Casting Stones
Part 2
In spite of the relative comfort of the well-worn couch, Roy was not able to fall asleep. Plagued by self-doubt, he could not stop obsessing about the accident. Why didn't he wait until he picked Johnny up from the hospital after their last call before taking the squad to the mechanic? The rattling sound wasn't that bad. It probably wouldn't have hurt to drive the extra two miles to swing by Rampart. If he had any idea his decision would have stranded Johnny, leaving him at the mercy of someone else for transportation, he would have made a different choice. His overly cautious nature had nearly gotten his best friend killed. How could he possibly live with that knowledge? Immersed in self-recrimination, he didn't hear the door open.
"Roy?"
The paramedic abruptly turned around as two scrub-suited figures approached him.
Brackett formally introduced the imposing figure. "This is Dr. Talbot, Johnny's orthopedic surgeon."
Roy nervously extended his right hand in greeting. "Roy DeSoto." After several agonizing hours of waiting, Roy was desperate for news of his partner. "How is Johnny? Is he going to be okay?"
Dr. Talbot pulled up a chair and sat down. "He's stable. We'll keep him in recovery for about another hour before transferring him to the ICU." He took a deep breath before he continued. "Mr. Gage suffered a compound fracture of his right femur with significant vascular damage. Once we got the bleeding under control, we performed an open reduction. He also sustained a simple break to the right humerus. That didn't require any surgery, but we're going to wait until the swelling goes down to cast the arm. As you know, the pelvic ring fractures resulted in a ruptured bladder, which Dr. Greeley repaired earlier this evening. Because Mr. Gage is at risk of developing peritonitis, he'll be on prophylactic antibiotics for several days. Between the femur and pelvic injuries, Mr. Gage will be immobilized for several weeks. We're going to hold off on repairing the ligament damage to his right knee. At the moment, that's the least of his concerns."
The hairs on the back of Roy's neck stood on end. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Brackett decided to field this question. "Compound femur fractures this severe can take six months to a year to completely heal. Johnny's rehabilitation is going to be challenging, especially since he's going to be laid up for a lengthy period."
"What do you mean by 'challenging'?"
"Some people with fractures as serious as Johnny's never return to their pre-injury level of functioning, or live with chronic pain. The sooner an aggressive physical therapy program can be initiated, the more favorable the outcome. Unfortunately, since Johnny sustained multiple injuries, one of which still requires surgery..."
Brice's words echoed in Roy's ears as he finished the sentence. "That compromises his physical therapy schedule, and ultimately his recovery."
The orthopedic surgeon cleared his throat. "Mr. DeSoto, it's certainly our goal to restore full function as soon as possible. However, Mr. Gage has a physically demanding job. We'll simply have to wait and see."
This was unbelievable. Roy clenched and unclenched his fists. Johnny's career could be over, and it was completely his fault.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Fluffing his pillow for the tenth time, Brackett enviously watched Morton's sleeping form. Feeling personally responsible for the accident, he couldn't bring himself to go home and sleep in a comfortable bed. Besides, he reasoned that in addition to assuaging his guilty conscience, it would be easier to keep tabs on the progress of two certain seriously injured individuals if he slept in the on-call room. That sounded good in theory, anyway. Thus far, all he had been able to manage was a twenty-minute catnap. In a futile attempt to shield his eyes from the light seeping underneath the door, Brackett cradled his head in the crook of his arm. Eventually his eyelids felt heavy, and he drifted into a light slumber.
A persistent noise soon demanded his immediate attention, and he fought to clear the cobwebs that clouded his mind. "This better be important," he grumbled.
The young woman timidly apologized. "I'm sorry to wake you, but Dr. Early is regaining consciousness."
Her words had the effect of throwing cold water onto his face. Instantly alert, Brackett vigorously shook his colleague's shoulder. "Mike, get up!"
"What?"
"Joe is waking up."
Reaching for his glasses, the intern stumbled out of bed and sprinted down the hall. Not surprisingly, his boss was already at Early's side.
Brackett hesitantly approached the bed, his mind reeling with fears and doubts. What if Early placed the blame for his misfortune squarely on his shoulders? Could their friendship survive the accusations and recriminations? Would the emotional wounds ever heal? He swallowed almost convulsively as he summoned his resolve. In a resonant voice that belied his anxiety, Brackett finally spoke. "Hey, how are you feeling?"
A disoriented Early struggled to open his eyelids completely. "What?" His tongue felt heavy as he tried to moisten his dry lips. "Um...thirsty."
That wasn't quite the answer Brackett was looking for, and he tried again. "Other than that. Any pain or nausea?"
Early grimaced. "Yeah. Bad headache."
The dark-haired man cringed. Was the headache a result of the concussion? Or was it the same headache that had preceded the accident? "We'll get you something for that in a minute. First, I need you to answer a few questions for me, all right?"
"Okay."
"Do you know your name?"
A slight smile tugged at doctor's mouth. "Joe Early. Easy."
"Do you remember what day this is?"
There was a discernable pause. "Uh...I'm not sure. Thursday, October 9th, I think."
Close. That was yesterday, the day of the accident. Brackett blew out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He gently prodded, "Do you know the year, and who the president is?"
"1975. Gerald Ford."
"Do you know where you are?"
Surveying his surroundings, Early responded, "I must be at Rampart."
Morton and Brackett exchanged approving glances. Their patient was oriented as to person, time and place. Was the rest of his memory intact?
Propping his elbows on the cold metal railing, Brackett tentatively prompted, "Joe, do you know why you're here?"
His forehead wrinkled in concentration, Early tried to remember. "No. No, I can't." Exhausted by the effort, he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Later in the morning, Brackett checked on Johnny, for the second time. His vital signs were steadily improving, although he wasn't setting any speed records. The latest x-rays showed that the right lung was gradually re-expanding, although it would be about a week before the chest tube could be removed. A couple of years ago when Johnny developed a pneumothorax after a ceiling collapse, he had practically driven the nursing staff to despair when he was confined to bed while his lung re-inflated. How was he going to accept a lengthy period of immobilization while his fractured bones healed? And what about the extensive rehabilitation?
Brackett had difficulty reconciling the image of the pale figure in the ICU bed with the animated young man who regularly graced his emergency room. Would he ever return to work as a paramedic? Would he ever be able to function without disability or chronic pain?
A subtle stirring caught the doctor's attention. "Johnny?"
Johnny turned his head toward the noise. "Huh?"
"It's Dr. Brackett. Can you wake up for me?"
Drifting on a cloud of morphine, Johnny was hesitant to answer. In his drug-induced haze, the pain was tolerable. But the voice that penetrated through the fog seemed to be tinged with sadness, and he felt compelled to respond. His eyelids fluttered open and he blearily gazed at the man standing beside his bed. As his vision cleared, recognition dawned. "Doc? What happened?"
"You were in a car accident, but you're going to be okay."
Johnny frowned as he processed the information. "Accident?" Horrific scenes of the crash replayed in his mind, and he tightly closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the images.
Mistaking his reaction for pain, Brackett was immediately concerned. "Johnny, do you need some more morphine right now?"
The paramedic furiously shook his head back and forth. "No, not yet." He opened eyes again and focused on the doctor. "How is Dr. Early?"
"He had some broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a concussion and a fractured arm, but he's going to be fine."
Johnny appeared relieved. He scanned the partitioned cubicle, straining to lift his head off the pillow so he could see the medical paraphernalia attached to him. "What about me?"
Brackett wasn't sure whether Johnny was asking about the extent of his injuries, or whether he, too, would be okay. Preferring to delay any conversation about a long-term prognosis until Johnny was more coherent, the doctor decided to provide a partial answer. "You sustained a compound fracture to the right femur, simple fracture of the right humerus, pelvic ring fractures that resulted in a ruptured bladder, as well as a couple of broken ribs. Then, just before you arrived in the ER, your right lung collapsed, so we put in a chest tube."
"Not again," Johnny groaned.
"'Fraid so." Brackett couldn't suppress a grin. "If it's of any consolation, Cookie has been reassigned to the ICU. She'll take good care of you."
His patient's face visibly brightened. "Cookie?"
"Yeah. Maybe you'll finally get a chance to ask her out since she's a captive audience. But Johnny, it really wasn't necessary to go through all this trouble to get a date with Cookie. All you had to do was ask."
"Speaking of asking..." Johnny pointed toward his injured leg. "Do you think I could get something for pain? It really hurts."
Brackett paternally patted him on the hand. "Sure. After all, we have to get you back into top flirting condition, right?"
"Back? Doc, I never lose the Gage magic."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Roy paced as he impatiently noted the time on his watch. He had to wait ten more minutes before he could see Johnny again. Usually Dixie could sneak him into the ICU outside normal visiting hours for a few minutes, or he could charm his way past the nurses, but today he had to cool his heels like everyone else. He poured another cup of hideously strong coffee and absently held the lukewarm brew in his hands as time passed interminably.
Just as he was about to climb the walls, the double doors of the ICU flung open. Roy haphazardly tossed the paper cup into the nearest trashcan and walked to his friend's bedside. Although Johnny still looked appallingly fragile, it was a considerable improvement since Roy saw him in the emergency room yesterday evening. He lightly squeezed Johnny's hand and was delighted when his friend responded to his touch.
"Roy?"
"Yeah, Johnny. It's me. How are you feeling?"
Johnny grimaced. "Why does everyone ask me that when they know I feel like crap?"
The senior paramedic was surprised. Johnny must be hurting if he wasn't even pretending he was fine. "Do you want me to tell the nurse you need your meds?"
"Yeah."
A couple of minutes later, Roy returned with Cookie. Despite his obvious discomfort, Johnny displayed his most charming crooked grin.
Uncapping the syringe, the willowy blonde nurse laughed. "Johnny, what am I going to do with you?"
"Go out on a date with me?" he asked hopefully.
"We'll see. How about a date with some morphine for now?"
He stuck out his lower lip in an impressive pout. "I suppose I'll need that to ease the pain of your rejection."
She injected the medication into his IV port. "I didn't exactly say no."
His eyes widened. "So that's a yes?"
Cookie smiled enigmatically. "We'll see," she repeated.
As soon as she left the cubicle, Roy scrutinized his partner's face. "The pain's pretty bad, huh?"
"Yeah," Johnny admitted. "I don't think there's a spot on my body that doesn't hurt. I wish I could sleep until I'm a hundred percent again."
Roy inwardly winced. Either he didn't know his prognosis was questionable, or he was overly optimistic. Knowing Johnny's fierce determination, it could easily be the latter.
The effects of the narcotic were becoming evident, and Johnny could barely keep his eyes open. "Hey, Roy?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think not telling the truth is the same thing as telling a lie?"
The question caught him off guard. Johnny Gage was the most honest person he knew. What on earth was he talking about? Roy raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
It was too late. Johnny now rested peacefully in the arms of Morpheus.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
The next morning, a frazzled Dixie chewed on the end of her pen. One of her nurses had accepted a position at Harbor General for more money and less hours, and left without giving a two-week notice. She was so tired of having to revise the staffing schedule every time she turned around. Working for the third consecutive Saturday wasn't improving her disposition, either.
Brackett stood at the desk, scribbling yet another set of discharge orders. "Has everyone in Los Angeles lost their marbles? I can't believe the stupidity of some people. So far today, I've treated a drunk high school kid who decided to add a whole new dimension to the phrase 'toasted buns' by sitting on a hot barbeque grill on a dare, a man who swallowed a balloon filled with beer in order to impress his girlfriend, a woman who tried to disinfect her toilet bowl by dousing it with gasoline and lighting a match, a kid who stuffed himself into a dryer at a laundromat and asked his so-called friends to spin him around, a guy who decided to make a necklace for his wife out of out live ammunition by punching holes in the shell casings, a little boy who decided to eat his lunch money to keep anyone from stealing it, and a woman who decided to eat a two-week old piece of fish in the refrigerator because she didn't want it to go to waste." He stared at the clock with contempt. "I can't believe it's not even noon yet. It's going to be a long day, again."
Dixie set her revised paperwork aside. "I take it you're working another double shift?"
"Yeah. And to make matters worse, we're out of coffee in the lounge."
"Kel, there's plenty of coffee in the pantry. I just restocked it three days ago."
"But Dix," he whined, "Sanka doesn't count. I'm talking about real coffee."
The head nurse shook an admonishing finger at him. "Kel, you need to cut back on caffeine anyway. In fact, I suspect that's all you're living on, and coffee does not satisfy the recommended daily allowance of essential vitamins and minerals."
"I don't have time to eat! We were already understaffed, and now that Joe is going to be out for God knows how long, I don't know how we're going to manage. I can't afford to hire any more doctors, even on a contract basis."
She sympathized with the frustrated physician. "I know. I had another nurse leave for greener pastures. I'm so sick and tired of juggling and re-juggling the staffing schedule. I might as well just throw darts on a board to determine who's going to work which shifts. It would certainly be less time-consuming and stressful." Propping her elbows on the desk, she appeared pensive. "I dropped by to see Joe and Johnny before my shift started."
"Oh? I haven't made it upstairs yet. How are they doing?"
"They're both miserable, but more alert. Joe still doesn't remember the accident."
"That's not terribly surprising. He sustained a nasty concussion." Brackett closed the chart he was writing in and handed it to Dixie. "How is Johnny?"
"He started developing a fever early this morning. Jake suspects peritonitis. They started him on prophylactic antibiotics during surgery, but you know Johnny. Trouble always seems to find him anyway. Obviously they're going to have to delay any surgery on his knee until the infection clears up."
"Shit."
"I couldn't have phrased it better myself."
Brackett grabbed another chart from the desk and read the triage nurse's notes. "Twenty-one year old white male complains of severe rash, an apparent allergic reaction to glitter paint he applied to his..." His voice trailed off as he read the embarrassing details. "Dix, if the board approves our proposed budget on Wednesday, I'm tempted to hire a psychiatrist for the department."
"And how will that help the patients?"
Tucking the chart under his arm, he headed toward the treatment room. "Who said anything about the patients? At this rate, I'm going to be certifiably nuts by then!"
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Dr. Mabry examined his patient's surgical incision and murmured his approval. "Joe, everything looks good. If this keeps up, we'll probably discharge you to the surgical floor tomorrow."
"Any idea when I'll get to go home, Phil?"
"Maybe in another week or so." The surgeon discarded the soiled dressing into the waste receptacle. "How's the headache?"
"It's okay. I'll live."
"I understand you've been having a lot of headaches recently. Have you considered a neurology consult?"
Early practically spat his answer. "No. It's not necessary. I know what I'm dealing with."
Per his conversation with the emergency room physician on the night of the accident, they agreed Brackett would perform the unpleasant task of breaking the news about the brain mass when he felt the time was right. Given the neurosurgeon's reaction, Dr. Mabry was glad he had been absolved of that responsibility.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Later that evening, Johnny was desperately trying to reach the ice chips on the bedside table when the doctors entered his cubicle. Seeing his predicament, Brackett reached for the Styrofoam cup and handed it to the distressed patient.
"Thanks, Doc. I thought I was going to dislocate my shoulder there for a minute."
"We can't have that. I think there's an injury limit per admission to the ICU," he joked.
Johnny mumbled around the ice chips in his mouth. "Very funny." He dipped the plastic spoon back into the cup. "So when can I move into a real room with a television? I'm sooooo bored."
Dr. Greeley flipped through the chart. "I see your temp is still climbing and your urine output is down, not to mention the vomiting despite the anti-emetic I ordered this morning. How is the abdominal pain?"
"Um...a little sore from tossing my cookies."
"Uh huh. Right." The surgeon frowned as he checked the incision. "Still looks a little inflamed. Hmm. I'll have to chase down the status of the culture and blood work. We might need to switch antibiotics or adjust your dosage. I'll be right back. I'm going to call the lab."
Johnny watched the surgeon slip past the white curtain and head toward the nurses' station. Shifting his weight as much as he was able, he vainly tried to find a more comfortable position. Finding none, he settled back against the flat pillows. "How is Dr. Early?"
Brackett leaned against the metal railing. "He's making good progress. He'll probably be transferred to a regular unit in a couple of days or so."
"Any idea how long I'm going to be stuck here?"
"I can't say. We want to keep you closely monitored until the infection is under control."
Scooping another spoon of the melting ice chips, Johnny mustered a feeble crooked grin. "Oh, well. I guess I'll be forced to spend more time here with Cookie."
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." Grinning, Brackett stuffed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "You never give up, do you?"
"I might as well make the best of a bad situation."
Eager to solve a mystery that had been nagging at him for the past couple of days, Brackett posed his question. "Speaking of which, do you remember the accident?"
"Some. Bits and pieces, mostly."
The physician crossed his arms across his chest. "Bellingham and Brice said you were...reluctant to let go of the steering wheel. In fact, you were pretty belligerent about it. What was that all about?"
Johnny stared at the icy slush. "Um...I dunno."
"Are you sure?" Brackett asked dubiously.
"Yeah."
"I see. Do you routinely grab the steering wheel when Roy drives the squad?"
Johnny's expression darkened. "No, of course not! It's...uh..." Crap. Brackett could be tenacious, and he felt trapped. Why couldn't he have just let go of the steering wheel before the emergency personnel arrived on the scene, or in his confused state, why couldn't he have stopped babbling about it? Handing the Styrofoam cup back to the doctor, Johnny muttered his apologies. "It's all my fault. I could see the other car about to run the red light. I didn't act quickly enough and nearly got us killed. If I would have paid closer attention, or my reflexes had been faster, I could have gotten the car out of the way in time."
Which brought them back to another nagging question. "But why was it your responsibility if Dr. Early was driving?"
"Um...it was getting dark, and the other driver didn't have his headlights on and..."
"But you saw it," Brackett countered.
While Johnny wrestled with his conscience, Brackett pieced the puzzle together. "Dr. Early didn't see the oncoming car, did he? Is that why you felt it was your responsibility to take control of the situation?"
Tears welled up in Johnny's eyes. "Doc, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to get him into trouble."
"It's okay, he's not in trouble and neither are you. In fact, you did him a huge favor. The whole situation is beginning to make more sense now. Get some rest. I'll be back later."
Johnny turned away and pressed his face against his pillow. Warm, salty tears spilled onto the rough fabric as his silently cursed himself for his betrayal of a friend.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Brackett's mind raced as he headed toward his colleague's bed on the opposite side of the ICU desk. Of course, it made perfect sense. Given the location of the mass in Early's occipital lobe, the tumor had probably caused a peripheral field defect. But for how long, and to what extent? Did the visual loss precede the headaches, or vice versa? He needed to order a neurosurgical consultation as soon as possible. His mind scrolled through the list of possibilities. Normally he'd ask Joe for his professional opinion, but that wasn't an option since he was the patient. Besides, he wasn't sure he trusted Joe's judgment anymore. How could the man have a brain tumor of that size and not know it?
Clutching the chart tightly against his chest, he stood beside Early's bed. "Joe?"
"Hmm?"
"Joe, wake up. I need to talk to you."
"Whatimizzit?"
"It's time for you to wake up. C'mon."
Threading his good arm through the tangle of IV tubing and monitor wires, Early attempted to wipe the gummy sleepers from his eyes. "What do you want?"
Brackett set the hospital chart on the small bedside stand. "I want to talk to you about the accident."
"I told you. I don't remember."
"Okay, what is the last thing you remember about that day?"
Early considered the question for several moments. "I had a headache and took some aspirin as soon as I got to work."
"Do you recall a conversation we had in my office?"
"No, should I?" Early was becoming suspicious. "Kel, why can't I remember? Retrograde amnesia?"
Scanning the cramped quarters, Brackett's sight alighted upon an adjustable stool. He dragged it over to the side of the bed and wearily sat down. "Joe, you sustained a moderate concussion, which could account for your memory lapse. When you were brought in, we performed a full skull series and a CT scan before you were taken to surgery. While the films didn't show any fractures or brain trauma, it did reveal an unexpected finding."
"Such as?"
There was no easy way to say this. "Joe, a large mass was detected in your occipital lobe."
"What? But that's not possible!"
In his most calming voice, Brackett said, "I know this comes as a huge shock. But in retrospect, your headaches have become progressively worse. I'm guessing you have a significant peripheral visual field defect, probably a contralateral hemianopsia, judging by the location. That would explain why Johnny thought you didn't see the car run the red light. I'm going to make arrangements for Sam Vance to evaluate you. As soon as..."
"No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"I don't want an evaluation. I don't intend to undergo surgery or any other treatment."
Stunned, Brackett tried to reason with him. "Okay. Fine. We don't have to do this immediately. This can wait a few days until you're feeling better."
"No."
"Damn it, Joe. Why not? Give me one good reason I shouldn't schedule a consultation."
Early pounded the mattress with his right fist. "I should have died in that stupid wreck. I could have killed Johnny or someone else because I can't diagnose my way out of a paper bag."
"Joe..."
The neurosurgeon refused to be consoled. "Please go. I need some time alone."
Feeling depressed, Brackett quietly left the room. He had a horrible premonition this nightmare was far from over.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
On Monday morning, Johnny was sipping apple juice through a straw when Roy unexpectedly sneaked in. Amused by his partner's furtive movements, he feigned mock horror. "They're gonna throw you out if they see you."
Blushing, Roy handed Johnny several magazines. "I'm here through Cookie's good graces. I brought a huge box of chocolates for the nursing staff, so she persuaded them to let me slither in for a few minutes before I report for work."
"Tsk, tsk. I can't believe you resorted to bribery."
"Flattery works wonders, too. Unfortunately, I don't have the Gage charm, or I'd get to see you more often."
Seized by a sudden bout of coughing, Johnny sloshed some of the juice onto his hospital gown. "Oh, man. Not again!"
Roy grabbed a couple of tissues and starting dabbing at the damp attire. "Not again? You're making a habit of drowning yourself these days?"
"Not exactly," Johnny rasped. "I've sort of been christening the linens in other ways."
"Uh oh. Still vomiting?"
"Yeah." Johnny dejectedly stared at the chest tube. "I'll be glad when they cut me loose from the garden hose and Wet-Vac. It hurts like hell when I cough." As if to underscore that point, Johnny erupted into another fit of wet-sounding coughs.
Instinctively pressing his hand against his friend's forehead, Roy was alarmed at the intense heat radiating off of him. "Geez, Johnny. You're burning up!"
"You think?"
Roy ignored the sarcastic remark. "I thought your doctor was going to change your antibiotics."
"He did. Right before I started working on this case of pneumonia."
Crap. Johnny did not need another complication. Roy attempted a half-hearted smile. "Another infection? I can't believe you're resorting to such desperate measures just so you can stay here a few more days to pester Cookie."
Johnny laughed weakly. "Aw, shucks, Roy. You've figured me out." Unable to ignore the building ticklish sensation in his lungs, he launched into another vicious coughing attack. When the episode passed, Johnny sank back against his pillows. "Oh, man. That hurt."
"Do you need something for pain?"
"Yeah, in a minute. I need to tell you something first."
"What?"
The injured paramedic lowered his voice to a near whisper. "I couldn't stop the accident. It's my fault."
Roy was incredulous. "Johnny, that's absurd. A drunk driver was responsible. There's nothing you could have done."
"You don't understand. It was my fault." Johnny nervously chewed on his lower lip, already regretting his decision to bring up the subject. He motioned toward the nurses' station. "Could you ask Cookie to come here? With a shot of morphine?"
"Okay, Johnny. I need to run anyway. But we're not finished talking about this."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Station 51's temporary paramedic, Gabriel Martinez, was mopping the kitchen floor when a blood-curdling scream pierced the air.
Marco cringed. "Uh oh. Sounds like the Shadow and the Phantom are at it again."
Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, Mike agreed. "I'm not sure whether I should be glad Chet is getting a taste of his own medicine, or feel sorry for him."
Chet's voice bellowed throughout the station. "Martinez! I'm gonna kill you for this!"
Captain Stanley frowned sternly. "Martinez, what did you do this time?"
Gleefully rubbing his hands together, Gabriel mimicked a phrase from an old radio show. "'Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!' Bwahahahaha!"
The irate firefighter flew into the day room, spouting an impressive array of expletives. "Damn it, Gabriel. I just cleaned the latrine."
A bewildered Roy watched the proceedings. "What happened?"
"He lined the toilet bowl with Saran Wrap again and I peed all over myself!"
Setting the lid back on the spaghetti pot, Mike chuckled. "Cap, aren't firefighters supposed to be housebroken?"
"Housebroken?" Chet sputtered. "It wasn't my fault! This is the second time Martinez has pulled this stupid prank."
Gabriel shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Placing his hands on his hips in a reasonable facsimile of a menacing stance, Captain Stanley growled. "Martinez, go clean the latrine."
"Aw, Cap..."
"Don't 'Aw, Cap' me, or you'll be on latrine duty for the duration of your assignment here."
Grumbling under his breath, Gabriel slung the mop over his shoulder and picked up the bucket. "I'm going, I'm going."
Marco stroked his mustache. "You know, it's too bad Johnny isn't here to see the Phantom get his just desserts."
"Yeah," Mike agreed. "Especially the perfumed water bomb. That was a classic. Chet reeked of Heaven Scent the whole shift. He took so many showers to get rid of the smell, I thought he was going to turn into a prune."
Captain Stanley sat down at the kitchen table and directed his question at Roy. "Speaking of Johnny, how is he doing?"
Roy flinched at the memory of the morning's visit. "Not too good. In addition to all of his injuries, Johnny has developed peritonitis and pneumonia. He's putting up a good front, but he must feel awful."
"How much is that going to set his recovery back?" Mike asked.
"I don't know. From what I understand, it's going to be pretty rough. It may be a long time before his leg heals."
The room was chillingly silent for several minutes as they contemplated their friend's plight. Marco was the first to give voice to their fears. "He is coming back, isn't he?"
A lump formed in Roy's throat. "God, I hope so."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Later that evening, Johnny tried to follow Dr. Greeley's instructions for the examination. Something about taking a deep breath. Riiiiight. That was a scream. The humidified oxygen helped a little, but it was still exhausting trying to force air into his congested lungs. All he wanted to do was sleep. If only people would leave him alone. At least the surgeon had ordered an arterial line. He was in constant pain, and would not have appreciated the additional indignity of being awakened every few hours so someone could stab him for blood gasses. Then again, he reasoned he deserved to suffer. This was his punishment for causing the accident. He was almost disappointed when a nurse injected something into his IV port. Of course. Dr. Greeley had ordered the shot of morphine. Johnny was furious with the doctor for depriving him of the pain he needed to atone for his sins. Before he could express his anger, the powerful effects of the narcotic overtook him, and he quickly fell asleep.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Two days later, Brackett frantically stuffed a plethora of paperwork into his already bulging briefcase as he prepared for his meeting with the board of directors. He was determined to obtain additional funding for his department if it killed him. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he retrieved a roll of Tums. Popping two of the chalky tablets into his mouth, he rummaged for the pièce de résistance. Ah, there it was! He collected the colorful charts and graphs he had prepared, at his own expense. If only he could afford to pay doctors and nurses and buy desperately needed new medical equipment out of his personal funds.
He instinctively picked up his coffee cup for one last caffeine fix before he headed to his meeting. Damn. Empty again. Fine. Since he was paying for things out of his own pocket, he'd buy himself a percolator and a large can of Folgers. Brackett grinned at his ingenious plan. No more scrambling for a hot cup of java for him!
On one bright note today, Joe had finally agreed to be evaluated by a neurosurgeon. Perhaps his good luck would hold for the rest of the morning. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the boardroom.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Johnny blanched at the foul tasting medication he was forced to inhale with the nebulizer. Yuck! Some of Chet's vile health food concoctions tasted better than this! He glared at the respiratory therapist.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Gage. I'm afraid it doesn't come in flavors yet."
"How come we can put a man on the moon, but we can't make medicine taste good?" he grumbled. The gagging sensation provoked a violent coughing spell, bringing up copious amounts of colorful mucous. At least the removal of the chest tube had made this unpleasant process slightly more bearable.
Holding the emesis basin under Johnny's chin, the respiratory therapist waited for the attack to subside. "Are you done?"
"I hope so," Johnny whined. "Are you done?"
"Yeah, for now. You know me, though. I keep turning up like a bad penny. Say in about another four hours?"
"I can't wait."
The man snickered as he replaced the oxygen mask. "Hey, I'm a popular guy. What can I say?"
"Hopefully 'good-bye'."
Roy tried to adopt a severe expression as he slipped into the cubicle. "Giving the medical staff a hard time again, Johnny?"
"Who me?"
"Yes, you."
"Nah. I've been a good boy this time." The bitter taste of medication lingered in Johnny's mouth, and he reached for his glass of water. As he slipped the straw under the oxygen mask, he became pensive. "That's not completely true. I did something bad a few days ago."
"Oh?"
Johnny's muffled voice was tinged with despair. "I told Brackett something I shouldn't have."
His partner was thoroughly confused. "What do you mean?"
"He was bugging me about the accident, and I sort of slipped up."
"I don't understand."
Clearly exasperated that his partner wasn't following his logic, Johnny tried again. "He asked me about the stupid steering wheel, and I told him I didn't think Early ever saw the other car. That's why I was trying to steer us out of the way."
"So?"
"So what if Early was drunk, too? Or what if he was on drugs or something? He could be in serious trouble!"
Roy was skeptical. "Johnny, your overactive imagination is working overtime. Maybe he didn't feel well, or hadn't gotten much sleep. You know how short-handed the emergency department has been for the past few months. Early has been putting in a lot of hours like everyone else. Or maybe he had something on his mind, or was even sort of daydreaming for a minute. I think you're reading way too much into this."
Unconvinced, Johnny continued to brood.
Mentally slapping himself, Roy realized that in typical Gage fashion, his friend was trying to assume responsibility for events beyond his control. Why was Johnny obsessing over this anyway? After all, the accident was his fault, too. By stranding Johnny at the hospital, he had unwittingly set the whole tragic chain of events in motion. Why was Johnny so eager to accept the blame? For the life of him, Roy couldn't imagine why anyone would do that.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
After he finished hanging hose, Chet was delighted to detect the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. His mouth was already watering in anticipation.
Mike opened the pantry and handed him a ceramic mug. "Do you have big plans for the weekend?"
"Sort of. I might go to a horror movie film festival tomorrow with Jerry from Station 116." Chet poured a cup of the hot brew. "It's a shame no one here has sophisticated taste like me. You guys don't know what you're missing."
Gabriel wiped doughnut crumbs from his moustache. "I'd hardly call cheesy horror flicks sophisticated."
"Oh, yeah? Well, it's a whole lot better than those stupid space show re-runs you watch about the guy with the pointy ears. I can't believe you waste your time going to those Star Trek conventions. For crying out loud, the show was cancelled years ago. Get over it." Sitting down at the table, Chet opened the white bakery box. "Aw, Martinez. You ate the last doughnut!"
"Hey, man. You snooze, you lose." Picking up the empty container, Gabriel tossed it into the trashcan. "There are some Oreos in the cookie jar. I think someone from the last shift brought them.
Chet's eyes lit up. "Oreos? All right!" He eagerly walked over to the counter and lifted the lid. "Oooooh. There's only two left." Setting his coffee cup aside, he untwisted a cookie and scraped the creamy filling off with his teeth. Almost immediately, Chet made a face and spat the foul tasting icing into the sink. "Martinez!"
By the time the scream died down, Gabriel had already made a hasty retreat.
"Are you okay?" Mike asked.
"Yeah, but you better get Roy in here. Our temporary paramedic is gonna need a paramedic after I get through with him." Chet rinsed his mouth with a swig of coffee. "The Shadow set me up. He switched the filling with Pepsodent toothpaste."
"Look at the bright side. You won't get cavities from eating cookies this way." Sensing his friend's gloomy mood, Mike hastily apologized. "I'm sorry about that, Chet."
"Nah, it's okay. I just never realized what a giant pain in the butt practical jokes were before. You know, ever since Johnny got hurt, I could kick myself for every mean prank I've pulled on him. I swear, if he ever comes back..."
"It's not a matter of if, but when," Mike reminded him.
Chet blinked back a tear for his fallen pigeon. "Yeah. Right. When."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
The orthopedist reviewed the latest results with Johnny. "Mr. Gage, I'm afraid the x-rays of your pelvis show very minimal change. I know it's still early, but usually we see more of an improvement at this point. We'll repeat the x-rays on a weekly basis to monitor your progress."
Johnny considered the information. "So how long do you think it will be before I graduate from these piddly bedside physical therapy sessions to the real thing?"
Dr. Talbot pushed his glasses up on his nose. "It depends on how quickly the fractures heal. We'll have to wait and see."
Pointing toward the cast, Johnny asked, "How long am I gonna be stuck with this?"
"Possibly about six weeks or so."
Reaching under the oxygen mask, Johnny scratched his nose. "How long before I can go back to work?"
The doctor looked up from writing in the chart. "You're a firefighter, right?"
Johnny quickly clarified, "Firefighter/paramedic."
Dr. Talbot smiled at the correction. "Sorry. The physical requirements for your job must be pretty demanding."
A red flag went up in Johnny's mind, and he pulled the oxygen mask away from his face. "What are you getting at? Are you saying my career is over?"
"No, not necessarily. But I believe you need to be realistic about your rehabilitation. Severe femur fractures usually take about six months to a year to completely heal. Unfortunately, you sustained several injuries, each of which could prove problematic. Also, aside from making you generally miserable, the peritonitis and pneumonia are slowing an already difficult recovery."
Johnny was overcome with a spine-chilling sense of foreboding. Had his luck finally run out? Had he used up all of his nine lives? For the first time since his ordeal began, Johnny realized his life as he knew it, could be over.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Nine days after the accident, the emergency room settled into an uneasy routine. The hospital board had refused to authorize additional funds for the department, much to Brackett's consternation. To make matters worse, they actually further reduced his budget, forcing him to consider another round of layoffs. His argument that inadequate staffing could seriously compromise patient care fell on deaf ears, even when he pointed out that their decision could result in costly lawsuits against the hospital. He was reviewing the new budget when a loud knock interrupted his concentration. "Come in," he grumbled.
A tall, lanky man opened the door. "Kel, do you have a sec?"
Brackett stood up and motioned for him to have a seat. This wasn't a promising development when your friend's neurosurgeon personally paid you a visit rather than call you on the phone. A dozen possibilities flashed through his head, none of them good. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as they usually did when he was worried. "What's up?"
Sam Vance absent-mindedly fingered his wedding ring. "I'll start with the good news, relatively speaking. Joe finally agreed to the arteriogram, and we performed it this morning. The mass is a meningioma. It appears to be benign, and it's certainly operable. I believe his prognosis is excellent. It's possible Joe won't even require any radiation or chemo."
Brackett nearly wilted with relief. The lesion probably wasn't cancerous. In some warped way, a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Now that the problem was diagnosed, the tumor would be removed, life would return to normal, and his complicity in the cover up would soon be forgotten. But the scowl on the neurosurgeon's face indicated there was more to the story. "What's the problem?"
"Joe refuses to consent to the surgery."
"What?"
"He doesn't want the tumor removed, but he won't explain why."
"I don't believe this!" Brackett exclaimed. "What on earth is he thinking? If he weren't already in a hospital bed, I'd put him there myself!"
Seeking to soothe the frustrated physician, Dr. Vance responded in a calm, measured timbre. "Kel, I can't perform the surgery for a while anyway. Joe needs time to recover from his current injuries. Maybe he just needs to come to terms with this in his own way."
"Yeah. I suppose you're right." As the neurosurgeon stood up, Brackett shook his hand. "Thanks for coming by. I appreciate it."
"No problem. I'll stay in touch."
The gnawing sensation in his stomach intensified, and Brackett automatically reached into his pocket for the ever-present roll of antacids.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Entering the familiar cubicle, Roy cringed as his squeaking boots loudly announced his arrival. Johnny appeared to be asleep, and he hoped the high-pitched noise did not disturb his friend's slumber. Clutching the HT in one hand, he pulled the molded plastic chair closer to Johnny's bedside. He had a sneaking suspicion the hospital furnished the ICU with hideously uncomfortable furniture in order to discourage visitors from overstaying their allotted time.
Fortunately, the nursing staff was becoming more lenient about visiting hours. Between Cookie's intercession and the nursing supervisor's appreciation of chocolate donations, he was able to visit Johnny more frequently. Of course, it would be preferable if Johnny did not need to be confined to the ICU at all. Early had been discharged to a private room a few days ago, and Johnny found that knowledge oddly depressing. Intellectually, Johnny understood his concurrent infections and more serious injuries dictated his accommodations. However, part of him was jealous that the doctor managed to escape relatively unscathed. From what he understood, Early would be going home in a matter of days, whereas he was going to be bedridden at Rampart for weeks. If Johnny was already sliding into a depression less than two weeks after the accident, what would his state of mind be in a couple of months?
Roy was about to rejoin his temporary partner in the emergency room when Johnny began violently thrashing in his sleep. He immediately jumped to his feet and tried to calm his troubled friend. "Hey. Shhhhh. It's going to be okay. You're all right."
The commotion attracted the attention of the shift nurse, and Hannah rushed to his bedside. "Mr. Gage? C'mon wake up. You're having another nightmare."
Johnny swatted Roy's hand away from his face. "No! Gotta get...out of here! Gotta move...now!"
Setting the HT down on the small table, Roy spoke to his friend in a soothing cadence. "It's okay, Johnny. Shhhhh. I'm sure you'll get your own room soon."
Hannah sadly explained the problem. "No, that's not it. He's reliving the accident. Sometimes we have to sedate him when he becomes too agitated. But with his respiratory problems, we try to avoid it if we can."
"Does this happen often?"
"Yeah. Several times a day, actually. Today he's been upset, so the dreams have been worse."
Brushing Johnny's hair away from his overly warm forehead, Roy kept up a reassuring patter until the young man settled down. Satisfied his friend was no longer in distress, Roy asked the nurse to elaborate upon her earlier comment. "Do you know what he's been upset about?"
"He's been down in the dumps ever since the orthopedist was in. Apparently he's afraid his career as a paramedic is over."
Roy was instantly alarmed. "Is that what the doctor told him?"
She studied the monitors for a moment. "Not exactly. I think Dr. Talbot was trying to paint a more realistic picture of his recovery, but you know how Johnny is. Once he latches onto an idea, it's hard for him to shake it loose."
The paramedic sighed. He knew all too well.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Brackett downed another cup of strong black coffee before he headed upstairs during his brief lunch break. He felt guilty for not stopping by to see Early before he reported for work that morning, but after four consecutive double shifts, he was physically and emotionally exhausted. Keeping the emergency department adequately staffed had been a significant challenge before Early's accident. Now it had become a logistical nightmare. To make matters worse, because of budget constraints, he could not afford to hire a physician on a short-term contract basis. Joe had been a loyal Rampart employee for many years, and had therefore accrued a substantial amount of vacation and sick time. Thus, they were in effect paying the neurosurgeon not to work. From a moral standpoint, it was the right thing to do. Rampart was paying him a benefit he had rightfully earned. However, from a financial standpoint, it wasn't cost efficient. As long has they had to pay his salary, Brackett couldn't hire the help they so desperately needed.
As he walked through the hospital corridors, Brackett berated himself for thinking of his friend in terms of the bottom line. After all, wasn't that how he placed Early in harm's way over a week ago, by overlooking his frequent debilitating headaches in order keep his department functional? Oh, sure. He finally insisted that his colleague seek help, just before he sent him to his near doom. Wasn't he as culpable as the driver who plowed into the Mercedes?
Brackett paused outside the private room to collect his thoughts. Joe needed his support right now, not his self-recrimination. The door was slightly ajar, and he peered inside. Relieved to find his friend awake, he lightly tapped on the doorframe. "Joe?"
"Hey, Kel. Come on in."
Seating himself in one of the faux leather chairs, Brackett pulled a ballpoint pen from his lab coat. "I talked to Phil Mabry this morning. He said he'll probably release you by the end of the week."
"Yeah, I can't wait. I spend way too much time here when I'm working. I don't want to spend all of my personal time here, too."
Ouch. Was that intended as a rebuke, or merely as an observation? How was he supposed to reply to that?
Saving him the trouble, Early launched into a scathing tirade. "What's the matter, Kel? Does it bother you that I want my life back? That I resent having to work like a maniac, even when I'm sick?" Joe picked at a loose thread on his blanket. "Or are you here to find out when I'm coming back so I can bail you out of the staffing crisis, again?"
Brackett's eyes flashed with anger. "Wait a cotton-picking minute! It's not like I held you at gunpoint and refused to let you seek medical attention."
"Oh, yeah? When I was supposed to find the time?"
"All you had to do was let me know when you'd be out so I could arrange for someone to cover for you." He sarcastically added, "It's not brain surgery."
Infuriated by the remark, Early tersely informed him, "Don't even go there. There's no way in hell I'm having it done, so you can forget about it."
"Joe..."
The neurosurgeon continued his diatribe. "You have no right to pass judgment on me. This is my life, and I'll make my own decisions. Did you honestly think you were going to talk me into surgery simply to soothe your guilty conscience? That's it, isn't it? The sooner I have it done and return to work, you can pretend nothing ever happened. Well, I have a news bulletin for you. This isn't about you and your selfish ambitions anymore. You've taken advantage of our friendship far too long. I'm quitting, Kel. I'm not coming back to the emergency department."
Stunned by his colleague's accusations, Brackett fumbled with the ballpoint pen as he searched for a response. "I think you're being a little hasty. Why don't you take a leave of absence instead? That way you could..."
Early interrupted him. "If you can't manage to let me take a few days of vacation now and then, how is it that you're suddenly able to offer me so much time off? Are you hoping I'll magically 'come to my senses' so I can work myself to death for your benefit? You can forget about it."
A shell-shocked Brackett sat back in his chair. What in the hell had prompted such a dramatic shift in attitude over the past few days? And how did his friend possibly know to accuse him of the very same faults he was punishing himself for?
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
After a particularly grueling week, Dixie enjoyed a rare Saturday off. Therefore, she couldn't help but appreciate the irony when she opted to spend her personal time at Rampart visiting a couple of friends. Slipping into the ICU, she waved to the nurses as she passed the desk. For the past ten days, Dixie had been a frequent visitor to the unit. She knew Johnny's peritonitis and pneumonia were finally resolving, but his broken bones still caused him considerable discomfort. They had switched him to a PCA pump for pain management, but for some reason, Johnny was reluctant to use it. As long as she lived, she would never understand hardheaded men with an over-inflated sense of male bravado.
Rounding the corner, she discovered a frustrated John Gage trying to spear a warm Jell-O cube. "Hey, Tiger! Have you killed that thing yet?"
He snorted. "No. This damned stuff won't die. I think it's an alien life form." The barely congealed mass slid through the fork tines. "It kind of reminds me of that green stuff from the science fiction movie a few years ago, 'Soylent Green.'"
She handed him a small cellophane bag. "Here, I brought you something that doesn't move when you try to eat it."
He eagerly accepted the sack of lemon drops. "Thanks, Dix. You're the best. The medicine from the breathing treatments leaves a bad taste in my mouth, in more ways than one." He opened the bag and plopped a piece of the hard candy into his mouth. "I heard Dr. Early is going home in a day or two."
"Yup. I'm not sure who's happier about it, him or the nursing staff. You know what they say about doctors being the worst patients."
Johnny beseeching looked into Dixie's eyes. "Is he mad at me?"
"Who, Joe?"
"Yeah. He's been out of the ICU for about a week now and he's never stopped by or called to see how I'm doing."
Dixie brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Why on earth do you think he might be mad at you?" When he didn't answer, she remembered his recent conversation with Brackett. "Are you still worried about the steering wheel thing?"
The sullen paramedic nodded imperceptibly.
She bit her lower lip as she debated how much to tell him. Knowing Johnny's obsessive nature, he was going to torture himself about this forever. Dixie took his hand in hers. "Johnny, it wasn't your fault. Joe wasn't feeling well that day, and was on his way home when he offered you a ride to the station. None of us realized it at the time, but he had a brain tumor that affected his peripheral vision."
His eyes widened in disbelief. "What? Is he going to be okay?"
"Dr. Vance says it's operable, and most likely benign."
"So once he has the surgery, everything will be back to normal?"
"He believes Joe has a good prognosis."
Johnny slammed his casted arm against the railing. "That's not fair. He damn near kills me and then he gets off scott free?"
His violent reaction surprised her. "I'd hardly call having a brain tumor getting off scott free," she reminded him.
"But...but...he can go back to his job! I might not get that chance. I might get reassigned to a desk job, or have to quit the department. And you know me. I'm a very active person. I like to go fishing and camping and stuff. Besides, how could Early not know he had a brain tumor? Good grief, he's a neurosurgeon! It's not fair."
A brooding Johnny tried to shake her hand loose from his, but she determinedly held on. "No one ever said life was fair or easy, Johnny."
"No kidding." He tried to alter his position in the bed, and gasped when the movement exacerbated the excruciating pain in his leg.
"Bad, huh?" Dixie handed him the button to the PCA pump, but Johnny pushed it away. Thoroughly exasperated, Dixie rolled her eyes. "John Gage, what are you trying to prove? That you're a tough macho man? Or are you trying to punish yourself for some warped reason?"
His expression darkened, and Dixie knew she had her answer.
