Casting Stones
Part 3
The next day, Johnny was about ready to choke the living daylights out of his orthopedic surgeon while he examined the tender leg wound. During the early morning hours, the throbbing pain had awakened him, and had grown progressively worse. His fever had returned with a vengeance, as well as the nausea. As an additional indignity, Johnny's aversion to using the PCA pump had led to its removal. Now he was getting morphine through his IV again. Johnny gritted his teeth as the doctor kept poking at the source of his agony. A shot of morphine would be more than welcome about now.
Dr. Talbot's expression was grim. "Mr. Gage, we're going to need to culture this."
Extremely irritated, Johnny expressed his displeasure about the new development. "Oh, man. This isn't fair! Don't tell me I have another infection. I'm still trying to shake off two others."
Picking up the chart, Dr. Talbot wrote a series of orders. "Under the circumstances, I want you to be evaluated by an infectious disease specialist. We need to get a handle on these infections once and for all. If this is osteomyelitis, it's imperative that we treat this as aggressively as possible."
"Osteomyelitis?" Johnny's voice wavered as he considered the implications. "That can be a chronic condition, right?"
"It's possible, although not necessarily probable. This could be a one-time thing."
Johnny's lower lip quivered into a heart-wrenching pout. "But if it is chronic, my career is definitely over." His dark thoughts turned toward the other accident victim's excellent prognosis, and his anger and resentment intensified. Life was so damned unfair.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Chet sat on the bench, rummaging through his locker for his work boots. Burrowing through the mountain of shredded newspaper, the annoyed firefighter searched for the elusive item. Great. Thanks to the Shadow, he was going to be late for Monday morning roll call.
He almost melted with relief when he found his footwear. In his haste to finish getting dressed, he didn't notice the squishy sensation in the toes of his boots until it was too late. He quickly withdrew his feet, disgusted by the brown mess that soiled his socks. "Martinez!"
Pinning his badge to his blue uniform shirt, Mike looked up. "What's wrong?"
"Arrggghhhh! Gabriel put fake doggie doo in my boots!"
Marco stuck his head around the corner. "What happened? Are you okay?"
The engineer pointed to Chet's feet. "Fake doggie doo."
A light bulb went off in Marco's head. "So that's what he was doing with the can of refried beans this morning."
"You knew?" Chet sputtered.
Marco held up his hands in protest. "Hey, how was I supposed to know Gabriel was going to use it for a prank? I thought he was going to make a breakfast taco or something."
Tossing his dirty socks into his locker, Chet whined about his predicament. "What do you mean, you had no idea he was going to use it for a prank? We're talking Gabriel Martinez here. Man, even the Phantom has some respect for his victims."
"Oh, come on, Chet," Mike countered. "You pick on Johnny all the time."
Marco agreed. "Yeah, and I never hear you moaning about how bad you feel about it either."
Chet squirmed. They had absolutely no idea how guilty he felt.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Before Roy's shift ended that morning, Dixie had called him with an update. The news was not encouraging, and she wanted him to know what awaited him when he arrived. Johnny's temperature had spiked during the night, and he was in rare form. Feverish, nauseated, in pain, and now plagued with diarrhea from the new medication, Johnny was in a horrible mood. He was mad at the infectious disease specialist, the orthopedist, the surgeon, the ICU nurses, the respiratory therapist, the physical therapist, fate and the entire world. As Roy slipped past the ICU's double doors, Johnny's screams assaulted his ears.
"No! I’m not eating this shit! I'm sick and tired of this green slime! Besides, it's going to come right back up. Get out of here! Leave me alone!"
Hannah tried to plead with her agitated charge. "Mr. Gage, if you don't keep something down, Dr. Greeley has written orders for us to insert an NG tube."
With his uncasted arm, Johnny picked up the water picture and flung it across the cubicle. He was straining to reach for the box of Kleenex when he dislodged his IV.
Roy yanked the gauzy curtain aside. "Johnny, what are you doing?"
His partner was completely unapologetic. "I'm sick of this place, and I'm sick of being stuck in this stupid bed." The nurse mopped up the ice water from the floor with a towel while Johnny fumed.
Stunned by the uncharacteristic behavior, Roy kept a safe distance at the foot of the bed. "You need to settle down, or they're going to sedate the daylights out of you."
From Hannah's expression, Roy could tell she had already resolved to take advantage of a certain p.r.n. order.
"I don't care," Johnny whined. "It's not fair. I've been imprisoned, and I'm not the one who committed the crime."
Roy was taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not the one who crashed the car. Unlike other people, I was paying attention to my surroundings that evening. Now Early gets to go home in a couple of days, while I'm confined to bed forever."
"Johnny, it's not forever. I'm sure it just seems that way."
"Oh, yeah? How would you know? That incompetent jerk nearly kills me, and then he waltzes off into the sunset like nothing ever happened."
"Wait a minute," Roy protested. "Dr. Early didn't walk away from this without a scratch. Besides, the man has a brain tumor!"
Johnny retorted, "Yeah, and he couldn't even diagnose himself. I mean, how could he not know? He's a neurosurgeon! You want to know what really pisses me off? Early can have the tumor removed and then go back to his career. He's probably crippled me for life. Then to top it all off, Early refuses to have the surgery. Can you believe that? He has a chance to resume a normal life, and he wants to throw it all away!"
"You're jumping to conclusions. The accident was less than two weeks ago. That's way too soon to give up."
"Oh, sure. That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who was stranded at Rampart that evening."
Roy did not appreciate where this conversation was heading. "What are you saying?"
Pointing a finger at him, Johnny hurled his accusation. "If you hadn't been so overcautious about the damned squad and left me to fend for myself, I wouldn't have needed a ride, and I would never have gotten in that car! You just had to play it safe, didn't you? Everything is as much your fault as it is Early's."
The allegation cut into Roy like a knife. Ever since the accident, he had blamed himself for contributing to the tragedy. However, actually hearing the words from his partner's mouth was devastating. The bitter taste of bile inched up his throat, and Roy thought he was going to throw up. In his haste to depart, he bumped into Hannah and a couple of nurses carrying IV paraphernalia and a syringe. He wasn't sure whom he pitied more: his friend, the staff or himself. "God help us all," he silently prayed.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Sam Vance was clearly exasperated. "Joe, the meningioma is probably benign, but there's always a possibility that it's not. We won't know for sure until pathology weighs in. For the sake of argument, what if it is malignant? If you require chemo and/or radiation, you're seriously jeopardizing your prognosis by delaying the surgery."
Early was resolute. "I'm not delaying the surgery, I'm refusing it altogether. Once I'm discharged tomorrow, I'm going to resign and get the hell out of this hospital for good."
Leaning against the windowsill, Brackett added his two cents. "Look, if you want to quit, that's your business. If you need some more time to think about it, I can probably keep juggling the schedule for a few more weeks. From a practical standpoint, you need to continue your insurance at least until you fully recover from your current injuries. But with a brain tumor, it's going to be difficult to obtain private medical insurance, and you know it."
The neurosurgeon sat on the foot of Early's bed. "Whether you return to work or not is up to you. However, you don't get to make that decision when it comes to driving. In view of the significant bilateral visual field defects, you cannot be allowed to operate a motor vehicle. I'll have to report this, and your driver's license will be suspended indefinitely. If somewhere down the line you change your mind about the surgery, then we can reassess your status."
"I won't change my mind," Early insisted. "All I want is medication to alleviate the headaches and to keep the nausea at bay."
Dr. Vance picked up the chart from the bedside table. "Okay. Fine. I'll write you a script. I also want to see you in my office in about ten days."
An almost funereal atmosphere enveloped the room. Brackett excused himself and stood outside the door. Unfurling a fresh roll of antacids, he berated himself for his role in this unfolding drama, and hoped the chalky tablets would soon alleviate the persistent gnawing sensation in his stomach.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Marco discovered an uncharacteristically quiet Chet Kelly sitting on the couch with Henry. He wasn't sure who looked more forlorn, the firefighter or the Bassett Hound with the soulful eyes.
"You okay?"
"Huh? Yeah." He distractedly continued scratching Henry behind the ears.
"C'mon. Something is up. What gives?"
Chet scanned the day room to make sure they were alone. "You gotta promise me you won't laugh."
Tracing an "X" over his heart, Marco agreed.
"Remember a couple of weeks ago when Johnny shaved off my mustache when I went to bed early after that warehouse fire? The shift before the accident?"
"Sure. He wanted to get back at you for setting him up on a blind date with that female impersonator."
The melancholy firefighter lowered his voice. "I was so furious, I cursed him."
"You swore at him?"
"No, I cursed him. You know, put a hex on him?"
Marco sat down on the couch beside his distraught friend. "Chet, what are you talking about?"
Touching the sparse hair on his upper lip, Chet continued his confession. "My moustache is sacred, man. Nobody touches it. When I woke up that morning and realized what he had done, I told Gage to drop dead."
"That's it?"
"Don't you see?" Chet argued. "The accident was my fault. I told Johnny to drop dead, and he almost did!"
Marco begged to differ. "It doesn't work like that. It was a coincidence, nothing more."
Chet refused to be consoled. "I don't believe in coincidences, Marco. I'm scared Johnny isn't going to come back, ya know? How could I possibly live with myself knowing I ruined his life?"
For one of the few times in the station's history, Henry jumped off the couch and ran like his tail was on fire. Even he couldn't stand to listen to Chet torture himself.
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Donning a pair of garishly colored mitts, Dixie prepared to remove the casserole from the oven. Since she wasn't enjoying any success in convincing Brackett to take time to eat at the hospital, she hoped a more relaxed setting would encourage him to consume some form of nourishment. Ever since he bought that damned percolator a week or so ago, practically all he consumed were endless cups of strong black coffee. Oh, sure. Every once in a while he would sprinkle a couple of packets of sugar into that sludge he brewed, but that was hardly sufficient to sustain him for the double shifts he worked almost every day.
Dixie was worried about the punishing schedule he was determined to maintain. He had been stressed out for several months over the budget crisis and resultant staffing problems. However, his appearance had changed dramatically since the accident. Brackett had lost a significant amount of weight, and his ghastly pale complexion accentuated the ever-present dark circles under his eyes. He was perpetually exhausted and irritable, and she wondered how much longer he could function.
Setting the Corning Ware dish on the trivet, Dixie called out into the living room. "Kel, dinner's on the table."
"Hmm?" He gradually awakened to the tantalizing smell of Dixie's famous chicken and rice casserole. Embarrassed that he had fallen asleep on her couch, the chagrined doctor blearily rubbed his eyes. "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
"Don't worry about it. You needed the rest." Sorting through her record collection, Dixie selected a jazz album Joe had given her last Christmas. She smiled as placed the vinyl disk on the turntable and turned up the volume. "You also need to eat. C'mon."
Still groggy, he seated himself at the table. "Looks great."
"I didn't ask you over here to look at it. You're supposed to eat the casserole."
He chuckled. "Has anyone ever told you how hardheaded you are?"
"And lived to tell the tale?"
Brackett spooned a generous helping onto his plate. "You'll have to forgive me if I mistake this for a pillow and fall asleep in my food. I didn't realize how tired I was."
She lightly squeezed his hand. "Kel, you need to cut back on your hours. You're working yourself into an early grave."
He snorted at her remark. "Early grave. That phrase has a whole new meaning now, doesn't it?"
Dixie stared at him inquisitively. "Are you referring to Joe's brain tumor?"
"Sort of. I guess."
"Sort of? You guess? What is that supposed to mean?"
Pushing the food around on his plate, Brackett nervously cleared his throat. "Uh...you see..."
Giving him her patented "look", Dixie prompted him to continue. "Spit it out, Kel."
"I should have forced Joe to have his headaches evaluated months ago. Because of my obsession with keeping the department functioning, I jeopardized not only his health, but Johnny's too."
She rolled her eyes. "Not again! I thought we had this settled ages ago. You did not cause the accident."
Abandoning the pretense of eating, he set his fork aside. "Maybe not directly, but I'm certainly the one who sent them into that intersection."
"Oh, good grief! Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Did you personally pour liquor down the driver's throat and force him to operate a motor vehicle while intoxicated? Did you make him run the red light? Was your foot on the accelerator of Joe's car, or were your hands on the steering wheel?"
"But if I hadn't allowed Joe to continue working..."
Dixie covered her ears. "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. I refuse to be participate in this pity party."
"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled. "Joe and Johnny don't hate you."
"Kel, they don't hate you."
"Yes they do. They both blame me for the accident."
She wadded her napkin and tossed it onto the table. "They're both angry about the situation in general, and they're simply venting their frustrations. I'm sure they don't mean it."
Brackett scoffed at her explanation. "Dix, you don't understand."
"I understand that you're slowly killing yourself over some crazy sense of guilt. You don't have to personally make up every single hour Joe's absence adds to the workload. You're the head of the department, you can delegate."
"To whom? We're already working with a skeleton crew."
Deciding the conversation was pointless, Dixie stood behind Brackett and massaged the tight muscles in his neck. "I'm sorry I ruined your appetite."
"It's okay. I have a wicked case of indigestion anyway." Her tender ministrations relaxed him, and he could feel the tension melt away. "Ummmm. That feels nice. Maybe I better go home before I fall asleep at your table."
Dixie strenuously objected. "Not a chance. You're worn out, and I'm afraid you'll fall asleep at the wheel. I can convert the sofa into a bed and you can sleep here tonight."
"I hate to impose."
"You're not imposing. Besides, if you won't do this for yourself, do it for me. I don't want you getting into an accident on the way home and feel forced to blame myself for it."
Brackett wanted to slink under the table. Touché.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
The next morning, Johnny's poignant shrieks reverberated throughout the private room. "No! I'm sorry...I tried. Not my fault. Leave me alone!"
Captain Stanley buried his face in his hands. Even in his delirium, Johnny could not escape his personal demons. Yesterday afternoon, Johnny had developed ICU psychosis, and the medical staff had asked Roy to make arrangements to have someone sit with him until this latest crisis passed. Cap had never heard of the condition before, but then again, his medical knowledge had increased significantly since he joined Station 51. The young paramedic had a tendency to provide ample learning opportunities, not to mention several gray hairs.
Roy had explained that the psychosis was relatively common in patients confined to ICU for extended periods of time. While the environment might be conducive for physical healing, it was emotionally stressful. The various monitors frequently emitted shrill alarms, disturbing the patient's capricious slumber. Vital signs had to be checked every hour, bedridden patients had to be turned every two hours, full assessments performed every four to six hours or as needed, a parade of doctors passed through several times a day, the telephone often rang incessantly...it was a miracle that anyone managed to get any decent rest.
The combination of sleep deprivation, pain, fever and stress finally took its toll, and Johnny was trapped in his private hell. Ghosts of victims they were unable to save, as well as the vivid memories of the accident haunted him. In order to soothe his frazzled nerves, Johnny had been transferred to a private room. Hopefully the new accommodations would prove to be more tranquil, and ease his troubled mind. That, and a ton of anti-psychotic medication.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, Johnny frantically tugged at the restraints. Captain Stanley felt helpless as he spoke trite reassuring phrases in comforting, hushed tones. As he gently brushed the damp hair from Johnny's forehead, he wondered when this nightmare would ever be over.
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Dixie nervously knocked on Joe's apartment door. Since his discharge from the hospital three days ago, no one had heard from the doctor, and she was concerned about his fragile state of mind. Several minutes elapsed before an unshaven Early opened the door.
"Dix, what do you want?" he snapped.
Taken aback by his abrupt greeting, Dixie tried to paste a convincing smile on her face. "I was running some personal errands today, and thought I'd see if you needed anything."
"I need to be left alone." He started to close the door, but the persistent nurse pushed her way past him.
Surveying the cluttered apartment, Dixie clucked disapprovingly. "This place is a mess! Here, let me help you clean this..."
"No, I just want you to leave. Now."
"Do you need any groceries or a ride to the store? I'd be happy to..."
His temper flared. "Did Kel send you here to spy on me?"
Incensed, Dixie put her hands on her hips. "What the hell are you talking about? No one sent me. I've been worried sick about you, and wanted to see how you were doing."
"Why? Did you need to assuage your guilty conscience, too?"
"Joe Early! I'm beginning to think that concussion scrambled your brains more than we thought. What on earth do I need to feel guilty about?" Her eyes flashed with anger. "Look, maybe Kel and Johnny are stupid enough to blame themselves for your predicament, but I'm not. If you want to hide in your den of misery and mope, fine." She yanked the door open and stormed out of the apartment.
He immediately regretted his rude behavior, but his foolish pride would not allow him to follow after her. Instead, he sank down on the couch and wept.
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Roy slung the tie and sports coat he had worn to church on the bed, and rummaged through his closet for more casual attire. Settling on an Oxford cloth shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans, he wearily retrieved his wallet from his pocket and placed it on the dresser. He was due to relieve Marco at the hospital in an hour, a prospect he was not looking forward to. Because of Johnny's psychotic hallucinations over the past two days, someone needed to sit with him at all times. The experience was incredibly draining, not to mention depressing. In his confused state, Johnny hurled vicious epithets and bitter accusations. It was difficult not to take them personally, especially when some of them struck too close to home.
He was tying the shoelaces of his sneakers when Joanne sat down on the bed beside him. "Do you have to leave now?"
"Yeah. Marco's been there since ten last night. If I don't get there soon, he'll be climbing the walls, too."
"Is it that bad?"
He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "You have no idea. Johnny was already in rough shape from his injuries, but he seemed to take the peritonitis and pneumonia in stride for a while. Then he latched onto this crazy idea that his bones aren't going to heal and that his career is over. Of course, to hear him tell it, the osteomyelitis has sealed his fate. Between the fever and the psychosis, he's saying stuff that's been on his mind. Some of it's really hurtful, even though I know he doesn't mean for it to be."
Joanne tenderly ran her fingers through his hair. "Like what?"
"Oh, like blaming me for the accident."
"What? How on earth could he ever think such a thing?"
Roy rose from the bed and retrieved his wallet from the dresser. Stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans, he avoided eye contact with his wife. "Uh...it's my fault Johnny was in the car with Dr. Early that evening. It was his turn to ride in with the victim, so I drove the squad. On the way to Rampart, I heard a weird rattling sound I had never heard before. Johnny's more mechanically inclined that I am, so I should have waited until I got to Rampart to have him listen to it. But the noise kept getting worse, so I decided to swing by and let Charlie take a look at it. The whole thing took a lot longer than I thought it would, and I wound up stranding Johnny at the hospital. If I would have known that would have put him at Early's mercy..."
"Wait a minute!" Joanne interrupted. "Don't tell me you've been beating yourself up over this for the past two and a half weeks? That's that dumbest thing I've ever heard. I thought you said no one knew Dr. Early had a brain tumor until after the accident."
"Yeah, but..."
"So you're some kind of psychic now? Let me get this straight. You were supposed to know that if you let Charlie take a look at the squad, Johnny would accept a ride from a half-blind Dr. Early and they'd both be seriously injured in a car accident and you'd manage to find a way to blame yourself for this mess. Did I miss anything?"
"It's not that simple, Jo."
Joanne picked up the sports coat from the bed and draped it over her arm. "Explain it to me then. Because now that you've suddenly developed ESP or something, I need to know if we should have the dryer repaired, or go ahead and buy a new one. Maybe you can look into your magic crystal ball and tell me when we can get one on sale. You know I've always been partial to Kenmores. Oh, and since you'll be able to single-handedly prevent fires and accidents by predicting them and warning people in advance, the county won't need your services as a firefighter/paramedic anymore. You'll need to find another line of work. No, wait a minute, I forgot. With your psychic abilities, you can go to Vegas and make a fortune in the casinos. Yeah, that will work. We'll live off your winnings. We can live in a mansion with a swimming pool, golf course, tennis court and two dryers!"
Blushing, Roy laughed. "I guess it does sound pretty silly when you put it that way." He took her into his arms and kissed her. "Thanks, babe."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
On Monday, the men of A-Shift enthusiastically gathered around the table to enjoy Captain Stanley's famous clam chowder. All morning long, they had fervently prayed the tones wouldn't sound until they had devoured a couple of bowls of the delicious concoction.
Before anyone helped himself, Chet spoke up. "Guys, we should save some of this in a thermos. Since Mike is taking the day off to stay with Johnny, Roy could drop it off during a run to Rampart."
Roy nodded. "I'm sure Mike would appreciate it. Hospital food sure leaves a lot to be desired."
"Tell me about it," Marco groaned. "Yesterday I took a couple of sandwiches from home, but I got hungry later and one of the nurses scrounged up a tray for me. Man, that stuff is nasty!"
"Speaking of nasty..." Chet cast a menacing glare in Gabriel's direction. "A certain person put a chicken bouillon cube in the showerhead this morning. I'm not going to embarrass anyone by mentioning any names, but so help me if the Shadow doesn't knock it off, I'm going to seriously injure a certain paramedic."
Gabriel sprinkled a handful of crackers into his bowl of chowder. "You said you thought you might be coming down with a cold, and everyone knows hot chicken soup works wonders."
Captain Stanley rubbed his forehead. "Martinez, cut it out. One paramedic in the hospital is enough, got it?"
Dave Thompson, the engineer subbing for Mike, reached for the saltshaker. "How is Johnny doing, anyway? I heard the accident was real bad."
With a seesaw motion of his hand, Roy replied. "He has his moments. After they debrided the leg wound, the osteomyelitis started getting better. But now he has this condition called ICU psychosis. He's hallucinating all sorts of weird stuff, so someone needs to sit with him all the time to try to keep him oriented."
Recalling his harrowing shift, Captain Stanley shuddered. "I was there on Saturday. He was seeing the ghosts of victims, mostly children. You know, like the little girl who was crushed to death in the traffic pile-up on the 405, or the five kids who burned in the abandoned warehouse fire while playing with fireworks, or the two toddlers who wandered into the ditch in the middle of the night. It's as though his most painful memories keep bubbling to the surface. He's blaming himself and just about everyone for something."
Chet swallowed uncomfortably. "Really?" Damn. So Johnny did blame him. His worst fears were confirmed.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Two days later, Brackett listened to the incoming base station transmission as he unwrapped a fresh roll of antacids. Depressing the switch, he tiredly barked his orders to the waiting paramedic. "Squad 36, start an IV of Ringer's TKO, splint the leg fracture and transport as soon as possible."
As the paramedic confirmed the instructions, Dixie couldn't help but notice her friend's haggard appearance. He was pale and gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. She watched him quickly chew two antacid tablets, and then gulp half a cup of black coffee. Dixie wondered if he ever took the time to eat or sleep anymore, especially since the accident nearly three weeks ago. It was as if he was determined to work himself to death as a peculiar form of penance. When she saw Brackett grimace as he rubbed his epigastric region, she lost her patience. "Kel, when are you going to make an appointment to see a gastroenterologist about that?"
Pretending to be blissfully ignorant, he stuffed the roll back into his pocket. "See who about what?"
"Don't insult my intelligence. You've had an upset stomach for months, and it's getting worse. I'm not blind. I know you're living off antacids and coffee. It's way past time you see someone about this. Why don't you schedule an appointment with Bob Mueller?"
"Dix, it's just a simple case of stress-induced gastritis. Trust me on this."
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh huh. Didn't Joe say something similar about his headaches?"
"That's different!"
"I don't see how. Haven't you ever heard of the old adage, 'the doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient'? This is absurd. Is there something in the water at Rampart that makes doctors hard-headed and foolish, or do you guys come by it naturally?" Her expression softened and she rested her hand on his arm. "Kel, I'm worried. You can't keep this up. This is killing you."
His indifferent expression scared the daylights out of her.
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A tall, lovely figure in flowing pink chiffon and a tall veiled hat stood at the doorway of Johnny's room. "Trick-or-Treat!"
Irritated by the intrusion, he slowly turned his head toward the unexpected visitor. "Aren't you a little old for Halloween?"
The fairy princess graced him with a dazzling smile. "A girl is never too old to find her Prince Charming."
He blinked a couple of times and refocused on the beautiful blonde with the expressive blue eyes. "Cookie?"
"The one and only." She carefully rearranged the cascading folds of her gown before sitting in tattered vinyl chair. The incongruous sight was almost comical. "I know you probably don't remember, but I've been by every day to see you since you were discharged from the ICU. I'm glad to see you're finally feeling better."
Johnny sullenly picked at his bedcovers. "Right. Now instead of feeling half-dead I only feel one-third dead." Even though the pneumonia and peritonitis had essentially resolved, he was still fighting off the vestiges of the osteomyelitis, and praying it was not going to become a chronic condition. He was still running a low-grade fever, he frequently felt nauseated from the medications and the remnants of the infection, his leg hurt, his entire body was sore from the forced inactivity, and worst of all, his soul ached. Johnny mourned the loss of his career and the outdoor hobbies he loved so much. To compound his misery, people he had considered his friends were responsible for his plight, people he had literally trusted with his life. Well, he wasn't going to make that mistake again.
Cookie pretended not to notice his bleak mood. "You know, I have a great new Fleetwood Mac cassette tape you'd probably enjoy. In fact, tomorrow night I could bring my tape player and we could listen to some music over a home-cooked meal. I can make great lasagna and garlic bread."
Wanting nothing more than to be left alone, Johnny tried a plausible excuse. "No, thanks. My stomach is still kind of queasy."
"Oh, okay. Then how about some chicken and dumplings or vegetable stew?"
Her enthusiasm was making it difficult to wallow in self-pity. "No, really. That's not necessary."
The attractive nurse playfully ruffled his hair. "I know it's not necessary. I want to do it. When you get out of the hospital, you can take me to that Mexican restaurant you're always raving about. In the meantime, I thought I could bring a meal for you once in a while to make your hospitalization a bit more bearable. I may not be the greatest cook in the world, but my food is edible."
"Um...Cookie...about that date..."
"Oh, Johnny! We don't have to wait until you're out of the hospital to go out on our first official date; we can improvise." Cookie grinned mischievously. "After all, you don't have a roommate at the moment. I'm sure we can manage something!"
Johnny was rapidly loosing patience with Cookie's exuberance. She was a nurse, for heaven's sake. Didn't she know how hopeless his prognosis was? For all practical purposes, he was crippled now. Cookie's boundless energy only served to remind him of what he felt he had lost, and he was extraordinarily jealous. Ironically, the young woman he had once so ardently pursued, he now wanted to push out of his life completely. Johnny struggled to control his fragile emotions. "Cookie, get out of here."
"What?"
His voice wavered. "Get out. I don't want you to come here any more."
Totally aghast, Cookie stammered. "But...but...Johnny..."
"What part of 'Get out' do you not understand?" he yelled. "Go back to your perfect little life and leave me the hell alone!"
Bursting into tears, Cookie tripped over her gown as she fled the room. Her handsome prince was no longer quite so charming.
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Sitting in a physician's private office was not his favorite way to start the week. Early fought to conceal the rising nausea as he sat in front of the neurosurgeon's massive mahogany desk. The scene was uncannily reminiscent of the one in Brackett's office nearly a month ago when he was confronted about his headaches. Had it only been about a month ago? He thought it seemed like a lifetime since two of his friends had turned his world completely upside down. In retrospect, Kel's betrayal hadn't been that much of a surprise. After all, he had been all too eager to ignore the debilitating headaches as long as it served his Machiavellian schemes. But Early had been surprised by Johnny's complicity in the accident. Oh, sure. He had occasionally overhead Roy lecture the younger man about treating the women he dated with more respect, but it had never occurred to him how selfish Johnny was before. If the paramedic hadn't been so damned impatient to get back to the station just for a lousy plate of spaghetti, Early wouldn't have offered him a ride. And how had he been rewarded for playing the Good Samaritan? He could have been killed. Talk about a classic case of "No good deed goes unpunished."
Sam Vance eyed him curiously. "You look a bit green. I can have one of the nurses give you an injection for the nausea."
Afraid to open his mouth lest his tenuous control give way, Early merely shook his head.
"Damn it, Joe. What are you trying to prove? That you're tough? Stupid? Crazy? For the life of me, I can't figure this out. You're obviously not keeping oral meds or food down on a consistent basis. That certainly narrows your options. And this is treatable. You don't have to keep suffering."
Early mutely studied his fingernails.
The neurosurgeon tapped the chart with his pen. "Joe, I'm tempted to refer you to a psychiatrist before I agree to refill your pain meds. I'm not wild about prescribing narcotic pain relief ad infinitum."
Taking a deep breath to keep the queasiness at bay, Early vehemently protested. "Look, the headaches are essentially unchanged. I just need some help to manage..."
"Essentially? What kind of changes are we talking about here?"
"Sam, they're hardly worth mentioning."
Dr. Vance leaned back in the leather chair and cupped his chin in his hand. "Humor me. Mention them."
Cursing himself for his unintended disclosure, Early elaborated upon his statement. "The auras occur more frequently, and they're not always associated with a headache."
"I see. Any discernable seizure activity?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Early snapped at the neurosurgeon. "I'm sure I haven't awakened on the floor in a puddle of pee lately!"
Opening his desk drawer, Dr. Vance pulled out a green form. "Joe, we need to get an EEG as soon as possible. Have you had any caffeine today?"
"Sam, this isn't necessary."
"Yeah, right." As he completed the pre-printed form, Dr. Vance addressed his reluctant patient. "You truly baffle me. Hell, you're a neurosurgeon! You know as well as I do that your symptoms aren't going to mystically and magically disappear until you have the tumor removed. By delaying the procedure, you're running the risk of compromising healthy tissue due to compression..."
Suddenly, the proposed diagnostic testing became a moot point. Early appeared confused for a few seconds, and then his muscles stiffened as he pitched forward and his body began a macabre dance. There was little doubt that the doctor was suffering from a generalized seizure.
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Alone with his thoughts, Johnny cradled a box of tissues. It was two in the morning, and sleep still cruelly eluded him. He was suspended between two nightmares: his tortured dreams, where the ghosts of his past haunted him, and his waking thoughts, where he was plagued by fears and anxieties. Throughout his career as a firefighter/paramedic, he had been injured on several occasions. However, he always assumed he would eventually bounce back. This time he wasn't so sure. In fact, this time he was certain he wouldn't. The doctors were "guardedly optimistic." Translation: they were carefully hedging their bets.
Johnny knew his shift-mates and guys from the department had kept watch over him during his psychosis, but for some bizarre reason, he no longer felt a connection to them. It was as though his injuries disqualified him from the sacred brotherhood of firefighters. He couldn't earn his keep anymore; therefore, he wasn't entitled to their friendship and loyalty. An impressive collection of scattered tissues on the bed served as a testament to his grief.
A tape of the accident had replayed over and over in his mind for almost a month. If he had it all to do over again, what would he have he done differently? For starters, he could have finagled for Roy to ride in with victim instead of him. Or, when he realized he had been stranded, he could have asked Roy to pick him up in his car, or he could have taken a taxi. He should have noticed Early wasn't feeling well, and he never should have accepted the ride. Even if he had accepted the ride, he should have jumped out of the car instead of trying to move it out of the way, or...heck, there must have been a zillion things he could have or should have done.
Ever since the accident, his eyes had been opened to the harsh realities of life at Rampart. Up until recently, the only staffing issues that had concerned him were the cute nurses the hospital employed. Johnny was livid to discover that his career was possibly over because of a budget problem in the emergency room. He would never forgive Brackett and Early for ruining his life. Blowing his nose, he decided he hated his miserable existence. Why should he even bother with physical therapy? He was a lost cause. Maybe he should have just died in the accident. His soul was already slipping away. Perhaps he should allow his body to do the same.
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To Chet's profound relief, his nemesis had called in sick with the flu, and he was enjoying a blissful Shadow-free existence. However, the reprieve only marginally lifted his flagging spirits. He absently swirled the saltine crackers into his bowl of chili until they dissolved into a soggy mess.
Captain Stanley's firm voice interrupted his gloomy reverie. "Kelly, are you going to eat that, or enter it as an exhibit in a modern art gallery?"
"Huh? Oh." The embarrassed firefighter set the spoon aside. "I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."
Pretending to be concerned, Bellingham solicitously pressed his hand against Chet's forehead. "No sign of fever. Guess it's not the bubonic plague after all."
Chet swatted the paramedic's hand aside. "Cut it out. I was just thinking."
"Oooooh. Unfamiliar territory," Mike teased.
Sulking, Chet pushed his bowl aside and propped his elbows on the table. "I'm thinking about retiring the Phantom for good."
Roy reached for the bottle of hot sauce. "What brought this on?"
Stroking his filled-in mustache, Chet appeared wistful. "Over the years, the Phantom has pulled a lot of great pranks on Johnny. Some real classics. And he's come up with a few good ones of his own, although I'd never tell him that in a million years. But after Gabriel taped bubble wrap to my back tires the other day, I realized that practical jokes go too far sometimes. When I started to pull out of my parking space, that loud popping noise scared me to death. For a moment, I thought someone was shooting at me! It made me think about the time I stuck a rubber snake in Johnny's boots. I thought he was going to have a heart attack! At the time I thought it was hysterically funny, but now I can see it was just downright mean. Maybe it's time to retire the Phantom, out of respect for my wounded pigeon, ya know? Sort of a way to make amends for everything."
Marco tried to reassure his distressed friend. "Aw, Chet. You know that Johnny always gets over it. He's the most forgiving person I know."
Chet stood up and collected his uneaten meal. Maybe that was so, but in his heart, he could not forgive himself for cursing his friend.
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Tired of Brackett barricading himself him in his office with his precious coffeepot during breaks, Dixie decided to take matters into her own hands. She strongly suspected he wasn't going to eat a decent meal over the entire weekend, so she intended to browbeat him into eating a sandwich before he left for the day. Armed with a tray from the cafeteria, she barged into his office without knocking.
The interruption startled him, and he accidentally knocked his coffee cup over onto a stack of papers. "Dix! Look what you made me do!"
Entirely unapologetic, she set the tray on the desk and plucked a handful of tissues from the nearby box. Dixie calmly blotted the dark liquid from a two-month old JAMA subscription renewal notice. "Kel, you didn't need that caffeine anyway. If the lab ran an analysis of your blood, it would be pure Maxwell House."
"Folgers," he protested meekly.
Dixie unwrapped the turkey sandwich and placed it in his hands. "You need to eat. Man shall not live on coffee alone."
He shot her a look of utter annoyance. "I thought that was, 'Man shall not live by bread alone.'"
"At least bread has calories and some nutritional value."
"Hey, I've started putting sugar and non-dairy creamer in my coffee once in a while!"
"Oh, wow. Caffeine, sugar, corn syrup solids, vegetable oils, emulsifiers, artificial flavoring, artificial coloring and preservatives. Yup, I'd definitely say those cover the basic food groups." She stuck a straw into the pint-sized milk carton and thrust the container at the flustered physician.
Brackett half-heartedly nibbled at the sandwich. "I really ought to write you up for insubordination."
"I'm not worried. Starving people can't afford to expend unnecessary energy. You're too exhausted to fill out the forms in triplicate."
He took a couple of swigs of milk. "I won't argue with you there. It's been a heck of a week."
Dixie moved a stack of papers and leaned against his desk. "Tell me about it. Let's see. On Monday, Joe was admitted for seizures. Then on Tuesday, two of my nurses quit without notice, and another informed me she's getting married at the end of the month and will be moving clear across the country. While I was still reeling from those little surprises, Wayne Rivers had the intestinal fortitude to inform me he's volunteered the emergency room staff for the annual disaster preparedness drill scheduled in a couple of weeks. No overtime pay or comp time. After all, he reminded me, 'That's why it's called a public service.' When I visited Johnny during my lunch break on Wednesday, he was screaming profanities at his physical therapist. He was completely unrepentant, and felt perfectly justified for his bad behavior. Now he's refusing to see her. Obviously, Dr. Talbot isn't too happy about that."
"Jake Greeley isn't too happy with him, either." Brackett took another sip of milk. "Johnny has been refusing to eat for several days. At this point, Jake doesn't feel the loss of appetite is attributed to infections, medications or other physiological causes."
"Depression?"
"He recommended a psychiatric consultation, but Johnny wasn't too enthusiastic about the idea."
"I'll bet." Dixie tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. "So whose idea was the nasogastric tube, Jake's?"
"Yeah. From what I understand, Johnny wasn't exactly a willing participant. Apparently it was rather unpleasant."
Lifting her hands as if in supplication, Dixie groaned. "I don't understand it. Why are you guys so determined to jeopardize your health? What are you trying to prove? And to whom?"
Pushing the tray aside, Brackett covered the scarcely touched sandwich with his napkin. The very thought of food was enough to make his uneasy stomach churn. "Um...I talked to Sam yesterday. Joe is still adamant about refusing surgery, despite the development of seizure activity. He's on hefty dosages of Dilantin, in addition to the Vicodin for headaches and Phenergan for nausea. I stopped by to see him a couple of days ago, but he was pretty out of it." He tried to choke back the rising bile that threatened to spill forth. "It's...uh...just as well I guess. I'm probably the last person he wanted to see." Brackett frantically scanned the room for a desperately needed item.
Dixie immediately recognized the warning signs, and she shoved the lined wastebasket in front of him. Unable to control the painful stomach contractions, Brackett spewed the undigested food into the receptacle. As his shaking body heaved from the effort, Dixie sympathetically rubbed his back in soothing circular motions. Why did he have to be so stubborn? Hadn't he punished himself enough? He couldn't possibly go on like this much longer, and frankly, neither could she.
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Armed with colorful Mylar balloons in one hand, and a sack full of oversized get well cards and gifts in the other, Roy awkwardly pushed the door open to Johnny's room. "Hey, Johnny! I brought you a little something from the kids." Dropping the shopping bag onto the battered visitor's chair, Roy tied the balloons to the nightstand. Likenesses of Bugs Bunny, Sylvester, Road Runner, Marvin the Martian and the Tasmanian Devil soon kept an unblinking vigil over the desolate scene.
Roy handed the homemade cards to his friend, and was disappointed when he made no effort to look at them. The children had begged to be allowed to stay up past their bedtimes to finish little homemade gifts for their "Uncle Johnny." Since they didn't have school the next day, Joanne relented, and the children wreaked havoc in the kitchen as they cheerfully cut and pasted scraps of construction paper, sprinkling generous amounts of glitter on their creations. Despite her best efforts to clean up the mess from the night before, Roy was amused to discover a silvery shimmer on his toast this morning. A couple of hours ago, the glitter had served as a joyful reminder of youthful innocence and unconditional love. Now the garnished breakfast rested heavily in his stomach.
He wasn't going to ask how his partner was. That much was obvious. He was in significant pain, and as of a couple of days ago, the unhappy recipient of a nasogastric tube. Johnny was physically wasting away, and had begun to withdraw emotionally. Considering how abusive his behavior had been recently toward his friends and to the staff, Roy wondered if that could be construed as a peculiar blessing. Immediately feeling guilty for the selfish thought, he turned his head toward the television. "Uh...is UCLA playing today?"
"Yeah. Oregon State."
"You gonna watch it?"
Pointing to the traction frame and ropes, Johnny snorted. "How am I supposed to do that? This darned stuff is in the way!" He awkwardly rearranged his covers with his left hand. "I'm sick and tired of this whole mess. I'm not going to get better, so what's the use?"
Roy turned the television off and sat down. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean I don't have anything to look forward to, you know? Dr. Talbot says my bones aren't healing very well..."
"You've had a few setbacks, that's all. That doesn't mean you're never going to get better. You just got off to a slow start."
"No, you don't understand. I've used up my nine lives. It's over, man. My career...my life. I feel so useless. What's the point of waking up every morning now?" Johnny experimentally tugged at the NG tube before burrowing into his pillow.
Roy was at a loss about what to say to his despondent partner. "Have you talked to Brackett about helping out with the paramedic program until you can get back on your feet? I'm sure he could use the help."
"Nope. It would be too painful to train other guys, knowing I'll never get to go back into the field again. Besides, I wouldn't want to work with Brackett. I don't trust his judgment anymore."
"What? How can you possibly say that? I know his bedside manner can be a little rough sometimes, but he's the best."
Johnny pushed himself up on his left elbow. "Best? Best what? Best example of malpractice? He and Early nearly killed me!"
Incredulous, Roy stood up and walked to the window. He opened the curtain and allowed sunlight to flood the room while he calmed his frayed nerves. Still holding the cord, Roy sat on the windowsill, trying to choose his words carefully. "Johnny, there's a reason accidents are called accidents. They're unexpected, unforeseen, unplanned events. Hindsight is always crystal clear, and we can second-guess ourselves to death. It's easy to criticize ourselves or others after the fact."
When Johnny remained silent, Roy searched his memory. "Didn't UCLA lose to Washington by four points last weekend?"
Not understanding the apparent non sequitur, Johnny cautiously nodded.
"When Dwyer stopped by a couple of days later between calls, didn't you provide him with your expert analysis as to why UCLA lost, and what you would have done differently under the circumstances?"
"So?"
"My point being, is that you had the advantage of being a 'Monday morning quarterback.' You saw the big picture from different angles on the television screen, plus you had two days to recreate the plays in your mind a hundred times. The players on the field didn't have those options. Each guy only saw the game from his perspective, and had to make split-second decisions. Obviously mistakes were made, but they did the best they could under the circumstances."
Picking at his thumbnail, Johnny reflected on his partner's comments. "So are you saying maybe I'm obsessing about this too much?"
Roy shrugged. "Maybe you've reached some wrong conclusions, too. Maybe you still need to work out a few more possibilities in your mind before you throw away a career and some friendships." Blinking back a tear, Roy opened the children's cards and set them on Johnny's table before wordlessly leaving the room.
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Brackett slipped his pen back into his pocket as he exited the treatment room. It was a relatively slow Monday morning, and he was hoping to get caught up on some of his dictation before the next onslaught of patients. He fantasized about imbibing freshly brewed coffee over a completed stack of charts. The image of a cup of steaming hot java was almost seductive, and he groaned with satisfaction. Thank goodness he had his own personal coffeepot now. Pushing his unlocked office door open, Brackett mentally patted himself on the back. Yup, anytime he wanted it, he could have a cup of... "Joe!"
The emergency room physician staggered backward when he saw his colleague patiently sitting in a chair in front of the cluttered desk. In fact, it was the very same chair Early occupied shortly before the accident. Had it only been a month ago yesterday? He felt he had aged a lifetime since then. Each morning when he looked into the mirror, he felt as though his reflection represented a grotesque version of the portrait of Dorian Gray. Although his physical appearance revealed his anguish, it concealed the wretched deterioration of his soul.
Early shakily rose to his feet. "Sorry for taking over your office, Kel. I'm a bit sensitive to light and noise, and thought..."
Mustering his most reassuring smile under the circumstances, Brackett motioned for him to sit back down. "No problem. Mi casa es su casa, or something like that." Rather than sit behind the imposing desk, he opted for the chair opposite his friend. "I stopped by to see you a couple of times last week, but you were asleep."
"Yeah. The Dilantin makes me fuzzy, plus I had a few injections of Valium."
Not normally known for his tact, Brackett decided not to pursue the subject. "So what brings you here? Nostalgia? Overpriced vending machine food?"
"No, my resignation. Personnel said you needed to sign off on my paperwork." The white-haired man handed over a stack of forms. "As soon as you're done, I'll take them back to Mark for processing."
Retrieving a ballpoint pen from his pocket, Brackett hesitated. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
"Of course this isn't what I want to do. This is what I have to do."
"Joe, that's not true. If you elect to have the surgery, you could probably resume normal activities within three to six months. I'm not saying it would be easy, but if that's what you want, I'll find a way to keep your job open for you."
"Damn it, Kel! Don't pretend you're doing this for my benefit. You're only interested in saving your own sorry butt. If you wanted to develop an altruistic streak, you should have done it months ago. It's a classic case of too little, too late. You nearly worked me to death, literally. Perhaps if you were more concerned about your friends instead of the bottom line, I wouldn't be in this position."
Stinging from the rebuke, Brackett angrily scrawled his indecipherable signature on each form. Clicking the pen, he returned it to his pocket and shoved the paperwork into his colleague's hands. "I'm not your keeper. You're a grown man, and have a responsibility to take care of yourself."
Early glared at his former boss. "Are you looking for absolution?"
Fuming, Brackett stormed out of his office and slammed the door. Once in the hall, he automatically reached for the familiar roll of antacids to calm his upset stomach.
