Long Term Care
By Rose Po and Mary Morris

 I had no plan beyond finding some traffic and throwing myself into it. OK, it's not a great plan. It came to me during dinner last night as I stared at a spoonful of the evil brown paste that results when you run meatloaf and gravy through a blender.

I manage to slip past the watchful eyes of the staff and onto the elevator with a lady visitor who reeks of lilac water and stares at me for the entire ride. I grin stupidly at her. Beyond the door lies freedom. Carefully, I navigate the ramp, not wanting to arouse suspicion by looking too deliberate. The wind is coming off the harbor, carrying the wild salty scent of ocean. I turn onto the sidewalk.

What I had not counted on was the gearbox on the wheelchair. My chin aches as I shove the throttle all the way forward. I still can't get the thing going down the steep grade any faster than a fat man on a leisurely stroll. The curb cut opens before me, the last barrier between myself and six lanes of traffic.

Someone calls my name.

A note to the suicidal: Take a lesson from Lot's wife. Don't look back - particularly, not if you are steering with your chin.

My left wheel goes over the high side of the curb. Rather than sailing into the path of the oncoming car, the chair spirals into the gutter. Tires squeal as the blue sedan swerves, skidding to a stop. I am pinned face down in the gravel beneath the weight of the wheelchair, tangled in the restraining belt. The wheels spin impotently.

Amid the wailing of the terrified motorist and the confused murmurings of the staff, I am extricated and neatly packaged for transport. Full spinal precautions. If I had been able to force words through the maze of discontinuous pathways that led to my tongue, I'd have told them it was too little too late. But, instead, I admire their technique.

As I am loaded into the ambulance, one of the blue-shirted men whispers to the other, "That's John Gage -- used to be with 51's."

******

Dixie is a trooper -- I have to give her credit for that. Morton walked in, took one look at me and disappeared. An unfamiliar young resident peers at the scrape on my head, looks into my eyes and pokes my bruises. He snaps a few orders at Dix. Her eyes flash angrily. Ordinarily, she would not allow his rudeness to go unchecked, but, instead she clucks worriedly at me. No one has explained to her how I ended up in the street. I suspect no one will even try.

The radiologist wheels in the portable X-ray unit.

"Johnny, I’ll be back in a bit." Dixie pats my shoulder, touching the uncomfortable margin between normal sensation and numbness. I fight the shudder that passes through what parts of me still move.

I lie listening to the snap and click of the X-ray machine, staring at the ceiling, and remembering the last time I was here.

******

We had a call for a man stranded on the side of the Kern building. Some nut case decided to do a human fly bit on the side of an office building and was stuck on the twelfth floor. It was one of these shiny new glass blocks, with high parapets to screen the H/C plant from view, and no scaffolding rings. The only things that looked remotely bombproof were the I-beams supporting the air conditioner above the roof deck, and they were way the hell across the building. I wasn't happy with it, but there wasn't much choice. Our victim was freaking out. So I ordered the anchor and braking systems attached to one beam. Despite all this, it was routine. I rappelled down, locked off, put him in a decent harness, and got him on the rescue line.

After the guys pulled him up, I called, "Cap, I'm going to go on down." OK, they could have hauled me up as well, but, to be honest, I prefer to be in control of my fate. Besides, I had nearly done myself permanent injury going over that parapet. I'd be damned before I was going to let that ham-handed Kelly drag me back over the edge. I had a date Saturday night and it gets tiresome explaining exactly how you got a bruise on some inaccessible part of your body. Not that I object to telling "hero stories" to a pretty girl but this type of thing tends to be a distraction.

I hadn't gone more than a dozen feet when I sensed that sickening vibration that announces metal fatigue traveling down the rope. I had felt it one other time before, in Yosemite, when a chock I was using self destructed, leaving me dangling from my protection. I heard Mike, Chet and myself screaming as I fell. I stopped with a jerk. My head slammed into the wall, twisting my neck. With a sound like a giant spring releasing, a terrible pain tore through me. My hands fell slack from the rope. Even before Roy climbed down -- a rigid collar held between his teeth, trying to pretend he wasn't alarmed by my limpness -- I knew. I had broken my neck.

Roy was a professional through it all. He was gentle and skilled; I felt none of it. Mike knelt by my head cradling his own broken arm. His face was white and smeared with blood, from the cuts on his check where the sharp gravel covering the roof had sliced into him as he had been dragged across the deck, still clinging to my line. Chet babbled, his gloves fused to his rope-burned hands. He told me I was going to be "just fine. OK, really." He lied.

By the time I got to Rampart, I couldn't breathe on my own. Roy bagged me most of the way in. As a nurse sliced away the last of my clothing, I heard the hollow thud of DeSoto punching out a supply cabinet. Dixie grabbed his shoulders and tried to remove him, but he was rooted to the floor.

Despite my wishes, I remained conscious: through the placement of the ET tube; through X-rays and a detailed neuro; the insertion of a nasogastric tube; talk of scheduling a tracheotomy; a host of other procedures I couldn't feel. Worst of all, I was conscious through the realization that I had just finished my last run.

With that thought, I finally blacked out.

******

I awoke as a fly frozen in amber. I couldn't move, breathe, or speak. The connection between my body and soul was severed. I was dead.

When I was little, my auntie and my grandfather used tell me ghost stories and tales about a soul's journey after death. I learned of the ghost road in the sky, the spirits that lived in the Paha Sapa, and those who lingered after death. I saw the food left on the graves, listened to the prayers, and forgot the pronunciation of the names of the dead as good manners demanded. Then I went to school and the nuns taught me about purgatory, priests martyred by Indians, heaven, hell and God as judge. For years, I had dreams of the pearly gates as a Jim Crow restroom with a door for whites that led to the clouds and a door for Indians that opened to the Milky Way. St. Peter would stand before the two portals and strike a sword through my skull. I would fall bleeding red and white on the gold brick floor and wake screaming. Stranded in this cold, noisy and bright place, I had apparently been right and my spirit could not decide where to go, so it stayed at Rampart. I seemed destined to spend eternity examining the floor and ceiling of the ICU.

There was one thing that puzzled me though. Why didn't they bury me? Instead they fed me through a tube, pumped fluids into my veins, made a machine breathe for me... My body lay, stretched by weights screwed into my skull, on a frame which was flipped twelve times a day. I was washed, shaved, tended as though they expected me to come back.

I roamed for days or months, I still don't know exactly how long. I talked to the people who came to visit my corpse. I guess I spoke in Indian like a real Oglala ghost, because no one ever responded to my words. Dixie would sit beside my head; once she lay on the floor beneath the frame, looking up at me. She would touch my face. I thought about the old women, back home, who mourned the dead. They would touch, caress and kiss their deceased loved ones, and wail like the world was ending. If my mother were still in this world, she would have cut a lock of hair from my head and ended this obscenity. She would have made them bury me. I cried for her.

Gradually the haze of drugs and neurogenic shock wore off. I understood I was not dead. Then I cried for me.

******

The last scrap of my life was stolen from me in the night. I was lying in bed concentrating on the respirator version of the Chinese water torture -- attempting to distract myself from the four screws drilling into my skull from my halo brace, the pain radiating from the incisions on my neck and, most of all, from my own thoughts -- when my future exploded right along side the blood vessel in my brain. A sudden agony tore through my head and ripped away my voice. I tried to scream, but the only sounds I made were soft, confused cries, choked off by the rhythm of the vent. I could list the classic symptoms of a cerebral hemorrhage but I couldn't summon help. I whimpered helplessly until I passed out.

When the world came back to me, it was without names. The connection between my thoughts and my tongue was as broken as my vertebrae. The great irony of it struck me, as I repeated the doctors' nonsense sounds and choked on my own name. I would have laughed had I been able to get enough air from the vent. John Gage was finally quiet and still.

******

Dixie returns with Roy in tow. His new partner tags along, curious. She holds DeSoto's arm, forcing him to cling to the box of supplies in his hands and preventing his escape. He looks at me on the table, still on 43's backboard, my arm in a splint. His eyes cloud over and I sense he is no longer here, but has returned again to the day of my accident. However bad those hours were for me, they had been ten times worse for Roy. At least I had eventually passed out. For a change I turn away from him.

Dixie is talking. "He has bedsores on his heels and buttocks..."

When I open my eyes, his face is a mask of shock and guilt. I'm fifteen pounds lighter than when he last saw me, my hair is shaggy and hangs in my eyes... And there is my current predicament. I long to squirm under his scrutiny. I pray someone had the decency to cover me after I was stripped for the examination. But, I can't tell. I look into those blue eyes and in the split second before he averts his gaze, I get my message across. Good to see you, Pally. Maybe if you visited more often this wouldn't be such a shock....

******

I stand in front of the bay and slowly put every supply into its assigned place. Brice would be proud -- if he were still with the Department. Johnny's hollow and angry face floats in front of my eyes as I perform my task by rote. My hands do not shake as I work, a reflection of the field of ice that has moved in and numbed the beating of my heart.

"Roy?" asks my partner, jerking his head toward driver's seat.

Mutely I nod, climbing into Gage's spot -- Tyree's spot, I correct myself. This isn't even the same damn rig Johnny rode. Tyree is a good kid and a good partner. He has a street savvy sixth sense about people, which surprises me in so young a man -- but, then again, I didn't grow up on the same streets he did, so maybe it shouldn't surprise me. Sometimes I wonder how he puts up with me and my ghosts. Glancing out the corner of his eye, Tyree studies my face and reaches for the radio.

"Squad 51 available."

I stare through the familiar scenery as he pulls out, reliving the last day I felt normal.

******

"Too stupid to live" was the first thing that crossed my mind as I slid from behind the wheel of the squad. A man clung to the narrow strip of granite sheeting that ascended the side of the glass office building, concealing the elevator shafts. It was going to be tricky picking him off. If he had been over glass we could have just broken a window and pulled him in, but not this time.

"How'd he manage that?" asked Johnny, slinging two coils of rope over his shoulder and grabbing the sack of climbing gear.

"Determined stupidity," I replied, trotting toward the building.

As Cap turned the firefighter's service key in the lock on the elevator, I could tell he was debating which of us to send down. I knew he wanted to use me. We could hear the man screaming as we came in and I am more patient with upset victims than John, but Gage is the better climber.

John stared at the indicator watching the floors tick by and fidgeting with his ladder belt as we rode to the top of the building. His eyes were bright with excitement.

Once Cap got up on the roof and saw the lay of the land, he looked at me and addressed John. "Gage," he said, slowly. "How do you want to do this?"

Johnny smiled.

******

When the caribiner holding the anchor plate broke, Cap and I had just helped the victim off the parapet. Stanley was yelling over the side to Gage. I couldn't hear what he was saying; I was too busy trying to pry myself free of the man's sweaty chalk-covered, grateful hands.

Then came the high pitched screech of failing metal. It was a nightmare of a sound, part infant's cry and part animal wail. The noise stopped my heart mid-beat. In an adrenaline-dilated moment, I stared back at the rigging. I can yet see every detail: the dark shadows cast by the I-beams, the beige gravel, the redundant bands of yellow nylon webbing, the broken gate on the 'biner.... I dream about them every night.

The engine crew was still on the brake for the rescue line when Marco shouted, "Other line!" Stoker and Kelly grabbed Gage's rope in an attempt to ease the strain. Lopez tried to fit a second caribiner in place, but before the guys could brace themselves and pull Gage up, the metal snapped. Marco tumbled head over heels against the heating plant. I stood, still clasped in the victim's hands, as Mike and Chet were swept off their feet and across the roof deck. Swearing, Cap dove for the rope, landing between Kelly and Stoker. They continued to be pulled toward the edge. Then, Stoker cried out in pain as he slammed against the parapet; the rope's inexorable slide was stopped by his impact. Yanking away from the victim and my own shock, I seized the slack rescue line and wrapped it around the base of the AC unit, tying it off, securing Johnny's rope. A terrible stillness gripped us; I looked up into Chet's ashen face.

"Johnny!" I yelled.

I have no recollection of setting a new anchor or going over the wall; all I remember is Gage's eyes. I slid down from the parapet, watching John as they lowered me. Johnny was dangling awkwardly with his head lower than his feet and his arms limp. Unconscious, I thought, until I saw his eyes. The raw terror in their depths exploded inside my head and burned away my feelings. Numbly, I collared him, pulled his limp body tight against my chest to support his neck and back, and waited for additional man-power to arrive.

******

Numb is how I have stayed. The events of the months that followed that horrible day have an impact only in memory. At the time, I was moved by necessity to a realm beyond the reach of friendship -- not quite a brother or a parent or a nurse....

The next day, while the doctors watched to see if Gage would live, Cap, Tom Jones -- our local union rep -- and I spent hours on the phone navigating tribal offices and rural party line in towns we couldn't find on the map. In the end, our search produced only a roll call of victims of diabetes, alcoholism, suicide, cancer, heart disease, car accidents and old age. There was only a handful of shirttail cousins who remembered him only as aunt So-and-so's brother's wife's nephew and an aged, ailing, mostly senile aunt in a Riverside nursing home. When Hank called her, she politely informed him he must be mistaken, her Johnny was a fireman in L.A.

Through the next months I clung to a secret hope, one I even hid from myself. Outwardly, I remained the calm, matter-of-fact professional, fully understanding the implications of John's injury. Even after his bleed, I continued this schizophrenic charade. Through pneumonia, feeding problems, relearning respiration... Until the day Joanne excitedly called me at the station, interrupting a drill on the use of new cervical immobilization equipment, to tell me Johnny had made it ten minutes without the vent. A man who had been able to access a vein on nearly anyone, even himself, haul hose up a steep ladder, scale a cliff... was barely able to take a few unaided breaths. I looked at Chet strapped to the board, and suddenly bile filled my mouth. When I returned, I kept my face carefully still.

My mother always used to say, 'What an expression, your face'll freeze that way and then where will you be?' I have worn my game face for so long I no longer recognize myself.

******

I shook my head, startled to find us back at the barn. Tyree pulled the key from the ignition. Slowly, I opened the door. All my moping wasn't going to solve my immediate problem -- what to do with Gage.

******

The nurses have come to end my resistance. The home has told them that for the past four days I have refused my food, spit every mouthful out. I want death and no longer have any way to choose it. So I starve. But it has been decided that I don't even have this right. They bring supplies to put in an NG tube.

One nurse lubricates the tube, the other holds a glass of water. The one advantage I have in this battle is that no one expects a quad to be able to fight. The water is the first to fall, spilling over the sheets and my chest. A tiny brunette grabs my head. She wears the same perfume as an ex-girlfriend. They are hampered by their desire not to injure me, their concern for the newly-healed bones in my neck and the fresh cast on my arm lessens the strength of their grip. I, on the other hand, don't give a damn. I twist, hiss, spit, wrinkle my nose... In the end, it is a draw. They don't get the tube in but I end up wet, exhausted and nursing a bloody nose.

At three-thirty, Dixie stands in my door. Her shoulders droop with weariness; she should be on her way home. Instead, she unwraps a fresh tube and gestures for the student nurse who follows her to pour water into a cup. "Drink." I can not fight her.

Dix's anger with the nursing home staff is fading. She thinks they have neglected me. She doesn't know my condition is self-inflicted. We exchange glances as she waves away the young woman. I see her eyes change, go cold then shiny. She now knows I tried to kill myself.

"Johnny, what are we going to do with you?"

I am heartily sick of people deciding: What to do with me. What to feed me. When to bathe me. What I will wear. What I want to watch on TV. Today's trip into traffic was my first successful decision since the accident. Well, mostly successful. Unfortunately, I am still alive.

"This is killing Roy."

Roy! He must have authorized the tube. He has already convinced himself that I wandered into traffic, like a child, that I am starving slowly out of diminished capacity. Since my stroke he will not meet my gaze, when I catch him unawares I can see terror in the clear blue of his eyes. Seemingly, he has abandoned me. I know he can't handle the idea that his partner is still alive inside this shell. He must believe that the leaking blood vessel in my head drowned my soul. If he thinks dealing with my situation is frightening from a standing position, he ought to try living it in a sitting position. And he has never told me what I am to do to make this life worthwhile.

******

I stand out of sight beside the living room door and watch Joanne's face. I just finished asking her if she thought we should bring Johnny home to live with us. I was as frank as I know how to be. Laid it all on the table: cath schedules, diapers... all the nitty gritty details of quad life. It didn't seem shock her. She agreed to take him in, but now I want to see if she really means it.

Joanne is resting her head on her hands, face in shadow as she leans forward. I almost go back through the door, tell her we should put John back in St. Mary's and give them another try. Then, she slumps against the back of the sofa. The sunlight falls across her face, outlining her features in a milky luminescence. The years drop away; she is exactly as she was the first day we made love in the weeds behind the old football stadium. Now, like then, there is no regret in those delicate lines. I kiss her in memory and slip away.

******

Roy arrives at Rampart with some clothes, a rented van and my wheelchair, which is finally back from the repair shop. While the nurse gives me a review of the basic lecture on cast care -- simplified even further for the brain damaged -- he shuffles nervously in the corner, twisting the handle on the plastic bag full of my personal effects. Something is going on. I have a feeling I'm not going back to St. Mary's. Roy has probably found a nice, maximum-security nursing home, somewhere far from busy roads, where I will not be allowed to escape.

In the van, he turns on the radio and whistles tunelessly rather than talk. I sit in the back and steam. Apparently, I am not to be included in discussions regarding my future storage. With every passing mile, I get angrier. By the time DeSoto pulls off the interstate I am so absorbed in my growing fury I don't even notice where we are going until Roy turns the van into his own driveway. It seems that I am to have a day with 'the family' before I am again incarcerated. For months I had hoped he would spring me for one afternoon of good food and freedom, but now I am so mad I can't enjoy the prospect of Joanne's company or cooking.

Abruptly my anger turns to apprehension, when I notice the front step into the house has been covered by a small plywood ramp. The low wooden structure bears all the hallmarks of Roy's careful craftsmanship. Inside, Jen stands in the dining room door wearing that uniquely teenage look of curiosity and disdain. Her bitten nails sport a layer of black polish and the tension in the room suggests my arrival interrupted an argument. Joanne turns to me and smiles, "Welcome home, Johnny."

My heart pounds as I return a tight grin. I am to stay here.

******

Roy dips the spoon into the bowl of steaming cereal and stirs. He tries yet again to shovel a spoonful of the stuff into my mouth. I turn away. I can't help it. I am starving and the smell of the DeSoto family's English muffins and eggs has set my stomach growling, but the substance in the bowl is the hot, high fiber gruel that my doctor has ordered I be fed. It has an earthy smell like chipped bark and is in desperate need of sugar. I again point with my chin to the sugar next to Jen's bowl of Rice Krispies. DeSoto misunderstands and tells me one more time that I can not have her cereal.

Roy has decided to try a different tack. He lifts the spoon. "See, it's good." He pops the steaming mess into his mouth -- and nearly gags, the absurd look of enjoyment on his face warring with the revulsion in his eyes. The muscles in his neck tense. DeSoto's face flushes. Then he decides that letting the garbage sit on his tongue is worse than swallowing it. Jen chokes as she stifles a giggle. Roy glares at her. I start to laugh.

Slowly, he reaches across the table and picks up the jar of strawberry jam. He drops four huge dollops into the bowl and stirs. Hesitating for a second, he decides against taste testing and shoves a spoonful into my open mouth.

******

I have been taken out back on the theory that I need some sun. Joanne works on her garden, her hands encased in old leather gloves of Roy's as she wields the hoe. As the children have grown so has her garden, until she can hide among the beds of flowers and rows of tomatoes.

She sets aside her tools, pulls off the gloves and sits on the grass beside my chair. Sighing, she picks up a dewy glass of iced tea and holds it before me.

I shake my head.

"Waste not want not," she says draining the glass.

The cold liquid stops the words that have been spilling from her lips. Her talk is part of the repugnant intimacy that has been forced on my life. Joanne's concerns, the fears she does not mean to speak, are as invasive as the tubes and touches which daily violate my body. I never wanted to hear these words from my partner's wife any more than I wanted Roy forcing my reluctant flesh to continue functioning.

Instead, I breathe the scent of the fresh soil and look through the chain link fence that separates the back of the DeSoto's property from the flood control arroyo. Beyond the wire I can see a crested flycatcher swoop down on a hapless insect. I close my eyes and soar with it. Ride the wind into the trees.

I am not religious but I have a reverence for the land. All my life I have salved my hurts in the empty places.

All except this one....

I can no longer stand to be outside, but separated from freedom. I make the soft unmeaning noises, which I share only with Joanne. She takes me inside.

******

Joanne holds a mirror in front of my face while she combs my hair. After a long separation, I reacquaint myself with my features. Illness is blurring me back into the Dakota earth; I look more Oglala than wasicu, now. My body has shrunk to fit the confines of my new life. My hair is going gray and the corners of my eyes are settling into severe folds like grandmother's. Surrounded by the fine wrinkles, they are angry. I open my mouth to see if my tongue, like my heart, has withered and blown away.

I feel like a painter with only one color. Happiness, contentment, joy are memories. Sadness, grief and pain are sealed away from me. Except for that day in ICU I have not been able to cry. My feelings are behind a layer of thick glass, crystallized into a smooth heavy stone I carry in my gut. Only anger and all its shades are left to me.

The mirror shifts in Joanne's hand. I get a flashing glimpse of her face. Sad. I hate what I have become -- a bitter reminder of happier days, a source of pain for all. I see it in their faces. Every day I watch Roy mourn anew. Only the bandage of utter exhaustion keeps him from bleeding to death in his grief. I am poisoning their lives. I can not stay here.

"Don't you look nice for your birthday party," she says, putting down the mirror.

Not especially, I think.

******

I touch the gate of the caribiner, making sure it is locked. Stanley looks at me and slowly nods. I straddle the low wall surrounding the top of the building, get my rigging clear of the parapet and then slip off the edge, easing my weight onto the harness. I walk slowly down the wall to my victim.

Suddenly I am falling. After an eternal second, I stop with a jolt. I can't move, or breathe or speak. All I can see is the twists of the thin rope of my Prusik hitch pulled tight around the rappel line. I open my mouth, trying to force air down my throat. Dark spots swim at the edge of my vision. I want to scream -- but I can't....

I wake sitting bolt upright in my bed, my pajama top clammy against my chest. The sheet is tangled around my legs and I am panting. Joanne lays still, undisturbed by my struggles. She is exhausted. I watch the gentle even rise and fall of her breasts as I wait for my heart to slow.

I can't lay back down and sleep. Instead, I look at the clock -- 3:37 am -- in half an hour I must get up and go turn Johnny. He requires round the clock care. I have to do so much for him that now I'm having his nightmares. The breeze is cool and soothing as I slide out of bed. Bending, I kiss the air over Joanne's forehead.

My stomach is growling as I walk down the hall to the kitchen, answering the call of the pint of chocolate ripple ice cream in the freezer. When the children were babies, Joanne and I would both awaken for the late nightly feedings. Conditioned by firehouse life, I could not sleep through my children's 'tones'. I would watch while she nursed the baby, then we would go into the kitchen and have a snack. These late night noshes evolved into late night romantic 'dinners'. Joanne and I used to joke that Jennifer was conceived out of Chris's youthful sleeplessness.

On my way, I peek through the door of my son's old room. John's awake; I can feel his eyes on me as I walk past. He never seems to sleep. I wish he would. He would be easier to live with if he weren't tired and cranky all the time.

The cardboard carton is cold and wet in my hands. I put away the bowl I pulled from the cupboard, instead eating straight from the package -- something I would kill my daughter for doing. The light from the neighbor's porch lamp illuminates the row of prescription bottles on the counter. I never expected to have a late life child -- especially not in the form of my ex-partner. I am too old for feedings and diapers. I want to have the house to myself, to finally have time alone with my wife. I want to be selfish for a change. I want to look across the kitchen table and not be reminded of a fate worse than death.

******

Roy sets my plate on the table. Jennifer and Joanne are gone. "Ladies' night out," they had announced, fleeing the house, fleeing me. Tonight, I will begin to put an end to their misery. Tonight, I will make Roy change his mind.

DeSoto settles heavily onto the chair. Exhaustion lines his face; this morning he arrived home stinking of sweat, soot and Phisohex. Despite a lengthy shower and nap, I can still smell the smoke clinging to his hair. I shut my eyes, remembering the heavy ashy odor and comforting weight of my turnouts. For a split second, hot water seeps down the collar, runs down my back and cools. I can taste the sour air inside my mask and feel the weight of a victim on my shoulder.... When I open my eyes, Roy is stirring the soft casserole Joanne made, the fork tapping lightly on the dish as he makes sure it is cool enough to feed me. His ears are burned.

The shiny, red skin almost makes me change my mind. He has been a good friend. He has opened his house to me and I am about to repay his hospitality with betrayal. I hate myself.

DeSoto holds the first forkful of tuna and noodles in front of me. I open my mouth. The noodles are warm and flavorful. I look into my partner's blue eyes. My indebtedness tugs at me. This is the best thing I can do for both of us. Instead of swallowing, I hold the image of Joanne's sad face in my mind and spit out my dinner.

******

Something has happened inside Gage's head. He has turned on us.

Johnny had been doing so well. His pressure sores had finally healed and he had even put on a little weight. Things had begun to settle into a routine. He still had his moments of depression and could be cranky and demanding. But overall, I thought, he was happy.

Now, he is refusing his medication and spitting out his food. Everything is a struggle. His doctor prescribed an antidepressant. I'd almost swear he recognizes the pill. It is the first to fly. So far we have been unable to get a single dose into him.

******

My behavior has prompted an appeal to authority. My doctor has been called. And now a new pill has appeared in my medication line up -- an antidepressant. I may be unable to read well, or talk, but I still have a decade of field experience. I know what most common prescriptions and street drugs look like.

I will not be medicated into acceptance!

Anger gives me a new weapon. The daily intimacy of my care sometimes undoes my work and my resolve. But, I bury the regrets and fight to free at least one of us.

******

The cat meows a warning at me as I stagger down the dark hallway. I awoke hearing Jennifer's voice, talking softly in the sleeping house.

I stop in the hall outside Johnny's room. Jennifer sits in his wheelchair, wrapped in last Christmas's fluffy pink bathrobe, the cuffs of the now too-small garment floating ludicrously above her wrists. The soft nap is in sharp contrast to the tortured style she has forced upon her hair. The light from the small bedside table pools around her bare feet. She is talking softly and earnestly to John. Her face is streaked with tears.

Jennifer has spent the entire evening locked in her room, mourning the dissolution of her latest romance. Earlier, I tried to talk to her, but I entertain deep misgivings about every boy who is interested in my daughter, remembering my own behavior during my teen years. I am not disturbed by the break up and therefore must have failed to project sufficient sympathy, for she rejected my efforts. Now my daughter sits, baring her soul to my ex-partner -- a man who, prior to his accident, was the world's oldest teenager. My heart tightens as a wave of resentment washes over me.

"Jennifer..." My daughter looks up, startled. "Go to bed. It's a school night."

She scurries past, not arguing for once. I look at Johnny and debate telling him to mind his own business, but he wouldn't understand. Instead, I turn and go back to bed, angry and guilty.

******

The watery, pre-dawn light leaks between the drapes. Through the crack between the panels, I can just barely see the street lamp, looking pale and faded in the last moments before it shuts off for the day. I need to get up, turn John, set up his equipment.... But, I can't move.

My legs are sunk into deep ruts shaped around their leaden weight. Every bone in my body cries in weariness. I lie still and heavy. The alarm beeps again, it is all I can do to silence its protests. Joanne shifts next to me.

"Roy?"

"I'm up." I force my limbs from beneath the warm blankets. Instead of standing I slide boneless to the floor.

"Roy!" Joanne sits up and gazes at me in horror.

I struggle to my knees and collapse against the bed.

Alarmed, Joanne kneels next to me, wraps her arms around me and cradles me against her chest. "Roy?" she asks again, placing a cool hand on my forehead.

"I'm so tired.... So tired."

Somehow she eases me back into bed, kisses my closed eyelids, her lips cool, soft and sweet. Then she is gone.

I hear her voice in Chris' old room.... Nearly weeping, I force myself upright and stagger down the hall.

******

I bare my teeth and snap. Roy freezes and stares. His face is red and sweat glitters on his upper lip. He holds the damn spoon like a bayonet. Pureed carrots cover the floor.

I have crossed the line -- and we both know it. We lock eyes. I would never bite him or any other caregiver. But Roy no longer believes that, he thinks I could bite the hand that feeds me. As he watches, I imagine I can still feel the tiny ache and pull of the scar on my hand where a disoriented drunk once sunk his teeth into my flesh. Sensing my thoughts, Roy looks down at the puckered purple crescent on edge of my palm.

A dark cloud passes over DeSoto's face. The tie at last severs. I will be leaving soon. Good. He needs to be free. Roy drops the spoon and leaves me sitting in the remains of the battle.

******

I rub the lotion between my palms, warming it. It is a little trick I learned from watching the home care nurses, and it works well. Careful of the tense and knotted neck muscles, I massage the lotion into Johnny’s skin, dry and flaky from the bathwater and soap. As long as I don't touch the surgical scars or the back of his neck, he will lay still, his face relaxed rather than frozen. It is the only peaceful moment we have any more.

In the kitchen, I hear the blender running. Joanne is making a milkshake; the pills go down more easily with sweet ice cream to hide the bitter and foul tastes. That is, if I can get Johnny to take his pills at all. The carpet in the small room is starting to take on a slight smell of spoiled milk from the stuff that he viciously spits onto the floor.

Joanne stands in the door holding a frost-covered glass. Her face is lined with fatigue. She takes the chair beside the bed, holding the glass. This evening he drinks. I know she regrets agreeing to bring Johnny here. Gage is a tremendous burden. Even Joanne is now subject to John's unpleasant behavior. She claims to understand, but I see the strain in her eyes. Every night, she falls into bed exhausted. Our love life has died.

I roll John into place, position the pillows, secure the rails and turn out the lights. "Goodnight, Johnny."

I slip outside, to sit on the patio for a while, drinking in the quietness and the small sounds of the crickets. A chair creaks beside me as Chet settles himself next to me. He has been coming to help even though he will not go see Gage. I am grateful for his presence. Things stay quiet for a few more precious minutes.

"Roy, how long are you going to put up with this?" he asks. "You look like something that the tide washed up."

"The last place let him get bedsores," I reply, rubbing at my eyes. Knowing he is right. Knowing I no longer want Gage in my house. Knowing only the inertia of loyalty has kept me from packing him off already.

"If they did, it’s because he pissed off the staff with his attitude, and you know it." Chet leans forward, looks into my face. "Hell, Roy, for someone who can’t really talk, he pisses me off plenty and he’s not living in my house."

I close my eyes, fighting to think beyond my exhaustion. "I know that. I’m working on it. There aren’t many places that will take someone that needs so much care…"

Kelly snorts. "Roy, it’ll be better for everyone, all around." In the darkness his features fade into the shadows. "You’re procrastinating. You’re lucky, you can go to work and get some sleep. How does Joanne cope with him while you’re gone?"

I stare at the horizon and shrug. This is an argument I've been having with myself for a long time now. I sigh. "Tomorrow I’m supposed to visit a place Dixie recommended and talk to their director. If it looks good, I’ll talk to him about it…if he’ll listen." I shake my head, not relishing the confrontation.

******

Brookside Care Home turns out to be located in a quiet, shady residential area. An ample green lawn dotted with old trees surrounds a one-story building. As I climb from the car, I note birdfeeders, a patio area. So far, things look good. I have learned, though, that outside appearance doesn't necessarily have anything to do with what goes on inside in these places. I know more than I want to know about how to select a nursing home. I have already rejected at least two because, despite beautiful exteriors, the air inside reeked of old urine and sweat.

There is none of that here. The front lobby is sunny and cheerful, and the woman behind the desk smiles and meets my eyes when I ask where to find the director's office. I relax a bit. I should have asked Dixie from the first.

Things work out well. I talk to a social worker, the Director of Nursing....yes, they can handle the level of care Johnny needs. Yes, they have enough staff. Therapy is even a possibility.

Because of the cost involved, he will not be able to have a private room unless he picks up an infection. I can live with that. A roommate might even be good for him, someone to keep an eye on him. The social worker assures me that they do their best to match people together to avoid conflicts.

Even though I'd prefer to talk to Joanne about it first, I sign the preliminary papers with a huge sense of relief - and guilt. Relief at having my life back, guilt at shuffling Johnny away into another facility. This is what's best I remind myself, and I keep repeating it to myself all the way home until I almost believe it.

******

I close my eyes. The choice is between watching my roommate perform his daily ritual of trying to remember where he is or watching Hollywood Something or Others and getting Alzheimer's myself. When I get bored with the idiocy on the box, I sit outside. I turn and work my way slowly down the hall, concentrating on the awkward rhythm of the walker and braces. The sound of the television slowly fades. I push the button on the electric door and go to my customary spot. Winded, I raise my arms and let the cool spring breeze dry the sweat on my sides.

The property here backs onto a high school, and from the small lanai area the staff lets the relatively able-bodied use, I can see the track and football field. Usually there is some kind of practice going on. It's not hard to follow, and if the wind is right, I can hear the coaches' whistles and the PA system. It's a public school, but I don't think it's anywhere I ever went to run -- I preferred neighborhood streets or the beach. Early in the morning was always good, before the heat of the day set in and before the morning commute fouled L.A.'s heavy air past the point of being breathable.

The girls' track team is practicing today. I would get some binoculars to watch, except I don't want to be in the headlines as Peeping Cripple Spies on Young Women. The sound of the starter's pistol reverberates on the walls. My heart races -- only my heart.

My current hell all started with my running. My times were slipping badly, and I kept tripping over my own feet. I blamed job-related stress, the poor quality of my running shoes and promised myself a vacation, a pair of new shoes. I pride myself on seeing the world exactly as it is. But I couldn't see my own faltering nervous system. It took Bellingham noticing my continually skinned knees and the fact that I couldn't start four out of five IV lines. He had a word with Dixie. She had a word with Brackett, and then Brackett decided I needed a physical. A physical led to tests. And lying on a table watching a technician photograph slender lines of light on a screen -- lines which showed the failing conduction of my nerves. Before I knew it -- before I could admit it -- I wasn't running, and I certainly wasn't working any more.

That was a year ago. Before I became Craig Brice, the patient.

But, I have a plan; it’s the only way to survive here.

******

The eternal stagnation of my exile has gotten to me. Suspended between the living and the dying, I find have become like the vultures who cluster around automobile accidents, hungry for a glimpse of blood and gore. I sit in the sunroom, near the door, watching the hall. Every time the outside doors open, I glance up from my crossword puzzles. I have a new roommate.

Officially, I know only that he is a quadriplegic and young. Unofficially (and illicitly), I have learned he is aphasic and a troublemaker. I wonder what he is like. Young here means only that he still has his own teeth and does not yet qualify for Medicare. Most of all, I linger here because the boredom of this place has instilled in me a morbid curiosity about exactly what kind of trouble an aphasic quad can cause.

The doors open and disgorge an attendant, a nurse, and a dark haired man in an electric wheelchair. They disappear into my room. I finish my puzzle, and only then do I push myself upright. Too rapid an appearance and I risk being run off by family or staff.

******

A nurse is talking to me in a loud, slow voice. I finish her sentences in my mind before she can get past the subject. She is so damn chipper that her picture appears in the dictionary next to a definition of perky. I hate her immediately.

"This is your room, Mr. Gage," she intones. I hope she picks up the pace when she talks to the geezers, or they will very likely take the celestial transfer between syllables. I don't even bother to look as she cheerily shows me "my dresser", "my bed" and "my table". I've seen hospital rooms before, and, despite the all the nice paint and carpeting, that is all this is.

Instead, I study my roommate's belongings. At St. Mary's they stored me with the vegetables. I would count symptoms of neurological dysfunction until I feared I would pass a mirror and see fixed 'doll's eyes' staring back at me. His table is home to neat ranks of pens and pencils. The nightstand holds a clock radio and precisely aligned stacks of magazines. He either has compulsively neat relatives, or still possesses a few living brain cells. Maybe he will be able to talk about something other than a participant's viewpoint on the French and Indian War. I just hope he is not the resident hair puller like Mrs. Marinelli was at St. Mary’s; that old hag would pursue me through the halls until she had me cornered, and then yank out chunks of my hair.

In the hall outside the room, I hear Joanne's familiar footsteps falter and stop. "Oh, excuse me," she murmurs. Pressing my chin against the throttle, I turn my chair and stop so suddenly the perky nurse plows into my back. What I see causes my jaw to drop.

Even in this place the perfect paramedic torments me! Supported by braces and walker, Craig Brice stares at me from the doorway. The man has always filled me with an irresistible urge to indulge in one-up-manship. Throughout my childhood I was taught it was rude to show up my fellows, but Brice always brought out the worst in me. Well, he may be the perfect patient, but I am the perfect pain in the ass.

"Gage," he says.

Only then do I wonder why he is here.

******

I freeze inside the door, my feet refusing to move. My first impression is: yes, he is actually young. Then the mass of unruly dark hair and the pinched, wasted features resolve themselves into a familiar face. "Gage," I stammer involuntarily.

We lock eyes. His brown ones burn. I knew he had fallen on a high-angle extrication, victim of equipment failure. But, I hadn't wanted to hear the details, and had left the room every time the subject came up. I didn't want to imagine the nightmare of surviving alone and disabled. So I used the excuse that he wasn't my friend and refused to buy into the brother firefighter bit. I just assumed he went away.

But, he is here, in the middle of my -- our -- room. Gage looks terrible, emaciated and sick -- and angry. The right corners of his eye and mouth droop, the telltale signs of a CVA. That explains the aphasia. I look away.

******

I hate adminstrivia and paperwork. However, I have always been dutiful about doing what needs to be done. This, however, is the worst; reducing Johnny to a neat stack of papers. Gage's life spreads and spills everywhere across the desktop... How do I summarize -- in triplicate -- watching my best friend fall to a living death? So I am in a foul mood when I return to help Joanne settle Johnny into his new room.

The semi-private is large, sunny and has a view of a small park. John looks up at me as I come in, his gaze dark and disconcerting. I turn towards the window, preparing to lose myself in absorbed admiration of the scenery, when I see his roommate....

Brice! I stand rooted, all but slack-jawed and staring. He moves slowly, like an old man. Each step is tentative and distrusting. I can't believe how he's changed. Embarrassed, I bend over and inspect the dresser drawer. Joanne pushes a box of clothes toward me. I watch Brice out of the corner of my eye, trying not to look shocked while I put John's things away and the staff nurse takes an inventory. The braces on Brice's legs look uncomfortable, and he's dropped both weight and muscle mass. Is this what was going on? I remember his last committee meeting. Vividly.

******

I hadn’t really been paying attention. John had always been more interested in these activities than me. I had been going out of, again, a sense of duty and obligation – taking notes I didn’t really pay attention to, so I could stand next to John’s bed and tell him what business had been conducted and what had been decided. Privately, I doubted he either heard or understood me, but it was easier than trying to make conversation. Departmental news was safe.

Brice was droning on the way he usually did – as John had always said, it was if he memorized the rules, the regulations, the commas…. I sipped at my coffee and checked my watch secretly. I wanted to go home. At least things were almost over. We had voted on a few things, discussed some others, and actually gotten a fair amount of work done. And Brice had kept things moving, though I only noticed that in retrospect.

My attention was caught when Brice dropped his clipboard on the table.

"Before we move to adjourn, there is one last piece of business." His expression was strained, and something about his tone made me immediately uneasy. "Two pieces, actually – the committee’s acceptance of my resignation, effective immediately, and the election of a new chairman."

You could have heard a pin drop. Seven stunned gazes focused on Brice where he stood quietly at the head of the table. Even Bellingham looked surprised – clearly, his partner hadn’t bothered to discuss this even with him.

After a tense moment, Brice spoke again.

"Various circumstances have made it impossible for me to continue, either with this committee or in the Department. Bert, I think you’ll find all the records and minutes of past meetings in good order, as well as notes on current business…" Bert Dwyer took the proffered binder/organizer automatically as Brice handed it to him. Brice paused for a minute and seemed to be searching for something else to say.

"It has been…rewarding working with all of you. Good night."

He had picked up his clipboard and pen, and walked straight out the door, without once looking back. After a minute, we heard a car start in the parking lot and pull out into the street.

That was when the meeting dissolved into chaos.

*********

I spend the next few days behaving myself and observing, getting a feel for this new place and its unique rhythms. I learn that: the dining room is chilly in the morning; the night nurse has a bad back and leaves the heavy lifting to the assistants; the Director of Nursing is regarded as a force of nature; the cook makes horrible mashed potatoes and worse gravy; and if you sit under a certain vent just across from the Nurse’s Station, you can hear the conversation in the nurse’s lounge/coffee room/report area very clearly. I manage to be there at 3:15 one afternoon and eavesdrop on shift report. I learn that Brice is dying.

The day nurse is tired and running late – I watched them ship one of the gomers out to the emergency room – and she drones rapidly through the report, anxious to get it done with and get home. I listen to her rattle off my vital stats and feel absolutely no connection to the man she’s describing. Then she moves on to Brice.

"Room 59 bed B, Craig Brice, 35 year old patient of Dr. Conway’s, here with ALS. Alert and oriented times three, continent, ambulatory with a walker and braces. No important medications, he can have some Tylenol if he wants, and a sleeping pill. Keeps to himself. He’s allowed to go LOA via cab whenever, with friends or by himself. No current problems…" She moves on rapidly and I think about what I’ve heard.

ALS.

Yeah, I saw ‘Pride of the Yankees’. Brice doesn’t strike me as the Lou Gehrig type, someone who would consider himself a ‘lucky’ man even with a progressive neurological death sentence hanging over his head.

******

Success! I stare at the tip of the door handle sticking out from under the plastic band of the damned Wander-guard alarm bracelet. It was placed on me ten minutes after I arrived here. Like the security tags on the clothes at fancy department stores, it contains a sensor that will trigger an alarm if I try to leave the building un-noticed. It took a half an hour's hard work with Brice's back scratcher just to lift my arm onto the narrow armrest of the chair, another ten minutes to get the right angle to hook the cursed thing over the doorknob. Now, I back up very slowly, careful not to dislodge my arm, setting the hook.

I am sick of this cattle tag. It is more than a barrier between me and traffic. It is worse; it is a reminder of my status as a dependent. Fresh air is rationed to me now -- small doses, dispensed by a 'responsible party' who invades what little privacy I have in this hellhole.

With a decisive thrust of my chin, I run the chair backwards full throttle. I miscalculate the strength of the bracelet, my now smaller weight and degree to which my useless muscles were once involved in keeping me upright. Instead of tearing, the plastic band yanks me forward. My cheek strikes the controls of the chair, which jerks and bucks. My metal pony throws me. I slam face first into the door and crumble.

I dangle from the doorknob. My other arm is folded awkwardly beneath me. Blood drips from my nose onto the tile floor. I count the spatters. The friction of my worthless legs keeps me from sliding all the way to the floor. I wait for the inevitable arrival of which ever member of the staff the noise of my crash has summoned, with my head a bare inch from the floor. I allow my neck go slack, letting the blood from my battered nose pool in my mouth and throat.

"Mr. Gage!" cries an unfamiliar aide. She looks at the chair and my wrist bent at a crazy angle. "Are you OK?" She lifts me and unhooks my arm, lowering me to the cold floor. Using her knee for leverage, she rolls me into the position which I once was taught to call lateral recumbent. My hope for freedom runs in a salty stream from my mouth.

******

The floor is nuts. An old man managed to climb over the rails of his bed and fall. An ambulance has been summoned to take him for X-rays. One of the Alzheimer's patients is shrieking, and her roommate is weeping. Mr. Harlen set the trashcan in his room on fire with a prohibited cigarette. A maintenance man is standing on a ladder in the hallway, fighting with the alarm system. The staff is running around frantically. The chaos is giving me a headache. I decide to return to the relative peace and quiet of my room.

Pausing in the doorway to catch my breath, I look at Gage. He has backed his chair into the shadows that are clinging to the corner by the head of his bed, avoiding the bright sunlight flooding through the windows. John's forehead is furrowed. Sweat is glistening on his skin. And I can hear him sniffling. Gage is sick.

I head for my bed, observing out of the corner of my eye, knowing this may well be my fate. I am torn between watching him and ignoring him. It would be more comfortable to shut him out, pretend I don't realize how very alike we will both soon be. I'd rather die before I accept that level of helplessness and wonder how he stands it.

Johnny sniffs and snorts again. I know he shouldn't do that. He can't cough effectively and is at significant risk for pneumonia. He could very easily choke himself.

"John, are you all right?" I hobble across the room to his side.

He nods.

The man's incorrect answers to that question are Department legend. I ignore his response and push the call button on the side of his bed. Bracing myself, I reach out to feel his forehead.

Gage jerks his head back and glares at me.

I need no words to read the anger at the constant assaults on his autonomy. "OK," I reply, starting to lower my hand.

Abruptly, John bows his head, letting his brow touch my fingers. He assents to my exam.

This is the first time I have voluntarily touched another human being since coming here. I note the temperature and texture of his skin, my old paramedic 'reflexes' reappearing. His skin is cool, and he has no fever. It is in all probability autonomic dysreflexia -- his damaged nervous system's desperate attempt to tell him something is wrong below the level of the lesion in his spinal cord. "Headache?" I ask, taking his wrist. The hair on John's arm is standing on end; his pulse is extremely slow. I look at the blood pressure cuff in the basket mounted on the wall and wish I had my stethoscope. Gage's BP is probably dangerously high. Dixie told me his bleed occurred during a previous bout of dysreflexia.

John circles his head. Sometimes the idiosyncrasies of aphasia hide even the appropriate gestures from Gage. I can see the building frustration in his eyes. "Take deep slow breaths." Where is the nurse?

I listen to him comply. "Relax. I'm going to get a nurse."

I drag myself into the hallway. Not a single member of the staff is visible. "I need a nurse, now!" I bellow. One of the new nurses leans her head out of a room at the far end of the hall. The sunlight from a window makes her loose blond hair glow, but her face is hidden in shadow. "Gage needs you, now."

She starts toward me. I go back into the room.

John's face drawn into a grimace of pain. Awkwardly I reach down, loosen the collar of his shirt and pull at his pants trying to release any constricting tangles. I give the nurse sixty more seconds to get to the room, if she is not here by then, I'm calling the fire department.

"Mr. Gage?" she asks from the doorway. Her tone is irritable and tired. Her blue plastic nametag reads, 'Sandy'.

"He's complaining of a severe headache and congestion. Pulse 44, respirations 18, skin moist and cool." I give the report as concisely and clearly as ever.

The woman pushes past me. "Thank you, Mr. Brice," she says curtly. "Please allow us some room to work." She dismisses me as gruffly as I have done with interfering amateurs in the field. I cringe at the unexpected mirror. Sandy kneels and repeats my assessment, asking Gage questions he is unable to answer. I back up, smarting from her dismissal of my professional expertise, painfully reminded that I am no longer considered an intelligent, contributing member of society. I retreat to my side of the room.

The nurse's exam is hurried and brusque. Gage is becoming increasingly agitated -- the last thing he needs.

Sandy wraps the BP cuff around his arm and takes the measurement. I am glad John's back is turned to the gauge; his pressure is alarmingly high. She picks up the phone and pages an aide.

While waiting for the aide to arrive to help her move him onto the bed, Sandy slides her hand beneath the waistband of his pants, palpating his bladder. She frowns.

John makes the first voluntary sound I have heard him utter -- an inarticulate angry noise, half snarl, half cry. He pushes the chair into gear, trying to back away from her. But he has cornered himself against the wall. Gage hisses.

"Mr. Gage, settle down! We're trying to help you," she snaps.

I snap, too. This indignity is too much. I find myself raising my voice. "You could learn something about patient care from him. You touch a patient like that without warning in the field, you'll get hit or brought up on charges. Whatever his assumed level of awareness, he is still a human being." Gage gawks at me. "Treat him like one."

Nurse Sandy glares and turns her back.

I am glad DeSoto isn't here. I suspect my point would be less convincing with him laughing hysterically.

******

I try to maintain some connection to the outside world, and, despite the braces and the walker -- and the stares -- throw myself into its swirl. To this end I flee the swill, leave the dinner time discussions of WW1 and FDR, and go out to eat. I have a ritual; I save the New York Times Crossword to do while I avoid the other patrons’ eyes, and I always get dessert.

Tonight, however, I am wracked by brutal, bone-deep muscle pains. I have spent the day in bed with heating pads. The last thing I want right now is to brave the outside world. So I surrender to pain and pride. I pull out one of the take-out menus I have saved for the days when I can no longer leave this place, and pick up the phone.

I immediately regret my decision. Gage sits across the room, in his self-imposed mealtime exile, resisting his feeding. I have finally discerned the pattern to this behavior. He treads a fine line; avoiding force feeding, and, yet, slowly starving himself. He closes his mouth, pulls his head back, and, when all else fails, spits out the food. It's not an appetizing spectacle, and I can feel my stomach heave in warning.

I tip the delivery person extra to bring it to the room rather than the lobby. I don't feel like leaving; there is nowhere with any privacy I could go, even if I felt like moving that far. If I draw the curtain I will have less space, but will only have to listen to Gage's mealtime antics, which is almost bad enough.

I clear the rolling table and set up. I see no reason why I cannot eat decently, even here - I have napkins, silverware, condiments - everything I need right here. I can forgo real plates in place of the takeout container for one evening.

*******

Damn Brice! The guys at the station always used to tease me about my appetite. I was constantly hungry and ate anything -- in the words of Chet -- that didn't get away. Starving is not easy for me. I lie awake at night and remember the old stories of warriors and holy men fasting. The one thing that helps is that the food here is the only thing worse than my life.

Now there is a wonderful aroma from behind the drapes -- something Italian. Food. Real food with spices, flavor and texture. My stomach growls, loudly. Damn him!

I find myself on the other side of the drapes -- eye level with a neatly set table, complete with napkin. At least there is no bud vase. I'm being tortured by Emily Post! Spread before him is a feast. I glare at the delights on the bedside table.

******

I look up to find Gage at eye level with my meal, staring at me. From some corner of my mind emerges the trite theme music from the movie Jaws.

I find myself grinning, which infuriates Gage. He backs up and sideswipes the base of the table. Quickly I grab the edge to steady it. "What's your problem?"

He grimaces.

"You had your chance," I say, looking through the opening in the drapes at his dinner tray, waiting for someone from Dietary to take it away. Tiny bits of unidentifiable meat lay in a pool of congealing brown gravy next to a bowl of pureed peas. I look down at my eggplant parmesan. I know exactly what his problem is.

Gage turns his chair away from the bed.

Clumsily, I use my still clean spoon to dump a slice of eggplant covered with sauce into the lid of the takeout container and smash it into a lumpy paste. I look toward the door and will the staff not to enter while I commit an undoubted violation of the rules. 'Don't feed the quad.'

"John," I offer, holding out the utensil.

Gage gives me a strange look, before coming close enough for me place the mush into his mouth. Whatever he had expected me to do, this wasn't it. He takes the food on his tongue and closes his mouth and eyes. Slowly he swallows. John neither opens his eyes nor his mouth nor inhales....

I panic.

For a long moment, I wonder if I am still strong enough to perform the Heimlich maneuver. I reach for the call button.

Taking a deep breath, John smiles. He opens his mouth, asking for another bite. I give it to him. With a mixture of horror and fascination, I watch the muscles in his face and throat move. I see myself in a few months or years.

Slowly, I feed him the rest of my dinner and all of my dessert.

******

I wake sleepy, with an uncomfortably full bladder. I lie motionless hoping the feeling will go away. I remember all the times that I was too busy and had too many runs to get to the bathroom. But the ghosts of the past depress me and this is fast becoming more than I can bear. Still I wait a few more minutes. The light leaking between the drapes and under the door fills the room with a dim glow. I can see the dark outline of Gage in his bed, but I can't tell whether he is actually asleep. I know he sleeps very little. Perhaps that contributes to his general crankiness; it certainly can't help. I can imagine his eyes on me as I lie here miserable and dreading a simple task.

Sighing, I throw back the covers, push the rolling table away and pull myself up to sit on the side of the bed. They have offered me a urinal before -- just to use at night -- but I find them undignified. I'm not that sick yet. I can and will use the bathroom like a normal adult. I sit up and reach for my walker.

It isn't there. Damn it! I put on my glasses. In the gloom, I can just make it out, all the way on the other side of the room, shoved into an empty spot next to the heating/AC unit under the window. The regular nurses know that it's supposed to be left where I can reach it. I would love to strangle whichever empty-headed idiot put it all the way over there.

I have two options. I can put on my call light and wait forever for someone to show and get it for me, or I can try and get to the bathroom on my own. I eye the wall. If I can manage about three steps on my own, I can get to the wall and use it for support all the way to the bathroom. I won't have to wait forever, I won't have to explain to whoever shows that I have to urinate, and I won't have to chew out a staff member thoroughly in the middle of the night about the entire situation. I know full-well that eventually I will end up completely dependent on these people. There is no sense ticking off the nurses or aides, they have subtle means of revenge they use on 'difficult' patients. So I have avoided making any of them angry and tried to hold my tongue as much as possible.

A twinge from my bladder forces me to decide. I opt for dignity. Using the siderail for support, I push up and stand. This is not so bad, but to get where I need to go, I will have to let go of the rail. My feet are clumsy without the braces on to keep them from dropping. Sweat gathers on my upper lip and along my spine. I concentrate fiercely, trying to move slowly and carefully.

I get two steps before everything stops working and my legs go out from under me. I reach the wall head first. The night fills with stars and my bladder aches.

******

I have a mild concussion and have committed the nursing home equivalent of a sociopathic act. Therefore, I have been sentenced to the torture of physical therapy. Normally, I would refuse, but I have been given no choice. It has been made clear to me that the continued freedom to use my walker, get myself up and go anywhere without calling for a nurse or helper is dependent on this -- a requirement I find close to intolerable. If my walker had been left by my bedside where I could get to it at night, as I have requested many times -- as even an idiot would recognize as basic common sense -- I never would have fallen in the first place and none of this would be necessary.

So after breakfast, I am firmly escorted by a staff nurse to the small room kept for PT sessions. The therapist is there already, a small light-boned woman with dark auburn hair. A woman that I find myself surprised to recognize.

Her name is Cheryl -- a name associated with my downward spiral into this hell. Three days after they put the plate in my hip to stabilize it, my surgeon had decided it was time to get me on my feet. I remember my apprehension vividly -- the fear of falling has never again left me. I was put in a wheelchair and pushed down the hall to a large, sunny room well outfitted with equipment both obscure and familiar: platforms, parallel bars at waist height, various devices for lifting, flexing, exercising and pleasant young torturers bustling about in scrubs, working with their victims.

Cheryl worked there. That is how I recognize her now. Her job was to fit my leg braces. I remember she took a long time making sure that they were perfect, reheating the flexible plastic over and over again to work on it and make sure every curve was right. I would have admired her perfectionism, had I been able to see beyond my self-pity. I remember now she has a habit of biting her lower lip while she concentrates and my mind brings forth a vivid image of a strand of hair dangling in her face, ignored while she worked the softened, warm plastic against the back of my right leg with both hands. I had been polite to her, no more and no less. Surreptitiously, I look at her face and wonder if she remembers me.

"Hello, Mr. Brice." she smiles - warmly and genuinely. She's wearing a colorful blouse and dark pants, neatly pressed. Suddenly, I feel like a slob. I wish now I'd put on something nicer this morning, not the first pullover shirt I could grab from my drawer. I take small comfort in the fact that I am not yet so disabled that I have been graduated to sweat suits, Velcro, and the realm of simple dressing. "Are you ready to start?" she asks, smiling.

"Cheryl... Roberts, isn't it? I believe we met at Rampart..." My palms begin to sweat.

She smiles again. "I'm surprised you remember - that was months ago and I didn't do that much. It's good to see you again, though."

Her smile is warm, slightly crooked, mostly an affair of her eyes. My reaction to her surprises, shames and secretly delights me.

Cheryl bustles about getting the equipment for our session in place. "I'm here because this facility has an agreement with Rampart's PT department - we contract our services to them and they don't have to maintain their own staff. Since this is a smallish place, it's more cost effective for them."

"That makes sense." I sound like an idiot. The hospital balance sheet is far from my mind.

She spends the next half-hour working with me on using the walker, with a heavy emphasis on safety and avoiding falls. Throughout, I am acutely aware of the heat from her body. It is like I have been catapulted back to my teen years. A sensation worsened by the feeling that I have been sent to traffic school for too many speeding tickets. Towards the end of the session, she reviews wheelchair transfer techniques - a taste of things to come. I feel yet another chunk of my independence about to be sliced away. She ends with a few practical tips.

"Make sure you get some Tylenol at bedtime, or you're going to wake up hurting. We did a lot of work today, and you're not used to it." Her hair is falling out of its bun, and she twists it back up while she talks, stealing a pencil from the container on the table nearby to fix it.

I watch, fascinated. On one level I am gratified that I have not geriatrified to the point where my only image of women is as caretakers. On another level, I am embarrassed. I am reminded of Gage's little game of knocking things on the floor so he can watch the pretty young nurses pick them up. A comparison I find unflattering.

"We're going to do this every weekday for at least the next week to make sure you've got it down. Wear comfortable clothes and good shoes with non-skid soles. If you've got some music you like, bring it - I carry a tape player with me. Helps make the time go faster."

The sunshine from the big windows touches her hair, backlighting it to the color of raw copper. My breath catches in my throat. I force a smile. "You wouldn't care for what I consider to be good music."

She gathers her canvas bag of equipment up and slings it casually over her shoulder. "You'd be surprised. I have pretty odd tastes myself." She takes hold of the chair. "C'mon, I'll walk back to your room with you before I go, and you can show me what we've reviewed."

I am aware of her perfume and her presence all the way back. I hope I am not blushing. I can't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound terribly stupid, so I hold my silence as I manage step after step. She has enough tact and sense not to try to force conversation on me, at least. Cheryl leaves me sitting gratefully in my room. From the window, I watch her drop her bag into the back of her compact car and drive off. When I turn back, I find Gage watching me. Unfortunately, the man is not as self-absorbed as he seems. What I see in his expression irritates me, reminding me of my adolescent response to the woman's presence. "Don't you have something better to do?" I snap. Pointedly, I pick up a book and pretend to read, but instead I remember.

******

It took a while for my doctor to make his presumptive diagnosis a final one. Other things had to be ruled out first: MS, brain tumor, various other neurological diseases. I spent my time on medical leave from the Department, making lists and plans, doing much but accomplishing absolutely nothing. I used what connections I had to get access to the doctors' medical library at Rampart, and compulsively read everything I could find there about what was happening to me, or supposedly happening to me. I still wasn't sure if I really believed it. I took care on my visits to avoid the ER. There was no one there I thought I could stand to see.

A short time later I had to start using a cane. Then I stopped going anywhere. I had already found out what I didn't want to know, every little terrifying and embarrassing detail about what was going to happen to me over the next few years. I holed up in my apartment, spent my days watching TV, reading, listening to records, trying to ignore the decisions I knew I was going to have to make, and soon. I had my groceries delivered or ordered pizza or Chinese. It was easier to ignore what I couldn't do if I didn't do much of anything.

I suppose it might have been different if I'd had a wife, a family...something to distract me besides work, and a point of view other than my own thoughts.

And I ignored the phone when it rang, as it did now and then. I wasn't sure I could explain myself to the few friends who were likely to call. Luckily, I had no relatives to break any news to.

After several months of this, I had still gotten nowhere, made no plans, gone nowhere but out on short trips to see my doctor. I had bothered to seek out the best specialist I could find in the area - not that it was going to make any difference in the long run, or even the short run. As my doctor made professionally clear, he had nothing to offer me but 'supportive care'. Almost as an afterthought, he offered me a prescription for antidepressants, which I refused. So much for modern medicine.

I came home after one of these frustrating appointments, bitter and angry, my feelings sharpened by the very real sense that my car was becoming harder and harder for me to control and that soon driving would be impossible. I fumbled the key into the lock on my door and stepped inside into safety.

This couldn't be my apartment.

My apartment was clean, neat, pleasant...this place was a mess. The TV had been left on. Recent newspapers littered the floor and couch. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. A flock of white take-out food containers littered the dining table and the end table. For a half second I stood ready to apologize to the real resident of this dump, sure that I had somehow managed to enter someone else's home by mistake.

Then I realized it WAS my apartment. I had been living an illusion for the past several months, wrapped in my own numbness while a disorganized mess grew and swirled around me.

I knew that going back to that, now that I had had my illusions stripped, would be impossible.

I stumbled to the phone and my address book. Right now, I needed advice...practical advice from someone I knew I could trust but wasn't close enough to that they wouldn't be able to tell me clearly what I needed to do and how to go about it, wouldn't let feelings get in the way. I flipped through the pages until I found Dixie McCall's phone number, remembered her Army past. She'd know.... And she'd know who I could call and who I shouldn't call. ER nurses know everything about almost anyone and everywhere in the city from dealing with the flood of humanity that pours past them on a daily basis. She could tell me where to start.

******

I inhaled the sharp scent of Pine Sol as I worked, carefully scrubbing the tops of doorframes, the grimy spots around the switch plates, the dust and bugs in the light fixtures... When the time came finally to take me to the home, I was going to have my past life washed clean, no disorder and dirt -- only memories. Some people in crisis go in for religion; I go for cleaning. I abandoned the morass of self-pity and passivity in which I had spent the past months wallowing. I am in control again. I reach for the top of the last door frame...

Abruptly the ladder moved. My new clumsiness had caught me again. Instead of shifting and regaining my balance, I fall, landing in a blinding haze of pain.

I lie on the floor with my cheek in a puddle of dirty scrub water, my hip throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I visualize splintered bone next to large blood vessels -- all in all, a better way to go. The pain is nearly unbearable. I pray to whatever may or may not be listening to let me pass out and then bleed out. He is not listening...

I lean back against the polished floorboards and watch the square of my window turn red, then purple, then indigo. The water beneath my head grows cold and dries, leaving a gritty film. The building settles into night. I can hear my neighbors going through their evening routines -- the toilet flushes, the fight, the TV too loud, the newlyweds in the next apartment over.... Best not to think on that too closely; I don't want to spend whatever hours I am going to be here with those lost possibilities echoing through my head.

******

Eventually a neighbor, drawn by the oddity of seeing my L.A. Times lying in the hallway after 9 am, found me. I was still and silent as the paramedics packaged me for transport, knowing I was now providing a juicy tidbit of gossip. By nightfall, my accident would be common knowledge. The only mercies were that I lived well outside of 16's response area and that I had not been a preceptor for either of the young men who lifted me carefully into the rig.

At Rampart, an orthopedic surgeon confirmed my preliminary assessment; I had broken my hip. Not badly, but, combined with my growing weakness, it was enough. I never went back to my apartment and I never lived alone again.

******

I sit at the kitchen table and try to make sense of the reams of paper in front of me. I do this monthly, and I hate it every bit as much now as I did over a year ago. Johnny's life occupies a filing box a foot long, neatly dived into separate sections for legal papers, my power of attorney for his finances, insurance claims, medical bills, and more. Today, I am wrestling with the Department insurance company. I stretched the rules to the limit to get him into some place better than St. Mary's had been, and it looks like I may end up paying part of the cost of my devotion out of my own pocket, even with John's departmental disability income.

Brookside is nice, clean, and well staffed. It's everything Dixie had promised me it would be and I can understand why she recommended it so highly. Even so, I am starting to suspect her motives. When I asked her about Brice after being surprised with his presence when John was admitted, she just smiled and shrugged at me. I leave it at that; I have learned better over the years than to push her.

I find out after making a few careful inquiries that I have been so tied up with Johnny that I either ignored or never heard the gossip flying around about Brice. Department rumor has it that he's dying. Some of the guys from 16's tell me about helping clear out his apartment after he broke his hip.

I rest my head in my hands in the afternoon sunshine and wonder tiredly who will end up doing the paperwork for him.

******

I lie on my back and look at the sky. We're close enough to the small concert shell to hear the music clearly, but far enough back from the scattered crowd to have some privacy. The Handel is competently, if not perfectly, played and the early evening is clear and pleasant. For a while, I've managed to forget that I sleep in a hospital bed each night and need a walker to get around.

The concert was Cheryl's idea. We have both agreed that it isn't a date. We have almost convinced ourselves that it's merely convenience for us to go together to an event that we both wanted to attend.

I turn my head to look at her and feel like a teenager. Her hair is spread over the blanket we have set down, and she is close enough that I can feel her breath, smell her perfume. I see her lying there, enraptured by the music, and I know I have lied to myself.

After a half minute, she turns her head and meets my eyes. I don't know what she sees in my face in the dim twilight, but she smiles gently back at me. After another few seconds, I feel her hand creep into mine. It is warm and soft and nothing has ever felt better or more welcome.

For the rest of the evening, we listen to music and hold hands, quiet and comfortable with each other.

******

It is obvious something is going on. Brice was pleasant to the staff the past several mornings. This morning he smiles spontaneously, something I thought impossible. The young aide assigned to feed me actually dropped a spoonful of my morning mush down my chest in startled response to his greeting.

Suddenly, his appearance is again important. When Craig was working, the man was fastidious. He could climb out of the rig after transporting a sick drunk with the DT's and still look as fresh as a daisy. And he must have had an agreement with Dispatch; I never saw him on a run with damp, shampoo-stiff hair. But here, his style has been... relaxed. Now, however, he is taking more care with his clothes and his grooming -- he even paid one of the aides a small tip to take his shirts to a dry cleaner to be pressed.

This morning before his therapy session, he enters the bathroom, closes the door and makes soapy splashing noises for a good half an hour. The steamed-up glass and the endless staff inquiries about his health force him to open the door. Now he is spending an inordinate about of time in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, fussing at his hair. The weakness of his hand lets the comb wobble and he is unable to achieve the air-bushed smoothness his hair once had. It's a good thing I don't need to use the bathroom we share.

"Don't you have something better to do, Gage?" he grumbles.

I shake my head.

The scent of Old Spice aftershave drifts through the door and out into the room. The entire time I have shared this room with him, he has always been neat to the point of obsession, but this is more than that. Brice has a crush on his cute little therapist. I know he thinks he is keeping it a secret, but it is impossible to miss.

******

I have discovered touch.

Cheryl arrives on her afternoon off carrying a small bottle of unscented sesame oil. She gives me a conspiratorial wink and helps me onto the bed, pulling the curtain. Suddenly the air is charged; Gage is absent - off to some doctor's appointment or therapy evaluation. I wish he would come back.

"I can't stand seeing you in pain like this." Cheryl warms the bottle under the hot water in the small bathroom sink. The afternoon sunlight glows gold and amber through the oil. I can smell her shampoo. Slowly she pours oil onto her palm and rubs her hands together. She places her hands on my calf, rubbing and kneading.

I was never comfortable with too much physical intimacy. It seemed like an intrusion, it made me nervous, uncomfortable. The few times I dated, I kept the women at a distance. I told myself I was respecting them, treating them as people rather than sex objects. In retrospect, it is no wonder none of them ever warmed to me - I certainly never warmed to them.

Carefully, she works on every muscle I have. Each finger and toe gets her individual and concentrated attention.

At first, this makes me nervous, jumpy. She is too close to me, too familiar. Slowly, the discomfort eases as she works and I start to relax. I watch her face, admiring the play of light and shadow on her features -- first Rembrandt, then Picasso and finally Mondrian. The cramping aches that have bothered me so much disappear from my legs. My body betrays me; I realize she has noticed -- and approved. The light oil absorbs into my dry skin, leaving behind nothing but a slight aroma reminiscent of good Chinese food.

When she is done, I grab her hand and kiss it. The next thing I know I my lips are against hers.

I have found you have to give warmth to get it back.

******

I have been watching Gage more carefully these days. It is obvious that his life could be a lot easier if he had a more effective way of communicating. I watch him spit his pills forcibly out and know that physically, he must be capable of more than he pretends to be. Whatever residual weakness he retains from the CVA is apparently limited to his ability to swallow; he has good mouth and tongue and jaw movement. And, of course, there is whatever damage the stroke caused in the speech area of his brain....which it may be possible to partially bypass with therapy. I'm not surprised he didn't do well in rehab; I can't imagine that they didn't try to work with him there. But he is nothing if not stubborn, and I can only imagine how uncooperative he must have been. He needs to be convinced that he can be stubborn more effectively if he has a voice.

I wangle Cheryl into borrowing some speech therapy texts from a friend at Rampart, and I spend my spare time poring over them, learning about simple techniques and exercises, alternate methods of communication, and more. It's obvious that there is some very real potential to get him talking again, or at the very least giving him other ways to make his needs known. Given work, time and patience, he can improve his life.

The real question is if he wants to. The hardest part of all of this is going to be convincing him to cooperate.

******

Brice places the tip of the straw in my mouth. The rich aroma penetrates the post-sleeping pill fog, and now I know why I got a pre-bed time treat of applesauce, the damn pill was in it. I take a sip. It is lukewarm, but it is coffee. I have worked in fire stations since I was 22. I barely liked coffee when I started. But you just don't work in the Department without being a coffee drinker. Now, when I make a list of the things I miss, coffee falls between sex and a good call. Craig must have sneaked back into the nurses' break room and stolen a cup of the good stuff they reserve for themselves, not the over-brewed and bitter stuff that sits in the Visitors' lounge all day. There are advantages to having a roommate with some mobility.

As I drink, my headache eases. And I slowly begin to feel better, or as better as I ever feel these days. Brice is holding the Styrofoam cup with both hands… And it is still shaking. I can see the fatigue in his eyes. I shove the straw out of my mouth with my tongue, and he sets the half-full container down on a nearby table.

"Better?" Craig asks.

I nodded, trying to drop the mask for once and let the relief show on my features. Brice must have seen it, for he nods, satisfied.

Craig declares, reaching for the cup, "There’s no reason you shouldn’t be learning to talk again; you have mobility of your tongue and mouth, enough to swallow without choking..."

Most of the time, I think as he again puts the straw between my lips.

"And there’s no physiological reason you shouldn’t be capable of recovering some vocal ability."

I glare at him, but Brice has become impervious to my stares and continues.

"You should have had speech therapy over a year ago. Why you didn’t, I don’t know. You need that tool and you need to stop copping an attitude about communicating."

The cup is shaking like a skyscraper in a quake. I drop the straw, before Brice embarrasses himself by spilling it on me.

"Think of it this way; if you want to tell them all to go to Hell that badly, no one else is going to be able to do it for you. Certainly not me."

The staff aren't the only ones I want to tell to go to Hell.

Brice is staring at me still, eyebrow raised in question. Whatever it is he has planned, I don't need or want his interference. I jerk my chin and wheel away.

*********

It is another one of Cheryl's days off. The weather is horrible, so we spend this afternoon sitting in my room listening to music and talking about everything and nothing. Gage gives us our privacy....kind of him, although I know he doesn't entirely approve.

I tend to tire in the late afternoon hours before dinner; Cheryl notices and makes me lie down. She massages my aching hands and arms for a while -- they've been bad lately; either I have been doing too much or this disease is making new inroads on my nervous system. It feels ridiculous to have to take a nap like a toddler, especially at my age. I listen to the rain coming down outside and feel myself drifting off slowly. I worry that if I sleep, Cheryl will have left by the time I wake up - and I know from experience that she won't disturb me if I'm resting, even if I ask her to.

After she finishes with my arms, she sits on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and then kicks her shoes off. Over my half-voiced protests, she climbs under the many sheets and blankets and wraps her arms around me, snuggling up against my back. She is warm, and that is so welcome. I am almost always constantly chilled now, and enough blankets are hard to come by in this place. I snuggle back up against her and drift off, content and warm at last.

******

I pull into the parking lot in a bad mood. My head aches, it's been aching most of the day, and the weather hasn't helped. Joanne knows this and has been quiet most of the way over. She knows I don't like these trips much.

Joanne grabs the bag full of clean laundry and dashes through the rain for the door. I follow a little more slowly. Ever since Brookside lost one of John's best shirts in the laundry, Joanne has insisted on doing it herself. This means she -- or me -- must collect it at least once weekly. I think this is deliberate on her part, a way of forcing me to visit.

I take the lead while Joanne stops to say hello to the elderly nun at the front desk. It amazes me how she knows so many people here. I know she's been coming on my days off, but I never imagined she was doing anything but visiting with John or collecting his dirty clothes. I come, I visit for as long as I can take, and I leave. Joanne seems to have gotten to know almost everyone. I can barely stand to look around myself when I'm here, but she acts like she's perfectly at home.

Feeling vaguely ashamed of myself, I head straight back for John's room. Joanne can catch up to me.

The door is closed. This bothers me slightly, but it's not that unusual. Without knocking (in retrospect, a mistake) I pull it firmly open and step inside.

The first thing I notice in the dusky light is that Johnny's bed is empty and his wheelchair is not plugged in to recharge. Obviously, he is elsewhere. The second thing I notice is that Brice is in bed, sleeping. This isn't unusual -- what is unusual, and grabs my attention immediately, is the fact that someone is in there with him.

Craig Brice is sleeping with a woman. In Johnny's room.

Joanne comes through the door behind me. I turn, blocking her view and sweeping her away. "He's not here," I say shortly, pulling the door shut.

"Roy?"

"Not now." I take her arm steering her away from John's room, down the hall, onto the empty patio.

"Roy!"

"Joanne...." My mouth goes dry at the thought of describing Brice in flagrante delecto.

"Roy DeSoto, what is going on?" She looks at me. I realize, I shielded her from nothing.

"It's none of our business Roy. It is good he isn't alone."

I stare at her in surprise. "It's not right! Where's his common sense?" I shake my head in disgust. "And what about Johnny?"

"What about Johnny?"

"He shouldn't be around that kind of thing..."

Joanne shrugs. "He'd be doing it himself if he could."

Her comment brings me up cold. It was an aspect of Johnny's life I didn't want to consider.

"Roy, if you were in a wheelchair, would you expect me to quit making love to you?"

I stammer. I remembered Joanne blushing the first time she saw some of the pictures in my paramedic texts. "But...that's different... John's got other problems." I grope for words. "He doesn't understand anymore."

"Roy, " she sighs. " He understands much more than you give him credit for. John understands that you think he's unable to comprehend or appreciate anything anymore."

I can feel my face flush. I hadn't expected to get grief from Joanne too. "If Brice is that hard up for some nookie, he should rent a hotel room!" I snap at her and then immediately feel ashamed.

"Roy DeSoto! I can't believe you're being so insensitive. Johnny isn't even in the room." Her eyes meet mine. I look away.

"This time! I want him out of there."

"Roy, I doubt they do anything with John in the room." Joanne's voice quiets. "Besides, does Johnny want to move?"

"That doesn't matter. He's not capable of making that decision right now." My voice trembles.

"Brice is his friend."

"Since when?"

"Since you left him." Joanne's voice is nearly inaudible. She doesn't meet my eyes.

I stare at her, my mouth open, my next comment shriveling on my tongue. Behind my temples, my head pounds in unison with my heartbeat. Furious, I bite back my next comment and head for the Director of Nursing's office

******

A commotion in the doorway awakens me. I grope for my glasses and a clearer view, worried at what might happen if a staff member caught Cheryl in my bed. Standing in the door is DeSoto, turned to stone in his shock. His wife stops short, nearly running into him and spilling Gage's laundry. His face is a mask of horror and distaste.

I feel Cheryl moving against my back. She shrinks from the intensity of his expression.

I glare back at him.

In all my years in the Department, DeSoto was held up as the model of the perfect paramedic -- the paramedic we all were to emulate. He even lectured us about maintaining professional behavior in the face of bizarre situations. I fail at my attempt to imagine him wearing this expression in the field; for as much as our styles clash, the man is a consummate professional. So, somehow, I doubt his revulsion is induced by witnessing near intimacy....

What I can't figure out which he is horrified by -- that a woman might be interested in me, or that a dying cripple might be physically intimate?

******

I find myself in the Director of Nursing's office, Joanne seated at my side in one of the hard chairs. I am growing more frustrated by the minute as I try to explain the problem. The DON sits calmly behind her desk, taking it all in stride as I tell her what I saw. I expected more than this. I finish and wait for some outrage. It doesn't come. Instead, she studies me carefully.

"What do you want us to do, Mister DeSoto?"

"I want Johnny out of there." I manage to sputter. Shouldn't this be obvious?

"Why, Mr. DeSoto? Had HE said he wants to be moved?"

Beside me, Joanne snorts all but silently. I am starting to feel conspired against. Doesn't anyone understand?

"It isn't appropriate." The DON regards me carefully. This woman unnerves me.

"In what way? Was the door open? If it was, I do apologize."

I am tempted to lie and say it was, if that's what it takes to get Johnny moved. I glance at Joanne, who pointedly avoids my gaze. I have a feeling there is going to be hell to pay once we get home.

"No." I hesitate, trying to find the right words. "Johnny isn't always aware of what's going on. He might be exposed to -- uh ...." I feel myself flushing. "It isn't right." I finish lamely.

The DON raises an eyebrow at me. Great, now she thinks I'm a prude. Fine, I don't care. Maybe I am. My head is throbbing even harder, and all I want to do right now is leave. She flips a few papers and looks me straight in the eyes. Behind her, the lawn is green in the rare rainstorm. I can almost smell the wet concrete.

"Mr. DeSoto, according to his chart, his doctor, and our observations, he's perfectly aware of what's going on." She smiles oddly.

I find myself wondering what Gage had been up to.

"Was he in the room?"

"No..." I don't have any idea where Johnny is today. Sometimes he hides, another behavior that worries me. The floor nurses tell me they have found him parked in the laundry storage room and other odd places. I grope for the best answer I can find. Images of my partner -- before this nightmare -- float before me. I try to explain the changes of the past two years. "You haven't spent much time with him. You have no idea who he was, what he was like." I hesitate, unwilling to examine too closely the emotions pushing their way through my chest. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. "He's changed. He's like a child... I'm afraid of what his reaction would be if he walked in on a scene like I just did." I shift, feeling I have betrayed him.

The woman drops the papers on her desk, and leans forward on her elbows, closing some of the distance between us. I fight an urge to shrink back in my chair, to get away. Beside me, Joanne remains still and silent.

"Mr. DeSoto..."

Her voice is very firm, and I am suddenly reminded of Dixie lecturing a wayward intern.

"By your own admission, absolutely nothing was actually going on. And let me remind you, we've spent more time with him the last several months than you have. Just when was your last visit and how long did you stay?"

I turn my head away, flushing. There is nothing I can say -- and she knows it. Now my back is throbbing in time with my head.

She continues in the same firm tone. "Mr. DeSoto, I have a feeling Mr. Gage is quite aware of what's going on. Unless and until he ASKS to be moved to another room, or Mr. Brice asks, we won't be moving him, no matter how offended you are on his behalf." She pauses, considering her next words. "And, Mr. DeSoto, next time - knock first."

She nods.

Joanne stands and gathers her purse up; it is clear I have been dismissed. I can feel my anger gathering into a lump in the pit of my stomach as we leave the small office.

******

I am supported in the swirling warm waters of a whirlpool bath, while a young brunette nurse and a buxom aide bathe me. Normally, I close my eyes and retreat as far as possible from this invasion, choosing to imagine instead that I am still a child swimming in the brackish waters of Sage Creek. Tonight, however, I find myself unable to block out what's going on around me.

I stare through the clear water. My useless limbs flutter, boneless in the currents. I am repelled. Before this happened, I was an attractive man. Never in the 'boy next door' way of DeSoto or the macho manner of Kelly, but women were drawn to me and I enjoyed it. I had been able to trust my body; it was lean and strong and able to do whatever I commanded. Now, my stomach curves toward my spine beneath my ribs, the sharp bones of my hips protrude, and my knees look like grapefruits speared on sticks. I name the bones to myself, recalling the drills Brackett put us through during paramedic training and refresher classes. The purple splotches of pressure sore scars mark the prominent parts of my heels and hips.

The nurse pulls me forward, supporting me while the aide scrubs my back. Once I would have charmed her. Now I am a repulsive cripple -- who spits his dinner, has ugly sores on his bottom.... The aide turns off the jets, and the water becomes calm. I can see my face reflected on its surface, and am surprised that I feel no shock at what I see in my expression. I close my eyes. I have no wish to see any more.

******

Brice is up to something. He has been closeted with his magazines, bandage scissors and glue, rather than lecturing the staff on improving their efficiency -- tension levels on our floor have hit a new low. Plus he has been giving me speculative looks all day. Now, he has ordered dinner from a local Middle Eastern place.

The food arrives: six containers and a mound of soft pita bread. The smells of lamb, lemon and garlic fill the room. My stomach rumbles; I have just finished spitting out applesauce (again), and pureed chicken.... Absently he eats chucks of real meat smothered in creamy sauce and wrapped in soft bread. I could kill him.

Craig wipes his fingers carefully on a napkin. "I have something for you," he says.

About time. I pull alongside his bed.

He lifts a sheet of cardboard from his nightstand. This is not food! Instead glossy prints trimmed from the pages of magazines cover the surface. A glass of juice, a bowl of soup, a cup of water, a nurse who bears no resemblance to the tired specimens working our floor... I get the picture, literally.

He holds a long stick in front of my mouth. "Point to what you want."

I glare at him.

He shrugs, places the stick on the overbed table and resumes eating. He dips into a mix of some kind of white grain and finely chopped parsley.

I haven't eaten a leafy uncooked vegetable since I broke my neck. I wake up some nights dreaming of hamburgers with crisp lettuce, Mike's Caesar salads and corn on the cob. The tiny green fragments glisten and the stick still hangs over the edge of the table, just an inch above the level of my mouth. Brice flips the page, eating faster now. Damn him! Fine, I'll do want he wants but my way. Not Mr. Roberts-Rules-of-Order-to-run-a-committee-meeting's way. I grasp the stick between my teeth and poke the side of the container.

With a smug smile, Brice gets a clean spoon, holds a napkin beneath my chin and places a small bite onto my tongue. Damn him again!

I feel like part of someone's experiment, but the food smells so good that I participate -- on my own terms. I point the stick at the glass, the bowl. I am rewarded with tiny bites, highly spiced and mouth-watering. On the next turn, I place the stick squarely on the picture of the nurse - right into her cleavage.

Brice snorts. "In your dreams, Gage".

I glare angrily at Craig sitting there, so smug, so sure I do not know about him and his lover. I want to slap the grin right off his face.

His words echo in my mind. In my dreams... Last night I dreamt of making love to the pretty nurse with the face like an ebony statue. We became grass in a spring wind, green and supple, tangling and untangling, spreading ourselves in golden pollen abandon. I caressed her smooth belly and wrapped my legs around hers. Her breasts tasted like salt and chocolate. I awoke panting and sweaty... Yet even in my dreams my body does not respond but remains inert -- dead. Damn him for reminding me. Damn him for his continued ability to do what I cannot. Damn him for treating me like an experiment. He can take his food and go to Hell with it for all I care.

I use the stick to point at the bowl again. He 'rewards' me with a bit of hummus. As he turns away to go back to his own food, I take advantage of his distraction and spit it dead-on into his face. He didn't give me a big enough bite to make much mess, but mixed with saliva, there's enough and it drips from his glasses. He stares at me through the splatters for a second, frozen in astonishment. While he's still stunned, I shove at the chin controls and jerk my chair forward into his table. Most of his dinner tumbles to the floor in a colorful and savory mess.

******

It has been a long week.

Cheryl is out of town for the next week for a convention. Belliveau has been working double shifts and is too tired to talk with me on the phone for long even when he is home....even if I weren't over the strict monthly budget I have set for myself. My last long distance phone bill was outrageous and I cannot afford another one like it.

Gage will not even look at me most of the time. When he does, his silent gaze is full of contempt. He turns the back of his chair pointedly to me in the TV room and recreation area. It is impossible to miss his intention, so I let it be.

******

I tighten my fingers around the walker and shift my weight. The sole of my right shoe catches on the rug. I pull my foot back and try again. Still the rubber refuses to slide over the low pile. I can't lift my foot over the quarter inch high transition from tile to carpet. The white plastic brace on my leg feels like it weighs a ton and my left hip throbs with the memory of its old injury. Sweat begins to pour down my sides. Terror rises in my throat, burning and bitter; I could do this yesterday. I stiffen my arms, lifting my weight slightly, adjust my stance and try the other foot. It drags over the threshold, barely. I am panting for air. Inching forward I put my weight on that leg....

The room tips in a swirl of aluminum tubing. My face strikes the floor and the rough carpet burns my cheek. I lie in a heap and gasp for breath. From the hallway I can hear the soft squeak of a nurse accelerating. The spokes of John's wheels roll into my field of view.

"Uh... B... O... B..." he makes confused questioning noises at me. My surprise at the sound of his voice almost overwhelms my shame.

Nurse Sandy finally reaches me. Quickly, she checks my tangled limbs, neck and spine, only then does she speak to me. "Are you all right?" she demands. Her voice conveys her irritation. She is going to be late to leave tonight, thanks to the paperwork induced by my fall.

The nursing supervisor arrives and with the help of an aide they hoist me into bed. My doctor is called. I am questioned until I feel like they think I have taken this plunge just to get them in trouble.

When they are done, John comes to my bedside. His brown eyes meet mine. I can see him reassessing, evaluating my condition. For a moment the myopia imposed by this place lifts. He clicks his tongue questioningly.

"I'm fine, just tripped on an uneven place in the rug," I lie.

He shakes his head.

I know he is right. "Leave me alone, Gage. I need some rest." Turning away from his scrutiny, I look wistfully at my paperback on the edge of the rolling table -- out of reach. Instead I close my eyes, shutting out the sound of John's chair and the endless noise of this place. I imagine sun on my face and wind blowing around my limbs as I run down a quiet path in the park near my home. Gradually, I start to drift off.

Suddenly, something strikes my leg. I look down. My book, replete with Gage's teeth marks, lies on my lap. I look up, in time to see Gage maneuver away from my bed. He refuses to meet my eyes.

******

I decide to make Brice happy after all and give in to his private 'speech therapy' program. Every afternoon, before the snack cart and the cranberry juice pushers show up, we sit in front of the window in the room or in the sunroom and practice. Most of it is ridiculous -- tongue exercises, breathing, making the same sound over and over and over....

But it keeps him occupied and it passes the time better than the constant soap operas and game shows on the TV in the lounge or the brainy PBS stuff that's always on Brice's TV or radio in our room. At the very least he turns off National Pompous Radio when I'm practicing, which is a relief. One afternoon as I stare at his face and imitate a motion which is strangely reminiscent of childhood mockery, I find myself wondering at my sanity. What do I care about his happiness? The only possible benefit in all of this is keeping him away from the staff. Being bathed by an irritated aide is far from pleasant.

Old man Turner wanders by, still walking down Omaha streets that now exist only in his memory. "Idiots," he mumbles.

I snort and Brice frowns. "Pay attention, Gage." I stick out my tongue. He mistakes emotion for compliance. "Good."

By and large, I have always found Brice's schemes to be more organized than practical, but this one does have some clear advantages. The repetitive consonants drill quickly drives people up the wall -- and out of my presence.

No one is more startled than myself when I find that his plan is working, at least a little bit.

*********

The impact causes my jaw to snap shut on my tongue. Gage raises one eyebrow as I swear, loudly and strongly. For the past two days I have been trying to get the hang of my new electric wheelchair -- and failing miserably. My left wheel is caught on the doorjamb and the once open door is now resting against my shoulder. I make clumsy incremental moves to free myself, and angrily wrench the door open. I manage to escape.

After my last fall it was made clear to me that using my walker was no longer an option. So now I am spending my time trying to learn how to wrestle this high-tech failure through the obstacle course of my daily life -- what there is left of it, anyway. These hand controls are supposed to be simple enough for an idiot or a child to use, but they won't work properly for me. I weave and wobble like a drunkard. The paint on the walls is going to bear scars of my clumsiness long after my passing. And, most of all, it irritates the hell out of me that Gage can manage easily with a chin control what I cannot do with my own hands. It's childish, I know, but his smirks and smug grins are almost more than I can stand.

Eventually, with a lot more jerks, false starts, and awkwardness, I manage to get myself out into the hallway. Gage pulls smoothly up beside me, and I glare when I see his broad crooked grin. Apparently he thinks this is funny, and I suppose it is when a C4 quad is one-upping a mid-stage ALS patient on something requiring coordination and grace.

Ignoring him, I practice a bit more with the chair's simplest motions - straight forward a few feet, straight back a few feet.... Gage snorts, and I glance at him.

"Vrooom, vroom," he manages to growl, jerking his chin forward in an unmistakable challenge.

"Gage, I am NOT going to drag race with you." I can't believe this. I'd have thought he'd have more of a sense of dignity about his - and my - situation. Instead he's acting like a hormone driven teenager with a hot rod.

John looks at me slyly, and clucks. His expression needs no words; 'Chicken,' it says.

With an unpracticed hand motion, I jerk my chair forward at, what I hope is, top speed. Caught unaware, he falls slightly behind. I feel an odd rush of exhilaration - I have a newer chair, fresher batteries - I'm going to win. For one brief moment, I almost imagine a breeze in my face as I zoom smoothly down the hallway. I turn my head to look at Gage and gloat...

...Just as Nurse Sandy pulls the dressing supply cart out of a patient's room into the middle of the hallway. Unable to stop in time, I close my eyes and brace myself. From somewhere in the back of my mind comes the soundtrack of a grade-b submarine movie: 'Sound collision!'

When the dust settles and I am able to open my eyes again, I find I am looking through a spray of someone else's hair. Nurse Sandy is in my lap, eyes wide, in the shocked expression of a hit and run victim. Packages of two-by-twos, four-by-fours and rolls of Kerlix litter the floor like some strange medical fallout. In the brief hush that follows our collision, I can hear an errant roll of adhesive tape hit the wall and spiral to the ground. Then Gage shatters the stillness -- laughing his numb ass off. A small crowd of onlookers gathers to rubberneck at this strange traffic accident. God, I hope no one calls 911. This latest indignity would be too much to bear. Dr. Monroe, a retired surgeon with bad hip, calls out, "Nurse, that is most unprofessional." The woman blushes.

The Director of Nursing walks up, assesses the situation with a glance, and glares briefly at Gage, who tries his best 'innocent little boy' face on her. She nods to me and Nurse Sandy, who is trying to struggle out of my lap with her dignity intact and without making unnecessary contact with any of my vital parts. "I think I'm going to have to send the two of you miscreants to traffic school," she dryly remarks, pulling Sandy out of my chair.

For a second I imagine Gage and I in a classroom with a stern CHP officer, watching some grainy black and white educational film entitled The Crippled Menace: Wheelchairs in the Fast Lane to Hell. I begin to giggle uncontrollably. I can't remember the last time I laughed like this, especially in here.

******

The only thing that is keeping me from going mad is the clock. Each number that flickers on its face is a minute I don't have to relive. I have been rolled on my stomach and propped with pillows in a position which just permits me to breathe. When I was in fourth grade, Sister Agnes used to regale us with lurid descriptions of the agonies Christ suffered on the cross. I think of her as I am left in this medicinal crucifixion that is designed to heal the pressure sores chewing away at my hips. Since I have lost the use of my intercostal muscles, breathing is a haphazard affair anyway. In this position, I can barely force air into my lungs. My heart is racing in an undesired but instinctual terror of suffocation.

Earlier, Brice had silenced my objections to his choice of radio programs with a "serves you right, Gage." I know Roy thinks so, too. DeSoto authorized the IV antibiotics, which flow into my veins, and the NG tube, that forces high protein feedings into my stomach. Back in rehab, there was a ward full of paras and quads with intractable bedsores. Every so often one would finally succumb to infection; I had envied them. As I watch the D5W and the piggy backed meds drip and listen to the nasal Italian shrieking Brice calls music, I again covet their freedom.

At the hour, the news comes on. Not that I care, but the aides show up on the hour to free me from this position. They are late. I grit my teeth and listen to the annoying, cultured voices of National Pompous Radio's broadcasters compete with the hissing of the air floatation mattress and the pounding of my heart -- until Bob Edwards announces a brush fire blackening the Angles Mountains and threatening suburban homes. "Hundreds of acres have already burned, three firefighters have been injured and authorities have no idea when the blaze will be brought under control."

Brice turns up the radio.

I look at him and wonder who has been injured. Roy, I think.

Craig shakes his head. "Joanne would call you if anything had happened to DeSoto."

I nod, trying not to consider the implications of Brice being able to read my mind.

Brice struggles to maneuver his wheelchair alongside the nightstand. He is still clumsy at steering. He gropes around in the bottom cupboard. I hear thumping as he fumbles with something. Gasping, he produces a small cardboard box -- an emergency scanner.

******

I sit in my car in the parking lot, staring at the building and toying with the key, which is still in the ignition. A dark cloud of dread hangs over me, like the smoke clinging to the burning foothills. Gage is going to be difficult. John's doctor had called Joanne while I had been detailed to 116's covering for the men working the East Fork brush fire. Johnny has not been eating and has developed infected bedsores. Now he is stuck in bed, sick.

I want to start the engine, go home, and get a good night's sleep. Instead, I open the window, holding my sweat-damp hand out in the breeze. The wind is still forcing the flames southward and I just know that tomorrow, 51's will be called up. Then I'll be spending the next week tending sprained ankles, sleeping on the ground and eating cold, sooty food. Joanne can come check on Gage. I pull my hand back into the car and grab the ignition switch....

Sighing, I slip the keys in my pocket and open the door. The faint odor of burnt grass fills the air.

The spectacle when I walk through the door John's room stops me midstride. A map of the Angles Mountains is taped to one wall. A colorful code of blue, green, red and pink Xs and Os cover the surface. The voice of the Division 2 commander echoes from an emergency scanner. Brice is consulting a small laminated AHC map of the mountains and Gage is lying in bed glaring at me angrily.

"DeSoto," acknowledges Brice, not looking up from his map. He glances at John. "I can't find it."

I use his distraction to catch my breath. The hissing mobile surface of a floatation mattress has replaced the regular hospital bed. Johnny is positively emaciated; his face looks like that of a cat. To cover my shock I stand beside the bed, lift his right arm and inspect the IV line, checking for signs of swelling and infection. My fingers catch on the hollow between his radius and ulna and my throat constricts.

John clucks irritably at Brice.

"I'm looking, Gage. You think you could do better?"

My head snaps up. I gape at Brice. I've always known Brice was a cold bastard, but I never expected him to taunt a brain-damaged man.

"Uhhhh." Gage lifts his head.

Craig places a thin wooden stick between John's teeth and spreads out the map.

Gage touches the spot on the map -- Allison Canyon.

My legs begin to shake and sweat gathers on my back. I look up, meeting Johnny's eyes. Wordlessly we communicate, both remembering Allison Canyon.

Standing in the nursing home room, I saw those flames again, trapped in this shrunken reminder of my partner. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. The room swam, and a half-a-dozen frozen Gages floated in the tears filling my eyes. I fled.

******

The textured plastic of the steering wheel pushes into my forehead. My cheeks have grown stiff from drying tears. I hadn't cried when Early and Morton had slipped the x-rays of Gage's neck onto the light box. Or when I had broken three fingers punching a stainless steel supply cabinet. I had stoically buried John when he had had the stroke, dealing emotionlessly with the still living body that only looked like my best friend. I didn't cry when a stranger, whose actions were and are twisted shadows of my former partner's behavior, emerged from rehab needing long term care. But now I am weeping. I grope for the small box of Kleenexs Joanne keeps in the glove compartment.

I have seen the aftermath of enough CVAs and bullets cutting through the brain, to make myself believe Johnny is dead. Except that, Joanne remains convinced Gage is still inside that frozen shell. And I just saw the same look in his eyes that I saw on the day he saved my life....

Sniffling, I lean back and try to ignore the gaze of a woman, staring at me from her car. The afternoon sunlight falls across my face, warming my skin.

"Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?"

I look to my left. Just level with the bottom of the driver's side window is the top of Brice's head. The Department's most sanctimonious ex-paramedic is staring through his immaculate glasses at me. "Leave me alone, Brice."

"No."

Briefly, I contemplate throwing the truck into gear and driving off. But Craig is too close and I can not escape without hitting him. So I decide offense is the best defense. "Couldn't you have come up with some other activity?"

"You try lying in bed day after day with no visitors and precious little entertainment and see how you like it." Brice tips his head.

"Do you really think it's fair to remind Johnny of his days with the Department?"

"Remind him, or you?" Craig pins me with his gaze.

I turn my head and study the distant mountains. "Brice..."

He interrupts me. "If you can't be bothered to visit on a regular basis, don't bother at all. This is where we all end up, sooner or later. Someday it will be you."

"I'm not all alone," I reply softly, unkindly reminding Brice he is the one with no one who cares. The butterflies, which have been fluttering in my stomach since I arrived, turn into huge black crows flapping beneath my breastbone.

"This isn't the 19th century, we don't die at home surrounded by our families any more. You can't scoop and run on this one. Gage isn't going to get better."

Anger squeezes every muscle in my body. I fantasize about punching a certain officious jerk in the mouth. "Don't you think I know that?"

"Then deal with the results of your rescue, DeSoto. Or did you really mean what you told me back the first time we worked together, about helping people?"

"John doesn't understand...."

"Gage understands plenty; it's you that doesn't understand." Brice slaps the arm of his chair. "You have the great privilege of mobility. You can go where you please, drive, talk, make love to your wife, control your own life.... Your friend wakes up every morning to face a day of TV reruns, applesauce, loneliness and watching the odd person die. And you wonder why he's starving himself to death?"

Craig echoes Joanne words, setting my mind racing in ever tightening circles. I force myself to deny reality yet again. "He isn't trying suicide. John's personality has changed since the accident...."

"No damn wonder," he comments acidly.

"....He doesn't know why he has to eat or take his medicine...." I try to convince myself.

Brice looks at me. When he speaks his voice is hard and accusatory and heavy with sarcasm. "What's Gage supposed to live for? Oh, only about thirty more years of watching people around him die and waiting for you to grace him with your presence. No wonder he's so enthused about life in general."

Brice's words explode around me, ricocheting in the cab of the pickup. My stomach heaves, for the barest second I wish I could be rude enough to lean out the window and throw up on his legs, leaving him as soiled as his words make me feel. I scramble across the seat and throw open the passenger door. I vomit forth lunch, the last two years, a decade of friendship...

When I'm done, I lie across the seat shuddering. I look up -- Brice is gone.

******

I half expect to be run down on my way back into the building. I feel angry, unsatisfied and vaguely ashamed of myself. Being tired isn't helping. I keep expecting to hear the engine start, but I make it back inside without becoming a part of DeSoto's grillwork.

When I return, Gage eyes me warily. I am too tired to hide my irritation and lack of composure, so I spend time fiddling with the scanner for recent reports. My fingers are clumsy with the dials, and it takes me a while to get the thing on back on frequency after I knock it off. My anger isn't growing any less as I work. I have never gotten along well with DeSoto. Though many fellow paramedics seemed to like his low-key attitude, I found him unbearably holier-than-thou and high-handed about his seniority, to boot.

DeSoto doesn't come back. I look up from taking clumsy notes to see an anger in Gage's eyes that mirrors my own. For one moment, we understand each other perfectly.

"Your partner," I tell him bluntly, "is an asshole."

He snorts expressively through his nose, a dismissive sound. The scanner squawks on about units, placements, houses threatened, fire lines contained. I make marks on the map, grateful for the distraction. Some of the nurses stop in now and then, interested and concerned - several live in the fire area. I explain what's going on and interpret radio transmissions for them. One of them hugs me spontaneously when I am able to tell her one line has been contained just blocks from her house.

I never thought I'd get to be a fireman again, even vicariously, here. I go to bed late, tired but satisfied. The scanner is still plugged in, the volume turned down low. Gage and I fall asleep with the sounds of the radio playing in our brains.

******

My nose itches and my eyes are watering. I sniffle hopelessly. I need to blow my nose, an impossibility.

Roy and I had an annual argument -- John's hayfever. He said I had allergies and I said I didn't. Well I do have allergies; I just don't like to admit it.

From the doorway, I glare at Brice’s plant, source of my current agony. It refuses to wither and die, despite my best efforts. I have spit mouthfuls of Coke, cranberry juice, my Ditropan capsule... on the damn thing. It has glossy green leaves and small white flowers. I have no idea just what it was originally, but it has mutated, like a hapless vegetable in one of Chet's horror flicks. It is now the Gage Death Lily. The stupid thing arrived just before Thanksgiving, which figures. The blooms twitch, taking aim; I can sense it squirting pollen my way.

I try to scratch my nose on the throttle of the chair. I succeed in repeatedly ramming my chair into the doorframe. I can't take it anymore!

Defiantly, I thrust my chin forward and throttle into full gear. BANZAI! With a practiced gesture I angle right, catching the edge of the small table perfectly. The killer plant falls to the floor with a solid ‘crack’ as the pot splits open. Brice's maddeningly neat array of writing materials jumps in surprise. Dirt spills in a wide fan over the low industrial beige carpet.

Grinning widely, I back the chair over the corpse, shredding the deadly foliage with my wheels. God, this feels good.

"Gage, what are you doing?" demands Brice, from the doorway, knuckles white as he clutches the chair's controls.

I stick out my tongue at him, still smiling. His ears turn red.

"That was a present. And you just maliciously destroyed it."

He is so mad that he is more animated than I have seen him since some particularly rough committee meetings. The shell in which he has encased himself has broken. All over that damned plant.... Belliveau should have known better than to send his former partner the damned thing. It was ugly anyway.

Craig rolls to the bed, gazing at remnants of the pot. He sighs heavily. "You are a pain in the butt." He is so angry he forgets how to talk to me so I can answer. He asks no yes/no questions and he does not watch my face. This will be a one-sided conversation. "You just want to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You won't even try."

What the hell he thinks I should do is beyond me. Now I'm so mad I can't see straight. I give into an urge I have resisted since the evening I discovered Brice's favorite music is opera. I suck a mouthful of water from the sports bottle fastened to the side my wheel chair. I spit at him.

My aim is good. Open mouthed, he stares at me. Water drips down his face. He grabs the tumbler from the nightstand. He almost spills the water before he gets the glass to his lips. He spits a mouthful at me.

"That is what it feels like. Why don't you grow up? I don't know what your problem is -- at least you aren’t dying." The last word hangs in the air, echoing off the glaringly white walls. His bravado crumbles at the sound.

I glare at him. Brag about it!

From beneath the rubber of my wheels, the plant releases a final puff of irritating pollen. I tilt my head, sniffing and swallowing frantically to avoid the humiliation of having snot run down my face.

Brice drops his head, his anger draining away. He pulls a tissue from the box and gestures to me.

I can feel his hand shaking as he wipes my nose. I realize I will miss him.

******

I look up from my book to find Cheryl standing in the doorway, her arms filled with a massive, leafy, bright red poinsettia plant with a huge red bow tied around the pot. She has been adamant that I do some holiday decorating, an idea that I have been tactfully handling by forgetting her suggestions. Somehow, I'm not in the mood this year for holiday kitsch.

I watch as she bustles about, installing the plant in the space vacated by Belliveau's late greenery, unpacking the other things she's brought for me.... Some snacks, magazines, shampoo, good tissues to replace the coarse institutional ones that I fear will scratch my glasses...I shut my book on the table, making sure the page is marked. I no longer have the strength in my hands to hold anything heavier than a magazine; reading a hardback means flattening out the pages as I go, which is extra work and tiring. I'll come back to it later.

We are alone - Gage is watching TV in the sunroom - and thus have a small measure of false privacy. Smiling, Cheryl snuggles into my lap and nibbles on my ear, making me grin and squirm as I move my arms to hold her. Her breath is warm and alive against my neck.

"What if DeSoto walks in?" I whisper into her hair.

She giggles. "Let him find his own girl."

The med cart clatters out in the hallway, and reluctantly I let her go. She moves over to the bed to sit so we can talk for a bit on the same level. She never makes the mistake of standing and literally talking down to me.

She fills me in on the latest Rampart gossip. I bring up plans for a holiday concert I have heard about and think she would enjoy; she looks hesitant and shakes her head.

"Craig, I can't." Her voice catches. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I need to go home for Christmas this year, probably for most of the month. My Dad's not doing real well..."

With a sinking feeling, I only half-hear her worried explanations. She is an only child and her parents are elderly and live on the East Coast. Intellectually, I know that her family has to come first for her. But somewhere at the back of my head a paranoid little voice is telling me that this is her way of breaking things off easily, that she will go on her visit home and never bother to see me again when she gets back. I was also looking forward to not having to face the holidays alone, to having real company and companionship other than the staff and other patients here.

Numbly, I listen to myself reassuring her that I'll be fine, that of course she can call me, that everything will be all right, that I understand perfectly. There is nothing else I can say.

******
(Go to Part II)