Chapter 4:
Rick was gripping Kate's left hand tightly when she blinked slowly awake. It had been three days since they had been shot. His discharge was rumored to be later today; his surgery had only involved a plate holding the main pieces of his sternum together and wire for the smaller chunks. His mother's drama notwithstanding, the bullet had only shattered it into about four pieces. Nothing much more to be done but go home with strong pain meds, directions on wound care, and lots of physical therapy appointments. Kate's injuries, and thus discharge, turned out to be much more complicated. She hated hospitals, past experience increasing her anxiety, and her current experience compounding it. Removing an organ could sometimes result in hidden complications and the pregnancy related nausea wasn't helping to convince her doctors that her body could handle being home yet. She had to prove she was hungry enough for something with some substance, and keep her blood pressure and erratic heart rate under control. She had only managed to achieve one of those things today.
Everyone in their circle had rallied, a continuous rotation of visitors for both of them. If Rick would have had his preference, he would have spent every minute next to Kate. But he had to have his own pain management and rest, and his nurses were a formidable team he didn't have the energy to fight. So he had compromised, asking that someone, anyone- Ryan, Esposito, Lanie, Alexis, Jim, Martha - always be with her. She retreated into herself when she was hurt. He had almost lost her physically; he wouldn't let her retreat mentally. Especially this time. Seeing his anguish when he couldn't be with her, his nurses had negotiated, allowing him into the visitor rotation a few hours a day, which was how he found himself here for her now.
A smile grew over her half-awake face as she met Rick's worried expression.
"Hi," his voice was soft and full of love, rubbing the sleep from her cheek with the back of his free hand.
"Hey," she managed to mumble. She wanted to say so much more, but her mind was still foggy from the medication induced nap. She shook her hand free from his and contorted her slinged arm down to press both hands alongside her hips, trying to push her body upwards.
"Ow!" she exhaled hard, falling back rough against the scratchy sheets.
"What did you do that for?" Rick offered, springing up at her pain.
"I want to sit up. Be more comfortable. More awake?" She felt so pathetic. Weak and small. And in pain. The left side of her abdomen throbbed dully, even with the pain management. Her care team wouldn't up the dosage because of her pregnancy. The fresh scar met the old one from her heart surgery at a right angle along her bottom ribs, throwing stabbing protests with every movement she attempted. The torn muscles of her shoulder only screamed when she tried to raise her arm, or reach for something, or attempt to roll over onto her side. It was going to be a long recovery and she was not looking forward to it.
"There are better ways to do that." Rick added, leaning awkwardly over her bed rail and fiddling with the buttons on the side. The top part of the bed began to rise, her head falling back to meet it. She waved her hand at him to stop, then attempted to scoot up and back. He spotted her frustration immediately, grunting in his own pain as he scooped her under the armpits and levered her up to a more upright seated position. Even though she hated accepting help, she returned his assistance with a soft smile.
As soon as she was somewhat comfortable her free hand came to rest just above her pelvis. She wasn't far enough along to be showing anytime soon, but it already wasn't a pleasant experience. She had always thought that pregnancy- at least hers - would be joyful and fun. She hadn't imagined this. It hadn't been planned of course, so right away it was off to a rough start. They had batted around the idea of trying, before LokSat and her choices had blown up their marriage. But they hadn't sat down for any serious conversations about it; that hadn't happened until after. In the ensuing chaos that LokSat had caused, she had forgotten to take her birth control. She hadn't been worried, her loyalty to him ran deeper than this rough patch in their marriage. Reconciling had started with dinner and ended with her moving back in. One night he had stepped out of the shower, freshly glowing and dripping wet. He still had the strength to catch her as she jumped him, igniting a blissful and energetic evening. The little bundle of cells made its presence known when she missed her period, two weeks before the call that killed her colleagues and got her and Rick shot in the end.
Kate hadn't had an appetite for much of anything the last six weeks. Nothing said "please forgive me for blowing up our marriage" like ugly retching into the toilet to start the day. Rick had taken it all in stride, concealing his sweet excitement behind small gestures to make her day. This little surprise had also been her impetus to clear up the CIA stuff once and for all. She just never guessed that it would result in this steep of consequences.
On the upside, Kate and Rick were both alive, and despite the bleeding right after surgery, their baby was too. On the downside, she would have to figure out pregnancy while balancing recovery from bullet wounds. She only had experience with one of those things.
Post discharge, his first full day on his own. As much as Rick wanted to spend every minute at the hospital supporting Kate, he had his own recovery to think about as well. Lanie and Jim had promised to sit with her, and lean hard on the doctor to try to push her discharge up a day. He had convinced Martha and Alexis both that he could handle being alone. The plan being to join Kate at the hospital after his physical therapy and afternoon nap. Kate was practically climbing the walls of her hospital room, she could use the company to keep her boredom in check. Home only a half hour after physical therapy, Rick's phone blasted through the quiet loft, interrupting the start of his planned nap.
"We couldn't meet at the loft?" Rick bristled in frustration as he settled into the metal cafe seat opposite Gina and Paula a little while later. They had picked the location, and as usual when his ex-wives collaborated, he didn't have much choice in the ambush. The pain medication he had bet on to lead him through a post-therapy nap was starting to wear off. Time was also ticking away, he wanted to be there to convince Kate to at least nibble her dinner. It was her ticket home.
"Well… we figured you would want to get out of there." Gina was uncharacteristically sympathetic, aiming for the soft side step into the conversation. Paula wasn't super prepared for this conversation either, none of her experience had anything on a client being shot by a rogue government agent.
"I do. I…I did." Rick's voice lowered in anger as he put his hand up to shield his face, the camera flash from the street temporarily blinding him. The women had opted for outdoor seating for a reason. This wasn't just a personal ambush, it was a PR move.
Paula was quick to retort, "What happened to you, you used to love the press?"
"Not right now." Rick's response was low and sad, his glance peeking past his hand to confirm that the camera had received the stern hint. To be honest, he hadn't loved the press once he had met Kate. She had taught him the power of privacy. If her recovery was public in any way, he feared she would retreat again. He couldn't have her do that. He also wasn't sure what he looked like right now, only a week removed from surgery.
"What do you mean, not right now?"
"Not right now." Did he really need to repeat it more than once?
"People are wondering, and not just the press." Gina was a bit more gentle than Paula, she had seen him through some more of life's vulnerable moments.
"So. Tell them its…." he took a pained inhale, avoiding all eye contact. Letting the breath out slowly, rubbing his knuckles along the incision that was beginning the healing process, he shook his head as he spoke. "Tell them I'm going to be okay. Yes, we were shot in our home. The shooter was taken care of. No more questions about it. We will be okay."
Turning his face back to the two ladies in front of him, his eyes studied the table top in silence. To make a point.
"Will you be? Are you actually okay?"
He wasn't ignoring the questions, he just didn't have an answer. He was okay now, and he knew that in the end both him and Kate would end up fine. But Kate's current state was still a question. Her early bleeding and the ever present nausea wasn't boding well for her long term recovery. And while he was excited for their new addition, apprehension about how they would manage it loomed large. A new baby was a big deal. The last time he had tried to take care of Kate when she was injured, she pushed him away forcefully. She wouldn't be able to do that and take care of a newborn. His emotional core was also still raw, piecing together the shattered patterns of their brief separation. He had to tread carefully. He had to figure out how to give her time alone, but also take care of her. No distractions, no articles, no interviews.
He emphasized his decision simply, "No press."
Both women stared him down, one sure that he was serious, the other a professional at digging deeper to get his true answer.
Rick Castle raised his eyes slowly from the table top and stared straight through Paula's feigned startle, emphasizing each word, "No. Press. Privacy." He turned his gaze unblinking to Gina. "It's not a request."
I've been struggling. It's so hard to say. Well write it actually. I haven't sat down to journal in a really long time. Mom had me start as a teenager, a way to communicate our feelings so that they didn't come out in mother-daughter blow-ups. Shortly after she died, I came back to it every now and then when I really needed to sort through how I felt. Dr. Burke didn't do hospital calls, but he had suggested I write until I could come in. I had filled him in on what had occurred; the turmoil of the case, the pregnancy, being shot in our own home. The home I would return to tomorrow, if I could keep this incredibly bland chicken and vegetables dinner in my system. So far, everyone thinks my lack of appetite and nausea is from my stomach and intestine wound healing. I'm not ready to tell them the truth just yet.
Rick knows me too well. Yesterday, he dropped off my journal and some books. He had swung by the house when he was discharged, going to his first physical therapy outside the hospital, squeezing out a nap, and bringing back things to cure my boredom. I think he also hoped this would keep me from retreating. I'm not used to healing in the presence of others. But I'll give it a try. For him. And for this baby.
Plus this little child might want to read our story one day. It will have Rick of course to fill in the spaces with wonder and imagination. I want a little claim too, I guess.
Home.
I should have probably tempered my expectations about returning home. Dr. Burke had asked me how it was going. I didn't have the words. I've only been home twenty-four hours.
The blood stains in the kitchen haunt everyone. Rick had the car service deliver both of us as neither of us can drive yet. I had been hoping for a quiet day of rest, time to figure out how to exist in our new reality. Plus I hadn't eaten much and my pain was ramping up with all of the movement. Unexpectedly, we had a welcome party. I hid my pain and anxiety as long as possible as Ryan and Esposito filled us in on what they had walked into and what they had been able to clean up while we were in the hospital. CSU had a field day documenting the scene, providing everything necessary for IA to prove it was an officer involved justified shooting. The bloody footprints had reportedly been easy to scrub out, Lanie having spent a weekend attempting to buff them out while Rick and I recovered in the hospital. But the main pools and streaks had soaked into the tiles and wood. There was a streak along the supporting column near the wine fridge, where Caleb Brown's body had slumped to the floor, the tiles stained with the accompanying pool. The bar stools were haphazardly arranged around the corners of the counter, trying to conceal the streak and pool from my spilled blood. Rick's attempt to get to me was memorialized in an elongation starting between the stove and fridge. New tiles and wood floors were ordered, but they would take time. Martha channels her best acting to pretend they aren't there. Alexis permanently holds back tears, walking around the stains like they are toxic. I recognize her resolve. I regret it. My actions have hurt them. I am to blame for this.
It has only been a few days, nearly close to a week. I'm actually struggling more here than I was at the hospital. I track the same path between our bed, the bathroom, and the couch, oscillating between puking and trying to sleep. When I was recovering from my heart surgery, it was the intense pain medication that forced my rest. Now I can't seem to find any; neither relief from the pain nor rest. Every time I try, either in bed, on the couch, or leaning back on one of the myriad chairs around the loft, my attempts at any real semblance of sleep always results in pain.
Rick is trying so hard to be helpful, despite his own injury. Phantom pains from my own previous sternum wound build my sympathy for him. But he can take more intensive pain meds and muscle relaxers. He plans his day around physical therapy, relaxation, and me. Humor has been his best plan so far; creating a game he calls, "food or no food"? As he shouldn't do any movements that might bend or jostle his chest, Martha and Alexis have moved everything we might need down to a more accessible location, cluttering the kitchen counters. On days that he doesn't have physical therapy, he has enough energy to cook, pulling the raw vegetables, cutting board, and knife as close as possible to the edge of the counter, to avoid the pain of reaching forward. Even though I can see how uncomfortable he is in his recovery, it warms my heart to see how adaptable he is. Right now, he is making a delicious looking soup brimming with all of the things I'm supposed to be eating. Lots of protein, iron, and vegetables. It smells good until it appears in front of me. Puking is so undignified and incredibly painful, my abdomen spasming internally around the hole that was my spleen and externally along the incision that is just beginning to scratch its first level of healing. Dry heaving is even worse, the heartburn lingering for hours. I'm piecing together my shattered dignity the best I know how.
One week. I've made it one whole week, and I haven't managed to sleep more than a couple hours a day. I can never get comfortable. I'm not really a back sleeper; more of an intense cuddler, curled up on my side. The bullet disconnected so many muscles in my right shoulder that it currently can't handle movements of any kind, and I'm kicking myself for letting the pain and pulling inhibit my progress in physical therapy. Rick has created an elaborate nest of pillows and blankets to keep my shoulder stable. Despite his own discomfort and pain, he has dived into my recovery as if it's his only job. I hide how much it means to me, but the gestures are really lovely. Stuck on my back, my torso wound stabs deep, sending tentacles of burning pain into my previously scarred lungs. Its darkness gnaws across my internal organs, painting tightness that wraps around to my back. It squeezes tight if I so much as think about shifting positions. I don't recall my heart surgery being this painful, so what gives? The incision festers, more scratchy than I can remember previous wounds being. Rick has created an even more comforting blanket situation for my left side, which he gently pads into me once I settle for the evening. Or pretend to settle.
I act like I'm sleeping as he lays next to me in our bed. His gritty inhales are noticeable when he pushes his muscles into positions they don't want to be in. He whines quietly to Martha, but stops when he can tell I hear him. I owe him so much more than I can give him right now. Because the pillow-blanket nest blocks my movements, and neither of us can cuddle without intense pain, we end up just holding hands as he drifts off to sleep. Sweet love through the worst of times. The biggest difference is that he eventually fades to sleep. Once I hear his pained wheezing calm, I count away the hours staring up at the ceiling, pushing down the roll of heartburn oozing up my throat. Any little adjustment or shift just leads to more pain. In his sleep, a soft gasp escapes Rick's lips as his body unconsciously attempts a shuffle to a more comfortable position. I blame myself for his pain.
On the couch or chair during the day, there is no blanket fort to support my wounds. I allow my body to fall into rest, but I usually end up waking abruptly in an impossible and agonizingly uncomfortable position. Rest, real rest that can actually promote healing, eludes me.
Then there's the snag of this stupid heart monitor that Dr. Davidson has required I wear for a few weeks. My heart rate and blood pressure were all over the place since I was shot. At first they thought it was the shock to my system, my body trying to compensate for all of the changes. Then they asked about my mental state regarding the pregnancy. Dr. Burke supported me on that one, insisting that the anxiety attacks were new. Dr. Davidson agreed to let me out of the hospital if I agreed to wear the portable heart monitor. It's clunky, like an old style flip phone, belt clip and all. Two electrodes embrace my old scar along the bottom of my rib cage, another flirting with the bullet wound between my breasts. I normally tape the thin wire across the right side of my body to avoid the raw incision on the left. At night, I let it drape up and left to rest on the bedside table. I've knocked it off of its perch more than once. It's in the way of everything. A few years ago, when a bullet literally grazed my heart, this wasn't protocol. It's not helping anything now.
"Rick? Hun, what are you doing?" Martha stepped softly into his path, a tray holding a cup of broth and a sleeve of crackers in his hand.
"Bringing her food." He set the tray down on the kitchen counter but didn't let go of it. While physical therapy was helping him make fantastic strides in the two weeks they had been home, he still couldn't hold things in that isometric stance for long.
"Rick…." His mother simply placed her hand on his arm, her tone lowering as she directed her gaze to Kate, curled into herself against the arm of the couch. She looked awful - and that was being kind. The sleep that had eluded Kate last week caught up with her this week. Now all she did was sleep, having no energy to do anything but. What little energy she had been able to squeeze out she used on navigating - with assistance - to the bathroom and occasionally to the couch. Looking at her now, Rick wasn't sure if it was the glow of the day through the skylight or some hidden sickness that was causing the yellow discoloration of her pale skin.
Martha continued, "Something else is wrong. She hasn't eaten practically in days." This was true. The oatmeal he had brought to Kate's bedside for breakfast only had two spoonfuls missing. They were the ones he had forced her to eat. They had mixed with a bit of blood and yellow bits as she puked them up only a few minutes later. They had come back up out of her stomach with such force and speed that they barely had time to catch it in the small garbage can now permanently living next to the bed. Some had gotten caught in the tips of her unwashed hair.
"And she's not just pale, I think she is actually a bit yellow." Kate's now wet hair clung limply to her gaunt cheeks, the stark color difference between the pale skin and dark locks. After the oatmeal incident, Rick had coaxed her into the shower, offering to wash her hair for her as he assisted in lowering her down to their new addition - a shower stool. Kate had brusquely waved him away, insisting on doing it herself. She had cried in intense pain until he returned to turn the shower off, the water long running cold.
Martha switched her gaze from Kate's damaged form to Rick, hoping that her words helped him see what everyone else saw. He had been so focused on his own recovery and Kate's day to day, he hadn't seen her sharp decline the way everyone else had. His only reply through this entire exchange were soft tears. His mother was right, something was seriously wrong with Kate.
"I just don't know what else to do." Rick whispered, wiping the tears from his cheeks, "I can't help her, she won't take it."
"Then call someone who can."
The doorbell startled everyone, even Kate, who lifted half of her body off of the armrest in curiosity. Rick dragged a hand slowly down his face to reset his emotions as he started toward the door. All of their friends knew to text or call first, and family had spare keys. There was no reason for the bell.
"Food delivery!" The cheery voice on the other side piped through the sounds of the second more impatient ding of the doorbell.
The sudden flash of a camera stunned Rick the second the door was open. It felt like eternity for him to come to his senses and attempt to slam the door, quick flashes denoting that the person was quite skilled at ambush. The man's camera - by now Rick's perception had caught up, he would later describe the man as an over-sized rat - was shoved in the space between the jamb and the door. For only the second time in three weeks, Rick actually meant the growl that emanated from his shattered chest. He swung the door open just enough to shove the man back with a stiff arm and slam the heavy door hard in his face with coarse finality. Face purple and red with rage, and breath wheezing through the pain, Rick took only a few large steps to the kitchen counter to snatch his phone.
"I said NO PRESS!", his voice bellowed across the loft, reverberating off every corner.
There was no reply on the other end, the slam of the phone down on the counter made sure of that.
From the couch, Kate had managed to push herself to a twisted half-standing position. She pushed out a weak, "Rick" in such a whisper that he didn't hear it the first time. She followed it with another one that got his attention and Martha's.
"I think something is wrong," were the last words Kate uttered before collapsing down, a cold and clammy marionette released from its strings. The heart monitor let out shrill warning beeps, the first time anyone at the loft had heard it go off. A trail of blood pressed down her legs, soaking through her leggings.