Chet and Hank Stanley virtually stumbled to the rescue site where Mike and Marco had broken through.
“They're down there!” Marco exclaimed breathlessly.
“Are you sure?” Hank asked.
“I heard for myself! I heard Roy!” Marco enthused.
“We got 'em, Cap,” Mike said confidently.
“Are they all right?” Chet asked.
Marco shook his head. “It's too soon to say. We couldn't really communicate.”
“He said there's four of them,” Mike explained.
“Four! Good, good,” Hank Stanley said, clapping his hands together. He panted from exertion and excitement.
Dale Carruthers turned away from the hole he'd created in the rubble. “Maybe we should lower a handie-talkie down so they can communicate with us.”
“That's a good idea. Marco, let's have yours, Pal,” the captain ordered
Marco quickly grabbed his radio from his waist. “Let me just tie it off here.” He wound the light rope around the instrument and handed it to Carruthers, who fed it into the narrow opening.
“Handie-talkie coming down!” Carruthers called to the trapped men.
“Okay, let's get this opening enlarged,” Knight said.
Roy heard the handie-talkie bump its way down to their location. As soon as it was visible, he grabbed it, untied it and depressed the send button.
“This is Roy DeSoto, does anyone read?” he said into the microphone.
“Roy, Hank here. We read you, Pal.”
Roy smiled weakly. He could hear the smile and tone of relief in his superior's voice, even over the small speaker of the handie-talkie.
“Cap, there's four of us. Me, Johnny, a store employee and a customer. The customer is a middle-aged female, who appears uninjured.”
Wanda glowered at Roy's description of her as “middle-aged.”
“Brian is a stockboy, about seventeen years old. He's got an ankle injury that could be a fracture or a bad sprain.”
“Okay, Roy. Are you and John all right?”
“Cap, Johnny's in bad shape. He's got a serious head injury.”
After a brief pause, Hank asked, “How bad is it?”
“It's pretty bad. He's unconscious. I think he may have a severe concussion, or maybe even a skull fracture.”
Up top, Captain Stanley paused. Chet and Marco exchanged glances. The jubilation at finding their co-workers was tempered by this unwelcome news.
“Roy, what if we sent some supplies down to you and set up a relay with Rampart?” Hank finally asked.
“Yeah, that would be good. At least I could get an IV started and administer medication. It's better than what I've been able to do for him so far, which is nothing.”
“Mike, Marco, get the drug box, the biophone and the O2.”
“Cap?”
“Yeah, Roy?”
“Could you send down some blankets?”
“You got it.” He cupped his hands toward the departing men. “Get some blankets too!”
In a matter of minutes, Roy had a stethoscope, bp cuff and blankets. He took vital signs on Johnny to relay to Rampart.
“Cap, have you opened a frequency to Rampart?” he asked into the HT.
“That's affirmative, Roy. Go ahead and give us what you've got.”
“Okay. Patient is a 29-year old with a head injury and loss of consciousness. Vitals are: bp 150 over 90, pulse 72, respirations 16, shallow and irregular.” Roy paused to let that information be relayed. “Patient's pupils are unequal and sluggish. He's also had nausea and vomiting.” Roy waited again.
“Roy, is that it?”
“Uh, Cap, tell them that he was initially awake, but slightly confused, with a gradual deterioration in his mental status. Plus, he has fractures of his radius and ulna.”
“10-4, Roy.”
Roy sighed and waited, the grating noises of metal on metal jarring his sensibilities.
“Roy?”
“Yeah, Cap?”
“We're going to send down an IV setup, a c-collar and a splint. Rampart wants updated vitals every 15 minutes.”
“Okay.”
“I'll get it, Roy,” Brian volunteered. He snatched the items as they came down on the rope and hurried them over to the paramedic. The teen watched in fascination as Roy started the IV, not even flinching when the needle pierced Johnny's vein.
“What's that for?” he asked.
“This is to replace fluids he's lost through injury and dehydration. It'll go a long way to staving off shock,” Roy explained. The senior paramedic then splinted Johnny's broken arm and applied the cervical collar, again watched intently by the young man. Finally, he opened two blanket packs and spread the yellow covers over his friend.
Roy sat back and sighed, a feeling of relief washing over him that he was finally able to do something therapeutic for his partner. He raised the HT.
“I want a blanket!” Wanda demanded.
Roy tossed the unopened blanket pack over to the startled woman. He thumbed the HT. “Cap, could we get some drinks down here?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“Coming right up.”
It was another hour before the opening at the top was widened sufficiently to allow passage of a stokes stretcher. But before one was lowered, Wanda and Brian were finally freed.
“Roy, I don't want to go. I want to stay and help you get Johnny out,” Brian protested as Roy tied the lifebelt around his waist.
Roy was already shaking his head. “No, Brian. You need to get out of here and get some medical attention. Besides, a couple of the guys will be lowered down to help with Johnny.”
Brian sighed. “Okay. I guess they know what they're doing. I wouldn't be much help.”
“Brian, it's not that. I mean, it's partly that in that it's their job. But you need to get out of here and get yourself some medical help.”
Brian smiled. “I understand. I'll see you, maybe.”
“Hey, that's for sure. They'll be taking you to Rampart, and we'll be close behind. I'll check in on you when we get there.” Roy finished knotting the line on Brian's belt and gave it a couple of tugs.
“Well, I guess this is it.” Brian took a last glance at Johnny. “I hope Johnny's gonna be all right,” he said somberly.
“Don't worry,” Roy answered ambiguously with a half-hearted smile.
After Brian was lifted out, Stoker and Lopez were lowered into the wreckage, followed by a stokes. Both regarded the senior paramedic with concern. “Are you okay, Roy? You've got a lot of blood on your face,” Mike asked.
Roy reflexively raised his fingertips to the gash on his scalp. “It looks worse than it is. I did a number on my knee though,” he said almost as an afterthought. “Look, let's get Johnny out of here. He's critical.”
“How's he doing?” Mike asked. The three were maneuvering around in the small space, preparing to lift the unconscious paramedic onto the stretcher.
“I'm not sure,” Roy answered quietly. “Judging from his vitals, I'm afraid he may have pressure building up on his brain, either from swelling or bleeding. I just hope he hasn't gone too long without treatment.”
“What could happen?” Marco asked hesitantly.
“Well…brain damage. Or he could even go sour on us unexpectedly. We need to move.”
“Roy, let me and Marco get him,” Mike suggested. “I'll get his shoulders. Marco, get his ankles.” The two positioned themselves and Mike counted, “one, two, three, lift!”
Roy had held the IV bag aloft for the transfer and he now tucked it near Johnny's shoulder. The three worked fluidly to get the blankets tucked in and the straps fastened.
“Wait. I want to immobilize his head for the trip up,” Roy said. He unwound a length of gauze from the trauma box that had been sent down. The two firefighters watched as Roy's gentle hands wrapped the gauze around the stokes and over Johnny's forehead. Roy nodded, satisfied. “Okay. Get him going.”
Mike and Marco carried the stretcher to a spot directly under the opening above.
“Okay, bring 'im up!” Marco shouted to the men outside.
As the line drew taut Mike kept a guiding hand on the stokes for as long as he could to prevent it swinging and banging on its ascent.
Marco studied Roy's face as the paramedic watched the stretcher bearing his friend slowly rise higher until it was out of their line of vision. Beneath the dried blood, dirt and sweat was a weariness etched with acute sadness. “Roy, it's gonna be all right,” he said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Let it go. Let someone else take care of him now.”
“Marco, I…” Roy stopped himself, shook his head, and changed the subject. “You're right. Let's go.”
Up top, a local news station's crew filmed as Dwayne Knight, Dale Carruthers, Chet, Hank, and Bill Dobbins worked cooperatively to raise the third victim. They heaved in tandem, pulling the metal basket upward a few feet at a time. Finally, the end of the stokes emerged and they carefully guided it through the man-made opening. Chet was the first to kneel beside his friend, while Hank Stanley peered over Chet's shoulder. Johnny lay deathly still in the stretcher, his complexion grayish in the shadowy artificial lighting created by the flood lights.
In the bright glare of the cameraman's lamp, Chet thought he could detect a glimmer of a reflection from Johnny's eyes. He didn't expect to find the paramedic anywhere near consciousness and the discovery spooked him slightly. “Johnny?” he whispered, leaning near.
“Let me in here, I want to get his vitals,” Dobbins said authoritatively, shouldering his way close to the patient. He quickly took Johnny's pulse and respirations.
“Cap, he's awake,” Chet marveled.
“Maybe not,” Hank cautioned. “Could just be his eyelids aren't all the way closed.”
Chet shook his head. “No, that's not it. I've never known Gage to sleep with his eyes open.”
“He's not sleeping, Chet,” Hank reminded gently.
Chet refused to give in. He circled the stokes and knelt on the other side to find the eyes definitely open, although barely. “Johnny, it's me. You're out of there and you're gonna be all right, okay?”
“We need to get him to triage,” Dobbins said.
“Johnny?” Chet said again. He watched the dull, unfocused eyes intently, willing them to sparkle, to show some sign of recognition. He was rewarded with a brief meeting of his gaze, followed by a lazy blink. “That's it, Johnny. Hang in there.” Chet stood up, beaming.
“He heard me, Cap,” he said triumphantly.
Hank, still not convinced but not wanting to deflate Chet's spirit, clapped the man on the shoulder and smiled warmly.
“Let's get him out of here!” Dobbins commanded. By this time, several more rescue men had shown up and grasped the stretcher to spirit it off to triage.
Chet and Hank watched momentarily as the group retreated with their critically ill friend, then they turned their attention back to the rescue.
“Let's get 'em out,” Carruthers said.
Roy reclined on one of the many makeshift cots lining the triage tent. He struggled to remain awake but an overwhelming fatigue blanketed his brain and his body, enshrouding him in a twilight consciousness just short of actual sleep. Voices and sounds drifted in and out of his realm of sensation, disconnected and non-sensical. He didn't even feel the manipulations of his limbs as clothing was cut and vital signs were recorded; it was as if he'd gone completely numb.
His eyes shot open at the sharp stick of the IV needle, regarded Craig Brice's bland expression disinterestedly, then slid shut again.
“…laceration…knee injury…90 over 60…semi-conscious…”
Brice's calm voice wafted in and out of Roy's awareness like a gentle breeze. Roy fought to achieve a higher level of consciousness but wasn't too successful.
“Brice,” he whispered.
“DeSoto,” Brice responded crisply. “You're going to be fine.”
Roy could picture in his mind's eye Brice's smug expression as he imparted the trite phrase. The irritation he felt propelled him to a more alert state. “Brice…” he repeated.
Craig Brice stopped his ministrations and regarded the injured man. “Yes?”
“J-…Joanne?” Roy croaked.
“From what I understand, she's on her way,” Brice assured him. “Are you in pain, DeSoto?”
“J-…J-…” Roy stammered.
Brice frowned. “Joanne's coming,” he repeated more slowly, enunciating impeccably.
Roy shook his head, his eyes peeling open a slit. “Johnny.”
“Ah. Yes. Gage is en route to Rampart.”
“He…” Roy swallowed, his throat impossibly parched. “He's okay?”
“I don't have any information on his condition.”
Captain Stanley approached and kneeled beside Roy. “How is he?” he asked Brice.
“He's severely dehydrated and suffering from exposure. He sustained a moderately severe knee injury, the nature of which is not yet known. This laceration on his scalp will need sutures. He should be fine.” The last was delivered with a vapid smile.
“Roy, Joanne's on her way. She should be here any minute,” Hank told his paramedic.
“I know,” Roy mouthed.
Stanley clapped Roy lightly on the shoulder and smiled. “I don't know how you guys survived this, but I'm glad as heck you did.” He shook his head. “I can't tell you how worried we all were.”
“I can imagine,” Roy said hoarsely, thinking how he'd feel if the roles were reversed. He smiled. “Thanks for not giving up on us.”
“No way, Pal.” Hank sobered. “Johnny's on his way to Rampart. He might be there by now.”
“How'd he look, Cap? Was he conscious at all?” Roy realized he hadn't seen his partner since Johnny'd been lifted from the wreckage ahead of him.
“He looked like hell,” the captain said frankly. “Chet swears he was conscious, but I'm not sure.” He snorted softly. “Leave it to Gage to keep everyone guessing.”
Roy wasn't sure if his captain's light-hearted comments were an attempt to allay fears or if he didn't comprehend the gravity of Johnny's injury. “Cap, he…he's in bad shape.”
Wisdom tinged with sadness reflected in Hank's eyes. “I know. What happened in there, Roy?”
Roy sighed. “The place was a house of cards. I guess the weight of the water on the roof was too much for the structure. We were just trying to get some groceries for lunch, and there were water buckets everywhere, catching all the leaks. It was just…weird. I had a bad feeling about it.” Roy shook his head slightly as he mentally chastised himself. Hank listened attentively. “The ceiling started bowing in, and the water started gushing…it all happened so fast. I tried to tell people to get outside, tried to go find Johnny, but it was too quick. The lights went out and everything started breaking and falling. I hit the deck. There wasn't anything else I could do.”
By this time Chet, Mike and Marco had materialized by the cot, listening quietly to Roy's account.
“When it was over, I found myself in a…a small pocket. It was total destruction. I called for Johnny but he didn't answer. That's when I found Brian, the stock boy. We started trying to find a way out and then we found Johnny and that lady, just on the other side of us. That's where were until you found us.”
“Was Johnny conscious when you found him?” Hank asked.
“Yeah, he was conscious, but he wasn't oriented. I thought he was just dazed. He wasn't with it at all.” Roy's expression was one of self-doubt. “I should have known right away he was seriously hurt. I should have realized. He was disoriented and confused. It just didn't hit me.”
“Hey, don't beat yourself up, Roy,” the captain soothed. “I don't imagine you were exactly in top form yourself after what happened. Besides, it wouldn't have made any difference. You couldn't have done any more for him than you did.”
“Cap, he could barely speak or comprehend anything I was saying. As the hours dragged on, he got worse and worse.”
“That must have been hard,” Hank sympathized.
“Yeah,” Roy whispered. “I didn't know if he'd even survive to be rescued.”
Brice interrupted with, “The ambulance is here to take DeSoto.”
Captain Stanley stood and prepared to help transfer Roy to the gurney. The bone weary men of 51 all pitched in to gently lift their comrade and place him on the stretcher for his ride to the hospital.
“Roy, we'll come by to check on you as soon as we're relieved here,” Stanley assured him.
“Take it easy, Roy,” Chet added. “And give Johnny heck for bailing on you like this.” Chet's eyes twinkled within their dirt-encrusted sockets.
“I will, Chet.”
“Later, Roy.” Mike patted his friend's arm.
“See you soon,” Marco promised.
“Roy? Roy!” The sound of hurried footsteps heralded the arrival of Joanne. One look at her husband reduced her to tears. “Oh…” She reached out to touch his face, then pulled back, afraid of hurting him.
“I'm okay, honey,” Roy said, smiling gamely. “Don't cry. I'm all right.”
“You're not okay!” Joanne protested. “Look at you!”
“It looks worse than it is, really. Now don't cry.” He reached up and gripped her arm with his grimy hand.
“He'll be okay, Joanne,” Hank Stanley reiterated. “They're taking him to Rampart now. You can ride along. He's going to be fine.”
Joanne nodded briskly and the white-suited attendants whisked Roy to the waiting ambulance, accompanied by his wife. Hank, Chet, Marco and Mike looked on.
The Emergency room was overflowing with friends and relatives of the victims of the supermarket roof collapse. People lined the halls, every chair was occupied, and many weary individuals simply camped on the floor, waiting for word on their loved one.
Tom Dwyer headed to the emergency entrance to meet his partner out in the squad and report back to the scene of the disaster. As he neared the double doors, they swished open to admit yet another casualty. Dwyer reflexively stood back, flattening himself against the wall to get out of the way. He saw paramedic Bill Dobbin hop out of the ambulance, IV bag held aloft. The attendants eased the gurney to the edge and released the folding legs, locking them in place. Dr. Early came around the corner to greet the patient.
“Coming through!” Dobbin called, leading the entourage into the hospital.
“Treatment 3!” Dr. Early called out.
Dwyer watched the stretcher fly by and saw that its occupant was a barely-recognizable John Gage. The unconscious paramedic lay still, his eyes closed and his lips parted slightly. Dust and dirt caked on his face, neck and hair. His face appeared whitish-gray beneath the coating of grime.
“Dobbin, you got 'em! You found 'em!” Dwyer remarked, keeping step with the group.
“Yeah, finally,” Dobbin answered breathlessly. They steered the gurney into the treatment room, everyone crowding in. Dobbin and Dwyer stepped up to help transfer Johnny to the exam table.
“How is he?” Dwyer inquired, stepping back.
Bill Dobbin held up his index finger in a “just a minute” gesture. “Doc, his bp's high…180 over 110. Respirations are irregular. Pulse is 45,” Dobbin updated Dr. Early as he lent a hand stripping off the patient's clothes.
“Give him 140 milligrams of Mannitol,” Dr. Early ordered. “I want a full set of chemistries and a CBC.” Early approached the head of the exam table. “Let's intubate.” Dixie and Karen went about their duties as efficiently as always, dispensing the medication and calling the lab for blood work. Joe Early deftly inserted the endotracheal tube and hooked Johnny up to the ventilator.
Get a full skull series, stat,” Early ordered. “Dix, patch him in.” Dixie retrieved the cardiac monitoring equipment and began to place the patches on Johnny's chest.
“I'll check his bp again,” Dixie said, anticipating Joe's next move.
Early nodded and began to examine Johnny's skull, running his experienced fingertips along his scalp. “Where is that bump?”
“Right back here, Doc,” Dobbin directed him. Early palpated the bump and frowned.
“Ah,” he murmured, wincing. “Has he been conscious?” Early asked.
“Not that I've seen.”
Dr. Early quickly probed Johnny's nose and ears for fluid.
“Okay. I want those x-rays right away. Dix, better call the O.R. and have them on standby. I have a feeling we're going to need it.”
“Right away,” Dixie acknowledged.
Dwyer and Dobbin exchanged looks of resignation.
“Monitor his vitals every ten minutes. And I want to see DeSoto as soon as he's brought in,” Early told Karen.
“Yes, doctor.”
Dr. Early left the room without another word.
Roy was quiet on the drive to Rampart. He stared at the overhead light of the interior of the ambulance as his body jostled with each turn and bump. Craig Brice continued to monitor Roy's condition with cool efficiency, not wasting time or energy on small talk or reassurances.
The infusion of morphine had sent Roy into a trance-like state. At least, that combined with the long hours of captivity, pain, worry, and fluid deprivation had. Still, the earlier sleepiness had worn off and he now felt, strangely enough, invigorated. He was anxious, for sure, to get to Rampart, get cleaned up, treated, visit with his wife. But he also felt a need to be near his partner, even if he wasn't directly involved in John's care. Ever since they'd been separated at the time of the rescue, Roy had felt disconnected and this unnerved him for reasons he couldn't explain. He supposed he was fearing the worst: that he'd be elsewhere if and when the unthinkable happened. Even his fears were too horrific to contemplate.
Finally, the ambulance backed into the emergency bay of Rampart and Roy steeled himself for what lay ahead: the poking and prodding, the humiliation of being stripped of his clothes and, therefore, his dignity, the fear of being diagnosed with a debilitating injury.
“Bring him in 4,” Brackett's gravelly voice commanded.
Roy was wheeled in and transferred to the exam table. Joanne followed close but stayed out of the way. She'd been through this routine before; nearly every firefighter's wife had. Histrionics were definitely not tolerated, much less encouraged.
“Roy, you're looking a little the worse for wear,” Brackett teased gently. He examined the laceration on Roy's hairline and frowned. “Is this the source of all the blood on your face?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“It's a pretty good gash. Once we get you stitched and cleaned up, though, you'll look 100% better,” Brackett said, half directing the comment to Joanne, who smiled bravely.
Roy endured the exam, biting back the questions that continually jumped to the forefront of his mind, questions about Johnny's condition. He was torn between wanting to know and being afraid to find out. Brackett would tell me if Johnny was doing well. We wouldn't be sitting here conspicuously ignoring the issue if there was good news. Brackett would be all smiles and telling me Johnny's doing great…if he was…
“Roy?” Dr. Brackett's concerned face peered closely into the paramedic's faraway eyes.
Roy realized he'd zoned out temporarily. “Yeah, what?”
Brackett winced and addressed the nurse, Sue. “Make sure we get a full skull series.” He turned to Roy and examined his pupils with the penlight. “Were you unconscious for any period of time?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe. But only in the beginning, and not for long, I don't think.” Roy sighed. “Doc?”
“Mmm-hmm?” Brackett had started palpating Roy's injured knee.
“Johnny…how's he doing?” Roy almost held his breath waiting for the reply.
“Joe Early is with him.” He stopped and looked directly into Roy's questioning eyes. “He's unconscious and showing signs of intercranial pressure: high bp and bradycardia. I think Joe suspects a subdural hematoma, and possibly a skull fracture, but he won't know for sure until he gets the test results. At the very least, he's got a severe concussion.”
“So he's…stable?”
Brackett sighed. “If you could say that. I know Joe wants to speak with you. Let me go find him now and maybe he can answer your questions. Meantime, I'll let Sue here get you more presentable so we can start addressing your injuries.”
Sue smiled. “Don't worry, I'll be gentle.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Joanne stepped forward to hold her husband's hand as the nurse began her ministrations.
A small eternity passed before Dr. Brackett returned to attend to Roy's laceration. “X-ray's backed up, so I'm going to get this cut stitched while we wait.”
“It's a zoo out there, huh?” Roy commented. He was considerably cleaner and warmer now, his clothes lying in a heap in the corner and a warm blanket over his body. His leg was elevated on a pillow, an icebag resting prominently on top.
“You'd better believe it. I can't remember when we've been this swamped. We've had to divert the remaining cases to UCLA.”
Brackett began injecting the area with numbing medicine. Roy winced with each stick of the needle. “Sorry about that, Roy.”
“Oh it's okay,” Roy said automatically.
As Brackett began stitching, a weary-looking Dr. Early entered. “Well, well…if it isn't the other half of the dynamic duo,” Early said affectionately.
“Hey, Doc.” Roy moved his eyes to see the doctor, keeping his head very still.
“Roy, I need some information about Johnny's injury.”
“Sure.”
“Do you know how long he was unconsciousness, initially?”
“You mean, right after the collapse?” Roy asked.
“Yes, the first time.”
“No. We were separated at first. It took me a while to find him, probably over an hour. By then, he was awake.”
“Was he acting normally?”
Roy winced. “Well, sort of, but not really. He was slow to process things, and he seemed confused. It wasn't immediately obvious to me that he was in a bad way. I thought he was just dazed.”
“What do you mean by confused?”
“After some time passed, I realized he seemed not to know what had happened or where we were. And he made some strange comments.”
“He was disoriented?”
“Very.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Well, he got sick and threw up. It wasn't long after that his speech became slurred and he was really groggy. He was pretty much out of it after that.”
Dr. Early nodded grimly. “I see.” The doctor pondered this new information, then looked at Brackett. “There's a skull fracture, as I suspected. The films show evidence of an earlier bleed. From what Roy's telling me, he's got a sizable lesion. I was afraid of that. We're going to have to evacuate the clot.”
“No question about it,” Brackett concurred somberly.
Roy's eyes widened in alarm. “Surgery? H-how…risky is it?”
“All surgery carries risks, as you already know. Believe me, Roy. In this case, the greater risk would be not operating.”
“I understand,” Roy answered rotely. “It just seems so…drastic.” He smiled wistfully.
“It's a very serious injury,” Dr. Early said.
“Yeah, I know,” Roy agreed. “I'm just really worried.”
Dr. Early gave one of his patented reassuring smiles. “It's too soon to say for sure, but I think Johnny has a good chance of recovering from all this, Roy,” he opined. “How are you doing?” He patted Roy's shoulder.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” Roy answered thoughtfully. “I hope this knee injury isn't career-ending.”
Dr. Early stepped to Roy's mid-leg, lifted the icebag, and gently palpated the injured joint. “You did a number on it, all right. But I wouldn't worry until there's something to be worried about.” He addressed Brackett. “No x-rays yet?”
Dr. Brackett sighed as he concentrated on his stitching. “No…they're still swamped.”
Joanne observed the exchange silently. Her delicate features mirrored her fatigue and concern, both for her husband and their friend, Johnny.
“Roy, I've got to go now and tend to that partner of yours. The O.R. is standing by,” Dr. Early said as much to Dr. Brackett as to the paramedic. “I'll look in on you soon,” he told Roy as he patted his shoulder.
“See you, Joe,” Brackett said. “Keep me informed.”
Joanne impulsively went after the departing doctor, catching up with him just outside the exam room door. “I'm sorry, Dr. Early,” she said wearily. “I just…”
“What is it, Joanne?” he asked kindly.
“Could you tell anything about Roy's knee just then? I know he's awfully worried.”
Dr. Early smiled. “Not really. Not without an x-ray.”
“I see…I thought, maybe…”
“You thought I was holding back?”
She nodded. “I thought you might be trying to spare him, so he wouldn't be upset.” She studied her cuticles. “I don't know how Roy would react if he couldn't do his job anymore.”
“Joanne,” Dr. Early placed a hand paternally on her shoulder. “I honestly don't know about Roy's knee. But I do think there's every reason for hope. Try not to worry needlessly now. It won't help matters, and it uses up a lot of precious energy you could be expending in more constructive ways.” He smiled encouragingly.
“You're right, of course,” she said apologetically. “Roy needs me to be strong for him.”
“Yes, he does. Both from a physical and emotional standpoint. This was a traumatic event. He may experience a range of emotions as the events replay in his head. He may suffer guilt that others were injured more severely, or even died, while he survived. That's a heavy burden.”
“Speaking of others…is Johnny going to be all right? Really?” she asked hopefully.
“I really can't answer that. I'm sorry. It wouldn't be fair for me to prognosticate on his chances this soon in the game. But this is Johnny we're talking about. And just like with Roy, there's every reason to hope he'll make a complete recovery.”
“I know Roy's worried about his career…but that's minor compared to his concerns about Johnny. I can tell.”
“We wouldn't expect less from Roy, would we?” Early chuckled affectionately.
“No, certainly not. Those two must have been brothers in another life,” Joanne mused.
“I wouldn't be surprised.”
“I know you have to go. I'm sorry to keep you,” Joanne expressed.
“It's all right. I always have a few minutes for you, Joanne,” the doctor assured her. He gave her hand a firm squeeze and broke away.
Joanne took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and re-entered her husband's treatment room.
The sound of the national anthem woke the sleeping man. His eyes popped open, heralding the all-too familiar knifelike pain that pulsed through his skull repetitively. His face mirrored the pain he felt as he lay completely still, breathing deeply and willing the agony away. Within a few minutes, the hurt subsided to a dull throb and he dared to ease his eyes open once more.
Sunlight streamed through a slit between the drapes covering the patio doors. Morning. Guess I finally fell asleep during that movie…wait, which movie was it? Oh yeah, Flying Leathernecks with John Wayne. Or was it Tammy and the Bachelor? I can't remember which one was first.
He lay there a few more minutes, summoning the courage to move. Having spent the past few hours in the same position on the couch, he knew it wouldn't be pleasant. Of course, these days, moving never was. But he had to pee. There was no avoiding the call of nature.
Grabbing the back of the couch with his right hand, he pulled himself to a sitting position, grimacing all the way. The knives starting thrusting again, piercing his skull with each beat of his heart. A wave of nausea washed over him and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. He sat in this position for at least ten minutes. Anymore, it seemed he did a lot of sitting and waiting.
He rose shakily to a standing position and waited for the inevitable vertigo. He wasn't disappointed. The room tilted and whirled like a carnival ride while he fought to maintain balance and control. His right arm hovered in the air like a tightrope walker's. His useless left arm, in a cast crooked at the elbow, remained at his side.
A small groan escaped with his sigh as he commenced putting one foot in front of the other. His legs felt weak and heavy as he made slow progress to the bathroom. His head felt like a vice was clamped to it, tightening with each step. The pain would escalate unbearably to the point his vision would narrow and he'd pause until it subsided.
He finished his business in the dark in the small, windowless bathroom. The bright light was excruciating and he didn't want to chance a glimpse of himself in the mirror anyway, for good reason. He epitomized the phrase “death warmed over.” Especially since he hadn't showered for two days or shaved for at least a week.
He went to the kitchen to make a cup of instant coffee. Although he preferred brewed coffee, the prospect of manipulating the coffeemaker and attending to the multi-step process was too overwhelming. He leaned against the counter and waited for the water in the small saucepan to boil. The kitchen was shadowy, but not as dark as the bathroom had been as it benefited from the spill of light through the living room curtain. His rheumy eyes traveled across the littered countertop apathetically. What a mess.
His gaze lit upon a prescription bottle sitting untouched near the toaster. He reached for it and examined it, turning it over in his hand. Supposed to help with the pain. His stomach lurched at the thought of swallowing one of the pills. He started to put the bottle back and forget about it, when a kindly spoken phrase surfaced in his consciousness.
“You're in a vicious cycle, and only you can break it. You know what you have to do.”
Hesitantly, he opened the bottle and tapped two pills out onto the counter. He studied the pills, trying to overcome the revulsion he felt at the thought of ingesting them. His attention was diverted by the boiling water. He switched off the burner and poured the water onto the crystals heaped at the bottom of the cup; most of it made it in, anyway. A significant amount ended up on the counter. It's only water.
Frowning, he looked again at the pills that wouldn't be ignored. Swallowing hard in anticipation of what he was about to do, he tossed first one, then the other to the back of his throat and chased them down with swigs of coffee.
The gnawing sensation in his stomach started almost immediately. I gotta go sit down. He was too familiar with the warning signs to actually believe he'd make it to the couch again and pull this off. But stubborn determination allowed him to cling to a fragment of hope. If I can just sit down, quietly, and take deep breaths…I can keep these down. All I need is a few minutes.
Halfway to the living room, his stomach contracted strongly and he coughed. “No,” he croaked in protest, clinging to the dinette chair for support. But it was no use; the retching had begun and it was out of his control, growing stronger with each contraction. He swallowed the bitter substance back as he lurched towards the bathroom in a race against his rebelling gut.
Slapping the light switch on, he fell heavily to his knees before the commode and violently expelled his stomach contents. He barely noticed the bruising pain in his knees or the sudden intensifying of his headache as he continued to dry heave long after the last productive heave. His watery eyes focused on the two capsules floating undissolved amidst the emesis.
It was then he realized his watery eyes weren't due merely to the strain of vomiting and he sank to the floor, buried his face in his arm, and wept disconsolately.
“I'll get it, honey!” Roy yelled from the living room. He struggled to slide forward on the couch, his casted leg making the task considerably more cumbersome.
“Are you sure?” Joanne called from the kitchen.
“Yeah…yeah, I'm sure,” Roy replied as cheerfully as possible as he reached for his crutches. “If I can get my can off this couch,” he muttered in exasperation.
“What did you say?” Joanne yelled.
“Nothing, dear,” Roy answered. He manually positioned his injured leg on the floor and fitted the crutches under his arms. The doorbell rang again. “Joanne, where are the kids?” The question held a tone of irritation.
“Jen is still over at Denise's house, and Chris is in the basement, working on his project,” She hollered. “Want me to call him?”
“Nope.” Now that he was upright and mobile, he made steady progress to the front door, having nearly mastered the crutches. By the time he reached the door, he was panting softly from his effort. He flung the door open to see Marco's smiling face.
“Hi Marco! Come on in!” Roy stood aside.
Marco crossed the threshold bearing a crock pot in his oven-mitted hands. “Roy, you're looking real well,” he said with a smile.
“Thanks, I'm feeling all right.”
Marco made his way to the kitchen as Roy started to shut the door. Before he had it closed, he saw another car pull up outside. It was Chet's vintage jalopy. Roy decided to stay put and let Chet in. Staying in one place was a lot easier for him than moving around. After a couple of minutes, Chet was on the stoop, laden with a full grocery bag in one hand and a 12-pack of beer in the other.
“Gee, Chet, you should have brought more food,” Roy teased.
“You did say Gage is coming, didn't you?” Chet answered with a sly smile as he wrestled the awkward items into the foyer.
“Far as I know, he still is.”
“Yeah, well, last time I saw him, he looked like he could use a few extra meals,” Chet commented. “And if he's regained the legendary Gage appetite, it's good to be prepared.”
“I don't think he's quite got his appetite back,” Roy opined.
“Wait'll he gets a gander at this feast,” Chet enthused as he stuck his nose into the brown paper sack. “Bratwurst, potato salad, cole slaw, fritos, mozzarella cheese cubes, double-fudge brownies—“
“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Roy interrupted him. The recitation was making him slightly nauseated.
“Johnny's gonna flip,” Chet exclaimed before he headed for the kitchen, lugging his burden.
Or his stomach will. Roy sighed and started to close the door again, when he noticed a car slow down and stop in front of his house. The passenger door opened and a young man climbed out, waved goodbye, and started, hesitantly, up the front sidewalk, limping slightly. Roy smiled broadly.
“Brian! I'm glad you could make it,” Roy greeted the teen warmly.
“Hi Roy. Thanks for inviting me,” Brian replied.
“Come in, come in.” Roy held the door open and Brian cautiously entered, as if afraid if he stepped too heavily the floor would shatter. He stopped and admired the living room.
“Wow, you've got a great set-up here for the Superbowl,” he marveled.
“Thanks. We kinda arranged the furniture so that a lot of people could see the TV. You can put your jacket on one of these hooks.”
“Looks like you're getting around pretty good,” Brian commented as he shrugged out of his coat.
“Yep. Not too bad. Now that I have the hang of these things.” Roy held the crutches forward.
“I know what you mean. I had to use 'em too, at first. My ankle's almost normal now.”
“That's great! Why don't you come back to the kitchen and I'll get you something to drink and introduce you to the guys."
“'Kay.”
Marco and Chet were coming out of the kitchen as Roy hobbled in that direction, followed by Brian.
“Hey guys, you remember Brian? From the supermarket?” Roy said by way of introduction.
“Hi Brian, good to see you again!” Marco extended his hand and Brian grasped it firmly. “You probably don't remember me. My name's Marco.”
“Hi,” Brian said shyly.
“And I'm Chet. I was there too.” The older man shook Brian's hand. “Glad to see you're doing so well.”
“I was just taking Brian in for a soda. Why don't you guys get settled until everyone else gets here?” Roy suggested.
Chet and Marco got the TV turned on to the pre-game festivities. Joanne brought in bowls of chips and a stack of coasters and arranged them on the coffee table. Roy settled himself back in his favorite spot on the sectional, his leg propped on a hassock. As soon as he relaxed, the doorbell rang again.
“I can get it, Roy,” Brian volunteered.
“You don't mind?”
“No, not at all.” He jumped up with the agility of youth and was at the front door in a few long strides.
Hank Stanley reached for the storm door handle as soon as Brian had opened the main entry. The captain smiled in recognition.
“Well, hello! It's Brian, isn't it?” Hank greeted him.
“Yes, sir. Captain Stanley, right?”
“That's right, but call me Hank,” the older man said warmly.
Brian took obvious pride in the honor. He started to step back to make room for the captain when he noticed a second person, almost hidden behind the tall man.
“Oh!” Hank exclaimed, stepping aside. “I know you remember Johnny.”
Brian smiled broadly at the sight of Roy's partner, now up and about and looking better than he'd ever seen him. “Hi Johnny. Good to see you again.”
Johnny, his left arm in a cast, swayed almost imperceptibly, but caught his balance by grasping the wrought iron rail of the stoop with his right hand. He looked at the unfamiliar face of this person who seemed to know him, then shifted his gaze to the captain's face. They seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He flashed a hesitant smile.
“Uh, yeah…good to see you too.”
Hank hadn't missed the signs of unsteadiness Johnny exhibited. He knew the man was far from strong yet. Additionally, the weather was unusually cold for Los Angeles and Johnny was shivering noticeably. The older man gently steered John over the threshold by the elbow. “Let's get you inside. You two'll have plenty of time to catch up, what with all the nonsense they show before the game.”
Catch up? Johnny's mind whirled in a familiar storm of confusion, only one of many he'd experienced since regaining consciousness after what he referred to in his mind as 'the accident.' That seemed a good enough name for it, since he didn't remember a single thing about that day he'd almost died. Plenty of people had described the incident to him in vivid detail, including Roy, who'd been there with him throughout the whole ordeal. He'd even been taken to the scene of the building collapse, but he felt no connection to it at all. All the stories and images seemed abstract and unreal, because as far as he was concerned, he wasn't there. At least, the part of him that survived it wasn't there. Couldn't have been. He'd remember something if he had been.
“Hey!” Marco and Roy yelled good-naturedly. Chet waved; he was busy chewing a chip he'd just popped into his mouth. Roy started to try to rise.
“Hey, yourself!” Hank replied. “Sit down!” he scolded Roy with mock authority.
Roy laughed and sank back onto his seat cushion.
“Hi guys,” Johnny said. He allowed Hank to help him out of his bulky coat, which had effectively camouflaged the paramedic's shockingly thin appearance. Those in attendance couldn't help but stare. Johnny's blue jeans, which usually fit him like a glove, hung slackly around his hips and legs, cinched in folds around his waist with a belt. His white button-down shirt looked three sizes too big, his bony shoulders jutting sharply into the material. The white emphasized the pallor of Johnny's complexion and served to highlight the dusky hollows of his cheeks and eyes. Dark locks of scruffy hair hung well over his collar and he repeatedly swept aside the long strands that fell into his eyes.
“Johnny, have I got a feast for you!” Chet exclaimed. “I knew you were coming, and I brought—“
“Not now, Chet,” Roy interrupted him. The smile on his face belied his serious tone.
“Oh, yeah?” Johnny commented, politely but disinterestedly. His attention was focused on getting across the room without stumbling.
Roy observed Johnny's movements, silently cheering him on. He knew Johnny was still struggling with periods of vertigo, dizziness and nausea, that the doctors said would improve over time and, hopefully, gradually disappear altogether. In the meantime, he was prone to falls, a situation made more perilous by the incapacitation of his left arm.
Johnny shuffled cautiously along the back length of the couch, keeping a steadying hand on it the whole way. He rounded the end and plopped down gracelessly, the small smile on his face conveying his relief and triumph.
“Johnny!” Joanne appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “I thought I heard you come in!” She made a bee-line for the seated man and perched on the arm of the couch next to him, leaning sideways to embrace him in a loving hug. Johnny smiled and grasped her arm in his right hand, the closest approximation of a return embrace he could manage. She felt the prominent bones in his back, shoulders and arms and sat up with alarm.
“Why Johnny, you're—“ She stopped suddenly, Roy's beseeching expression telling her more than words ever could. The room had fallen silent. “You're doing wonderfully! I'm so glad you could come.”
Joanne's false cheer didn't fool Johnny. He recognized the unease with which everyone tried to pretend they didn't notice how he'd changed, physically. Damn, it must be worse than I wanted to admit. I'm trying, I really am…I've just got a lot of ground to cover. If everyone would just…act normally.
“Thanks, Jo…it's great to be here,” he said flatly.
“Hey, look at that,” Chet interjected, motioning toward the TV set. There was nothing particularly interesting on, but the intent of the gesture was understood and everyone was grateful for the distraction.
“Johnny, can I get you a Coke?” Joanne asked quietly.
Johnny seemed to ponder the offer. “Uh…do you have any coffee made?” he asked hopefully.
“Sure, I just brewed some. I'll get you a cup. Black, right?”
“Yeah…if you don't mind,” he added sheepishly. He hated being waited upon, but there was no way he could carry a cup of coffee in from the kitchen without a disaster of some sort.
Roy was dismayed, but kept quiet. He'd visited Johnny a few times at his apartment since he'd been released from the hospital, and the only thing he'd seen Johnny put in his mouth was black coffee. When he'd expressed concern about it, Johnny had explained that the coffee helped with his headaches, and that the residual dizziness and nausea he'd been experiencing had all but killed his appetite.
“Johnny, help yourself to the chips and snacks,” Roy suggested.
“Yeah, John, here you go.” Hank held a bowl of potato chips toward the paramedic, who visibly blanched at the sight of the food.
“Oh that's okay, Cap. Not right now.” He tilted his head back away from the bowl as if it contained snakes.
Roy and Hank exchanged knowing glances. The doorbell rang again and Hank got up to let Mike in.
“So, I'll bet you're a big celebrity at school now, aren't ya, Brian?” Chet inquired.
“Oh yeah, well, I mean…at first. It's sort of wearing off now.” He laughed. “Nobody could believe I was in that store when the roof caved in.”
Johnny looked up suddenly. Of course. That's why I don't know him but he knows me.
Chet and Marco nodded and smiled. “It won't hurt your chances getting a prom date, I bet!” Marco quipped.
As the group continued reminiscing about that day, Johnny sat, silent. He couldn't contribute to a discussion about something he didn't remember. He did study Brian's face as much as he dared without being obvious, hoping to unlock some piece of his memory. But the boy looked like a complete stranger.
Joanne, ever the attentive hostess, refilled Johnny's coffee cup. He made quick work of draining it, as he'd done with the first cup.
“'scuse me,” Roy mumbled as he stood with some difficulty.
“Roy, can I get you something?” Hank offered.
“No, Cap. Thanks anyway.” Roy tucked the crutches under his arms and loped into the kitchen.
“Hi, honey. Chow's almost on,” Joanne said.
“We're out of coffee,” Roy stated.
“We're out? That can't be! I just bought—“
“We're out of coffee. That's the story,” Roy said emphatically.
“What? Roy, I'm not following you.”
“I don't want Johnny drinking any more coffee. After this pot is empty, we're out.”
Understanding dawned on Joanne's features. “But why? Johnny's always had coffee here.”
“And that's all he'd have if he wasn't forced to have something else. Did you get a look at him out there?”
“Well…yes. Roy, he's so thin. When I hugged him, all I felt was skin and bones, literally.”
“He's wasting away,” Roy agreed. “When I was at his apartment a few days ago, all he did was drink black coffee. I snooped around his kitchen and there wasn't any food there.”
“Maybe he needs help, Roy. He can't go to the store by himself yet. Did you offer?”
“Jo, he's got someone from the crew coming around every day, trying to help him out. I offered to take him to the store or pick some stuff up for him, but he said he just didn't have any appetite. I figured it was temporary.” Roy shook his head. “But he's still not eating and he looks thinner every time I see him. He's not getting any better.”
“You're right.” Hank Stanley's voice behind them made Roy and Joanne jump. They hadn't heard him enter the kitchen. “He looks bad, Roy. I was shocked when I picked him up.” Hank rummaged in the refrigerator.
“I'm gonna have to call Dr. Early tomorrow, I guess,” Roy sighed.
“I think you should,” Joanne said.
“And keep me informed, would you, Roy? I need to know how he's getting along,” the captain requested.
“Sure, Cap.”
Roy grabbed a beer out of the fridge and started back into the living room, followed by Hank. The others were absorbed in a pre-game discussion between the two commentators for this year's football game. Hank and Roy reclaimed their seats.
“Aww, this guy is full of crap,” Chet bemoaned through a mouthful of food.
“So are you, Chet,” Marco said, casting an annoyed sidelong glance at his friend.
“At least I'm not on TV spoutin' off like that,” Chet retorted.
Brian, unsure whether the two firefighters were really fighting, looked to Roy for some clue and was relieved to see Roy smiling amusedly.
Johnny started to rise, faltered, then managed to get to his feet successfully. He took a deep breath and walked unsteadily toward the powder room, his right hand skimming across furniture and walls as he went.
Chet regarded the retreating paramedic with a discerning eye. “Hey Roy, is he doing okay? He looks pretty shaky.”
“He looks weak,” Marco concurred.
“He is,” Roy admitted. “He just needs to start eating and getting his strength back.”
“That shouldn't be a problem,” Chet said. “We all know how Gage eats.”
“I know how he used to eat,” Roy clarified. “He isn't eating much of anything since the accident.”
“What do you think the problem is, Roy?” Hank asked.
“He said it's the dizziness. Makes him nauseated and unable to eat,” Roy answered. “But the weaker he gets, the worse the dizziness is going to be. He's getting himself into a hole that's going to be hard to get out of.”
“I don't understand. Why doesn't he just eat?” Chet asked.
Just then, 11-year old Christopher DeSoto came bounding into the room. “Hey Dad! Dad! It works!” he cried enthusiastically.
“That's great! I knew you could do it,” Roy responded proudly.
“Hi Chris!” chorused the visitors.
“Everyone should come down in the basement and see it!” Chris said. He plopped into the spot vacated by Johnny and began scooping up handfuls of chips, eating them voraciously.
“Eh eh eh!” Roy scolded him. “That's Johnny's seat. Move.”
“I will, when he comes back,” Chris mumbled.
“Chris!”
“Okay!” Chris got up and sat directly on the coffee table. “Come on! I want to show everyone my volcano!” He stood up and wiped his palms on his jeans.
“They're watching the show, son,” Roy said.
“I'd love to see your volcano, Chris,” Hank remarked, standing. “We all would, wouldn't we, fellas?”
“Cool! But let's wait until Johnny gets back,” Chris said.
“No, Chris. You go on ahead.” Roy motioned with his head toward the basement stairs.
“But, Dad—“
“No.”
Chris sighed. “Okay. Come on.” He led the parade of firefighters, plus one stockboy, as they tromped heavily down the stairs to the basement.
Johnny trudged back into the living room and sank down onto the sofa cushion. He took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully, then glanced over at Roy. “Where'd everybody go?”
“Oh,” Roy waved his hand. “They went downstairs to see Chris's science project.”
“Huh.” Johnny grinned. “I don't guess I'd better try that. Is Jen down there too?”
“No, she's over at her friend's house.”
“Oh.”
They watched the show for a couple of minutes. Roy decided to venture a question. “So, what does Dr. Early say these days? Have you seen him this week?”
Johnny didn't answer for so long that Roy wondered if he'd heard. “Yeah, I saw him a few days ago,” the dark-haired man murmured. He smiled wanly. “He…uh…he still doesn't know.”
Roy fought to keep his face neutral. He didn't want to display any negative emotion, even though the news was disappointing. He knew how badly Johnny needed to hear that he would definitely make a full recovery and return to work eventually. But it was too soon to say, evidently. The irony was that, without some hope, Johnny might not have the impetus he needed to make an effort; without an effort, he might not recover as fully as he could have.
“What did he have to say about your progress so far?” Roy asked.
“Well…he'd like to see more of it,” Johnny joked feebly. He stole a glance at Roy and his smile faded. “I know what you're getting at, Roy.” He spoke without bitterness. “He's…uh…not too happy with me.” Johnny's laugh rang hollow. “I'm trying. He doesn't think so.”
“Are you trying? Really?” Roy's tone was not intentionally accusatory.
Johnny shot Roy a wounded look, tinged with guilt. He looked back down at his lap, then let his eyes wander out the sliding glass door. “I could probably do better. I blame it on my head problems. He says my head problems would get better if I took better care of myself.” He shook his head slightly. “It's not that I don't want to get better. I do.” Johnny sighed in exasperation. “It just sometimes seems…so useless. I don't know if I'll ever work again, at least as a paramedic.”
“You could, Johnny. You don't know one way or the other, nobody does. But you're not doing yourself any favors by letting yourself waste away.”
“Roy, you don't know what you're talking about,” Johnny shot back coolly.
“I know what I see!” Roy argued. “You look thinner every time I see you and you haven't eaten a thing since you've been here!”
“Have you ever tried to force yourself to eat when it's the last thing in the world you feel like doing?”
“I can't say that I have,” Roy admitted. “But I would do it if I knew I had to.” This last was issued as a challenge.
“Yeah, well you don't know, do you?” Johnny retorted hotly.
“How much do you weigh now?” Roy asked directly.
“Roy,” John warned.
Roy backed down, afraid if he pushed too hard it would backfire.
“I don't know, anyway,” Johnny said dismissively.
Roy knew that was a lie.
Brian burst into the room, panting with excitement. “Hey Roy, you've gotta see this!” He gestured toward the basement stairs.
Roy smiled proudly. “I would kinda like to see what my son's been cooking up in his laboratory all these weeks.” He struggled to stand.
“I'll help you get down the stairs! You just gotta go see it,” Brian repeated.
“No, no, I don't need help,” Roy insisted. “You stay here and keep Johnny company.” Roy knew he'd need help but decided he'd solicit it from someone else. He felt bad about leaving Johnny alone.
“Okay. You sure?”
“It's all right, Roy. I'm a big boy,” Johnny remarked with a hint of disdain.
“That's debatable,” Roy answered with a grin.
Johnny smiled in spite of himself.
“Besides,” Roy added. “Brian here is a big help. He can do everything but go to the bathroom for ya.”
“Get outta here,” Johnny groused good-naturedly.
Joanne entered the living room with Johnny's coffee mug, curls of steam rising from its rim. Roy looked askance at the object; he was sure he'd made himself clear earlier. Joanne smiled knowingly at her husband and offered him a glimpse of the amber liquid inside. Roy smiled as he recognized the chicken broth. Joanne carefully passed the mug to Johnny, who was absorbed in whatever was on television. He started to bring the cup to his lips but flinched as he caught a whiff of the aroma, and slowly set the cup down on the coffee table without comment.
Roy sighed and hobbled toward the basement stairs to go see his son's volcano.
Brian and Johnny sat in silence, the latter staring, almost trance-like, at the TV screen. Brian was feeling uncomfortable. He'd stayed here to keep Johnny company, as Roy had wanted, but Johnny appeared to want to keep to himself. Brian finally decided to make an attempt at conversation.
“Will you be going back to work soon?” he asked.
Johnny blinked at the question. He regarded Brian with a blank expression. “What?”
“Work…will you, uh, be going back to work soon…do you think?” Brian asked more hesitantly.
“Uh.” Johnny inhaled deeply. “I don't know. Well, not soon.” Maybe not ever.
“Oh.” Brian nodded.
Johnny looked at the TV, then back at Brian, then back at the TV again. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt badly?”
“No, I'm okay. Just sprained my ankle. It's practically healed now.” He smiled.
“That's good.”
Brian ate a few potato chips and took a swig of his Coke. “Roy says—“ He stopped and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Roy says when you two are back to work, I should come visit you at the station. He said he might even be able to arrange for me to ride along.”
“Oh yeah?” So Roy says “when” I come back…not “if.”
“Yeah. That would be far out. Especially since I'm thinking about becoming a paramedic.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh! Ever since the accident, you know, it's all I can think about. The way Roy took care of everybody, and letting me help him…it was great. He's so smart. He knew just what to do for you and me and Wanda…well, Wanda wasn't really hurt, but he handled her really good. She was kind of grouchy, you know.”
Wanda?
Brian went on. “And all the stuff he did to try to help you. He knew you were hurt bad, but he didn't have any of his supplies. I know it really bugged him, but he did what he could anyway, keeping your head raised up and trying to keep you warm.”
Johnny gave a half smile and let his gaze roam to the tendrils of steam rising out of the cup of chicken broth. He nodded weakly. “Roy's one of the best,” he acknowledged with a raised eyebrow. Best paramedics…and best friends.
“And when he finally got the supplies and stuff, I watched him. He did everything so smooth. He put the splints on you, and he started that IV. I was like, wow! I didn't know firemen did those kinds of things! I knew you went to fires and everything, but I didn't know about the paramedics. I mean, I heard of paramedics, but I didn't know what all they could do. I just thought they put on band-aids and stuff, like first aid.”
“It's a pretty incredible job,” Johnny said slowly. It's the only job I could ever love. And I'm going to have to work really hard if I'm ever gonna do it again.
“Yeah, no kidding! I think it's what I really want to do. Or at least try. Roy said he thought I could do it.”
Johnny smiled, bemused. His mind went back to that day at the academy, when Roy successfully coaxed him into the paramedic program. Roy, you shoulda been a salesman. Still recruiting, are ya?
“Roy knows what he's talking about, Brian. If he thinks you can do it, I imagine you can.” Johnny raised his eyes to Brian's, his expression warm. And if he thinks I can do it – again – I imagine I can.
Their dialogue was interrupted by the commotion of several grown men and one little boy lumbering through the cozy kitchen on their way back into the living area.
“You got yourself a winner there, Chris!” Hank exclaimed.
“Chris, that was amazing, babe. You're going to have to let me in on the mechanics of that volcano…the Phantom might be able to benefit from that knowledge,” Chet said with mock seriousness.
“You twit. The Phantom doesn't need any more ammunition,” Hank warned the Irishman.
“Don't worry, Cap. The Phantom would never victimize an impaired pigeon. He has the decency to wait until Gage is fully recovered,” Chet said sincerely.
Hank shot him a look of warning.
“You guys better load up while you're here,” Joanne suggested. “I think everything's ready.”
“It smells wonderful, Joanne! What did you make?” Marco asked.
“It's Hungarian ghoulash, one of Roy's favorites. I figured since you were bringing chili, Marco, I'd make something a little different.”
“Hungarian ghoulash? I hope it tastes better than it sounds!” Chris remarked.
“Young man, I don't appreciate that,” Joanne scolded him teasingly. “Besides, you've had it lots of times before. You just didn't know what it was called.”
“I have?” Chris whined, his eyes wide with horror.
“Yes indeed.” Joanne was obviously enjoying this little bantering at her son's expense. “And you liked it.”
The men maneuvered awkwardly around one another in the small kitchen as they ladled bowlfuls of ghoulash and chili. Roy decided he'd go on and sit down and let Joanne or someone else wait on him. He hobbled past his partner and plunked down in his corner of the couch. He reclined, exhausted. All the hobbling around really wore him out.
The others filtered into the room, cradling their soup mugs, and reclaimed their seats.
“Hey Johnny, did the game start?” Mike asked.
“It's just getting' ready to, I think,” Johnny replied absently.
“Roy,” Joanne called from the kitchen. “Can I bring you a bowl of ghoulash?”
“Yeah, honey…that'd be great,” he answered breathlessly. Finally settled, he looked over at Johnny on the other end of the couch. But Johnny wasn't watching TV or even listening to the disjointed conversations flowing around him. He was staring into space, a faraway look in his eyes.
Joanne leaned over the back of the couch and carefully handed the mug to Roy, placing a couple of napkins on his lap. Roy held the warm crock and studied its contents. Hungarian ghoulash…why does that mean something? He looked at the others in the room, greedily wolfing down the savory stew without a second thought.
Roy looked at Johnny again and saw the grim, almost pained look on his face. Suddenly, like a tape loop cycling over and over in his mind, Roy's memory kicked in. Of course! We went to the supermarket to get ingredients for Hungarian ghoulash! He looked at Johnny again. This time, Johnny returned his gaze, his eyes bright with recognition, an astonished expression on his face. He remembers! Roy smiled at his friend.
Johnny shook his head in wonderment, a slow smile spreading across his face. The two friends didn't say anything. They both realized that Johnny had just regained his first shred of memory from that day. It was a true hurdle, and they felt equally pleased. The raucous reverie of a houseful of grown men gathered for a televised sporting event went unabated through this little milestone.
Roy dug into his meal, a feeling of peace and optimism pervading his senses. The feeling was only heightened by the unexpected sight of Johnny leaning forward to pick up the cup of chicken broth. The dark-haired man took a tentative sip, then another. Before long, the broth was half gone.
Things are definitely looking up.
Thanks to all my naggers: Tig, Mel, Susan, Cece, without whom I might not have finished this. And special thanks to Pat for her medical expertise and advice.