Disclaimer: Any resemblance to people -living or dead- (or places) is purely coincidental.
Warnings: If you are a sensitive, please don't read this story.
Thanks -as always- to the Usual Suspects. I couldn't do it without you ladies.
Sorry for the long delay in posting. RL has been quite rough lately.
Chapter 8
Doctor Robert Lottridge left his patient and made his way to his office. He was troubled by the physical exam he had just given. Young Hutchinson's reflexes were far better then he expected them to be at this juncture. The man would be up and walking in no time. While it make caring for Hutchinson easier, since he would need far less nursing. Less nursing equaled a larger profit margin for the institute. Profit made him smile.
But there was a down side. The smile left Lottridge's lips. Such a quick recovery would cost his institute a sizable potential income. Income he and some of his other patients desperately needed.
That thought made him pop his head up and realize that he had walked right by his office. He shook his head at himself and made his way back. Robert entered the room and paused to look at it. The carefully decorated room whispered class and intellect and screamed success. There were three leather chairs, two in front of the rich oak desk and one behind it. A matching coffee table was next to the leather couch. The walls of the room were painted a pleasant oatmeal color.
Bookshelves lined two of the four walls. The books were, for the most part, immaculate and displayed in a pleasing order. Like sizes with like sizes and color matched. The tomes nearest his desk were his research and resource manuals and all showed signs of wear along the binder. It would never do for people to think he was too smart to pick up a book. A third wall sported his degrees, select photos of himself -with important people at social functions- and a few certificates (but not too many), he didn't want to be thought of as a braggart.
As Robert settled back behind his desk, his thoughts went from his décor to his latest patient. What bothered Lottridge was Kenneth's response to his own name and the handshake. If the young man was beginning to progress this much, in such a short time, the likelihood of complete, or near complete recovery were greatly increased. He couldn't have that.
He desperately needed the funds that the Hutchinsons would be providing. He needed that money for his research. Research that was not federally approved, and therefore not government subsidized. Plus he had his high profile charity cases that could not afford the extensive therapy they needed to recover, or improve, as the instance might be. He needed them to boost his public image. But they were a big drain on his limited funds.
Bang! He slammed his fist down on the desk. Most of his assets were wrapped up in his fledgling institute. In a few years he would have access to better funding and grants, but until then he had to rely on carefully selected cases, such as Kenneth Hutchinson's.
Only Kenneth wasn't as bad off as he had expected. Robert knew he had a tough decision to make and he had to decide fairly quickly what he was going to do. Assist young Hutchinson in recovering or slow it down and collect money for nothing.
Robert startled at the sound of his phone ringing and he picked up the receiver. "Hello? Yes… He's WHAT?… Sorry Barbara, I didn't mean to yell in your ear… Did he succeed? … Random numbers? … You're sure? … Okay, just have them take the phone out of his room… Not at all. Thanks."
A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he turned the chair to look out of his corner office to the wide expanse of snow-covered lawn. Trees dotted the space and thickened to a forested area near the fence line was. Van Hall Institute was surrounded by the forest and fence. The forest was a pleasant mix of deciduous and conifer trees and hid the boundary from view. He tilted back in his chair and steepled his fingers, all of it his and all of it his to lose, if he made the wrong decision today.
He swiveled around and looked at his office, his eyes settled on his degrees and certificates. He had worked very hard to get this far. It was unfortunate that he would have to retard Hutchinson's recovery, but he had to look at the big picture and the long-term goals. Robert had to do what he could for the greater good.
In the end, it was a simple choice, really.
Kenneth would be protecting the institute and serving as a means –via family funding. Income that would ultimately lead to medical discoveries that would help hundreds, perhaps thousands of people.
Young Hutchinson had been a cop before his accident. And wasn't it a cop's duty to protect and serve?
XXXX
Hutch's hand had hovered over the talk-into… thing for several minutes. Who should he try to contact? His brain was still quite muddled by whatever stuff they had forced into him with the push-plunge. A hazy image of the man with dark curls floated through his mind and dissipated, leaving a deep ache. The blond rubbed his hand over where it hurt. As he looked at the little square buttons on the call-talk thing.
The marks on the push-squares were nonsensical squiggles. They hadn't always been gibberish. At one time they had made sense. His whole world had made sense. Now everything was so different and difficult. He let his fingers touch the push-squares. He knew he had to punch them in a certain order to connect him with… someone.
Connect.
Blond brows furrowed as he struggled with the term. Connect. That's what he wanted to do. Needed to do. His head pounded so that lights flashed in his vision. He was so tired. Hutch rubbed at his scratchy… peepers? Not quite the right word, but he let it go, not willing to waste his waning energy on that. For the first time the blond tried to remember what had happened. Why was he like this? Why was he always confused… with…with… words gone? He hadn't always been this way. Something had happened. Something bad. But what? What?
He noticed that he was pounding his fist on the bed and forced himself to stop. He would figure out 'what' later. Now he had to… connect. Hutch lifted the talk-into part and put it to his ear. A tone hummed. Next he needed to push the squares in a certain order to speak with… someone. Who? Who should he try to connect with? His aching mind raced. He would have to talk. When he… connected… they would expect him to speak.
He clutched the talk-into part to his chest. He needed words. But he didn't have any. Perhaps the words would come if he… connected. He wouldn't need many. Just a few. Maybe just one, if he connected with the right person. Again a blurred vision of dark curls popped into his brain and left just as quickly. The blond shook his head to clear his mind, it made the ache located there grow, he ignored it and concentrated on the task at hand. First he had to push the little squares in the proper order. He closed his eyes and could picture his fingers tapping the squares. Tapping out a series of numbers. He hit the first square and his fingers flew into action, automatically typing out the rest of number.
A woman responded. Something was wrong. It shouldn't be a woman. And the talk-into shouldn't just connect… without a tone. Hutch put the talk-into part back. Then he lifted it and tried again. Same woman. Babbling. Asking a question. She could be a woman who makes… connections. She would want him to speak. Give her numbers. He put the talk-into back on the… thing. His breath came in frustrated pants. Calm. He needed to be calm. So hard though, with head hurting, people babbling and words not forming.
Okay… practice talking first, and then try to… connect. Hutch now had a plan. His head blazed with pain as he forced himself to say anything… nothing came out, just the sounds of his rapid breathing. He cuddled the talk-into part to his chest and practiced speaking words that he was sure he could make. "Nahoo. Mah-mah." Success sure, but not the kind he really needed. Not the words he needed either. He groaned, knowing he sounded like a cry-squall, or worse. Irritated, he hissed through his teeth. He must have more words. More words or the woman wouldn't help him… connect.
Fine. Hutch would try pushing the squares again and if he pushed them in the right order, he wouldn't need to talk to the woman. But he would have to talk to who answered. He slammed the talk-into down on the bed. His exhausted mind raced in circles. He needed to connect. Had to. To do that, he needed to talk. He couldn't do either. He began pounding the talk-into down onto its spot on the main part of the … machine thing where it sat when not in use, unmindful of the clanging noise. 'Can't talk, can't connect. Can't connect if I can't talk.' He slammed the thing down, over and over, releasing all his anger and frustration. It was satisfying to try to destroy the device that had thwarted him.
A hand grabbed his. Startled, Hutch looked up and a burly man in white clothes was standing next to his bed. The blond pulled his hand away from the burly man, clutched the talk-into to his chest and growled. He realized his mistake immediately when a tall black man pulled a push-plunge from somewhere. One moment it wasn't there, the next it was. The blond slowly shook his head as the man squeezed the plunge and liquid squired out the sharp part.
Hutch was overwhelmed with a blurry memory, surreal and oh so quick. Another place, another time. Only it wasn't him on the receiving end of the push-plunge. It was someone else. It was a bad time. Staggering away down a long corridor… climbing, crawling up steps, a feeling of danger, of doom. The memory left him as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling sick and afraid. There was no one to help him. Not then, not now. "Nahooo!" Hutch flailed at both of them. No push-plunge! No! His brain screamed as he swung at the man with the talk-into part. The heavy instrument connected with the burly man's hand.
"OWEHCH!" The big man bellowed and flung himself on top of Hutch, using his weight to hold the struggling blond.
It was over. Hutch, already exhausted and still feeling the residuals of his earlier shot, felt the all too familiar bite of the point of the push-plunge sink into his arm. He tried to push the burly man off, an elbow was shoved firmly into his neck, holding him down and squeezing his airway until he feared he would choke. He stopped struggling and the elbow and the man were removed. He drew in an unhindered breath with relief.
The black man patted him on the head and tousled his hair. Hutch flinched weakly away from the hand and unwanted touch. He had only seconds of consciousness left when he saw Burly man take the talk-into. As he reluctantly succumbed to the darkness, he felt the familiar feel of straps being placed on his wrists and ankles.
XXXX
Two weeks later
"Come on in Mr. And Mrs. Hutchinson. Have a seat." Doctor Lottridge waved at the empty leather chairs before him. "Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?" At the negative shake of their heads, he waited until they sat down before moving around his desk to his seat. He lowered himself to the chair and once settled, leaned towards the couple. "We have made a little improvement with your son. It's still far too soon to expect any real sort of progress at this juncture."
Doctor Lottridge watched as Elizabeth Hutchinson nervously patted her tight, perfectly coiffed blonde bun and adjusted her skirt. His eyes flicked to Richard and saw the man's lips thin in irritation.
Ice blue eyes met his own, two unwavering laser beams before the senior Hutchinson spoke. "You asked us to give you two weeks before we saw our son. It is now two weeks. I'm not expecting any miracles. I just want to see my boy." The words were clipped as the businessman flicked at a bit of imaginary lint on his pant leg.
Lottridge made note of that reaction and mentally filed it away. As he continued to watch Richard Hutchinson, he shifted around in the leather chair. It squeaked with each movement. The man looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world right now. The missus looked even less comfortable than her husband as she toyed with the straps on her purse.
To put them at ease, Lottridge began a speech he had rehearsed for the occasion. "Would you like a tour of our facilities while your here? We have an excellent-"
"No." Mrs. Hutchinson quickly interrupted him. She stopped, darted a look at her stiff and silent husband. When he said nothing, she continued. "Thank you, no. Perhaps later. We'd like to see our son now. We've driven nearly two hours to get here. We want to spend as much time as possible with Kenny before heading back."
Lottridge stood up. "All right, follow me please." As he opened the door to his office, he noticed that Mrs. Hutchinson was carrying a small shoebox sized package. "What did you bring?"
Mrs. Hutchinson flashed him an anxious smile, "Just a little gift. You mentioned Kenny showed a lot of interest in them." She patted the beribboned box. "It should be quite appropriate for his age…" Her lower lip gave a brief, sorrowful wobble as she amended her statement. "His mental age, that is." She straightened up and squared her shoulders. She linked her free arm through her husband's waiting elbow and rested her hand on his forearm. They waited for him to lead them to their son.
"Good. It should make your son very happy." The doctor grinned sly behind their backs as he closed the door to his office, guessing what was in the box, it would likely make young Hutchinson anything but happy. He smoothed out his smile as he ushered them out of his office.
XXXX
So far Hutch had been kept in a room with no windows. He could only guess it had been several days since he had arrived here, in this strange place. But without being able to see outside, he couldn't really be certain. There was a daily routine, of sorts. He was encouraged to move his arms and legs. His weak side was massaged and lightly exercised for him. The blond expected that sort of thing to be happening to him. That part seemed right. Correct. He was fed three times a day. Not that he always ate what they offered. Sometimes he tossed it, at his nurses, at the walls and even the ceiling, just to get a reaction from his caretakers.
But their reaction was always the same. No one spoke to him. Not once. Aside from the painful sound Burly had made the day Hutch had arrived, not one person since then had made a sound or spoke to him. There was no music-sound-box, or moving-pictures-sound-box in his room either. He occasionally made noises and worked at trying to speak, just to assure himself that he was not deaf. His caretakers actively discouraged him from speaking whenever they were around. If he spoke, they would just stop in the middle of whatever was going on, strap him to the bed, turn out the lights and leave him for hours. It was bizarre and unnerving.
He had been taken to a few different rooms and in each he had avidly looked for a talk-into. Occasionally he found one and would try to… connect. He had been practicing talking, but the words sounded wrong. Hutch felt fairly sure that all he needed to do was get a few moments alone with a talk-into and he would be able to make contact with someone. Then he would be taken out of this place. It was something he wanted more each day.
Today the morning routine had drastically changed. They used the push-plunge on him –something they hadn't done in a while- and took him to a room he never been in before. It was a lot like his usual room, except this one had a large window with a view of the outdoors. Burly placed him in a large cushioned… sit-on… next to the glass. The blond put his left hand on the transparent surface and could feel the cold coming through. He watched as white stuff drifted down from above. The whole world was white. He closed his eyes and absorbed the sensations of finally being near… outside.
A memory rose, unbidden. But Hutch couldn't be sure if it was real memory or from the contents of the push-plunge. He let the images flow. It was worse if he fought it.
The image was hazy, unfocused and disjointed. Someone was beside him in the wheel-motor-drive, someone he knew –Dark Curls? His fuzzy brain rapidly moved on, not allowing him to concentrate on the person. A winding… path… before them. Moving… white lights and white stuff falling heavily from the sky, just like now. Only then it wasn't light outside. Hard to see out. Dark... dark out. Moving slowly… Talking. Laughing. Suddenly it all changed. Danger!
"Lukow!" Hutch gasped, startling himself with the reflexive sound. He found himself back in the window room. He tried to stand, hoping that his main caretaker -Burly man- nor anyone else had heard him speak. It was bad. Trouble. He didn't want to be strapped down and left in the dark again. But the danger seemed palpable, adrenalin surged and he pushed to his feet. His weak right side failed him and he collapsed back into the… sit-on.
"Knybabwhazrongmamasherescaru?"
The blond twitched at the unexpected sound and touch. Hands patting his head, brushing back his hair. After days and days of near total silence… her voice was loud, her light contact too much. He pulled away from the hands and turned to look at who was there.
Mah-mah.
Hutch tilted further from her, nearly falling out of the sit-on in the process. She pulled him upright. As he stared at her, he wavered between happiness and anger. Happy to see familiar faces, angry that they had sent him here. He noticed some movement in behind Mah-mah and spotted Stern-faced, hovering in the background, close to Mah-mah. His emotions continued to swing wildly from joy to hostility. Were they going to take him home now? His hopeful eyes leapt to meet hers.
She smiled and placed a brightly colored box in his lap. "Ohpnit."
The blond looked back a Stern-faced, who crossed his arms over his chest, his expression neutral.
Hutch returned his gaze to the box in his lap. He felt around it, threading his fingers through the ribbons as he patted around the box. He tried not to let his confusion show. What did she want him to do with it? He fretted about the correct solution. Would they make him stay if he got it wrong? His heart rate quickened as his anxiety grew.
"Ohpnit" Mah-mah repeated.
Hutch clinched his teeth. She wanted him to do something with the box, but what? He watched as she shook her head and sighed. She took the ribbon off and lifted the lid, smiling, she pulled back the tissue paper to reveal a blue toy talk-into. Her smile broadened as she picked up the talk-into and spoke into it. She held it up to his ear and pushed the push-squares. A cartoon voice spoke, it – like everything else- was gibberish to him.
He pulled back away from her and stared. It was a joke. It had to be. Was this some sick game they were all playing with him? Were they trying to drive him crazy? But if it was a joke, why wasn't anyone laughing? He could feel his blood rushing though his veins, pounding in his ears. He could feel the heat rise in his face. "SHIT!" He grabbed the toy and threw it as hard as he could. It gave a satisfying clang as it hit the wall. "Shitshitshitshitshit!" He barked triumphantly as he glared defiantly up at Mah-mah.
She gasped and stepped back, hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Stern-face stepped forward, only to edged out of the way by Burly. The big caretaker smiled at Hutch and spoke quietly to him.
"Shitshitshit!" The blond snarled back, angry beyond words that Burly choose this moment to finally speak to him.
Burly continued his quiet talk and Hutch punched him. Burly carefully licked his bleeding lip and smiled before continuing his calm tones.
Hutch could hear Mah-mah sobbing as she and Stern-faced left.
XXXX
Lottridge's officeDoctor Lottridge handed her a small box of tissues. "I'm sorry about what happened Mrs. Hutchinson, Mr. Hutchinson. It's difficult to know what'll set a particular patient off. There was no way of knowing it would be a toy telephone. We shall keep all phones away from your son from now on. We don't want to upset him any further. He had shown such keen interest in them."
The woman nodded as she dabbed at her running mascara. "He swore at me. He's never done that before. Never. Maybe this isn't the right place for him to be. He seemed so very upset."
Lottridge felt a rush of fear, but hid it. "Unfortunately, swearing is a common occurrence in brain injured patients. Their brains no longer work the way they should. They get easily frustrated. Frustration is closely related to anger and hostility. In this case, I don't think he really knows what he's saying. Like a two year old child, he's just repeating a word he's heard."
"You let your employees use that sort of language around your patients?" The woman gasped.
Robert held up his hand. "No, not at all. Did you notice when your son hit Nurse Ryder, he did nothing but continue to try to calm Kenneth? That is what our highly trained staff does when confronted with such situations. Hostility and anger are met with calm and reason." He walked over and put his hand on the narrow shoulder and took a gamble.
"We are doing all we can to help Kenneth. If you want to take him elsewhere, I understand." He patted her shoulder. "Here, let me get some numbers for you out of my Rolodex. Doctor Steven Silverberg has a wonderful facility in New Orleans. Or there's Doctor Tim Vogel's TBI Institute in Washington DC." He grabbed a pen and pad and started flipping through the file.
Mrs. Hutchinson stepped closer to the desk. "But those places are so far away. You came highly recommended. Kenneth is showing some improvement in movement." The husband shot a look at his wife. "And he's had his share of temper tantrums even before he arrived here." The woman blushed and turned away.
Inwardly Robert heaved a sigh of relief. It worked. His big gamble had paid off.
And his plan was working. A few more 'temper tantrums' like that and they would stop seeing their son. He had seen it happen many times before. Parents always wished that their children would bounce back and be exactly what they were before traumatic brain injury, but sadly most never did bounce back. Lottridge cleared his throat. "There is a well known therapy – it's called REST therapy- and it might just help your son relax and learn to be calm. If you're interested, that is."
Two blond heads swiveled to face him.
TBC