Retrospect 6/7 (Without a Trace)
Retrospect
6/7
The next several hours proved highly irritating. Martin would fall asleep for what felt like a few minutes, and then Colleen would gently urge him awake, asking him who he was, where he was, and why he was there. The first few times she did this, it took him awhile to sort through the lingering headache and confusion. At one particularly groggy point, he dragged bleary eyes open, spotted red hair, and mistook the nurse for his Aunt Bonnie. Upon realizing his error, his heart clenched, aching for the woman who’d died a year ago, memories gripping him with brutal clarity. The last conversation they’d had, when she’d been so out of her mind with pain that she hadn’t known him. How she’d looked as she struggled through her final breaths, skin grey, sunken eyes open and unseeing.
By the time 7 a.m. rolled around and the day nurse breezed in, he felt lousy. He hurt, and was tired and cranky from having his sleep repeatedly interrupted. Still, he was showing definite signs of improvement. He was able to immediately place himself and his surroundings, and the headache had gone from pounding to throbbing, a welcome difference.
Dr. DuMont stopped in at 9 a.m. for a quick examination, pronounced him ready to leave, and started the discharge process. Immense relief flooded through Martin at the news that within the hour, he’d no longer have to endure strangers poking, prodding and interrogating him around the clock. Once home, Danny would have to wake him periodically for the rest of the day, but it would be tolerable compared to what he’d experienced in the hospital.
He called his partner with the good news, and the sleepy-sounding man said he’d be there at about 10 a.m.
Martin had barely hung up when the phone rang. Answering it, he was caught off guard at hearing his father’s voice on the other end. He hadn’t talked to his dad in over two months.
“I just heard what happened,” Victor Fitzgerald said in his usual crisp, professional manner.
Martin didn’t bother asking how his father had heard about the accident. It could have been from any number of the deputy director’s many FBI resources. He wondered if the other man had all the details, most specifically the embarrassing ones about how he’d been injured because of sheer clumsiness. To his surprise, he realized he didn’t care all that much. He wasn’t as hung up on gaining Victor Fitzgerald’s approval as he’d been a few years ago. A fair number of successfully solved cases had apparently boosted his confidence where his father was concerned.
“Are you being released this morning?” the deputy director asked.
“Yeah. Danny will be here soon to take me home.”
“Good, good.”
Silence followed, lengthy enough that Martin wondered if the line had gone dead. But then the other man spoke again, voice gentle.
“How are you feeling, son?”
Martin paused, touched by his dad’s concern. “I feel good, thanks.” He didn’t, not really, but his stoic father had long ago ingrained in him a tendency to downplay injury and illness. He vividly remembered the first time he’d seen his dad pretending to be all right when he clearly wasn’t.
He’d been seven years old and had come home from school to find his mother nervously watching her husband, who sat hunched over in a high-backed chair, a white-knuckled grip on the wooden arms, face pale and pinched with pain. “It’s just indigestion,” the ailing man had insisted. But three hours later, he was undergoing emergency surgery because his appendix had burst.
Victor Fitzgerald’s voice, all business again, returned Martin to the present. “I’m glad you’re doing well. I have to get to a meeting right now, but I’m sure your mother will call later to check in on you.”
“All right … Thanks for calling, Dad.”
“Take care of yourself, son,” the older man replied, and hung up.
Eyebrows drawing together, Martin replaced the receiver in its base. His father’s call had left him a bit bewildered. It wasn’t that he thought his dad wouldn’t care that he’d been hurt. It was just … he hadn’t been hurt that badly, and they weren’t normally given to warm, fuzzy family moments. And that phone call, by Fitzgerald standards, qualified as warm and fuzzy.
Not up to puzzling out the complicated relationship he shared with the other man, he opted instead for a shower. He got out of bed slowly, pleased that he experienced no dizziness, and padded into the bathroom. After adjusting the water’s temperature to where he liked it -- steaming hot -- he removed his hospital gown and stepped into the small shower. He sighed happily as the wet warmth sluiced over his body, and lingered longer than he’d anticipated.
Once done, Martin dried off, taking special care when he ran the towel over his throbbing head. He then reached for the clean hospital gown the nurse had given him, at his request. He didn’t want to put on the clothes he’d worn when he’d been admitted, as Danny was bringing him something else to wear. After slipping into the gown, he tied it tight to avoid flashing the medical staff.
He’d just sat down on the bed when the day nurse entered his room. She had him sign his discharge papers and reviewed his home-care instructions, which included a reminder to follow up with his general practitioner, who would decide when he could return to work. While Dr. DuMont had said he could probably go back in a couple of days, it would most likely be for desk duty only.
After the nurse left, he called and arranged to see his general practitioner, Dr. McNair, at 11 a.m. the next day. A few minutes later, Danny arrived and handed over the change of clothes Martin kept at the office in case of emergency.
Eyeing his partner’s blue jeans, black T-shirt and boots, Martin frowned as he realized what day of the week it was. “You’re supposed to be working today. I didn’t even think about it last night, that today’s a work day.” He unfolded his tan dress slacks, blue oxford shirt, white undershirt, boxers and socks. “Is Jack okay with this? I mean, he’s already short-handed with Viv out on medical leave.”
“We don’t have any cases pending right now, so he’s cool, “ Danny assured him. “If something comes up, he’s going to borrow someone from organized crime. They’ve got an extra body there right now since Bailey’s training his replacement before he retires in two weeks.”
“Cool.” Noticing his partner donning a pair of sunglasses, Martin raised an eyebrow. “Too bright for you in here?”
The other man grinned. “It will be if the sunlight hits your skinny white ass when you take off that hospital gown.”
Snorting, Martin slowly got up and headed toward the bathroom. “Like I’d let you see my ass, now or ever,” he called over his shoulder. He let himself inside and then closed the door before stripping off the hospital gown.
“You know,” came the disembodied voice from the other room, “there are some great tanning salons in Manhattan that could help you with that pasty complexion of yours.”
“I’m not pasty!” he retorted, pulling on his clothes. Opening the bathroom door, he came out and grabbed the dress shoes Danny handed him. Sitting down on the bed, he checked to make sure no oil remained on them from his little fall. It looked like someone had wiped them clean, probably one of the nurses when they’d learned how he’d been injured. Satisfied, he slipped the shoes on and tied the shoelaces. Eager to get home, he stood up quickly, only to see the room tilt crazily and feel the floor drop from under him. His hand shot out and clamped onto his partner’s arm. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and shakily released it as he waited for the seasick sensation to pass.
“Whoa, you wanna sit down?” Danny asked worriedly.
Keeping his eyes shut, Martin replied, “Yeah,” and allowed himself to be gently guided into a chair. “Just straightened up too fast,” he murmured as he lowered his head between his knees. The position eased the dizziness but intensified the throbbing in his skull. Groaning softly, he carefully sat back up. “This sucks,” he muttered.
“You know how you said you’re not pasty?”
The still-woozy man cracked his eyes open and tried to focus on Danny’s face. “It’ll pass, man. Just give me a minute.”
“Maybe I should get a nurse. You look really pale, even for you.”
“I said just give me a minute!” Martin snapped, and then sighed, instantly contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“It’s all right … Look, you’ve got two minutes, and if you’re still the same color as Casper the Friendly Ghost, I’m getting a nurse.”
But two minutes later, color had returned to Martin’s face, the dizziness had abated and the headache had eased a bit. Danny still called a nurse, but merely so she could bring the wheelchair that St. Vincent’s required all patients to use upon discharge. Martin didn’t bother grumbling about the contraption. Arguing would only delay his escape, and at this point, the only thing he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed and sleep for a day.
Or maybe two.
Once he was ensconced in the wheelchair, he glanced up at Danny with a weary smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
**
Part Seven (conclusion)
6/7
The next several hours proved highly irritating. Martin would fall asleep for what felt like a few minutes, and then Colleen would gently urge him awake, asking him who he was, where he was, and why he was there. The first few times she did this, it took him awhile to sort through the lingering headache and confusion. At one particularly groggy point, he dragged bleary eyes open, spotted red hair, and mistook the nurse for his Aunt Bonnie. Upon realizing his error, his heart clenched, aching for the woman who’d died a year ago, memories gripping him with brutal clarity. The last conversation they’d had, when she’d been so out of her mind with pain that she hadn’t known him. How she’d looked as she struggled through her final breaths, skin grey, sunken eyes open and unseeing.
By the time 7 a.m. rolled around and the day nurse breezed in, he felt lousy. He hurt, and was tired and cranky from having his sleep repeatedly interrupted. Still, he was showing definite signs of improvement. He was able to immediately place himself and his surroundings, and the headache had gone from pounding to throbbing, a welcome difference.
Dr. DuMont stopped in at 9 a.m. for a quick examination, pronounced him ready to leave, and started the discharge process. Immense relief flooded through Martin at the news that within the hour, he’d no longer have to endure strangers poking, prodding and interrogating him around the clock. Once home, Danny would have to wake him periodically for the rest of the day, but it would be tolerable compared to what he’d experienced in the hospital.
He called his partner with the good news, and the sleepy-sounding man said he’d be there at about 10 a.m.
Martin had barely hung up when the phone rang. Answering it, he was caught off guard at hearing his father’s voice on the other end. He hadn’t talked to his dad in over two months.
“I just heard what happened,” Victor Fitzgerald said in his usual crisp, professional manner.
Martin didn’t bother asking how his father had heard about the accident. It could have been from any number of the deputy director’s many FBI resources. He wondered if the other man had all the details, most specifically the embarrassing ones about how he’d been injured because of sheer clumsiness. To his surprise, he realized he didn’t care all that much. He wasn’t as hung up on gaining Victor Fitzgerald’s approval as he’d been a few years ago. A fair number of successfully solved cases had apparently boosted his confidence where his father was concerned.
“Are you being released this morning?” the deputy director asked.
“Yeah. Danny will be here soon to take me home.”
“Good, good.”
Silence followed, lengthy enough that Martin wondered if the line had gone dead. But then the other man spoke again, voice gentle.
“How are you feeling, son?”
Martin paused, touched by his dad’s concern. “I feel good, thanks.” He didn’t, not really, but his stoic father had long ago ingrained in him a tendency to downplay injury and illness. He vividly remembered the first time he’d seen his dad pretending to be all right when he clearly wasn’t.
He’d been seven years old and had come home from school to find his mother nervously watching her husband, who sat hunched over in a high-backed chair, a white-knuckled grip on the wooden arms, face pale and pinched with pain. “It’s just indigestion,” the ailing man had insisted. But three hours later, he was undergoing emergency surgery because his appendix had burst.
Victor Fitzgerald’s voice, all business again, returned Martin to the present. “I’m glad you’re doing well. I have to get to a meeting right now, but I’m sure your mother will call later to check in on you.”
“All right … Thanks for calling, Dad.”
“Take care of yourself, son,” the older man replied, and hung up.
Eyebrows drawing together, Martin replaced the receiver in its base. His father’s call had left him a bit bewildered. It wasn’t that he thought his dad wouldn’t care that he’d been hurt. It was just … he hadn’t been hurt that badly, and they weren’t normally given to warm, fuzzy family moments. And that phone call, by Fitzgerald standards, qualified as warm and fuzzy.
Not up to puzzling out the complicated relationship he shared with the other man, he opted instead for a shower. He got out of bed slowly, pleased that he experienced no dizziness, and padded into the bathroom. After adjusting the water’s temperature to where he liked it -- steaming hot -- he removed his hospital gown and stepped into the small shower. He sighed happily as the wet warmth sluiced over his body, and lingered longer than he’d anticipated.
Once done, Martin dried off, taking special care when he ran the towel over his throbbing head. He then reached for the clean hospital gown the nurse had given him, at his request. He didn’t want to put on the clothes he’d worn when he’d been admitted, as Danny was bringing him something else to wear. After slipping into the gown, he tied it tight to avoid flashing the medical staff.
He’d just sat down on the bed when the day nurse entered his room. She had him sign his discharge papers and reviewed his home-care instructions, which included a reminder to follow up with his general practitioner, who would decide when he could return to work. While Dr. DuMont had said he could probably go back in a couple of days, it would most likely be for desk duty only.
After the nurse left, he called and arranged to see his general practitioner, Dr. McNair, at 11 a.m. the next day. A few minutes later, Danny arrived and handed over the change of clothes Martin kept at the office in case of emergency.
Eyeing his partner’s blue jeans, black T-shirt and boots, Martin frowned as he realized what day of the week it was. “You’re supposed to be working today. I didn’t even think about it last night, that today’s a work day.” He unfolded his tan dress slacks, blue oxford shirt, white undershirt, boxers and socks. “Is Jack okay with this? I mean, he’s already short-handed with Viv out on medical leave.”
“We don’t have any cases pending right now, so he’s cool, “ Danny assured him. “If something comes up, he’s going to borrow someone from organized crime. They’ve got an extra body there right now since Bailey’s training his replacement before he retires in two weeks.”
“Cool.” Noticing his partner donning a pair of sunglasses, Martin raised an eyebrow. “Too bright for you in here?”
The other man grinned. “It will be if the sunlight hits your skinny white ass when you take off that hospital gown.”
Snorting, Martin slowly got up and headed toward the bathroom. “Like I’d let you see my ass, now or ever,” he called over his shoulder. He let himself inside and then closed the door before stripping off the hospital gown.
“You know,” came the disembodied voice from the other room, “there are some great tanning salons in Manhattan that could help you with that pasty complexion of yours.”
“I’m not pasty!” he retorted, pulling on his clothes. Opening the bathroom door, he came out and grabbed the dress shoes Danny handed him. Sitting down on the bed, he checked to make sure no oil remained on them from his little fall. It looked like someone had wiped them clean, probably one of the nurses when they’d learned how he’d been injured. Satisfied, he slipped the shoes on and tied the shoelaces. Eager to get home, he stood up quickly, only to see the room tilt crazily and feel the floor drop from under him. His hand shot out and clamped onto his partner’s arm. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and shakily released it as he waited for the seasick sensation to pass.
“Whoa, you wanna sit down?” Danny asked worriedly.
Keeping his eyes shut, Martin replied, “Yeah,” and allowed himself to be gently guided into a chair. “Just straightened up too fast,” he murmured as he lowered his head between his knees. The position eased the dizziness but intensified the throbbing in his skull. Groaning softly, he carefully sat back up. “This sucks,” he muttered.
“You know how you said you’re not pasty?”
The still-woozy man cracked his eyes open and tried to focus on Danny’s face. “It’ll pass, man. Just give me a minute.”
“Maybe I should get a nurse. You look really pale, even for you.”
“I said just give me a minute!” Martin snapped, and then sighed, instantly contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“It’s all right … Look, you’ve got two minutes, and if you’re still the same color as Casper the Friendly Ghost, I’m getting a nurse.”
But two minutes later, color had returned to Martin’s face, the dizziness had abated and the headache had eased a bit. Danny still called a nurse, but merely so she could bring the wheelchair that St. Vincent’s required all patients to use upon discharge. Martin didn’t bother grumbling about the contraption. Arguing would only delay his escape, and at this point, the only thing he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed and sleep for a day.
Or maybe two.
Once he was ensconced in the wheelchair, he glanced up at Danny with a weary smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
**
Part Seven (conclusion)