§ § § -- May 7, 1983
They reached the hospital just before Tattoo's ambulance arrived, and found themselves detained in the waiting room by the admissions nurse, who offered coffee or some other beverage. They both declined, taking seats and trying to calm themselves down. There followed a long wait during which some of the resort employees gathered in the waiting room with them, as if keeping them company. One of the guests came by and spoke with Roarke about rescheduling his fantasy for later that summer; Roarke set up an appointment to see him in his office before lapsing back into a pensive silence.
Then a pair of double doors swung open and both stood up, anxiously watching a nurse and two orderlies wheel Tattoo through on a stretcher. He was now awake but groggy; still, he recognized Roarke and Leslie as he was wheeled past them and raised one hand in a feeble wave. Roarke returned it, and Leslie, following the stretcher, managed to catch Tattoo's hand for just a moment before it was pushed into a room and he slipped out of reach.
The attending doctor, a man named Phillips, paused in the hallway, watching the stretcher vanish; then he turned to Roarke, who had come in after Leslie. "How is he, doctor?" Roarke wanted to know, pulling Leslie close when she huddled by his side.
"Well, we just ran some tests. We can't be certain till I study the results." He placed a hand on Roarke's shoulder and guided him down the hallway, farther away from the door to the waiting room. "But some of the symptoms indicate that the injury is really serious."
Leslie's hand went to her mouth; Roarke's eyes lit with alarm and he stopped. "Serious? How serious?"
"Well, as I just said, I don't know. I wish I could be more reassuring, but I can't."
"Has he been told?" Roarke asked.
"No. We want to keep his morale as high as possible. Until we figure out what this problem is, we want to keep him awake, so we can observe his condition in case there's any change." Roarke nodded understanding. "We could use your help on that." To their surprise, Dr. Phillips winked at Leslie.
"Oh, of course, of course," Roarke agreed instantly, squeezing her for reassurance. "May we see him now?"
Dr. Phillips nodded. "Come on." He led them into Tattoo's hospital room, where a nurse was taking his temperature. He was awake and lucid, and grinned when he saw them, to their relief. They greeted one another and the nurse removed the thermometer from his mouth so he could speak normally.
"What are you two doing here? You're supposed to attend to the guests."
"Oh no, no, I canceled all fantasies until you are able to help me again," Roarke told him. "Leslie here is afraid that without you to let her know where she's going wrong, she will somehow ruin everyone's vacation." He winked at his ward.
Leslie took her cue from him. "Can't run a machine without a missing part, and you're one of the most essential pieces."
Dr. Phillips approached the bed then. "Hello again, Tattoo. I'm gonna take another look at your eyes, if you don't mind." He pulled out a small penlight, and Roarke and Leslie moved aside to make room, watching him.
"Be my guest," murmured Tattoo weakly. Behind the doctor's back, Leslie shot Roarke a fast, worried glance; he smiled and nodded reassurance. But even his good humor faded when Dr. Phillips tucked away the light and looked up with a distinctly grim expression on his face.
"Keep him awake and talking," Dr. Phillips muttered to Roarke as he slipped past and left the room; Leslie stared after him, but Roarke wasted no time letting on to his assistant that anything was unusual.
As Tattoo winced and lifted a hand to his bandaged head, Roarke asked, "Tattoo, how do you feel? Are you cold? Perhaps I should get you a blanket."
"No, I'm okay, boss, I'm okay. Are you and Leslie staying here?"
"Of course, Tattoo, of course." Roarke smiled warmly and Leslie hurriedly nodded her head, trying to play along and fearing Tattoo suspected she was only putting up a front.
"We wouldn't leave you here all by yourself," she said and peered at Roarke, adding, "Anyway, it's pretty hot in here to need a blanket."
Tattoo smiled and concurred, "Besides, this is Fantasy Island, and the weather's always perfect."
"Well, that's not necessarily true," Roarke observed, glancing at Leslie with a smile. "Don't you remember the day when a certain young lady came here hoping to meet the man of her dreams?"
"Oh sure," said Tattoo, "and he turned out to be a genie."
"Oh yeah—the one who conjured up that snowstorm." Leslie laughed softly. "I'll never forget that."
"I won't either, not after watching you dancing and playing around in it like you were about three years old again. I never saw you like that—I thought you went crazy." Tattoo grinned.
"I kind of did," she admitted good-naturedly. "But you know I have happy memories of snow."
Roarke nodded and strolled to the window, looking out as if he expected more of it. "Everything was covered in it. I must have received three dozen complaints that afternoon. Of course, Leslie wasn't the only one who appeared to have gone a little snow-happy. As I recall, the next thing I knew, you were hurrying into my office, all set for winter."
"Yeah, I guess I did," Tattoo said and chuckled. Just then the nurse returned and set about taking Tattoo's blood pressure, earning a look askance from him. "Robin, this is the fifth time you're doing this. Come on," he protested.
"Why, Tattoo," Roarke teased, "a beautiful woman is attending to you and you're complaining? Why, that's not like you."
"You know, I didn't see it that way," Tattoo said thoughtfully, and they all laughed, even the nurse. They continued calling up their favorite memories of fantasies while Robin finished her administrations and hung up the sphygmomanometer; but Roarke and Leslie were a little startled when she too departed with a grim look about her. She passed Dr. Phillips on her way out, and all three of them looked expectantly at him.
"Well, hello," he said cheerily. "Have a seat. Well, time is critical, so I'll get right to the point. The head CT scan we did shows an epidural hematoma compressing the brain tissue." Tattoo made a face of incomprehension, and Roarke frowned with concern and leaned forward. Leslie scowled, with only a vague understanding of what was wrong, but sure it was quite bad. Her feelings seemed to be confirmed when Dr. Phillips concluded, "It requires immediate surgical evacuation."
That brought Roarke out of his chair altogether. He and Tattoo looked at each other, then at Leslie, who had a hand at her throat on its way to her mouth. Tattoo still looked blank, so Dr. Phillips explained, "In other words, Tattoo, we're going to have to operate."
This Tattoo did understand, and his face filled with horror. He shot another glance at Roarke, then watched Leslie get to her feet. She came to Roarke, who put an arm around her and reached out to pat Tattoo's, perhaps as much for his own reassurance as for theirs. Leslie twisted in Roarke's embrace to face Dr. Phillips and asked, "When are you planning to have the operation?"
"This evening. Don't worry, Leslie, I see no reason to believe that Tattoo should do anything but come through with flying colors." He smiled at them and left the room, with Leslie staring after him.
Suddenly Tattoo spoke up from the bed: "Boss, I have an idea…"
Roarke turned and settled down on the side of the bed, with Leslie hovering behind him and watching Tattoo over his shoulder. "What?" he inquired indulgently.
"Why don't you give me a fantasy so that they don't have to operate on me?" The question made Leslie lean over Roarke's shoulder with her hands on his arms, peering hopefully at him; Roarke aimed his regretful smile at them both.
"Oh, if only I could do that, Tattoo. But your accident is part of the past; even I can't change that. Therefore, the operation must be performed, don't you see?"
"Then…why don't you make it so that I'm not so scared?" Tattoo countered.
"Well," Roarke said thoughtfully, "perhaps we can keep your mind on more pleasant things, huh?" He addressed Leslie with the interrogative, and she nodded; so began another hour or so of reminiscing, looking back and laughing. At times they delved into events that had happened before Leslie had come to the island; for instance, once Tattoo asked out of the blue, "You remember the great song-and-dance team that gave a once-in-a-lifetime performance here?"
"Uh…" Roarke thought back, put a hand to his forehead and finally shook his head. "Not offhand, no. To whom are you referring?"
Tattoo was beaming. "Boss, it was you and me!"
Roarke's expression cleared and he laughed. "Ah yes…yes indeed."
"I don't get it," Leslie said, tilting her head at them in bewilderment. "When did that happen? I don't remember seeing you sing and dance at all!"
"It was several months before you arrived on the island, Leslie," Roarke explained. "As a matter of fact, if memory serves, it was just at the time the lawyer who read your mother's will wrote his letter explaining your situation to me. Tattoo had insisted on granting a fantasy on his own, and chose one in which two young ladies wanted to fall in love with and marry millionaires. Instead, they fell for a pair of struggling young writers trying to complete the song and story for a new stage musical that Tattoo was directing. Tattoo wrote a little number of his own to contribute to the show, but somehow it got left out, and he was quite disappointed at this."
"So what was the song?" Leslie asked with interest.
Roarke cleared his throat slightly, looking oddly hesitant; but Tattoo, beaming, filled her in. "It was called 'Nothing Hurts Like Love'," he told her. "It was a great number…I still don't understand how it got left out of the show."
"Well, how did it go?" Leslie persisted.
"Perhaps," Roarke suggested, "we should take a cue from Tattoo's initial reference to this memory and recall that it was a once-in-a-lifetime performance, hm?"
"Aw, boss," Tattoo said, rolling his eyes. To Leslie he said, "It was about how you can feel pain from a knife in the back, an ankle sprain and a concussion, but not one of those can hurt as bad as love can."
Leslie blinked and looked at Roarke. "Oh. And you performed this for…?"
"Nobody," Tattoo admitted, "but that was okay. The boss was a really good sport about it, and he really did it well."
"Despite the fact that at the end, when we removed our hats," Roarke reminded him, "somehow yours managed to find its way in front of my face."
Leslie rocked back and burst out laughing, which finally evoked a smile from Roarke. It was good medicine for Tattoo, even if he himself preferred to tuck that little recollection far away. He caught Leslie around the waist and patted Tattoo's shoulder again, chuckling helplessly and shaking his head.
Dr. Phillips checked in on them long enough to suggest that Roarke and Leslie break for some lunch, since the nurses wanted to check Tattoo over anyway and see how well he was holding up. With some reluctance, they left him, promising they'd return, and had lunch at the hotel, where they were accosted repeated by employees asking about Tattoo. As a result of Roarke's repeated assurances and explanations, it took them almost ninety minutes to finish their meal, by which time Leslie was very anxious.
On their way back to the hospital, they were waylaid by Maureen, on her way to Michiko's house. "Hey, what happened? I just heard from my mother that the weekend luau's been canceled."
"Tattoo had a car accident and he's in the hospital," Leslie explained hastily. "We're just going back there now. They're operating on him tonight."
Maureen gasped. "Oh my God! How bad was he hurt?"
"They say he has a…" Leslie hesitated and eyed Roarke.
"An epidural hematoma," Roarke supplied. "Unfortunately, due to a concussion, he must be kept awake as much as possible, and we have been trying to keep his spirits up at the doctor's request. It doesn't appear that his life is in danger, but the doctor is worried about morale."
"Which means we have to get back and do our part," Leslie concluded.
"Oh my God," Maureen said again. "Oh, I'm really sorry. I hope he comes through and that he gets well really fast. Wow, no wonder things have been canceled. Even the fantasies, Mr. Roarke?"
"Even the fantasies," Roarke confirmed with a nod. "Thank you for your warm wishes, Maureen."
She smiled. "I'll tell our other friends. Just let Tattoo know we're all rooting for him." She gave Leslie a quick pat on the arm and hurried off in the direction she had come from.
They returned to Tattoo's room in time to see him blinking from what appeared to have been a short nap. "You weren't supposed to be asleep," Leslie scolded. "Good thing we finally got back. We met Maureen on the way back here and she said to tell you she and all my other friends are rooting for you."
Tattoo smiled at her rapid-fire delivery. "Thanks, Leslie." His gaze shifted to Roarke, who stood looking on with a wistful little smile, and he glanced back and forth between the two a couple of times. "Boss, you're scared too, aren't you? I know Leslie is…she usually doesn't talk that fast."
"I, Tattoo? Scared?" Roarke riposted teasingly.
"Wait till you get up and around," Leslie threatened, shaking a finger at him, but with a twinkle in her eyes. "I'll get you for that."
Tattoo smiled. "You know, I'm glad you're both here. Real glad."
Roarke chuckled; he had been searching through his memory for another fantasy to recall, and now said, "Actually, you know, I was just recalling another one of our most colorful guests—Ned Plummer. Does that name ring a bell?"
"The guy who wanted to meet Kid Corey?" Tattoo said, grinning.
"You were in charge of that one, mostly," Leslie remembered.
"That's right," Roarke said. "Mr. Plummer believed that Kid Corey was one of the Old West's unsung heroes."
"Wasn't he in for a surprise, huh?" Tattoo chortled.
Roarke grinned back, nodding. "Oh, he was indeed. Yes, by the time Mr. Plummer was convinced his idol was nothing but a lying, cheating, no-good outlaw, it was too late! That scoundrel had tricked the entire town—including the sheriff—into thinking they were hanging Kid Corey, when it was actually only poor Mr. Plummer himself!"
They laughed softly. "I liked that fantasy," Tattoo murmured. Roarke nodded, and just then Robin the nurse entered, toting some suspicious-looking equipment. Tattoo eyed her warily. "Robin…are you gonna do what I think you're gonna be doing?"
"Come on, Tattoo, you'll hardly feel this at all," Robin assured him.
Leslie rolled her eyes at that. "That's what all nurses say," she scoffed, earning an amused look from Roarke. "They must teach you that in your very first nursing class."
"And we have to take a test on it too," kidded Robin, evoking laughter—until she brought out the syringe and they all had a good look at it. Even Roarke took a step back; Leslie gulped back a gasp, and Tattoo's eyes popped in horror.
"Robin, there's no way it's painless. Not with a needle that big," Tattoo protested. "It's impossible!"
"Impossible? Why, you enjoy the impossible!" Roarke said, pretending surprise. The needle went in then, provoking an "Ow!" from Tattoo; Leslie squeezed her eyes shut and Roarke went right on talking. "It's your favorite kind of fantasy! Remember Charles Raines?"
"Oh yeah. The man who wanted to go back to Basin Street in New Orleans?"
"Yes…but to do that, he had to play the horn—something that, for him, was impossible."
"And you gave him that magic horn," Leslie recalled.
Roarke nodded and smiled. "You have a good memory, Leslie. That was two years ago. Well." He noticed Tattoo cover a yawn, and cleared his throat when Robin cast them a look before packing up her paraphernalia and leaving. "Let me think, maybe you'll remember when the singer, Susan Lohmann, came to the island and met the famous composer, Edmond Dumont?"
They recalled a few more fantasies before noticing that Tattoo could no longer seem to stay awake, and Roarke finally turned to Leslie. "Let's let him rest for now, and I think you'd better try to get a little sleep as well. I know you won't sleep during his operation this evening."
"Yeah, I guess you're probably right," Leslie admitted sheepishly. She settled into one of a pair of white wicker chairs that sat near the windows, and Roarke found a nurse in the hall and managed to secure a pillow and blanket for her. For some time Roarke stood vigil over the two of them, alternately watching Tattoo's heart monitor and Leslie's head slipping farther and farther along the pillow toward the chair arm as sleep claimed her.
After a while, when Leslie was fairly deeply asleep, Roarke moved to the bedside, examined Tattoo with concern and quietly drew the blanket over him as he slept. Tacitly admitting to the fatigue he rarely, if ever, showed anyone else, he allowed himself to relax in the other chair and lifted a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and preparing to rest as much as possible. But he had no sooner settled down than Tattoo suddenly mumbled something in a very weak voice. "Just listen to those birds sing…"
Roarke lifted his head in surprise, alert all over again. "Birds?"
"They're singing their hearts out, just like at your wedding," Tattoo said.
The memory slammed into Roarke with the force of a speeding express train and he glanced at Leslie, still asleep but stirring, as if Tattoo's voice had penetrated her subconscious and alerted her to his condition. "Perhaps we should talk about something else, Tattoo," he suggested quietly.
"Why?" Tattoo's voice dropped slightly in volume; he spoke with his eyes closed. "It was just beautiful, don't you remember?"
"Remember what?" murmured Leslie sleepily from the chair.
Roarke turned, hoping to spare her at least. "It's all right, Leslie, go back to sleep," he said gently.
But she sat up; something in his tone had alerted her. "I'm awake now. What's he talking about, Mr. Roarke?"
"The boss's wedding," Tattoo mumbled, a tiny smile on his face. Leslie got up and sat on the bed behind Roarke, who had moved there in the vain hope of preventing disturbing her, wrapping her arms around him from behind and laying her head on his shoulder. Roarke covered one of her hands with his, glancing away from Tattoo and toward the wall, his dark eyes losing focus as the memory took over in spite of his best intentions. No one spoke for a long five minutes.
Leslie was sure she felt a hitch in her guardian's breathing, just before he whispered at last, "Indeed I do remember." It seemed another of his classic understatements; how could he possibly forget Helena Marsh? She herself would never forget those short, sweet few days, and idly wondered what Jamie Marsh was doing right now. Probably studying medical texts, she imagined. She sighed softly; even three and a half years later, it was still a painful memory and one they never spoke of, yet for some reason Tattoo had brought it all back to the fore.
Then the door opened and Dr. Phillips entered with two orderlies who pushed a stretcher. Leslie sat up, and she and Roarke both rose from the bed and moved out of the way of the stretcher. "It's time," Dr. Phillips said.
Roarke, still shaken by the newly reawakened memory, began, "They—"
"Try not to worry," Dr. Phillips interrupted soothingly. "He'll be in good hands." Roarke glanced away, subsiding with a trace of reluctance, and watched along with Leslie as the orderlies lifted Tattoo onto the stretcher.
"We'll see you later, my friend," Roarke said softly.
"I hope so, boss," Tattoo murmured.
"We will," Leslie insisted, her voice breaking in the middle of the second word. She stared at him. "We will. We will, right, Mr. Roarke?"
"Of course we will," Roarke said softly. Together they watched the stretcher bearing Tattoo leave the room, feeling thoroughly helpless. Leslie looked hesitantly up at Roarke, just in time to see him glance up as if in pleading and actually bite his lip. His uncertainty ruined what was left of her composure and she turned to the window, brushing away tears, relaxing only when Roarke pulled her into a hug. They stood holding each other that way for a long time.