CHAPTER 9

Every time Meg came in to check and change his bandages, Reese would stare at her. Trying to force a memory of her to his mind. Joan had told him of their 'relationship' but he remembered nothing. Meg smiled and made small talk, trying to bring up moments from when they first met, in a self-help group for survivors who had lost loved ones due to violence. She talked about their talk at the diner when he convinced her to give up the keys to the van. She mentioned the numerous times they met for coffee when he'd check up on her.

Her favorite memory she shared with him was his offer to set up a clinic for her, a life long dream of hers. She had been totally shocked but also amazed that he had understood how much she wanted to reach out to those who would not/could not come into a regular ER. She went into detail about how the two of them searched for the area most in dire need of a clinic. It only took three trips to find the right place and then the right building. She reminded Reese that he never told her where the money came from, just that it would continue to flow until SHE decided to close the clinic. All of which left Reese with a headache every time from trying so hard to remember, but nothing she said sounded familiar.

Joan also tried to help him with his memory. He remembered waking up in a warehouse while she was tending to him. She took very good care of him, not putting too many demands on him til he was able to handle things both physically and mentally. That had been the hard part because living on the streets didn't really allow for someone to take care of more than just themselves. You literally lived hand to mouth. He remembered learning to survive on those streets. But when he tried to remember leaving her, getting off the streets, there was just gray. Almost like a wall that he could not see through. Frustration was beginning to hamper his recovery.

After a couple of days, Meg started gently pushing him to get up out of the bed, to at least sit in a chair for a couple of hours. Anymore time on his back and he' be too weak to move. And she knew he was going to have to leave the clinic soon, she needed the exam room he was in. Joan had already had to give up the exam room she'd been in the first two days. Problem was, John had no place to go. His wounds were too severe for him to go back to the streets with Joan. And he didn't even remember where he lived. Just another problem to solve for the mystery that was John Reese.

Getting John out of the bed was easier than Meg thought it would be, considering his injuries, but Joan was not surprised. There was an inner strength to John that she had seen long ago. When he put his mind to something, nothing would stop him...not even bodily injury that should have killed him. Between the two woman they were able to sit him up on the bed. After waiting a few minutes for him to get his bearings, they worked to help him stand. The only sound Reese made was a quick intake of breath to stifle the groan that threatened to escape. Clenching his eyes closed and gritting his teeth, he put arms around both their shoulders and stood all the way up.

Both women watched him struggle against the pain in his legs and his lower stomach, but he persevered.

"OK" he whispered as he opened his eyes. "Let's try for the chair."

Slowly, with small, staggering steps the three of them made it the few feet over to the chair. Biting his bottom lip, Reese slowly turned around til the chair was behind him. Joan and Meg carefully held his forearms as he lowered himself to the chair. A collective exhale could be heard by all three. A slow smile spread across John's face as he looked up at the 2 women who had been taking such good care of him. "Thank you both." then he leaned back carefully in the chair.

Meg gave him instructions to try and sit there at least an hour, longer if possible, before getting back on the bed. And most important of all, to get her or the nurse to help him back to the bed. "You're too big for Joan to handle by herself. If you go down, she goes down. Understood?" Both John and Joan nodded.

Harold settled in rather nicely at Root's home. It was a brownstone in downtown Manhattan, slightly off the beaten path. Nice and quiet with a small patio garden in the back. There were two bedrooms and a small kitchen, with a table, chairs and a living area. It was small but comfortable.

Harold smiled to see some of the same items here that Root had also had in her room in the subway: the lava lamp, the shag carpeting. But his smile faded when he remembered she was gone. Lost because he would not listen to her about The Machine. And his resistance killed her as surely as if he had been the one to pull the trigger. He had handcuffed The Machine too much. It couldn't do what it 'knew' needed to be done. It couldn't protect itself and its assets. Then another, even stronger, pain rolled through him as he thought of John on that roof top, sacrificing himself when it should have been him.

Zoe and Sameen helped him getting to his room. Walking back into living area, the two sat down to do some planning. Sameen was concerned about leaving Harold alone. She was getting numbers from the Machine now and they were worried when she'd have to leave him. Both felt concern about him being alone. He was still so wrapped up in his guilt, he might prove a danger to himself. Zoe reminded Shaw that Iris seemed to have finally connected with Harold and was sure she'd be glad to check on him daily while continuing his 'therapy'.

So far, Sameen had done ok by herself working the numbers but she looked forward to having Lionel back at work and being able to help her with them. They had gotten even closer during Lionel's time in the hospital. Shaw would talk to him about the number she was working on and even if Lionel wasn't able to physically work the numbers, he was able to give her some good insights. Each of them had worked with John closely as partners and both were feeling his loss each and every day. Their shared loss had brought them closer together. Exchanging stories about Broody Boy/Wonder Boy actually helped them bond. Both were able to talk freely to the other and that went a long way in helping both of them deal with his death. They recognized each other's grief and respected it. John had been too important in their lives to ever forget him.

John sat quietly in the chair, trying to keep the pain from completely taking over him. It had eased up some in the last 24 hours or so, but the move from the bed to the chair almost had him screaming in pain. Everything was hurting again, non-stop. His legs felt on fire, his stomach made him want to double over, his shoulder ached so badly he wondered if it was worth cutting it off. And his head felt too big for his body. He was dizzy from the change of position but a gray fog threaten to overtake him.

Fighting to stay upright and awake, John searched for something to talk about with Joan. Turning to look at her, he was surprised to see she was smiling at him.

"What do you want to talk about John?" she said with a gentle smile. She knew him well enough to know he was hurting and he was looking for something to take his mind off of it.

"What made you choose me? What made you decide I was worth your time and energy when you first found me?" he asked with a slight head tilt, at least that didn't make his head throb too much worse.

"Choose you for what?" Joan asked, clearly puzzled by his question.

"Seven years ago, when you literally picked me up off the floor in that warehouse, instead of letting me die from that beating. I wanted to, you know, die that is. Why did you do it?"

The question surprised her. He'd never asked that before. She wondered what he would think if she told him the truth. But she'd always been truthful with him….best to continue…...and see what happens.

"I chose you because of my son."

John looked at her in surprise. In all the time he'd known her she'd never mentioned a son.

He kept quiet and waited for her to explain.

"I haven't always lived on the streets, you know. Circumstances put me there….but that's another story. My son and I lived on the streets during his teenage years. The worst possible time in a young man's life. He got mixed up with a bad group and got arrested."

Pausing for a moment, Joan was seeing her son's face in front of her. Dark hair, gray eyes, shy smile that she didn't see often enough. Shaking her head she brought herself back to the present.

"Sorry about that. Sometimes the memories get the best of me."

"Trust me, I understand that all too well."

"Anyway, we didn't have money for a lawyer, so one was appointed. Not a very good one. The judge offered my son two choices….jail, up to 5 years…...or go into the military. For once he was smart...he chose the military."

"What branch?"

"Army. He served two tours in Afghanistan. He got injured and was medically discharged. He came home a very different person. He couldn't handle living on the streets again. He didn't like being around a lot of people. The noise drove him crazy. Certain sounds would send him off running in the night. He needed help but he wouldn't go get it. It got bad enough that we were asked to leave the group we were living with. He was fighting any and everybody over just about anything." she said as her voice trailed off again.

She hadn't thought about that time in quite awhile. It was painful to remember even now. But to actually put it into words, to talk about her son, not just remember him, but to think about him, was more difficult than she'd imagined. So many memories and images flooding her mind.

Reese moved a little bit in his chair trying to find another position that didn't hurt so much. His movement caught Joan's eye and she immediately went to him.

"Are you ok? Do you need to get back in the bed?" she asked.

"Might not be a bad idea. I've sat up over the two hour time limit the doc set."

"OMG..I didn't realize it! I was supposed to be watching the clock!"

She reached for John's arm to pull him up but he resisted. "Remember she threatened us if we didn't get somebody to help." he grinned.

Exasperated, Joan got up and went to the door, opened it rather fiercely and looked for somebody to help move John. The nurse saw her and came immediately. Between the two of them they were finally able to get Reese back into bed.

After everything had settled back down, John gently pushed Joan to finish her story.

"One of the times he lost his control, he hit me. Not hard, but enough to knock me down. He was so upset about that that he promised he'd go get help."

Telling that part of the story had been painful. No woman, no mother wants to admit their child hit them. But John had proven to be the perfect listener. So she continued.

"He went to the VA and they diagnosed PTSD. Bad thing was, they loaded him up with drugs to numb the pain of his memories. Every night when he'd go to sleep, he was right back over there, in Afghanistan. The pills they gave him helped take the edge off during the day for a while. But he almost became a stranger, like a walking Zombie. He didn't like feeling or acting that way so he'd quit taking his meds. That was the worst thing he could have done."

Joan stood up and started pacing in the small exam room where Reese slept. Memories of that long ago time still felt fresh.

"Coming off those heavy drugs the VA had given him changed him. He was nothing like my son, my baby boy. He became very paranoid and hyper sensitive to everything. There were times he couldn't stand to have clothes on because they itched. He'd scream and rant toward whoever was near him for some imagined reason. He attacked Big John, who is the boss of our group. It took four members to pull my son off him. He'd beaten him almost to death." Hanging her head down, tears rolled down her weathered cheeks.

"The group ran him off. He was not allowed to live with our group again. Without me to remind him, to watch over him, he fell further and further behind in his meds. I never saw him but I heard about him. It broke my heart that there was nothing I could do to help my only child."

"I kept hearing horrendous stories about what he was doing. They told me he was either picking fights with anybody over nothing or was drowning in cheap liquor. I couldn't even FIND him to try and help." Joan's voice broke.

John immediately regretted asking her about why she chose him all those years ago. He never suspected that the reason would tear Joan apart. Joan had always been the calm center of any storm.

"Joan, please….please, you don't have to tell me any more. I didn't mean to upset you." begged John

Sitting in the chair that John had just vacated, Joan sat with her head bowed, twisting a ragged piece of cloth in her hands. Silent tears falling on her hands.

"No John, you need to know. And it actually is a relief to tell you. I don't think I could have told you before; it was too fresh" whispered Joan.

Taking a deep breath and wiping her tears away with the cloth, Joan looked back up at John. So many memories…..all crowding together, overlapping each other, it was hard to focus on just one.

"I didn't see or hear from him for about a month That had happened before but not for a whole month. Finally one of the men in our group came looking for me. The police needed to talk to me. I knew it was going to be about my son. You know what they say about a mother and her child. And it was…."

Joan stopped for a moment, trying to keep it together. This was the part that hurt so much, an ache that would never fully be gone.

"They needed to take me to the morgue. They had fished a man's body out of the river. He had jumped off the bridge…...he had committed suicide. The people that had called the police had told them where to find me. They wanted me to identify….the body" Joan's voice broke again as more tears came to her eyes.

"It was the damn PTSD and the lack of help for treatment by the VA. They didn't follow up on him, nobody made him take his meds or go to meetings. He was left on his own and it killed him. And I wasn't there to take care of my son. My one job as a mother and I failed. I let my son down…..I let my son die." Joan's voices ended in a whisper.

John reached out with his good hand and grabbed her rough hand. A hand that had dug through garbage to survive but at the same time took care of him when his was hurt and beset by the guilt of the damned. He owed her everything. He wished he could have put his arms around her and hold her close but with his injuries, the best he could do was hold tight to her hand while she cried.

As Joan slowly calmed down and dried her tears she looked up at John.

"I chose you John because you reminded me of my son. You were lost, you were in pain….physically and emotionally in pain. I knew you didn't belong down there in that warehouse. You were someone worth fighting for. And I used everything I could to bring you back from that very dark edge you were standing on. Taking care of you allowed me to do for you what I never got a chance to do for my son.

"I may have saved you John…...but you also saved me too." she whispered, holding his hand.