Bruce Lewis had decided that the patient in 410 was far too dignified for a moniker like ‘Johnny’. He was not sure what prompted this conclusion—a sharp look, a quiet word, the air of tightly contained grief that hung perpetually over the man’s blond head. Whatever the reason, Johnny became John with only the occasional slip of the tongue.

That same patient now lay in his hospital bed drenched in sweat and totally unresponsive to polite inquiry. Aggravated and concerned, Bruce settled for the direct approach. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on, John?”

Body curled and bow taut, John faced the opposite wall and did not reply. His breathing was harsh and rapid, his cheek twitching occasionally in a pained grimace. He had fallen hard in the corridor and in a display of willpower that was both admirable and confusing, he got up and returned to the room without assistance.

As a child, Bruce discovered that he had a serious aversion to pain in any creature. He brought wounded birds home to be tended and fed table scraps to stray animals out the back door of his rural Indiana home, much to the chagrin of his tolerant mother. Suffering ate at him in an almost tangible fashion. John Smith was wounded, a being of humor and light now living in the dark. This was unacceptable. “Hey, man, I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

“Get out,” John whispered.

Bruce pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed. Rumors about John had been flying around the hospital for weeks. Bruce was not interested in speculation he wanted facts. It was not morbid curiosity but rather an irrepressible urge to help John recover in every way possible. Something undefined was standing in the way of that recovery. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Leave me alone!”

A pillow sailed through the air, followed quickly by a half full glass of water and a box of tissues. Undeterred by the mini tirade, Bruce calmly picked up the items from the floor and mopped up the water with the towel left over from John’s therapy session. He sat back down and folded his arms. “Are you finished?”

John stared at him with eyes haunted and frighteningly blank. He blinked once, twice, and struggled to sit up.

Bruce sat very still and watched. His impulse was to help a patient while simultaneously assessing their strengths and weaknesses. John had made it clear that he did not want to be touched. Demands and denial were not uncommon for accident victims of any age, nor was John Smith the most difficult patient on Bruce’s resume. Challenge was part of the job. “Well?” he asked pointedly.

“You are one stubborn son of a bitch,” John hissed.

“Comes with the job description. 2 years experience and a whole lot of attitude!”

John lay back against the pillows, breathing heavily. “Just leave it alone, okay?”

“No, not okay!” Bruce snapped. “You’ve come a hell of a long way. I could help you go further if you would just let me do my damn job!” He had not intended to yell and the flash of hurt in John’s eyes came as a surprise. “I’m just trying to help,” he added in a kinder tone. “You know that, right?”

John scrubbed an arm across his eyes, leaving it there for a long moment as he drew a shaky breath. “I know that,” he answered as the arm dropped down to his chest.

Bruce did not miss the dampness on the pallid cheeks or the way John’s eyes flickered across the ceiling and fell to the painting on the far wall. He had seen tears elicited by physical pain, relief, joy and sorrow. They were familiar and understandable. Something more profound lay before him.

“Bruce?”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to see Maggie again,” John whispered. “She still has nightmares about the fire and I just couldn’t take it.” He swallowed audibly. “Not after Sarah.”

So many family members came and went Bruce found it hard to recall specific people. Momentary confusion gave way to an image of a petite brunette with sad blue eyes and a tremulous smile. Bruce did not know the full history between John and Sarah, only that she was a significant part of his pre-coma life. John was quieter and more determined after her visit. He was also angrier.

“See her again?” Bruce asked carefully. “You’re not making sense, man.”

“Do you remember the water bottle?”

“Don’t worry about the water.”

“Water, what water?”

Bruce nodded slowly as the incident in the gym came to mind. “What about it?”

“I saw it,” John replied tightly. “When you grabbed my arm.”

Bruce swallowed a sigh and sat back on the stool. Snatches of the unsubstantiated rumors began to coalesce into a rather unbelievable theory in his mind. Nurse Davis claimed that John told her where to find her missing cell phone, which had been lost for over a month. Dr. Jeffries narrowly avoided a five-car pile-up on route 1 because John kept him talking in the hall for five extra minutes. Elaine firmly believed that John had saved Maggie’s life and Dr. Tran had a taken sudden trip to Vietnam in hopes of finding his missing mother.

“Elaine touched my elbow in the hall,” John continued woodenly. “I saw Maggie screaming in the dark and got distracted. That’s why I fell.”

Years of introspection had taught Bruce to be open to the improbable. Still, it was hard to swallow without a few questions. He glanced surreptitiously at John’s face.

The other man stared at the ceiling, his mouth pressed into a grim line. A furrow of pain ran between the dark, lifeless eyes as one hand rubbed jerkily over his thigh. Bruce scrubbed a sudden chill from his folded arms. His father often preached of faith and destiny to his congregation. Bruce had fled these pronouncements only to discover their merit years later in the act of healing. He was a therapist out of an innate need to help others and thereby help himself. Questions were a natural part of the process but they would not find answers without trust. Taking a deep breath, Bruce reached out and grasped John’s wrist.

The blue eyes widened and sweat broke across the chalky skin. John trembled and a low moan seeped between his lips. He wrenched violently to the side. The momentum carried him off the bed and onto the floor with a bone-jarring crunch.

“Damn!”

“I don’t want to know!” outrage dissolved into a stilted sob. “I don’t want to see.”

“Take it easy, John,” Bruce advised as he rounded the end of the bed. “Just breathe, okay?”

The reply was thick with tears. “I can’t get away from it. No matter how hard I try.”

Bruce reached up and pulled a pillow off the bed. He slid it across the floor and let go, allowing John to pull it beneath his head. “Tell me what you see.”

“Everything.” John exhaled a shaky breath. His eyes drifted across the floor and up to Bruce’s face. “Things that happened, things that could happen…everything.”

Intuition, déjà vu, telekinesis—in the search for explanations of life’s most basic mysteries, Bruce had studied many theories. More than lottery numbers or knowing the identity of an incoming call, John was claiming and overtly rejecting the gift of second sight. A sixth sense that was deeper, stronger and infinitely more terrifying to his damaged mind. Bruce shook his head. John was isolated in the most fundamental way: such a state could only lead to one destination—psychological ruin. Bruce felt something click deep within and made a decision. He offered his hand. “Let me help you, John. There’s nothing you can’t see in my past.”

“What about your future?”

Tragedy and triumph were a part of destiny. Like most people, Bruce was not entirely comfortable with his life. For John it was more than discomfort, though. Each touch was an open window and an unwelcome draught of memories and conjecture. Bruce looked into the wide blue eyes and forced doubt to the back of his mind. Life was about taking chances and right now John needed to trust someone. “Doesn’t matter.”

John dropped his gaze to Bruce’s outstretched hand. His fingers twitched, pulling and crinkling the cotton of his shirt. “It should,” he breathed. “I don’t understand and I can’t shut it out.” He licked his lips and looked away, blinking rapidly. “What if none of this is real?”

“You’re not crazy.”

“How do you know?”

What kind of damage did six years in a coma do to the human brain? Bruce could not answer with clinical certainty, nor did he have any wish to. The issue had reached a level of faith and trust that transcended the relationship of patient and therapist. This was a friendship Bruce wanted to cultivate and for all his hesitation, he sensed reciprocation in John. “I know,” he said firmly. “And so do you.”

The assertion struck John like a physical blow. He lay back on the floor and covered his face with one large hand. His body tensed and relaxed, warring with itself in a series of spasms that caught the breath in his throat. Restless fingers kneaded the flesh of his right leg, drawing the distraction of physical pain.

Bruce sat back and pulled one knee up to his chin, content to wait.

“Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

“No,” Bruce admitted with a chuckle. “But I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing to follow through.” John actually giggled and he smiled in return. The sound was brittle, slightly hysterical but definitely a sign of life.

John pulled the hand back from his face. He stared at the trembling fingers as if they were a creature he did not wish to associate with. A frown dragged at his slack lips and open fear clouded his gaze.

Bruce held out his hand for a second time. Take a chance, he pleaded silently.

Flesh met flesh with a muffled slap. John locked gazes with Bruce and slowly sat up.

Bruce did not let go as he stood. “Come on, that floor is damn cold!”

Grunting with effort, John clambered up and onto the edge of the bed.

“Better?”

“Much,” he answered breathlessly.

Bruce nodded and went to refresh the water pitcher and find a clean towel. When he returned, John had settled beneath the blankets. He filled the empty cup and offered it with the towel.

“Thanks.” John mopped the moisture from his face and drained the water glass before lying back. “Bruce?”

“What?”

“Why?”

“Why not,” Bruce parried gently.

“You don’t need the complications, man.”

He wanted to ask the obvious question but the look in John’s eyes stilled his tongue. The answers would come with time. “People do things for a lot of reasons.”

“Yeah,” John sighed heavily. “Yeah, they do.”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “Get some rest okay. I’ll catch ya’ later.”

A faint smile lifted John’s lips as his eyes slid closed. “Bruce?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, my brother, Anytime.”

*THE*END*