CHAPTER 12
Being inactive for any length of time had always been difficult for Reese. Even being as severely injured as he was starting to get "antsy" as Joan described it or her favorite 'he was suffering from cabin fever'. After staring at the 4 walls of the exam room for 5 days he needed to get out!
Meg had only allowed him to go from the bed to the chair and back again. He had to agree with her that he wasn't up to much more. He'd collapse back in the bed after sitting in the chair for a couple of hours and sleep like a dead person. Didn't even dream. Part of him was glad he didn't dream and another part wished he could dream again, that he would dream about Jessica again. His frustration with the limits of his mobility and memory were weighing heavily on him. At times his eyes had the look of a caged animal…..which was pretty close to the truth.
Joan watched John slowly come back to the John she remembered from years ago. His mind wanted to do more than his battered and damaged body would let him. She went in search of Meg to get an opinion about the next step in his recovery.
That afternoon when it was time for John's "trip to the chair" Joan came into the room with a wheelchair. John was seated on the edge of the bed, waiting for help to make it the four feet to the chair. Seeing Joan and the wheelchair, John's smile was breathtaking.
"Your chariot awaits you, Sir," was all Joan could muster before breaking into a happy laugh. It had been so long since either of them had felt like smiling much less laughing. Meg came in behind her and was pleased with the reaction the new mode of transportation received.
"Alright, you two. You need to take it easy. Don't go far. For now, just wheel around the clinic here in the back. You'll be using different muscles than what you were using standing and sitting in a chair. You'll be balancing yourself as Joan pushes you." John tried to interrupt but Meg held up her hand. "No, you have got to take it slow. I am not going to have you mess up all my hard work."
She smiled because John looked like a little boy pouting. It was an interesting look on the face of a man with a week's worth of beard. He really needed to shave or at least neaten it up. That would be their next step.
John and Joan had a nice couple of trips around the clinic. There was an open area in the back with a patio table that John wanted to check out, but since he couldn't control the wheelchair with his one good arm, he was at Joan's mercy and Joan made sure they followed Meg's orders.
Back in his room, John barely had enough strength, or energy, to go from the wheelchair to his bed. In fact he was out before Joan could move the chair away from the bed. She pulled the sheet up over him and patted him in the cheek. He did look better after their jaunt around the clinic. He had color in his cheeks and he didn't have that slight frown on his face.
Waking up later that night, John felt like he maybe he was finally making some progress. He knew his injuries had been serious. Lucky by location, nothing major hit, but there were so many! Meg said there were five entry wounds. His right shoulder, lower abdomen, two in one leg and one in the other leg. He was still pretty heavily bandaged. He figured he must look like a true patchwork quilt. He remembered several times that he'd been shot...when he was in the CIA. Been knifed more than once. And he had broken his left arm one time.
Pulling up the hospital gown that he'd been forced to wear, he saw the bandages on his legs and the one on the lower right part of his stomach. His right arm was still pretty useless since he'd been shot in the shoulder. Meg had said he should get full use back but for now it was in a sling most of the time.
Looking down at his chest and stomach he was able to identify a few of the scars but there were quite a few more that he did NOT remember. There were large scars that were not familiar at all. He had no memory of how he'd been shot or knifed or….whatever. It was like he was looking at the body of a stranger. Pulling the sheet all the way off of his legs he saw even more scars on his legs that he did not remember. Panic was beginning to set in. The scars were at different stages of healing. Some were obviously older than others. And yet he had no memory of how he got them!
While some of them were from his days in the CIA, others were obviously more recent. What kind of person had he become since he'd "left" the Agency? He remembered how he'd felt when he was working with Kara Stanton. He remembered how he'd struggled with the things they had done. And then, one day out of the blue, he remembered Kara had shot HIM.
His hand went to the place just below his ribs where she'd shot him in Ordoz. But there was another scar on the other side of his abdomen. Using his left hand he felt under his chin and his shoulders to where he'd felt the skin pull unnaturally. There were two more scars that he could feel….but he couldn't remember how he got them either. He reached back awkwardly and untied the hospital gown and pulled it down. There was another scar on the upper part of his left arm.
He was now almost in a full blown panic. He had multiple scars from being injured multiple times….times he could not remember. It took time to heal from gunshot wounds, from this kind of damage. How many years did these scars cover? How many years could he not remember?
"Joan! Joan!" he called out. "Joan, I need you!" Each time he called her name he got louder.
By the third time, she came hurrying into the room followed by Meg. She'd been sitting in Meg's office having a cup of coffee when they heard John's panicked voice.
John was sitting up in his bed with the hospital gown pulled down to his lap. His legs were uncovered. The stark white bandages stood out against his skin in sharp relief. Terror filled his eyes.
"What is today's date?" he whispered.
"What? What day is it?" asked Joan in bewilderment.
"Yes damn it! What date is it?" She looked confused and then her eyes widened. She took a deep breath and suddenly, he didn't want to know the answer to his question. It wasn't just a few months he was missing, clarity hit him like a wall falling down on top of him. It was….it must have been...years…. "I know you found me after I left the CIA. That was 2011. That seems to be as far as my memory takes me."
Looking down at his body, his head slowly shook from side to side. His one good hand was tracing each new scar…..was trying to remember.
"I remember being shot and even being knifed a couple of times in the CIA, but there are at least nine…NINE scars that are new. All different in the degree of healing. That healing took time. TIME. Tell me, damn it…...what YEAR is it?"
Miles away, Sameen and Harold arrived back at Root's place. Both were very quiet, wrapped in their own thoughts. Harold went straight to his room, quietly shutting his door. He limped over to the window and stood there looking out, thinking about what Sameen had said.
Go to Grace? Grace who thought he was dead? Grace…who he loved more than life itself? Those questions had been ricocheting in his head ever since Sameen uttered them.
Watching a bird down in the garden he automatically called into memory its biological name, Columba domestica, a pigeon. Watching it work on a nest it was building made him remember something very important. He'd never told Grace his real name. Not even after Nathan challenged him to tell her. The man she remembered wasn't real. Even his name was fake. Maybe it was best that she continued to believe he was dead and gone.
Turning away from the window he sat on the bed, deep in thought. He'd let her think he was dead because of the government. But now the government's machine, SAMARITAN, was gone, destroyed by his Machine. He pushed through the pain those memories brought and tried to reason out what he should do. .
SAM was gone, the government still thought he was dead, no one would be looking for him. There really WAS no reason to pretend to be dead anymore. Professor Whistler was no longer a viable alias. SAM agents had found him out before SAM was taken down. There was the possibility that there were remnant pieces of data about the professor so he could not take a chance and return to that life. He couldn't even go back to the subway. Sameen had said it had been "compromised" but she'd refused to elaborate.
And John, John who had sacrificed himself so that he COULD have that normal life they had both dreamed of. Perhaps he owed him that. John had given up Iris to remain focused on their 'job' of fighting SAM and saving people….saving the world. John had taken that ultimate final step and placed himself in harm's way so that he could live. He couldn't let John down after he'd given all that he'd had.
Maybe he actually could go to Grace. Maybe they could finally have a life together. But...only if she could forgive him. What he had done to her, what he'd let her think for all these years. When she realised he'd letting her go through all that heartbreak, it just might be too much. It might kill any feelings she still had for him. He's wasn't sure he could handle her turning against him or hating him for what he'd done.
An empty life, with no purpose, stretched out in front of him. He no longer was necessary to handle the numbers. He was at a loss….he had no purpose.
Going to Grace was truly his only chance at a regular life, one without being crushed by the weight of saving the numbers and failing. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could end up with that 'normal life' that he and John had talked about many times….or he could end up alone if she spurned him. He dug in and pushed that thought aside. He felt her love was strong enough to forgive him and he didn't want to live another day wondering 'what if'.
He made up his mind…..he was going to Italy. He was going to Grace. He would embrace the chance that John had bought him with his death.
Joan and Meg both stepped back. Neither had ever seen this side of John Reese. Cold and deadly. That emotionless voice demanding an answer that neither knew how to answer. They looked at each other, both hoping the other would know how to begin.
"DAMN IT! Quit looking at each other an answer me!" John growled between clenched teeth.
"Alright, John" Meg was the first to speak. "Just calm down and let us explain some things to you." Joan nodded her head glad that she wouldn't have to be the one to expose the truth and risk the wrath of this cold, dangerous stranger John had become.
"Don't patronize me! There is something you don't want to tell me. I want to know what that is. And I want to know why you don't want to tell me." he paused and took a calming breath. "Tell me now, tell me all of it."
Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes and saying a quick prayer that she wouldn't harm him with the words she was about to tell him, She just prayed she could say the right things, in the right order, at the right time, she opened her eyes and looked at a very frustrated and panicked John Reese.
"The year is 2016 John. July 25th, 2016 to be exact." she said quietly, ever watchful of his reaction to her words.
John's head sagged and he fell back on the bed. His eyes became glassy, his breathing uneven, bordering on gasping, for air. His mouth tried to form words but no sound escaped. His hands clenched the sheet around him, his knuckles turning white.
Joan walked quietly over to the other side of the bed, just within his field of vision. She ached to hold his hand, to show him that she was there, that all was not lost…..but for the first time since she he found him on the floor of that warehouse long ago, she feared him. She was actually terrified of what he might do to himself…or...to them.
Slowly John regained control. He was trying to remember what he knew versus what he'd just been told. He remembered returning from Ordoz after being shot by Kara. He remembered going to Jessica only to find out that she was dead, killed by her husband Peter, the very one she should have been able to rely on to protect and keep her safe. He remembered exactly what he had done to Peter.
He vaguely remembered coming back to NYC and wandering the streets until he woke up in an alley. He remembered, as if in a fog, stealing liquor from other drunks as he stumbled around deadlier and deadlier parts of town. All he had wanted to do was drink and forget. Drink and get drunk and take out his anger on anybody who was near. And if he picked someone who was more lucid than him, and he got his ass kicked, that was ok. He welcomed it...he deserved it. That was how Joan had found him.
Thinking of Joan, he looked up at her with a question in his eyes. "Wasn't it 2011 when you found me?"
Joan grasped his hand and held tight. "Yes John, it was early 2011 when we met. Remember? You were quite sick and you had been beaten up pretty badly."
"Yes, I do remember that. You took care of me and taught me how to survive on the streets…" his voice trailed off. A frown reappeared on his face as he searched his own memories. "I don't remember being anywhere else but with you. But now you tell me it is 2016?"
"That's five years. That's five YEARS….how can I not remember five YEARS?" he shouted.
Joan stepped back when John raised his voice, but he held tightly to her hand. There was more panic in his face and in his voice than anything else. Stepping back up next to the bed Joan clasped his hand with both of hers. "It's alright, John. We're going to help you remember now that you seem ready to try. "
"Joan's right, John. We have been waiting for the right time to try and help you get your memory back." Meg stepped closer and held his other hand. "I know the space of time you do not remember is frightening but I knew you during that time. Joan knew you during that time. You are a good man, John. You helped people; you helped ME."
Pulling his hands back from both of them, he looked from one to the other. "But you don't know what I was doing during that time? You saw me? You spoke to me? You spent time with me? But you don't know what I was doing when I was away from you? You don't know I was a good man. YOU. DON'T. KNOW. " Suspicion was all over his face. They were hiding something from him. They had to be!
"No John, we really don't know but we know YOU. No memory loss can make you into something you're not. Just because you can't remember all the good things you've done, doesn't mean you're a bad person, that you did bad things. No, we don't know WHAT you were doing. You kept that part of your life away from us. You would come visit me in the clinic about once a week. We'd have coffee and just talk. But we know YOU and you are NOT a bad man. You might have terrible taste in coffee," she shrugged and grinned, "but we won't hold that against you."
"You never even told me who set up the clinic. Just that a 'friend was looking for something good to do with their money and the clinic was a good idea."
"You don't know who pays the bills? Whose name is on the tax bills? Who owns the building?" John asked in rapid fire, obviously doubting what she was saying.
"I don't know. Every time I asked you refused to tell me and switched subjects. I send orders off for medical equipment and medicine and the orders are filled and paid for. I always figured you were behind it or someone you knew, someone maybe you worked for. But you never gave me a name. I'm sorry I can't tell you more. I wish I KNEW more to tell you." Meg looked down at the floor, blaming herself for not pushing him to tell her about her anonymous benefactor. Surely that person was looking for John.
Joan spoke up, at this point and told him how he visited her about once a month at least, sometimes twice. He'd always bring her special food, like treats when he'd come visit. Food that they seldom saw in their scavenging, food that was fresh rather than old and rotting. She knew that someone owned the building that she and her friends lived in but John had never told her who. She knew the owner and John were connected to the food trucks that came by twice a month but she had never thought to ask about the owner of the building. Now she wished she had. That would have been a connection that maybe they could have followed to help John. They still might be able to but that would take time. Time John didn't have the wherewithal nor the patience for. Time was a luxury none of them could afford.
John covered his face with his hands. Rubbing his temples, he felt the beginning of one of those headaches he'd been having since he'd woken up here at Meg's clinic. He didn't have time for a headache. He needed to have his faculties; he needed to find out what he had forgotten, what he had become in FIVE YEARS.
Meg recognized the signs of the headache coming on. Anytime John had gotten fatigued or stressed his body reminded him quickly and painfully that he was still recovering.
The harder John tried to fight the pain the more painful it became. He was almost curled up in on himself from the pain. Meg left the room and returned quickly with a hypodermic. She hated to sedate him but he was showing extreme pain above and beyond what she had seen before. His face had gone white and he had broke out in a cold sweat. The pain in his eyes when he looked up at her broke her heart. She knew he could stand a lot of physical pain but these headaches were something more. And they seemed to be tied to moments when he was actively trying to remember his past.
When she took his arm to give him the pain medicine, he grabbed her with his other hand.
"No, please…...I have to remember. I have to! There are five years missing from my life. Please don't …...put me…..down…..." But the pain was making it difficult for him to even speak. Meg continued on and slipped the needle in his arm and watched the drugs do their magic.