what I just told you. See if it rings any bells."
"Yeah, right."
"What did you want me to say, John?" Charley sounded tired. "Did you want me to lie to you and give you a song and dance just to shut you up?" There was a heavy sigh, which John found himself echoing. "Maybe I should have. Your mother's not going to forgive me for telling you this – I guess having one more Reese angry at me—"
"Reese?" John asked, sitting up so suddenly that he saw spots.
"I'm sorry. That's the name I knew you as. You changed it to Baum when you left me. I told you that, remember?"
"Yeah, but you didn't tell me my last name was Reese." He stood up and slowly flexed his knee, testing it. "That was before we met Derek, wasn't it?" His mind was racing, his thoughts just barely outpacing the growing pain of his headache.
"Yeah..." The caution was obvious in Charley's voice.
"What else is there? What aren't you tell me?"
"Nothing. I told you everything I know."
"You're lying."
"There's probably tons of stuff your mother never told me. You'll have to ask her about whatever it is that's bothering you."
"You can be damn sure I will." John was about to disconnect the call without any warning, but common courtesy kicked in. "Thank you."
He tossed the phone behind him as he made for the door, hearing it bounce on the mattress, expecting it to land on the floor. He was almost disappointed when it didn't.
Cursing at the stiffness of his knee, wishing he could stomp down the stairs instead of going down each step carefully, John was aware of his mother sitting at the dining room table watching him descend.
"Tell me about Judgment Day." He stormed across the living room, heading for the dining room. "Tell me about John Reese. John Connor. John Baum. John whoever the hell I've been. Tell me about my long-dead father who came from the future, how many years ago. Tell me how I was born in 1985 but in 2007, I'm only sixteen years old." His head was throbbing horribly, each step he took was like a blow to his brain.
"You seem to know everything already." His mother seemed cool and collected, totally at odds with his anger. She looked down at the papers spread in front of her and John felt a stab of fury – they were all about a UFO convention. Obviously she wasn't only interested in robots from the future. "I'm assuming you spoke to Charley?"
"He's just as crazy as you are." John grabbed one of the papers and shook it in front of her face. "End of the world? Robots? Time travel? UFOs? How stupid do you think I am?"
"You're not stupid. That's why you're going to sit down at that computer and look up the dates yourself."
"I'm going to what?"
"Use the computer. Do the Google thing. See for yourself. It shouldn't take you long."
He wanted nothing more than to walk out of the house. The only thing that prevented him doing exactly that was the knowledge that he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape from his crazy family. So he did exactly what she suggested, if only to prove to Sarah Baum/Connor/Reese how idiotic her story was.
Fifteen minutes later, rage had been replaced by fear. He'd found newspaper articles, photographs, school pictures, just enough information to throw doubt into his beliefs. His pulse was racing and he was couldn't take deep breaths.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Tell me."
Instead of answering him, his mother glanced at Cameron. "Show him."
John looked up at Cameron, and nearly fell off his chair when her eyes glowed blue. "It's all true?" He was panting, unable to catch his breath.
"It's all true," Cameron echoed.
"I'm sorry, John." For a moment, his mother's voice seemed to come from far away, then came back with a snap. "I was hoping you'd remember on your own so you wouldn't have to go through this."
"I'm supposed to save the world? I'm supposed to be a hero?" He pushed off the table, wavered and caught himself. "I don't even know who I am." His palm slipped on a sheet of paper, throwing him off balance. Cameron caught his arm, her grip like steel.
But he ignored her, his attention on the enlarged photograph in front of him. Not red, not like his dream, but the three lights. The three dots. Just like he'd seen them before they turned into...
"Oh, God."
That was what Cameron was. Not real. Not alive. Living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. And they were out to kill him.
"Let me go." He tugged his arm free and backed up, trying to get away from her even though she didn't follow him.
Chasing him on his motorbike. Coming after him in school. Going after his mother. Going after other targets. Shooting his uncle.
"Oh, God."
Derek. His uncle. His father – baseball. Birthday. Sarkissian.
The pain in his head became almost unbearable. "Don't touch me!" He continued backing away from her, reaching up to try to massage the pain away. He shivered, suddenly cold.
"John."
Come with me if you want to live. The voices echoed in his head - deep, accented, male; higher pitched, female.
"John, are you all right?"
"Mom?" He bumped into something, couldn't retreat any further. The world tilted and warmth enveloped his arm, his shoulder, his upper back.
"It's okay. Just breathe, okay? Cameron, call Charley. Come on, John. Try and breathe with me. In. Out. No, slower. Come on, try to breathe more slowly..." His mom's voice began to fade. "In... John... Stay with me..."
________________________________________
"He's sleeping, Sarah."
She shook her head at Charley, who had eased John's arm away from his body and was attaching a blood pressure cuff. "He passed out. He was unconscious." John's body was limp in her arms, his head lolling heavily against her bicep and breast.
For a moment the only sound was that of the pump as Charley filled the cuff. Then the slow hiss of escaping air.
"His pressure's a little low. His pulse is fast, though. A little too fast for someone sleeping."
"He was in pain. In agony. He couldn't catch his breath."
"He was in distress when he lost consciousness." Cameron, once she'd let Charley into the house, had taken up a guarding position in the dining room where she could look out several windows. "Heightened BP, pulse and saline output, lowered oxygen levels."
"Well, it could be a subdural hematoma, but it sounds more like an anxiety attack."
"There's no sign of inter-cranial bleeding."
Charley placed a hand to John's shoulder and shook him gently. "John. John, can you wake up?"
Her son inhaled deeply, sighed, and opened his eyes. He looked groggy as he stared at Charley, not seeming to be aware that he was lying on the dining room floor, in his mother's arms.
"Hey, Johnny."
"Charley?" John breathed.
Already on hands and knees, Charley bent his head to get a good look at John's face. He grasped his chin and flashed a pen light into his eyes. "Do you know where you are?"
John blinked several times when Charley was done, then looked around the room slowly. "Why am I on the floor? Where's Mom?"
"I'm right here, John," she whispered in his ear. He turned his head sluggishly to look at her.
"What happened?"
"You passed out."
"How are you feeling?" Charley sat back on his heels, assessing her son.
"Tired." He moved slowly, laboriously, pulling away from her. "Confused."
"How's your head? Does it hurt?"
"No." John pushed with his arms until he was sitting, knees bent, and slowly lowered his forehead to his knees. "Just tired," he breathed through his knees.
"Let's get you into bed." Sarah glanced quickly at Charley, who nodded in agreement. She pointed towards her room with her chin as she clambered to her knees. Together, they each grabbed one of John's arms and got him upright. He went with them without complaint, got into her bed, let Sarah begin to pull the covers over him until he grabbed her wrist. She saw the unspoken plea in his eyes and she dropped the blankets and sat down next to him. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I remember," John whispered.
She closed her eyes briefly in relief, trying to swallow past the lump of emotions caught in her throat.
"What do you remember?" Cameron pushed past Charley to stand in front of John. "Did all of your memories return? Do you know who you are?"
"Everything." His voice was strained, as if he was having as much trouble speaking as Sarah was right now.
"Try to sleep, John." Charley glared at Cameron's back when she didn't budge when he tried to push past. They waited in silence, watching as John's eyes closed. A moment later, the grip on her hand weakened and loosened. She caught his hand, lowering it to the mattress and pulled the blankets up the rest of the way, to his chin.
"Keep an eye on him. Like I said, I think it was an anxiety attack, probably brought on by the resurgence of his memory. But if his headache worsens or he loses consciousness again, I'd bring him back to the hospital to have him checked out."
"Okay. Thank you." She gave Charley a wavering smile as she stood to walk him to the door.
________________________________________