Chapter 77

Me and my shadow are wrestling again

As the soft ruffle of Patrick's breath echoed through the room, Noah leaned back in the chair and simply stared at his son. It was hard for him to determine which was the greater shock – how thin he was or seeing the feeding tube. Both threatened to squeeze the air from his chest.

He had called Eric and asked if he could visit. He was well aware of his son's wish for him to stay away but he had stayed away for far too long already. He had missed a decade of his life as he floundered under the weight of his own grief; he would not do so again.

Eric had warned him about the feeding tube and Patrick's appearance and while he had assumed he was ready for it, the sight – actually seeing his son – so weak and small shook him to his core.

The blankets had pooled around his waist as he slept and Noah was fascinated by the two things he saw. The first was a small silver medallion. He had gently leaned in for a closer look and saw the image of Michael the Archangel. Then he saw the tattoo, smiling to himself as he saw the letter R carefully inlaid in the heart of the claddagh. Both the medallion and the tattoo comforted him. They were the confirmation he was looking for, the reassurance that his had not completely given up.

Over the years having seen desperation in his patients and having experienced it in his own life, he had come to understand that the person who truly believes there is nothing left to fight for gives it all up. They don't hang on to symbols or talismans or anything from which they can draw hope. If they have truly quit then they divest themselves of everything, let go of anything that can bond them to another person or another place.

He had feared that Patrick was there, that his son had laid down ready to die. He knew now there was still some fight in him.

Patrick's muscles twitched and trembled even as he slept; his left hand balled up under the pain of a cramp. Noah reached for his son's hand and began to gently massage the cramp away.

"It's okay son," he whispered, "it's going to be okay."

Having released the tension from his hand, he tucked his arm back under the blankets and carefully pulled them up higher to his chest. Patrick's eyes fluttered and threatened to open but in the end he did not wake. Retaking his seat at his bedside, he ran his hand over his face and let out a long, slow breath.

He tried to imagine what Patrick was dreaming of. Though his son had spent so much of the last year reminding him of all the ways he had failed, Noah couldn't help but wonder if he ever thought of the years before that. Of all the time they spent together as a family. Did Patrick draw strength from those memories as he did? Did he look back on his childhood with happiness or was it all tainted?

Hearing a small groan emanating from the bed, he rose quickly to his feet. Struggling to wake, Patrick's head flopped from side to side and his breath came in shallow spurts. Noah rubbed his palm over Patrick's heart to soothe him.

"You're okay Patty" he called to him. "You're okay. Just open your eyes."

He fought to open his eyes and finally did, gasping for air.

Sliding his hands underneath his arms Noah pulled his son to a sitting position, rearranging the pillows behind him. He pushed his hair from his forehead. "You're okay," he reassured him.

"D-dad?" he croaked, blinking rapidly.

Noah smiled and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Turning the straw towards him, he placed it against Patrick's lips. "Slow sips Patty, just nice and easy."

His eyes remained locked on his father as he sucked on the straw. His immediate feelings of relief at seeing him were being quickly replaced with ones of embarrassment. He knew what he looked like, how helpless he was and he was uncomfortable at his father seeing him like this.

Seeing him let go of the straw, Noah set the glass down.

"What are you doing here?" Patrick asked as he shifted on the bed.

Noah took the cue and moved back to the chair. "I came to see you."

He dropped his gaze to his lap. "I asked you not to."

"Yeah well, the advantage of being my age is that I don't always have to listen to people," he replied with a small grin. "I see you got some ink."

Patrick glanced down at his tattoo and reached for his t-shirt balled up on the other side of the bed. He tugged it over his head and pushed the blankets to his hips. He hadn't really intended for anyone to see it and felt a little exposed.

"Yeah and I have a feeding tube too. Do you have a point?" he snipped, his temper flaring.

"That must be hard."

Patrick sighed heavily. "If you're looking for a long emotional conversation where we hold hands and sing kumbya at the end, I'm afraid you're in for a big disappointment."

"Nice to see your snark is unhampered by your tumour."

On the short flight from Port Charles, Noah had decided that he was no longer going to walk carefully along the margins. His son was drowning and he wasn't going to waste time worrying about whether he wanted a life preserver, he was just going to make him grab on to one any way he could. He was aware of how he was exposing himself to his son's wrath but it was a risk he needed to take.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Is there something you want?" he asked in exasperation.

He nodded. "I think your place needs some decorations."

Furrowing his brow, Patrick tossed his father a confused look. "What?"

"Well far be it from me to comment on your roommate's interior decorating skills but I noticed the last time I was here there were a few things missing."

"Are you drunk?"

Noah flinched for a moment. He had spent years earning that distrust and would spend the rest of his life trying to atone for it – that did little to lessen the blow.

"Not drunk" he replied gamely. Rising from his chair, he walked towards the bedroom door, picking up a large bag and carrying it back.

"What the hell is that?"

"Reminders" Noah stated clearly.

"Reminders?"

"That you matter and have for a very long time." Reaching into the back, Noah pulled out an 8 by 10 frame and handed it to him.

Turning it over, Patrick gave a small gasp. It was a picture of his mother standing in front of a hockey net in their driveway in the Hamptons. She was crouched down ready to defend a shot from her son. A seven year old Patrick was in front of the net, his stick raised ready to hit the tennis ball. His face was the picture of concentration, with his tongue hanging out to the side.

"I remember this" Patrick said softly. "I told her I was going to be the next Guy Lafleur."
"And then you found out Lafleur wasn't a Ranger and you kicked the garage door," Noah reminded him with a small chuckle. "I think your small footprint is still embedded in the door."

In spite of himself, Patrick let out a small laugh. "I had a bit of a temper."

"Had?" Noah queried good naturedly.

Patrick was quiet for several minutes as he stared at the picture. "Was….was her temper bad at the end?" he asked tentatively when he finally spoke.

Noah felt his eyes prick with tears both in recognition of the step his son was taking and at the memories, both good and bad, of the woman he loved beyond all reason.

"It was like yours" he offered. "Out of nowhere she would snap. There was no telling what would set her off. And she felt truly awful afterwards, realizing what she had done or said. Her biggest fear was that she would snap at you."

"I don't think she did" he replied quietly. "If she did, I don't remember it."

"Son, what you are feeling right now, wanting to protect Robin from this, wanting to be by yourself because you're embarrassed or upset by what's happening and your dependence on others is very much like what your mom went through. She could feel herself slipping away, she knew she was confused at times, she hated anyone to see her have a seizure but especially you."

"It….it…" he stammered. Reaching for the glass of water, he took another slow sip. He raised his eyes to meet his father's. "It must have been very hard for you trying to take care of her and protect me. Who looked after you?"

Noah smiled wistfully. "I didn't think I needed looking after" he admitted. There was something both liberating and terrifying about being honest. "And we all saw how well that worked out in the end."

Both men fell silent under the weight of the revelations. Noah fidgeted in his seat, taking a small steadying breath before speaking.

"I have something else for you" he told him, pulling a long poster board from the bag and handing it to him.

Patrick looked from the board to his father and back again. "Did you make this?"

"Yes but don't tell anyone I used a scalpel to cut the photos, I couldn't find scissors that were sharp enough."

Patrick stared in disbelief at the photo montage before him. In the centre of the board was a photo of him and Robin dancing at the Valentine's ball and around it were snapshots from his life. There was a picture of Noah holding his newborn son; of them playing catch on a grey fall day and Patrick wearing a glove too big for his small hand; there was another photo of him and his mother seated in a toboggan in the dead of winter ready to slide down a hill.

What his father lacked in creativity, he had more than made up for in sentimentality. There were nearly 30 photos on the board and each one of the marked a milestone or a moment in time that was so special to him.

"Wow" he remarked quietly.

"Patrick, you have a lot to live and fight for. And while you may be feeling very alone in this, the truth of the matter is you were and are loved."

Patrick's brown eyes welled with tears as he stared at the pictures. As an adult he had always concentrated on the moment he was in, trying not to spend too much time worrying about the future or reflecting on the past but seeing it laid out before him; seeing that his father had taken his time to assemble it affected him deeply.

"Call Robin" he encouraged, seizing the moment.

He shook his head as he looked at the photos. "Can't" he replied hoarsely.

"Yes you can," Noah pushed. "You can and what's worse is that you want to."

Like a switch being flipped, his temper flared again. "Of course I fucking want to!" he said harshly. "I want to call her, I want her in my bed, in my arms but look at me. LOOK.AT.ME I will NOT be another person to die on her."

"So don't die" his father suggested quietly.

Patrick pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took one serrated breath after another. "Stop it! Just stop it," he pleaded.

Recognizing his son's exhaustion, he backed off. "Okay," He rose to his feet and walked to his bedside. "You should try and sleep some more" he suggested. "I'm in town until tomorrow and I'm staying at the Waldorf. Call me – day or night and I'll be here."

Patrick nodded, almost too overwrought to speak.

Noah leaned in and kissed his son on the forehead. "I love you Patty" he told him. Quickly turning on his heel so Patrick would not see the tears forming in his eyes, Noah walked to the door.

"Dad?" he called to him, his voice weak and tired.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, Noah looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Th…thank you."