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March 4, 2000. Three days awake.
John Carter stares up at Peter from his hospital bed, eyes glassy and half-lidded. Face languid from the swell of opioids coursing through his veins, palliating his abused body.
Peter Benton sits at John’s bedside. It is a station he has maintained almost continuously for the last three days.
After being stabbed in the back twice by Paul Sobriki on Valentine’s Day, Peter’s former student had entered a state of malignant catatonia, from which the doctors thought he might never awaken. It was only after two weeks of electroconvulsive therapy that Carter had emerged from this state.
He was coming out of it slowly, though. The psychiatrists said this was normal. But the kid had yet to speak a single word. And Peter… Peter was worried.
Over the course of his catatonia, the doctors had lessened his painkillers. So, when Carter had first started waking up three days ago, he had been in terrible, all-encompassing pain.
Yesterday, while doing paperwork upstairs, Peter had gotten an urgent page to get to the PCU. He’d sprinted down the halls, terrified that Carter was catatonic again.
When he’d burst into John’s room, the kid’s eyes were wide and fearful and utterly agonized. Face twisted in pain, tears streaming down his face. Mouth open, lips moving, but no words coming out. Just strangled moans and whimpers and guttural noises that Peter had never, not in a million years, ever imagined he would hear coming out of his old student’s mouth. Carter’s muscles locking up, weakly thrashing in pain.
Peter had rushed to John’s side, pushing nurses out of the way, yelling at them to fucking get the doctor and what are they just standing there for?
“It’s okay, Carter, you’re okay, you’re alright, just breathe man, just breathe through it, we’re getting you some more dilaudid, just stay with me, alright? Stay with me. We’re going to help you. You’re safe, I promise, just stay with me. Okay? Okay? Good boy, good boy, Carter. Breathe with me. That’s so good. You’re doing so well. Atta boy. Good. In, out. In, out. Good boy. Good boy, Carter…”
Carter’s movements had grown weaker as the PCU doctor finally arrived to up his dosage of painkillers. John had clung deliriously to Peter’s arm as a nurse came to wipe the tears and snot from his face. Slowly, gradually, he’d fallen back into a fitful sleep.
Peter felt like he aged fifty years in those five minutes alone.
Carter would still be getting ECT every two days. Layne, the psychiatrist, wanted the treatments to continue for at least two more weeks, until Carter was stable and the risk of relapse had been thoroughly mitigated.
He could respond to basic commands through blinking and squeezing a hand. But his breathing was weak. He couldn’t take anything orally. And he wouldn’t speak.
“Give him time,” Layne kept telling Peter. “We’re not talking about recovery in terms of days or weeks. This is going to be a process that takes place over multiple months.”
Peter was trying to accept this. He was. He was.
But it was hard, and it was frustrating. He just wanted Carter to get better. He wanted this to be over.
Peter had accrued a massive amount of vacation days over the last few years, and he was finally cashing in, spending his days with Carter.
He couldn’t stomach the thought of the kid being alone, not even for a second. Not after everything that had happened. No. Peter was going to be there, through the physical therapy and the respiratory therapy and the occupational therapy. He supposes when the time comes for actual therapy therapy, he’ll get kicked out. But he’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.
Right now, though, Carter is looking more lucid than he’d had at any other point in the last few days. Peter had come in this morning to find Carter agitated, weakly pulling at the many wires and tubes connected to his body.
“Stop that, Carter,” Peter had scolded gently, pulling the boy’s hands back to his side.
Now, Peter taps the IV in John’s left forearm. He speaks slowly, clearly. His tone gentle and soft. “This one is your primary IV. Fluids, pain medications, antibiotics. Keeping you stable, hydrated.” He reaches up, pointing out all the different bags and pouches hanging on the IV pole. “We’ve got you on dilaudid and hydromorphone for the pain. Also small doses of lorazepam. Mirtazapine at night, to help you sleep. Gabapentin, for nerve pain. Antibiotics for the abdominal wounds. We’ll be stopping those soon, though.”
It’s hard to know what, if anything, John understands. The kid mostly just sleeps. And when he’s awake, he seems a million miles away.
Now, though, his attention is rapt. His eyes dart continuously between Peter’s face and his moving hands. As if the medical speak is somehow getting through to him, activating something in his brain.
Peter reaches over, pointing at the IV in John’s right forearm. “That one is for all the stuff we’re giving you less often. Right now, it’s not doing a lot of work. Just saline. But we don’t want to take it out and then have to set up a new one. So it’s staying in for now.”
Carter blinks. Peter takes his hand, now, and wraps it carefully around the PCA pump. “I showed you this yesterday. You might not remember. You were pretty out of it. This is your PCA. As needed, right?”
Now Peter reaches up, lightly rolling John’s NG tube between his fingers. With his other hand, he gently adjusts the tape on John’s hollow cheek. “We put this in a couple days after your surgery. You’re getting a high-calorie, high protein formula. Keeping you fed and healthy, right?” Peter tries to give John a reassuring smile. He hopes it doesn’t look like a grimace. “It’s going to be staying in for a while. Until you’re able to consistently eat on your own.”
Carter gaze shifts to the wall.
Peter clears his throat, trying to keep his voice clinical, professional.
“You know what all this other stuff does. Heart monitors, pulse ox, oxygen cannula, the foley.” He lightly touches all the equipment as he lists them off. Under the soft touch of Peter’s fingers, John’s body shudders. Peter’s stomach clenches.
“We’re going to keep the colostomy for the foreseeable future,” Peter says gently, one hand grazing Carter’s abdomen. “We’ll delay the take-down until you’re up and moving around again. It… it might be a little while before you’re ready for that.”
A single tear runs down John’s face. The boy squeezes his eyes shut.
Peter’s heart breaks. Poor John. Poor Carter. Poor, poor boy.
“Everything is going to be alright, Carter,” Peter whispers, watching as exhaustion pulls his former student back into sleep once more. “I promise.”
March 6, 2000. Five days awake.
Peter knocks on the door to Carter’s room in the PCU, then sticks his head in.
“Hey, Carter,” he says softly, slipping into the room.
Unsurprisingly, John does not respond. He blinks at Peter, though, and his eyes track his progress across the room and to the edge of his bed. Which is a miracle that, just five days ago, Peter thought might never happen.
“How you feeling?” Peter asks as he settles into the chair next to the bed. John blinks, his eyes dull from all the medication. When he says nothing, Peter continues. “Is the pain okay today?” John blinks again. Then, a weak shrug.
“Okay,” Peter says patiently, leaning forward for a moment to give John’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “Okay.”
He’s trying, Peter knows this.
He knows that Carter is doing his best. That his brain is stuck in a fog of drugs and trauma and God knows what else.
He holds back a frown as he takes in the dark circles under Carter’s eyes, accentuated by his already sallow skin. Before coming in today, the nurse had told Peter that Carter had barely slept, and when he had, it had been restless and fitful. Nightmares, she suspected.
“Do you want to hear about the carotid endarterectomy I assisted in last week?” Peter asks.
Carter just stares.
“It was pretty interesting, the plaque in the artery started disintegrating while we were dissecting…”
Peter goes on, recounting the semi-interesting surgery to Carter in gentle tones, watching as Carter’s eyelids start to blink slowly, eventually falling closed. His breaths even out as he drifts into sleep, lips parted ever so slightly.
Peter keeps talking for a while, moving onto a trauma that he worked on in the ER, then to the concert that Reese’s preschool was putting together.
“It’s at the end of April. Maybe if you’re better, you can come,” Peter suggests to John’s sleeping form.
He lapses into silence. A minute later though, Carter flinches in his sleep, a whine slipping from his lips.
Peter sighs, reaching forward to grab Carter’s hand. “It’s alright, man. You’re alright. Just sleep. Just listen to my voice. You’re safe. You’re alright. Just listen…”
Peter launches into another story about surgery, something that happened last year. Carter settles down, his facial features smoothing out once more.
It happens again, though, ten minutes later, when Peter’s story comes to an end and he falls back into silence. Carter grows agitated, his face scrunching up. As soon as Peter starts talking again, he relaxes.
Peter huffs a little, quietly, affectionately, at Carter’s neediness, even in sleep. He searches the recesses of his brain for another story he can tell Carter.
Tomorrow, Peter thinks, I’m going to have to bring some journal articles to read out loud.
March 7, 2000. Six days awake.
Carter’s first day of physical therapy is a Tuesday. They’re going to try to have him sit up on his own.
Peter is nervous. Even with all the painkillers, Carter’s been in so much discomfort. He’s weak. He still isn’t speaking. The most noise he makes is when he cries out in pain, when he wakes up, gasping, from nightmares. But no words. Never any words.
Peter sits at his bedside, explaining how everything is going to work. How the physical therapy specialist is going to be here soon, how they’re going to work with him. That it will be difficult, but it’s important that he works hard.
Carter is pale as his eyes lock on Peter’s, absorbing his words. He nods stiffly, looking anxious. His hands clench the blankets pulled up to his waist.
Peter tries to smile reassuringly. “I’ll be here the whole time, okay? There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Carter casts his eyes downwards, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Alex, the physical therapist, arrives a few minutes later, speaking in soft tones and gentle smiles. She disconnects the feeding pump from Carter’s NG tube so the tubing doesn’t get tangled. Detaches the IV lines and catheters.
“I know you’re in pain, John, and this session is going to be pretty hard. We’ll go slow. Just tell me if, at any point, you need to stop,” she says.
Carter looks to Peter, blinking at him with uncertainty. Peter gives him a supportive nod. Carter glances back to Alex and nods tightly.
“Okay. We’re going to get started, alright? Doctor Benton and I are going to help you roll onto your side. We’ll do most of the work. You just need to focus on breathing, on staying with us.”
John blinks.
“Doctor Benton, you just keep talking to John, okay?”
Peter grunts.
Beads of sweat are already popping up along Carter’s forehead. They haven’t even started yet. Peter’s heart hurts.
“It’s going to be fine, man. Don’t feel stressed.”
Carter looks away, back to Alex, blinking rapidly.
“Alright,” she says. “Here we go.”
Peter’s heart pounds as she places one hand behind Carter’s shoulder blade and the other at his hip. She counts down, and then rolls him.
A strangled cry escapes John’s throat, his fingers weakly clutching at the bedding. His face is tight, and Peter can practically see the blood draining from it in real time.
“We’ve got you, we’ve got you, Carter. Just keep breathing. In through your nose, and out,” Peter coaches.
And Carter tries. Peter can see it, his lungs heaving, trying to work through the pain. John’s eyes are screwed shut, his rib cage shuddering.
“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Peter chants through his own panic and doubt.
They let Carter have a minute or two to adjust to his new position.
His face looks a little green.
“Hey, man,” Peter says, leaning in, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “Open your eyes for me.”
He waits. After a couple seconds, brown irises are squinting up at him.
“If it’s too much, Carter, we can stop. It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
Inside, though, Peter is screaming. It’s not okay if Carter can’t do this. His back was fucked up enough in the attack. Two weeks in a catatonic state had severely exacerbated the problem. Carter’s commitment to physical therapy was incredibly important to his overall recovery.
Luckily, Carter shakes his head. Peter sees a faint glint of determination in his eyes.
“You’re doing really well, John,” Alex says. “Let’s see if you can bring your left elbow underneath you.”
John’s body shifts a little, but his arm barely moves. Peter can see his eyes getting glassy.
“That’s alright, John,” Alex tells him. “I can help you.”
She lifts his elbow, bending it so that it’s digging into the mattress. “Lean into it, now,” she instructs, moving around the bed so that she’s behind him. “Put some pressure into your elbow, as much as you can. Try to prop yourself up.”
John begins to tremble, rivulets of sweat dripping down his face, his lower lip trembling, eyes closed, forehead creased in concentration and exertion.
“Good job, good job, John,” she praises as his upper body lifts about an inch.
John whimpers.
“I know it hurts, but you’re doing so well. Just keep breathing through the pain. I’m going to help you a little bit, now,” she says.
She places a hand under his rib cage and lifts him up a little more, then places another hand along his shoulder blade, stabilizing him.
Carter’s whole body is shaking. “Amazing. Amazing, John. You’re holding yourself up. Try to keep holding the position. The shaking is normal. Your body, your muscles, they’re just out of practice.”
A tear slips out of John’s closed eyes as his entire face remains twisted in pain.
“You got this, Carter,” Peter growls. “You got this.”
“Okay, John. Last step. We’re going to bring your legs down and sit you up. Doctor Benton, help me with his-”
Peter gets to his feet and quickly moves to support Carter’s position as Alex swings his legs over the side of the bed. The boy lets out another strangled sound of pain, little choked gasps through clenched teeth.
God, Peter thinks to himself, feeling nauseous. They’re torturing him.
“Just breathe, man, you got this,” Peter mutters in John’s ear. John just nods as his hand finds the front of Peter’s shirt and wraps tightly around the fabric.
“Okay, Doctor Benton, help me get him upright,” Alex instructs, and she and Peter slowly and carefully lift Carter into an upright position, so that he’s sitting up on the side of the bed.
John’s head lolls, his whole body swaying. Peter’s heart clenches in concern as the nurse pipes in. “BP drop.”
Carter’s pulse is racing, his chest rising in panicked, shallow breaths. A tremor runs through him. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a thin, frightened moan.
Peter swears. “It’s too much. We need to get him back down.”
But Alex shakes her head. “No. Hold the position. Give him a minute. You can do this, John. Eyes open. Look at me.”
John squints at her. His eyes are dazed and afraid. He looks like he’s about to pass out, his face a terrible shade of grey.
Peter uses one hand to keep Carter stable. With the other, he gently rubs Carter’s back, up and down.
“Anchor your feet against the floor, now, John. Feel the ground underneath you.”
Carter’s toes graze against the tiles.
“Hold the position, Doctor Carter. Good job. You’re doing so well.”
John’s body shakes and trembles for nearly eight seconds before his shoulders begin to slump.
“Enough,” Peter says finally, unable to take it anymore. The torment etched across his former student’s face.
Alex finally agrees. “Alright. That’s it for today. You did exactly what we needed, John. That was incredible work.”
Slowly, carefully, they lower him back down onto the bed. Carter lets out a shaky, silent sob as his head hits the pillow.
“You should be proud, John,” Alex says, squeezing his ankle. “That was a huge step forward.”
Carter turns his head away, tears streaming from his closed eyes, mingling with sweat.
Alex bites her lip, glancing at Benton, sympathy written all over her face.
“I got this,” Peter tells her. “You should go.”
She sighs quietly. “You did so well, Doctor Carter. I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise this will get easier.”
With that, she takes her leave.
As the door swings shut behind her, a choked, animalistic sob bursts out of John. Peter’s stomach sinks. “Oh, man,” Peter says helplessly as Carter cries, weakly trying to curl into himself.
Peter lays an uncertain hand on Carter’s arm. “You’re alright. Everything is going to be alright,” he whispers. Carter doesn’t seem to hear him, his whole body convulsing with sobs. Peter feels tears burning behind his own eyes. He blinks rapidly, willing them away.
Peter feels an insane urge to crawl into the bed with Carter and wrap him in his arms, like he does with Reese when the toddler has nightmares.
For several moments, he just sits there, frozen, as John cries and cries and cries. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to make John feel better. He wishes, more than anything in the world, that he could fix this. That he could fix John. Make things go back to normal.
Peter would give anything.
But he can’t. He understands this, now more than ever.
“Oh, Carter,” Peter whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He reaches forward and holds onto Carter’s hand, gripping it for dear life as Carter’s body shakes and shakes.
Minutes pass, and eventually the sobs turned into weakened gasps, the shakes downgraded to tremors.
He’s tired himself out, Peter registers.
“Sleep, Carter,” Peter says, reaching out to smooth out John’s sweat-soaked hair. “You’re safe. Just sleep, man. Just sleep.”
As Carter drifts, Peter gets up to grab a washcloth from the cabinet. He runs it under warm water, then wrings it out.
He returns to the chair at John’s bedside and begins the quiet, solemn work of cleaning John’s face, wiping away all the sweat and the tears. John’s breath catches as the warm, wet cloth makes contact with his skin. “Shhh,” Peter tuts. “Let me take care of you. Just… just rest, man.” And John relaxes, breaths evening out once more.
He sleeps soundly for nearly fifteen hours.
March 9, 2000. Eight days awake.
Peter sits at Carter’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up from the ECT session.
It was different, now that John was awake and aware. At that first session, post-waking up, he’d looked terrified as they’d explained what they were going to do to him. Sedate and paralyze him. Send massive electrical currents into his brain, triggering a seizure.
“You won’t know it’s happening,” Dr. Layne had reassured him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s just going to feel like a nap. When you wake up, you’ll be back in your room.”
Carter had looked to Peter, fear in his eyes. “It’s alright, Carter,” Peter had told him softly. “I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll be with you when you wake up. It’s… it’s going to help you get better.”
So Carter had consented, and the ECT had resumed.
Today had been his third session since waking up. Peter prayed that maybe today would see a breakthrough. That Carter would start speaking again.
Progress had been slow. The physical therapy was gruelling. Carter was still hardly able to take anything by mouth.
Peter gives his hand a squeeze as John’s eyelids flutter.
“Hey, man,” he says softly. “Welcome back. The session went well.”
John blinks at him slowly. A faint groan slips out.
He was always extremely groggy after ECT.
His fingers curl around Peter’s hand. Peter smiles. “You feeling okay?”
John shrugs weakly. Peter’s heart tightens.
“Do you want to try speaking?” Peter asks, hesitant. “Just ‘yes’ or ‘no’, maybe?” He tries to keep his voice even and nonjudgemental.
John stares at him. His mouth opens. Peter’s pulse climbs. But nothing happens. No sound comes out. John’s mouth closes again, his cheeks pink. He averts his gaze, staring at the wall opposite to Peter.
“That’s alright,” Peter reassures him, even though, inside, he is screaming. “It’s alright, Carter. You’ll get there. You’ll get there eventually.”
You don’t know that, Peter scolds himself. What if he never talks again. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
John shrugs as a glistening tear slides down his face. With a shaky hand, he wipes it away.
March 11, 2000. Ten days awake.
“Doctor Carter, you need to eat. You need to try. We cannot keep the NG tube in forever.”
John is sitting up in bed, arms crossed, looking annoyed as the nutritionist lectures him. It almost warms Peter’s heart, seeing some of Carter’s old stubbornness coming back to him. Almost.
But right now, the situation is not great.
Carter lost too much weight during the catatonia. He needs a higher caloric intake to aid in proper healing. To allow him to start rebuilding critical muscle mass.
He should be eating by now. But the NG feeds have continued, remaining his only real source of nutrition. John struggles to swallow. He gets tired and nauseous and distressed whenever they try to give him anything orally. He keeps choking on the damn ice chips.
Two days ago, they’d finally convinced him to take a few spoonfuls of apple sauce. He’d vomited it up almost immediately, then curled onto his side, crying. He refused to interact with anyone or anything for the entire rest of the day.
Since then, he’d been staunchly rejecting any food they tried to give him.
“Carter,” Peter says softly. “Please. Please try.” He gently reaches out, taking John’s chin in his fingers and tilting it towards him. “Look at me. This can’t go on. You’re not going to get better if you don’t eat. You want to get better, right?”
John’s eyes water, his cheeks reddening as Peter stares him down.
Peter’s stomach twists. “Just some broth today, alright? Come on.”
He shakes his head. The beeping from his heart monitor quickens.
Peter sighs, glancing back at the nutritionist. He fights back his feelings of frustration and impatience. He takes a deep breath. “There’s no reason to be scared, Carter. We won’t let you choke. But we’ve got to get this process going. I know it’s hard and overwhelming. Teaching your body how to do all these things again. But you have to eat, man. You just have to.”
They stare at each other. Peter watches, pleased, as Carter’s hardened facial features crumble a little under the weight of Peter’s stern stare. Carter’s eyes drift towards the cup of broth sitting on the table next to his bed. Then back to Peter. He nods stiffly.
Peter smiles. “Good boy.” He grabs the cup with one hand and Carter’s hand with another. He wraps Carter’s fingers around the styrofoam. “Try doing it yourself. You don’t need my help.”
Previously, Peter had tried spooning various soft foods and liquids into Carter’s mouth himself. But Carter needed to start doing these things on his own. He was strong enough, now. Peter knew it. He couldn’t rely on Peter and the doctors and nurses for everything. Not if he was going to get better.
John stares down at the cup of broth sitting in his lap. His nose wrinkles. Peter restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He presses a spoon into Carter’s other hand.
“Come on. You’ve got this,” he urges Carter.
John glances at him, his face vulnerable, eyes nervous. Peter can only nod encouragingly, reaching forward to give his calf a gentle squeeze. “You’ve got this,” he repeats.
John sighs and dips the spoon into the broth, ladling up a spoonful. With a slightly trembling hand, he lifts it up to his nose, sniffing. His whole face twists in revulsion.
He looks at Peter and shakes his head. I don’t want to, his eyes scream. Please don’t make me.
“Come on, Carter. Please.”
Carter’s jaw clenches. He huffs. Grimaces. Then opens his mouth and takes the spoonful.
For a moment, his looks so revolted, Peter is worried he’s going to spit it out. But after several seconds, he swallows thickly, wincing all the while. He coughs.
“Another,” Peter orders.
John looks at him, pained. His eyes water. Peter shakes his head. “Another,” he repeats.
And John does. He takes another spoonful, and then another, and then another, Peter whispering soft praises and encouragement the whole time.
Finally, after six spoonfuls, Carter shakes his head. He fixes Peter with a tired look. No more, he communicates silently.
Peter can tell by the look on Carter’s face that he means it. They’re done for the day.
“Okay, Carter,” he says quietly, taking the broth away, praying that the anti-nausea medication they’d given Carter earlier does its job. “Good boy. That was great work.”
John falls asleep not long after that. He keeps the broth down.
Progress.
March 14, 2000. 13 days awake.
Peter corners Deraad in his office on a Tuesday morning. Exactly one month since Valentine’s Day. Since the stabbing.
“He’s still not talking. Why isn’t he talking?”
Deraad looks up from his computer. “Good morning, Peter.”
“It’s been almost two weeks. What’s wrong with him??” Peter slams his hands down on the desk in frustration.
Deraad raises his eyebrows. “Peter. We’ve been over this. Doctor Carter’s recovery is going to take time. A lot of time. He’s working hard. His progress has been good.”
Peter wants to scream. “He makes sounds. It’s not like his voice doesn’t work. He’s refusing to talk! We… we need to do something!”
“What we need to do, Peter, is show John kindness and patience as he works through a significant physical and psychological trauma.”
Peter glares at the psychiatrist. “It’s not enough,” he growls. “He needs more help.”
Deraad considers him. He sighs. “My main concern, Peter, is overwhelming him. He has physical therapy every day, which is painful and exhausting. He’s having electroconvulsive therapy three times a week, which compounds that exhaustion. He’s struggling to eat. He’s weak. He’s hurting. He started psychological therapy yesterday. Adding speech therapy to his schedule, on top of everything else, is just too much. We need to give him time. His mind, his body… they’re still adjusting. We need to give this a chance to resolve on its own.”
Peter grits his teeth. He’s been patient. He’s been more patient these last few weeks than he’s ever been in his entire life. He just wants Carter to get better. He needs him to get better.
“Look,” Deraad says, his tone gentle. “If he’s still not talking by the end of the month, we’ll have a conversation about bringing in a speech pathologist.”
Peter scowls. “Fine.”
He spins around and storms out of the office, back towards John’s room.
March 15, 2000. 14 days awake.
“Big day today, Doctor Carter,” Alex says as she walks into the room, dragging a walker behind her.
Sitting up in bed, poking at a cup of jell-o with a spoon, John smiles thinly. He’s nervous, Peter can tell.
“You can do this, Carter,” he says confidently.
John just stares at the half-eaten orange gelatin in his lap.
Today, John Carter is going to walk.
Peter reaches forward and plucks the jell-o out of Carter’s hand and tosses it into the trash. John frowns at him, looking slightly put out. Peter rolls his eyes. The kid wasn’t going to finish it anyway.
“Alright. We’re going to take this nice and slow, John,” Alex says as she positions the walker a couple feet from the bed. “Our main goal is to get you standing. And, for extra credit, taking a step or two. That’s all.”
Carter nods. But Peter can see him biting the inside of his cheek.
“Can you get yourself to sit on the edge of the bed by yourself?”
Carter nods again. Speak!! Peter wants to scream. Just say ‘yes’!! He knows Carter can do it. He knows the words are inside of him, somewhere, deep down. He wonders what it will take to shake them loose.
After Peter and the nurse successfully detach Carter from all the tubing, Alex gives him the nod.
Carter sighs quietly, then digs both of his palms into the mattress and scoots his body forward. His arms wobble from the effort. Peter reaches out to lay a steadying hand on John’s shoulder but gets immediately shaken off. John glares at him, as if to say I don’t need your damn help. Peter lifts his hands in surrender, biting back a smile.
He watches as Carter swings his legs around the side of the bed. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple. His legs are rattled by tremors.
He glances over at Peter, who smiles and nods encouragingly. He takes a deep breath.
“Okay, John, that’s fantastic. You’re getting really, really good at that.” Alex says. “Can you scoot forward a little more? Get your feet flat on the floor, if you can.”
John grunts softly as he does what she says. “Great, great job,” the physical therapist murmurs. “Okay. You know what this is?” From her bag, Alex pulls out a gait belt. He nods wearily. “Good. I’m just going to secure this to your waist so that we can support you as you’re moving around.”
Carter just nods again, cheeks a little pink as she wraps the belt around him, stiffening almost imperceptibly at the contact.
Peter leans in. “You’ve got this, okay, Carter? You can do this.”
The look that Carter gives him in response is so full of fear and uncertainty, it breaks Peter’s heart. This poor fucking kid.
“I won’t let you fall,” Peter oaths. Carter’s Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes briefly close. When he opens them again, he looks to Alex. Expectant. Determined.
She smiles kindly as she pushes the walker right in front of him. Without her needing to ask, Carter reaches forward, positioning his lightly trembling hands on opposite handles.
“Take a deep breath, okay?” Alex instructs. “And another. And another.” Gradually, the shaking stops. “Good job. Good job, John. Now, we’re going to take this really, really slow. Peter, could you come over here? Get on his other side? Perfect. Thank you. Now. Slowly, I want you to start leaning forward, into the walker. Try directing your weight into your feet as you go.”
She nods in approval as Peter places a steadying hand on John’s shoulder. This time, Carter doesn’t shake him off. Alex has firm grip on the gait belt around John’s waist.
Peter watches with bated breath as John leans forward, his face set in concentration. Beads of sweat dotting up along his forehead. He leans his body forward, his legs shaking violently.
Come on, Carter. You’ve got this.
His hips rise off the bed. A whine of pain escapes his lips. The heart monitor races. His breathing is shallow and fast. Alex maintains a tight grip on the belt.
“Just a little more, John, come on,” she murmurs.
A tiny, strangled-sounding exhale. And then-
He stands. Fully upright.
And then his knees buckle.
Peter snaps into action, grabbing onto Carter’s shoulders while Alex keeps him stabilized at the waist. “Just keep holding onto the walker, John. We’ve got you. Focus on your feet, on your legs. Find your balance, Dr. Carter.”
John swallows, face pale and slick with sweat. His lower lip trembles. He looks like a gentle breeze could knock him over.
Peter gives Carter’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. Alex glances at him. “Let go of him now, Peter. John, I want you to try holding yourself up on your own, alright?”
Peter’s heart clenches. John nods stiffly, looking fucking terrified. Peter squeezes again. “You got this, man,” he murmurs, reluctantly letting go.
Carter sways. His knees shake. But he stays standing.
Peter beams. He feels a ridiculous compulsion to clap John on the back. Atta-fucking-boy.
“Incredible, Carter, incredible…” Peter praises as several seconds go by and John doesn’t fall. Despite the exhaustion and pain written all over his face, the corners of Carter’s mouth twitch.
It’s almost, almost a smile.
Christ. Peter can’t remember the last time he saw John Carter smile.
There’s something wet on Peter’s cheek. A fucking tear. Peter hastily turns around to wipe it away before anyone can see.
“I want you to try taking a step, now, John…”
Peter watches from the sidelines, heart racing, as Alex instructs John to shift his weight onto his right foot. Then she has him lift his left foot. Peter leans forward, ready to catch John should he begin to fall. But Alex’s grip on him is tight and steady. And John… John doesn’t need Peter’s help.
He takes a full step, pushing the walker forward as he goes.
The moment his foot touches down, though, his whole body sags with exhaustion. Alex moves quickly after that, signalling Peter to help her get Carter back onto the bed. They lift him under his arms, getting him sitting on the edge of the bed once more. He doesn’t fight their gentle ministrations. He can’t.
Peter finds himself sitting down on the bed right next to him, wrapping a stabilizing arm around the kid’s shoulders.
John slumps against him, leaning into Peter’s side, shaking, sweating. His head lolls, hanging low, chin pointed to his sternum. Tears slip down his cheeks and fall into his lap. Peter rubs comforting circles into his back.
“You did it, Carter,” Peter mutters in his ear, squeezing Carter’s shoulder with his free hand. “You walked. You did it.”
John lifts his head, watery and dazed eyes meeting Peter’s. He raises a trembling hand, hesitant and weak. He reaches for Peter’s hand, resting it on top of it.
It’s the closest thing to a spoken word he can manage.
March 20, 2000. 19 days awake.
Peter stands at the edge of John’s bed, watching impassively as John pokes at his scrambled eggs.
“I had the folks in the cafeteria make those for you special, Carter. Show a little gratitude.”
John rolls his eyes, sniffing at a forkful of eggs before shovelling it into his mouth. He chews. He swallows. He raises his eyebrows at Peter, as if to say, happy now?
Peter’s lips quirk. “Finish it.”
It’s a Monday. Carter’s last week of ECT. Peter started back at work today. But his shift is over now. He wants to spend an hour or two with John before he goes home.
Peter glances down at Reese, exhausted after a day of daycare. He’s curled up on the end of John’s bed, fast asleep, his chin resting on his former student’s ankle.
He tugs John’s blankets down a bit so that he can drape them over his son.
John pouts for a second before his eyes settle on Reese. His expression softens.
Peter stares pointedly at the bowl of scrambled eggs in Carter’s hand. John rolls his eyes again and resumes his eating.
“Keep it up and we can take the NG out soon,” Peter says mildly, pulling up a chair and kicking up his feet so that they, too, are resting on the bed.
John, of course, says nothing. He absently tugs at the tubing that trails from his nostril to the feeding pump next to the bed.
In recent days, they’ve lessened the quantity of the feedings as Carter started to reliably eat more on his own.
Real, tangible progress.
“I did a fasciotomy with Anspaugh today,” Peter tells him. “Guy was brought into the ER with compartment syndrome after a construction accident.”
John hums faintly.
Peter sighs and pulls out the worn-out deck of cards he’d snagged from the lounge a few days ago. He tosses them into Carter’s lap. “Shuffle those when you’re done eating.”
It had become a nightly ritual.
Last week, Carter’s attitude had started to worsen. He’d become uncooperative in all his various therapy sessions.
They’d been at a loss, at first, to explain the mood change. He’d been making so much positive progress.
It was Deraad who, annoyingly, had figured it out.
Carter was bored.
So Peter had gone down to the ER, recruiting different staff members to start visiting John more regularly, to keep him company. And in the evenings, he and John played cards.
It takes John a couple minutes to finish his eggs, and a couple more to successfully shuffle the cards. It takes him a few tries, but he gets there eventually. Peter watches, silent. Pleased.
He was progressing through his occupational therapy sessions with remarkable speed.
He slides Peter’s cards down the bed towards Peter, who picks them up and starts arranging them while Carter does the same thing.
John signs the ASL for ten at Peter, who shakes his head. “Go fish.”
And so they go.
The game is boring and tedious for Peter, but he knows John needs the stimulation and the company. He wonders, for the millionth time, what’s going on inside of Carter’s head. What happens in those closed-door therapy sessions.
“Got any nines?” Peter asks.
John shakes his head, signing the word for fish.
Peter reaches into the pile and pulls out a king.
John signs the words for king at him, smirking.
Peter rolls his eyes and scowls, handing the card over.
“You knew I had that king,” Peter grumbles.
John shrugs. “The card has a rip in the left corner.”
Peter scowls again. “That’s just blatant cheating, Carter. I need to grab a new…”
He trails off, his whole body going rigid.
Slowly, eyes wide, he looks up at John, who is staring right back at him. Several shades paler than he was just a minute ago.
“Carter…” Peter says quietly, his heart fucking galloping. “Did you… did you just…” he trails off, suddenly (and ironically) unable to find the words.
John just blinks at him, his lips parted, looking slightly thunderstruck.
Peter leans in, wondering if he imagined it. “Do it again,” he orders. “You just talked. Do it again!”
John swallows, eyes darting around, looking panicked. Reese sits up, as if sensing the sudden seismic shift in the room’s atmosphere. John shakes his head.
“No,” Peter snaps, standing up, his cards falling and scattering all over the ground. “You did! You fucking talked!”
His heart pounds. He feels a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Tell me I didn’t imagine that, Carter,” Peter says to him, his voice cracking just a little bit. “Tell me.”
John swallows again. Peter can see him biting the inside of his lip. Come on, Carter, he begs silently. Do it again. Do it again, please.
Carter closes his mouth. Then opens it again. His eyebrows knit in concentration.
“…didn’t imagine it.”
Peter collapses back into the chair and buries his face in his hands. Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. He lets out a shaky breath, palming his eye sockets to keep the tears from flowing.
When he finally looks up again, John is staring at him intently.
Peter smiles weakly. He’d imagined this moment so many times. He was starting to think it might never come. “Hey, Carter,” is the only thing he can think of to say.
And John smiles back, hesitant and shy, his cheeks turning red. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and quiet and a little raspy.
Peter stands up again and, throwing caution to the wind, grabs Carter behind the head and wraps his arms around the kid, pulling him close.
“Welcome back, man.”
March 25, 2000. Twenty-four days awake.
“Stop playing with that,” Peter snaps at John from across the room as the PCU nurse sets up his station next to Carter’s bed.
Carter huffs as he moves his hand away from the NG tube. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he mutters.
Peter can hardly even find it in himself to be annoyed. Even when they are bratty and petulant, any and all words coming out of John Carter’s mouth still sound like music.
“Just relax and let Julio do his job,” Peter commands.
The NG tube is coming out today.
Ever since Carter started talking last week, the complaining had been incessant.
It makes my throat scratchy.
It’s gross.
I don’t like the way it makes my stomach feel.
Peter and every other doctor helping Carter quickly became very aware of all of Carter’s grievances. He would not shut up about all of them.
Peter would listen to it all day if he could.
“You’ve done this before, right Carter?” Julio asks cheerfully as he starts to set up.
“In med school. Ages ago,” John grumbles.
“Then you know what to expect. It’s going to be a bit unpleasant and uncomfortable, and you might feel some burning in the back of your nose, but it’ll be over in a second.”
Carter just hums. Julio peels off the tape that’s been keeping the NG tube stuck to Carter’s cheek for over a month now. Keeping him alive.
“Take some deep breaths,” Julio instructs. Carter is already doing that, though, his eyes closed tightly. Peter twitches nervously when he sees that John’s hands are trembling.
“Alright, on the count of three….”
And then Julio is pulling out the tube in one fast, smooth, continuous motion. It slides free with a soft, slick sound.
John gasps wetly, his throat spasming.
Julio steps backwards, placing the tube on the tray. “All done.”
John coughs and then coughs again. Peter watches, stomach clenched, as John reaches a shaking hand up to his face, lighly touching his cheek where the NG tube used to be taped.
“Happy now?” Peter asks quietly, watching Carter’s face intently.
John just nods, taking a few more gasping breaths. Peter moves forward now, pulling out a water bottle and sticking a straw into it. “Slow sips,” he orders, shoving the water at Carter. John takes the bottle without complaint, eagerly bringing the straw to his lips and sucking in water.
Peter watches, pleased.
“You did good, Carter,” Peter says quietly, a couple minutes later, when they’re alone again.
John sighs, setting the water bottle on the bedside table.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. “For being here.”
Of course, Peter thinks. Where else would I possibly be?
March 27, 2000. 26 days awake.
“I can’t believe you guys took my NG tube out just to start denying me food and water,” Carter grumbles as he shuffles with the walker from the bathroom back to his bed, grimacing in pain all the while. But looking otherwise… almost… healthy.
“You’re having surgery in three hours, Carter,” Peter reminds him, unnecessarily, watching as Carter hauls himself back into bed with the grace and agility of an 87 year geriatric patient with arthritis.
Peter is doing Carter’s colostomy take-down today. Finally.
And on Thursday, if everything goes to plan… Carter will be discharged. Will be leaving the hospital for the first time since Valentine’s Day.
He wasn’t going back to his apartment, though. And he wasn’t, like he’d tried to suggest at first, going to his grandparents’ house. Peter had practically scoffed. The grandparents who hadn’t visited Carter a single time certainly couldn’t be relied upon to watch over John.
No. Peter would be taking Carter home with him.
John would have to balance a complicated and delicate regimen of drugs and physical therapy and pain management. Peter didn’t trust the kid to handle it all on his own. Not after everything he’d been through. As much as he knew John didn’t want to admit it, he needed help. And Peter was going to be there to give it to him.
Every step of the way.