#33 - Verdana 0, Part 4/4
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This is only part of a longer story. Read the complete story at my Dreamwidth account.
Late March 1996
Blair Sandburg's heart was singing in anticipation as he walked toward the hospital treatment room. James Ellison -- it could be the 'Jim' of his childhood. He'd so long ago forgotten Jim's last name, but he'd never forgotten his 'bestest friend' with the super-senses, and the age of this patient was about right. He'd know for sure in just a moment.
But if the man was 'his' Jim, this wasn't the place for a reunion. Blair couldn't afford the time to explain here. He didn't know how much trouble he'd be in for impersonating a doctor if hospital personnel discovered his little obfuscation, but he didn't want to find out. Okay, he'd use a fake name, Doctor... Smith. No, too stereotyped. Doctor... Sanderson. No, too similar to Sandburg.
Blair caught sight of a polished blue nametag, carelessly dropped on the floor. Saved! He snatched it up, gave it a cursory glance, and pinned it to the lapel of his 'borrowed' white lab-coat as he approached the examination room.
"Detective Ellison," he said breezily as he entered the door, "I'm Doctor McKay."
The cool blue eyes regarded him suspiciously. "Your nametag says McCoy."
Blair managed some kind of cover-up babble, although he felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. It was him, it was! Older, of course, and considerably changed, but the eyes -- Blair could still see his childhood friend in those eyes. The voice was harder now, but the tones were the same. Thank God, he'd found him at last.
"Forget the tests," Blair said earnestly. "You don't need medicine. You need information."
"What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?"
Blair's heart sank; Jim didn't remember him. Well, duh! A seven-year-old changes a lot more in twenty years than a sixteen-year-old. And I haven't even given him my real name. Gotta find a way to let him know who I really am.
"Me, I'm no one. But this man, he is." Blair forced one of his business cards into Jim's reluctant hand, anticipating some fast talking when his name sparked Jim's memory; hopefully, he could convince his old friend to wait till later for the explanations. But Jim was still staring at him suspiciously, completely ignoring the card in his hand, so Blair continued with babbling something -- anything -- that might get Jim into his own territory. "He's the only one who can truly help you. You're too far ahead of the curve for any of this techno-trash. You're a cop. See the man."
Blair left quickly, shoving aside his disappointment that Jim hadn't recognized him. This was not the time or place to force the issue; he still didn't want to be caught out by one of the real doctors. He just hoped that Jim would seek him out at Hargrove Hall. With the right name, surely he'd remember that summer, and the little kid who tagged at his heels and cheered his winning ride. If not... well, he had a last name now, and knew his job. If Jim didn't look him up in a few days, Blair wouldn't have too much trouble tracking him down.
Jim Ellison stared at the handwritten 'Blair Sandburg' on the door. His brow creased as something twitched in the dim recesses of his memory. But the music -- if you could call it that -- assaulting his eardrums prevented coherent thought. He barged through the door with little hope of being helped with his out-of-control senses, but he might as well see the quack so he could cross him off the list.
I knew something was fishy, Jim thought, easily recognizing 'Dr. McKay' despite the wannabe-hippie grunge look the kid now sported. He was certainly unimpressive, with his wild curly hair flaring around his shoulders, mis-matched vest and torn jeans; what could such a kid possibly know about his condition?
But at least he cut off the music when requested; thank God for small favors.
"Why are you in my face?" Jim asked, abruptly. He just wanted to get this over with.
This kid could do 'earnest' real well. "I just had to find some way to get you into my area here to talk."
"So talk," Jim grunted. So I can get out of this rattrap.
"Okay, um... my name is Blair Sandburg." He paused expectantly, waiting in vain for Jim to show some recognition. When none occurred, he continued talking; if he kept Jim around long enough, maybe something would jog his memory. "And I'm working on my doctorate in Anthropology and you just may be the living embodiment of my field of study. If I'm correct, Detective Ellison, you're a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed of man."
The rage that swept over him drowned out the feeble whisper of awakening memory at hearing the kid's name. Jim surged to his feet, barely holding himself in check. "Are you out of your mind? You dragged me all the way over here to tell me I'm some sort of caveman?" Before he even realized what he was doing, he had slammed the little twerp into the wall and was threatening him with every possible violation he could dream up.
Surprisingly, the kid didn't even flinch, just shifted his motor-mouth into high gear. Feeling slightly ashamed of his over-reaction, Jim released the plucky little man and tried to walk away. But this Sandburg guy made sense, in a weird, twisted way; hyperactive senses just might explain what was going on with him, although the 'sentinel' shtick was straight out of the Twilight Zone. Maybe he could help Jim get the control he so desperately needed; certainly no one else had any explanation for what was happening to him.
But there was always a catch. "What's the payoff?" he asked.
Sandburg was intense. "My doctorate. I want to write about you. You're my thesis!"
No way in HELL! Jim thought as he stormed out of the cluttered office, ignoring whatever Sandburg was trying to say behind him.
As he crossed the lawn, he tried to bring his rage under control. The kid was as subtle as a bulldozer, but he wouldn't be able to write anything without permission; Jim would simply make it a point to not cross paths with him again. On the other hand, now that Sandburg had given him a clue, maybe he could find someone else who knew about this sentinel thing.
Lost in thought, Jim started across the street without paying attention to traffic. He looked up when he heard a shout, and his eye was caught by a bright red frisbee whirling through the air. It pulsed and expanded, filling his whole visual field....
The impact of hitting the pavement was shocking and disorienting; he barely grasped that he'd narrowly avoided being run down by a very large truck, and it seemed to have been Sandburg that saved him. The kid was up now and bouncing around like a cricket on crack as he proclaimed, "Wow! Oh, that really sucked, man!"
It certainly did, but it didn't make any sense. "What happened?" Jim asked.
"It was that thing I was trying to warn you about; the zone-out factor," Sandburg explained -- rather unhelpfully, as far as Jim was concerned.
Okay, he had to get a handle on his runaway senses, one way or another, and it looked like he was stuck with this Sandburg person whether he liked it or not. "Let's get out of here before I gotta answer a lot of questions. Let's go," he ordered.
Sandburg's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Let's? As in we? Oh, great, I've got some really specific ideas on how we can proceed here. Come on, let's go. Come on."
Jim followed the little powerhouse almost against his will. Why is Sandburg so damned excited about helping a complete stranger? he wondered uneasily. What the hell am I getting myself into?
Ten years of searching is over, Blair wrote in his journal a few days later. Jim Ellison is the 'Jimmy' I hung around with the summer I was seven. He doesn't remember me, though, which I suppose isn't so surprising. I mean, he hardly ever called me by my name -- I was always 'Chief' -- so I guess 'Blair Sandburg' doesn't ring a bell. And there's been a lot of water under the bridge in the last twenty years, not least of which was being stuck in the Peruvian jungle for eighteen months; talk about traumatic! I'm not surprised there are holes in his memory.
But it doesn't matter; he's allowing me to hang around and help him with the senses, which kind of helps him with his job, so that's good. I wondered, over the years, if I wasn't building him up too much, looking back through a child's eyes, but he's everything I remembered -- decent, kind, wise, good-hearted, courageous, humorous... Hurt, though. I think he's been really battered by life, and it's made him kind of suspicious and closed-down.
Which makes it even more hopeful that he's willing to tolerate the presence of a longhaired academic -- or, in his words, a neo-hippie, witch-doctor punk. He even told Captain Taggart that I was his new 'partner'. Of course, ten minutes later he told me never to use that word, but I'm betting he feels the connection between us at some subliminal level.
I think this will work. If he doesn't remember our previous friendship, we can build a new one. And who knows? Maybe someday the memory of that summer will pop to the surface. Or maybe I'll break down and tell him after he's feeling a little more secure in his senses; I don't want to hit him with too much, too fast.
Funny thing, though -- he's already calling me 'Chief' again. I wonder if tiny tendrils of memory are starting to sprout?
Jim stared with satisfaction at Lash's body. He might be called on the carpet for using 'excessive force', but this madman would never again terrorize an innocent, helpless person -- and certainly not Blair.
Jim ran back up the stairs and burst through the door. He saw Blair shudder at his abrupt entrance and, despite his grogginess, feebly try to pull himself free of the chains that held him to the big dentists' chair. Jim was at his side in an instant.
"It's okay, Chief," he soothed. "It's me. Just relax; I'll have you out of there in a minute." He bent to release Blair from the abominable contraption.
Blair's head rolled weakly to the side as he attempted to focus on his friend through the effects of the drug. "Zh'm," he mumbled, "y'u c'me."
"Of course I came, buddy. Hang on; I've almost got you loose."
When the chains dropped to the floor, Jim quickly ran his hands over Blair's limbs and body, looking for any injuries. Finding none, he sighed in relief. "You're okay, Chief, except for that crap he forced into you. The ambulance will be here soon; I can hear the siren. We'll just wait here until the medics come up."
"Nooo," Blair moaned. "Ouuut..."
Jim surveyed the grim room, festooned with the tragic keepsakes of Lash's 'friends'; he could see why Blair wouldn't want to stay another minute. "You got it," he agreed. "Hang on and I'll try not to drop you." He lifted Blair from the chair, cradling him close, and smiled as he heard a faint chuckle.
"N't... baby," Blair whispered.
"No, not a baby; an injured warrior. And it's another warrior's duty and honor to care for an injured companion. So just shut up and let me do it."
"'kay." Blair's head lolled against Jim's chest, and he was already asleep by the time his rescuer reached the doorway and started down the stairs.
Jim. You came. Jim paced the hospital waiting room while he wondered what was taking the doctor so damned long. Simultaneously, he tried to put his finger on his feeling of acute déjà vu.
Jim. You came. Three simple words; why did they ring like a bell in his mind?
Jim. You came. Like he'd told Sandburg, of course he came; there'd never been a doubt, or any other choice.
"Ellison, sit!" Simon finally barked from his chair on the far side of the waiting room. "Wearing a groove in the linoleum won't make the doctor come any faster. The kid's okay; we just have to wait for the details."
Jim sank down next to his boss and scrubbed his hands over his face. "It was too damned close, Simon. If I'd've been five minutes later, he'd've been too drugged to speak, and I'd never have heard him. And you know what he said when I got to him? Barely able to make his body function, but he said, 'Jim. You came.' That's just... scary."
"Why?" Simon asked, reasonably. "He was saying that he trusts you. Would you rather he didn't trust you?"
"No, of course not. It's just..." Jim shrugged uneasily. "I dunno. Something about those words. Like I've heard 'em before."
"I'm sure you have," Simon pointed out, practically. "They're simple, common words; I'm sure someone's had an excuse to say them any number of times in the past thirty-odd years. It's not like they're a magical incantation or anything."
Jim shook his head wearily, then slumped in the chair. "But that's just it. For some reason, they feel like a magical incantation, like something really important. But I can't get a handle on it."
"Then the best thing to do is to ignore it. These things always jump out at you if you leave them alone. If the memory's that old, a few more hours -- or even days -- won't make a difference. It'll come to you eventually."
Jim was prepared to argue -- every instinct he had was screaming that this was too important to ignore -- but a doctor walked through the door marked, 'Hospital Personnel Only'. He immediately stood and approached the small gray-haired woman, Simon following a step behind. "Doctor?"
"You're here for Mr. Sandburg?" she asked, eyeing both men.
"Yes," Simon said. "Blair is Detective Ellison's partner, and they both work for me. What can you tell us?"
She nodded approvingly. "It's good news; your Mr. Sandburg is a very lucky young man. He didn't ingest enough of the trichloroethanol to have an extensive impact; he's already starting to throw off the residual effects. We'll keep him under observation for a couple of more hours, just to be on the safe side, but then he can go home."
"May we sit with him?" Jim asked.
The doctor shrugged. "There's no need; he's sleeping soundly. He'll probably be asleep more than he's awake for the next twenty-four hours."
"Please," he said intensely.
The doctor searched Jim's eyes, apparently seeing the deep need within, and nodded. "All right," she said kindly. "But don't disturb him; that's for us to do." Her eyes twinkled at Jim's amused snort. "We've put him behind a screen in the far corner of the ER; you can go on back, but stay out of the way." She nodded toward the doors.
"Thank you, doctor," Simon said. "We appreciate your care for our friend." He turned to the man next to him. "Jim, I think you can handle it from here, and I have a mess of paperwork calling my name. I'll expect to see you in by ten tomorrow morning; till then, take care of the kid."
"Thank you, Simon," Jim murmured. He hurried toward the ER.
Simon watched him disappear behind the doors and shook his head slightly, marveling at how Sandburg had become such a large part of Ellison's life in such a short time. Then he shrugged and headed toward the parking lot; his work wouldn't get done if he stood around here all day.
Sandburg resisted going to his room. "I've been sleeping for five hours Jim; I'm all slept out. I'll just sit on the couch and watch the news." Ten minutes later, he had tilted sideways and was snoring gently, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle with his head on the armrest.
Jim smiled and put aside the broom he was using to sweep up broken glass. Moving quietly -- although it was probably unnecessary; Sandburg was out like a light -- he gently removed Blair's shoes and lifted his feet onto the couch. Then he shoved a bunched-up throw-pillow under the kid's neck, positioning it to a more normal angle, and pulled the afghan down to settle gently over his body.
Jim glanced at his watch. If Sandburg continued as he had been, he'd be awake again in a couple of hours. He'd probably be able to overcome the effects of the drug more easily if he ate a substantial meal, and Jim intended to provide it. It would be somewhat early for an evening meal but, if he waited till later, Sandburg might be asleep again, probably for the rest of the night.
For a few minutes he simply watched as Blair slept, incredibly grateful to have him back in one undamaged piece, then went to the kitchen and started preparations. Moving with his typical efficiency, he washed the sweet potatoes and put them on to boil, then mixed the orange juice, brown sugar and diced dried apricots and put them in a saucepan to simmer.
With both pans bubbling satisfactorily, he had to wait half an hour before beginning the next step, and Jim felt unusually restless. The remaining disarray in the living area was an irritation, but it was minor compared to the mental question that demanded his attention. There was something he needed to find, or discover. It was important, but hell if he knew what it was. It wasn't anything recent, he was sure; it must be something from his past, which had been boxed up for years. Most of it was down in the storage area in the basement, and he had no intention of leaving Blair alone while he went on a 'hunting' expedition. But there were a couple of small boxes in his bedroom; he might as well rule them out.
The service memorabilia in the compact wooden box brought back memories, as they did every time he opened it, but none of them answered the driving necessity Jim felt to find something important. He reached for the battered old shoebox, tied with a knotted piece of string. Jim hadn't opened it since he'd left college; he didn't even know why he hung onto it. Might as well go through it now, while he had some time. Kids kept the most worthless things; he'd probably just toss out most of the undoubtedly childish drivel.
As soon as Jim saw the little red ribbon, the memories came rushing back. With shaking hands, he unfolded the paper with the bold 'JIM' on the outside, its edges beginning to yellow with age. His eyes misted as he reread the childish scrawl.
Dere Jim,
In his mind's eye, he relived that special summer, watched a bright-eyed, excited little boy run across the meadow toward him and leap into his arms, heard the confident trust in Blair's voice. Jim! You came!
How could he have forgotten? That summer had been the best of his life, and he'd been closer to Blair than he'd ever been to anyone else, before or since. Jim smoothed the paper under his hand, reading the words again.
This is me, giving you a biiiiiiig hug.
Love,
Yure bestest frend,
Blair Sandburg
'Bestest' friend then, and quickly becoming 'best friend' now. Jim wondered if Blair knew. Had he also forgotten, or was he simply waiting until Jim recognized him? And, my God -- what combination of chance and circumstance had brought them back together? It seemed... miraculous.
Jim put the letter back in the box, but carried the ribbon when he went downstairs to continue supper preparations. Even though he had the ribbon's owner here in the loft -- and thank God for that -- he wanted to keep the tangible evidence with him. He folded the little piece of fabric and put it in his shirt pocket while he seared the pork chops, covered them with the apricot/orange sauce, and put them in the oven to bake. Then he peeled and mashed the sweet potatoes, sprinkled them with brown sugar and marshmallows, and slipped them into the oven beside the pork chops.
Supper would be ready in forty-five minutes but, if Blair wasn't stirring by then, it could be kept warm in the oven without damaging it. Jim continued setting the loft to rights, but slowly. He paused frequently to watch the sleeping Blair, searching his features for the child he'd once been. Now that he knew, Jim could see that little boy in the man he'd become -- still bright and energetic, almost frighteningly intelligent, with an unquenchable zest for life, enthusiastically greeting each new experience. He should have expected that Blair would have grown into exactly this sort of man.
Without being aware of his own actions, Jim sat on the other couch, a fond smile playing on his lips as he stared at Blair's face. Gradually, he lost himself in his memories -- the horses, the riding, the wolf-rescue, Blair's glee at winning his ribbon... and always, the deep-seated, contented companionship of one talkative and generous little boy. He felt that he'd just received an unexpected but precious gift -- his childhood best friend and the man who was dedicated to helping him master his wayward senses, rolled into one incredibly special person, and he was here. Now. Jim vowed to himself that he wouldn't lose Blair again. None of this 'only one week' crap; he'd keep Blair here for the next twenty years, if he had any say in the matter at all.
Jim began planning some improvements to Blair's room, something to give him an incentive to stay. He needed shelves for his books and anthropological keepsakes, and a real door instead of that old curtain. And there was no reason that Blair couldn't move some of those keepsakes out here into the main room, if he chose; this was his home, too.
Gradually, he became aware of a change; Blair's heartbeat and respiration had increased. Jim opened his eyes to see Blair watching him, looking more alert than he had since he'd been drugged.
Blair smiled when he saw Jim's eyes focus on him. "Hey, man; you okay? You got a headache, or your senses acting up?"
"I'm fine, Chief; just remembering some things. How about you? Are you getting that crap out of your system?"
Blair tossed the afghan to the side, sat up, and stretched mightily. "Yeah, I think so; I feel pretty much back to normal. If nothing else, I'll manage to stay awake for supper; whatever it is, it smells delicious."
"Your timing is impeccable; it'll be ready in five minutes. Why don't you wash up while I set the table and put it out."
With one last stretch, Blair rose and headed toward the bathroom. "Sounds like a plan."
Inevitably, the conversation over the meal became a mutual debriefing session. Blair's eyes glowed as Jim described how he'd used his enhanced senses to unravel the clues to the location of Lash's lair. "Oh, man, that is so cool! I told you your senses would help your police work. Just imagine what you'll be able to do with them after we've had more time to practice. You'll be beyond awesome!"
"You didn't do so bad yourself, Junior. If you hadn't strung Lash along, kept him talking, I wouldn't have had your voices to home in on. I'm proud of you."
Blair glanced disparagingly at the remaining disorder in the living room. "For what? I shouldn't even have let him take me out of here. I should've been able to fight him off, and I tried, Jim, I really did, but he was just so damned strong!"
"Blair, there's no shame in being overcome by a greater force; it happens to all of us," Jim said gently. "You gave it everything you had, and that's all anyone can expect. You delayed him, kept on fighting even when all you had was your words, gave me the time I needed to find you. You did everything right, Chief; you have no need to apologize for anything."
Blair searched Jim's face for confirmation. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Jim insisted. "Can I tell you a story, Chief?"
Blair raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You have the floor, man."
"When I was sixteen, I knew a little boy -- cute as a button, sharp as a tack, and loyal as a hound dog. I was practicing for a steeplechase that summer, and whenever I was at the stables, he'd be right there by my side. Nothing fazed him; the biggest horses acted like puppydogs around him, and he rode over jumps that were taller than he was. He was so full of plain, cussed courage that he even headed off into unknown territory, alone, to find and help an injured wolf." Jim pulled the little red ribbon out of his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table between them. "That little boy hasn't lost one ounce of his intelligence, courage, or sheer joie de vivre as he grew up." He had to clear his throat before continuing huskily, "I am soo proud of you, Chief, then and now, and so grateful to whatever Providence led you across my path again."
Blair's eyes had shone ever brighter during Jim's recitation, and his smile grown ever wider. Now he chuckled softly. "Well, you can call it Providence if you want; I call it ten years of dedicated searching." He shook his head ruefully. "Jim, you're the reason I've studied and researched the sentinel phenomenon, and you're the reason I'm going to college in Cascade, Washington. I'd a whole lot rather be someplace warmer and drier -- but I figured this was the only place I had a reasonable chance of finding you." He shifted slightly in his seat. "So you don't mind that I tracked you down and I'm tagging along by your side again?"
"Mind?" Jim shook his head in bemusement, then pushed back from the table. "Chief, come here." When Blair stood, Jim put an arm around his shoulders and urged him out onto the balcony. He pointed outward.
"See those three young ladies at the end of the block? They're discussing a killer math test they have day after tomorrow. Down the next block, the fire escape on the fourth floor has a planter box on it; it has hyacinths in bloom, two purple and one pink.
"I could go on, but you get the idea. You've given me this, Chief; in just a few short weeks, you've given me control over my senses that I haven't had since... since..." Jim faltered to a stop as the realization hit him. "My God, Blair; not since I was sixteen with a curly-haired little munchkin by my side." He turned, and pulled Blair into a fierce embrace. "'This is me, giving you a biiiiig hug'. I missed you buddy, missed you so much, for years and years. I don't know how I ever forgot you."
Blair returned the hug just as fiercely. "It doesn't matter, now," he said softly. "I missed you too, but I came back, just like I promised. In my whole life, you were the best friend I ever had, and I've dreamed of finding you again, ever since Naomi took me away." He chuckled softly and drew away, looking out into the gathering dusk. "But you're probably right; without the hand of Providence, or Fate, or Gods and Goddesses, I could have been searching for another ten years, or twenty years. I guess we should both offer thanks to the Universe that we're together again."
His face was split by a sudden, wide yawn, and Blair settled tiredly against the strong body of his best friend. "Sorry, Jim; I guess that crap is still affecting me, after all. Did I say thanks for coming after me? I'm so glad to be home." His eyelids drooped, and he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Yeah, buddy, you told me," Jim said as he steered Blair into his bedroom. There he urged Blair onto his futon, made short work of divesting him of shoes and jeans, and tucked the covers around him as tenderly as a mother with a child. He stared at his best friend for a moment, then caressed his cheek with gentle fingers. "I'm glad you're home, too, Chief, and I hope you'll be home for a long, long time." He bent and kissed the sleeping man on the forehead, then turned and quietly left the room.
The End
Jim's Recipe
I'm a lazy cook, and an un-adventurous eater. I once severely modified a recipe to this version --
1 cup orange juice *
1/2 cup brown sugar *
1 small package dried apricots
3 - 5 pork chops
* It's been a long time since I cooked this, and the memory is dim. Don't worry about adding more orange juice or less brown sugar if you think it necessary, or more palatable.
Slice apricots in halves or quarters, and simmer them in the orange juice mixed with brown sugar for 20 - 30 minutes. Meanwhile, trim the fat off the pork chops, and brown/sear the chops in a skillet. (I used bacon grease; olive oil would be healthier.)
Place pork chops in a baking pan, and pour orange juice / brown sugar / apricot mixture around them; cover with a lid or foil. Place in oven; bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes, or until tender.
These were the juiciest, tenderest, most flavorful pork chops I have ever eaten. Yummy!
But, if you're interested, here's the recipe that I shredded modified --
3.5 pounds lean pork butt, boned
2 tablespoons salad oil
1 package (8 oz.) mixed dried fruit
1 cup chicken broth
1/2 cup apple juice
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon honey
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon each ground ginger and pepper
1 tablespoon cornstarch blended with 1 tablespoon water
Trim and discard excess fat from pork; cut meat into 1-inch cubes. Add oil to a broiler pan; set in oven while it preheats to 450 degrees. Then add meat and bake, uncovered, stirring occasionally for about 25 minutes or until meat is browned. Stir in fruit.
Combine broth, apple juice, lemon juice, honey, soy, garlic powder, ginger, and pepper; pour over meat. Reduce temperature to 350 degrees. Bake, covered, for 40 minutes or until meat is tender when pierced.
Source: Sunset Casserole Cook Book
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This is only part of a longer story. Read the complete story at my Dreamwidth account.
Late March 1996
Blair Sandburg's heart was singing in anticipation as he walked toward the hospital treatment room. James Ellison -- it could be the 'Jim' of his childhood. He'd so long ago forgotten Jim's last name, but he'd never forgotten his 'bestest friend' with the super-senses, and the age of this patient was about right. He'd know for sure in just a moment.
But if the man was 'his' Jim, this wasn't the place for a reunion. Blair couldn't afford the time to explain here. He didn't know how much trouble he'd be in for impersonating a doctor if hospital personnel discovered his little obfuscation, but he didn't want to find out. Okay, he'd use a fake name, Doctor... Smith. No, too stereotyped. Doctor... Sanderson. No, too similar to Sandburg.
Blair caught sight of a polished blue nametag, carelessly dropped on the floor. Saved! He snatched it up, gave it a cursory glance, and pinned it to the lapel of his 'borrowed' white lab-coat as he approached the examination room.
"Detective Ellison," he said breezily as he entered the door, "I'm Doctor McKay."
The cool blue eyes regarded him suspiciously. "Your nametag says McCoy."
Blair managed some kind of cover-up babble, although he felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. It was him, it was! Older, of course, and considerably changed, but the eyes -- Blair could still see his childhood friend in those eyes. The voice was harder now, but the tones were the same. Thank God, he'd found him at last.
"Forget the tests," Blair said earnestly. "You don't need medicine. You need information."
"What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?"
Blair's heart sank; Jim didn't remember him. Well, duh! A seven-year-old changes a lot more in twenty years than a sixteen-year-old. And I haven't even given him my real name. Gotta find a way to let him know who I really am.
"Me, I'm no one. But this man, he is." Blair forced one of his business cards into Jim's reluctant hand, anticipating some fast talking when his name sparked Jim's memory; hopefully, he could convince his old friend to wait till later for the explanations. But Jim was still staring at him suspiciously, completely ignoring the card in his hand, so Blair continued with babbling something -- anything -- that might get Jim into his own territory. "He's the only one who can truly help you. You're too far ahead of the curve for any of this techno-trash. You're a cop. See the man."
Blair left quickly, shoving aside his disappointment that Jim hadn't recognized him. This was not the time or place to force the issue; he still didn't want to be caught out by one of the real doctors. He just hoped that Jim would seek him out at Hargrove Hall. With the right name, surely he'd remember that summer, and the little kid who tagged at his heels and cheered his winning ride. If not... well, he had a last name now, and knew his job. If Jim didn't look him up in a few days, Blair wouldn't have too much trouble tracking him down.
Jim Ellison stared at the handwritten 'Blair Sandburg' on the door. His brow creased as something twitched in the dim recesses of his memory. But the music -- if you could call it that -- assaulting his eardrums prevented coherent thought. He barged through the door with little hope of being helped with his out-of-control senses, but he might as well see the quack so he could cross him off the list.
I knew something was fishy, Jim thought, easily recognizing 'Dr. McKay' despite the wannabe-hippie grunge look the kid now sported. He was certainly unimpressive, with his wild curly hair flaring around his shoulders, mis-matched vest and torn jeans; what could such a kid possibly know about his condition?
But at least he cut off the music when requested; thank God for small favors.
"Why are you in my face?" Jim asked, abruptly. He just wanted to get this over with.
This kid could do 'earnest' real well. "I just had to find some way to get you into my area here to talk."
"So talk," Jim grunted. So I can get out of this rattrap.
"Okay, um... my name is Blair Sandburg." He paused expectantly, waiting in vain for Jim to show some recognition. When none occurred, he continued talking; if he kept Jim around long enough, maybe something would jog his memory. "And I'm working on my doctorate in Anthropology and you just may be the living embodiment of my field of study. If I'm correct, Detective Ellison, you're a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed of man."
The rage that swept over him drowned out the feeble whisper of awakening memory at hearing the kid's name. Jim surged to his feet, barely holding himself in check. "Are you out of your mind? You dragged me all the way over here to tell me I'm some sort of caveman?" Before he even realized what he was doing, he had slammed the little twerp into the wall and was threatening him with every possible violation he could dream up.
Surprisingly, the kid didn't even flinch, just shifted his motor-mouth into high gear. Feeling slightly ashamed of his over-reaction, Jim released the plucky little man and tried to walk away. But this Sandburg guy made sense, in a weird, twisted way; hyperactive senses just might explain what was going on with him, although the 'sentinel' shtick was straight out of the Twilight Zone. Maybe he could help Jim get the control he so desperately needed; certainly no one else had any explanation for what was happening to him.
But there was always a catch. "What's the payoff?" he asked.
Sandburg was intense. "My doctorate. I want to write about you. You're my thesis!"
No way in HELL! Jim thought as he stormed out of the cluttered office, ignoring whatever Sandburg was trying to say behind him.
As he crossed the lawn, he tried to bring his rage under control. The kid was as subtle as a bulldozer, but he wouldn't be able to write anything without permission; Jim would simply make it a point to not cross paths with him again. On the other hand, now that Sandburg had given him a clue, maybe he could find someone else who knew about this sentinel thing.
Lost in thought, Jim started across the street without paying attention to traffic. He looked up when he heard a shout, and his eye was caught by a bright red frisbee whirling through the air. It pulsed and expanded, filling his whole visual field....
The impact of hitting the pavement was shocking and disorienting; he barely grasped that he'd narrowly avoided being run down by a very large truck, and it seemed to have been Sandburg that saved him. The kid was up now and bouncing around like a cricket on crack as he proclaimed, "Wow! Oh, that really sucked, man!"
It certainly did, but it didn't make any sense. "What happened?" Jim asked.
"It was that thing I was trying to warn you about; the zone-out factor," Sandburg explained -- rather unhelpfully, as far as Jim was concerned.
Okay, he had to get a handle on his runaway senses, one way or another, and it looked like he was stuck with this Sandburg person whether he liked it or not. "Let's get out of here before I gotta answer a lot of questions. Let's go," he ordered.
Sandburg's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Let's? As in we? Oh, great, I've got some really specific ideas on how we can proceed here. Come on, let's go. Come on."
Jim followed the little powerhouse almost against his will. Why is Sandburg so damned excited about helping a complete stranger? he wondered uneasily. What the hell am I getting myself into?
Ten years of searching is over, Blair wrote in his journal a few days later. Jim Ellison is the 'Jimmy' I hung around with the summer I was seven. He doesn't remember me, though, which I suppose isn't so surprising. I mean, he hardly ever called me by my name -- I was always 'Chief' -- so I guess 'Blair Sandburg' doesn't ring a bell. And there's been a lot of water under the bridge in the last twenty years, not least of which was being stuck in the Peruvian jungle for eighteen months; talk about traumatic! I'm not surprised there are holes in his memory.
But it doesn't matter; he's allowing me to hang around and help him with the senses, which kind of helps him with his job, so that's good. I wondered, over the years, if I wasn't building him up too much, looking back through a child's eyes, but he's everything I remembered -- decent, kind, wise, good-hearted, courageous, humorous... Hurt, though. I think he's been really battered by life, and it's made him kind of suspicious and closed-down.
Which makes it even more hopeful that he's willing to tolerate the presence of a longhaired academic -- or, in his words, a neo-hippie, witch-doctor punk. He even told Captain Taggart that I was his new 'partner'. Of course, ten minutes later he told me never to use that word, but I'm betting he feels the connection between us at some subliminal level.
I think this will work. If he doesn't remember our previous friendship, we can build a new one. And who knows? Maybe someday the memory of that summer will pop to the surface. Or maybe I'll break down and tell him after he's feeling a little more secure in his senses; I don't want to hit him with too much, too fast.
Funny thing, though -- he's already calling me 'Chief' again. I wonder if tiny tendrils of memory are starting to sprout?
Jim stared with satisfaction at Lash's body. He might be called on the carpet for using 'excessive force', but this madman would never again terrorize an innocent, helpless person -- and certainly not Blair.
Jim ran back up the stairs and burst through the door. He saw Blair shudder at his abrupt entrance and, despite his grogginess, feebly try to pull himself free of the chains that held him to the big dentists' chair. Jim was at his side in an instant.
"It's okay, Chief," he soothed. "It's me. Just relax; I'll have you out of there in a minute." He bent to release Blair from the abominable contraption.
Blair's head rolled weakly to the side as he attempted to focus on his friend through the effects of the drug. "Zh'm," he mumbled, "y'u c'me."
"Of course I came, buddy. Hang on; I've almost got you loose."
When the chains dropped to the floor, Jim quickly ran his hands over Blair's limbs and body, looking for any injuries. Finding none, he sighed in relief. "You're okay, Chief, except for that crap he forced into you. The ambulance will be here soon; I can hear the siren. We'll just wait here until the medics come up."
"Nooo," Blair moaned. "Ouuut..."
Jim surveyed the grim room, festooned with the tragic keepsakes of Lash's 'friends'; he could see why Blair wouldn't want to stay another minute. "You got it," he agreed. "Hang on and I'll try not to drop you." He lifted Blair from the chair, cradling him close, and smiled as he heard a faint chuckle.
"N't... baby," Blair whispered.
"No, not a baby; an injured warrior. And it's another warrior's duty and honor to care for an injured companion. So just shut up and let me do it."
"'kay." Blair's head lolled against Jim's chest, and he was already asleep by the time his rescuer reached the doorway and started down the stairs.
Jim. You came. Jim paced the hospital waiting room while he wondered what was taking the doctor so damned long. Simultaneously, he tried to put his finger on his feeling of acute déjà vu.
Jim. You came. Three simple words; why did they ring like a bell in his mind?
Jim. You came. Like he'd told Sandburg, of course he came; there'd never been a doubt, or any other choice.
"Ellison, sit!" Simon finally barked from his chair on the far side of the waiting room. "Wearing a groove in the linoleum won't make the doctor come any faster. The kid's okay; we just have to wait for the details."
Jim sank down next to his boss and scrubbed his hands over his face. "It was too damned close, Simon. If I'd've been five minutes later, he'd've been too drugged to speak, and I'd never have heard him. And you know what he said when I got to him? Barely able to make his body function, but he said, 'Jim. You came.' That's just... scary."
"Why?" Simon asked, reasonably. "He was saying that he trusts you. Would you rather he didn't trust you?"
"No, of course not. It's just..." Jim shrugged uneasily. "I dunno. Something about those words. Like I've heard 'em before."
"I'm sure you have," Simon pointed out, practically. "They're simple, common words; I'm sure someone's had an excuse to say them any number of times in the past thirty-odd years. It's not like they're a magical incantation or anything."
Jim shook his head wearily, then slumped in the chair. "But that's just it. For some reason, they feel like a magical incantation, like something really important. But I can't get a handle on it."
"Then the best thing to do is to ignore it. These things always jump out at you if you leave them alone. If the memory's that old, a few more hours -- or even days -- won't make a difference. It'll come to you eventually."
Jim was prepared to argue -- every instinct he had was screaming that this was too important to ignore -- but a doctor walked through the door marked, 'Hospital Personnel Only'. He immediately stood and approached the small gray-haired woman, Simon following a step behind. "Doctor?"
"You're here for Mr. Sandburg?" she asked, eyeing both men.
"Yes," Simon said. "Blair is Detective Ellison's partner, and they both work for me. What can you tell us?"
She nodded approvingly. "It's good news; your Mr. Sandburg is a very lucky young man. He didn't ingest enough of the trichloroethanol to have an extensive impact; he's already starting to throw off the residual effects. We'll keep him under observation for a couple of more hours, just to be on the safe side, but then he can go home."
"May we sit with him?" Jim asked.
The doctor shrugged. "There's no need; he's sleeping soundly. He'll probably be asleep more than he's awake for the next twenty-four hours."
"Please," he said intensely.
The doctor searched Jim's eyes, apparently seeing the deep need within, and nodded. "All right," she said kindly. "But don't disturb him; that's for us to do." Her eyes twinkled at Jim's amused snort. "We've put him behind a screen in the far corner of the ER; you can go on back, but stay out of the way." She nodded toward the doors.
"Thank you, doctor," Simon said. "We appreciate your care for our friend." He turned to the man next to him. "Jim, I think you can handle it from here, and I have a mess of paperwork calling my name. I'll expect to see you in by ten tomorrow morning; till then, take care of the kid."
"Thank you, Simon," Jim murmured. He hurried toward the ER.
Simon watched him disappear behind the doors and shook his head slightly, marveling at how Sandburg had become such a large part of Ellison's life in such a short time. Then he shrugged and headed toward the parking lot; his work wouldn't get done if he stood around here all day.
Sandburg resisted going to his room. "I've been sleeping for five hours Jim; I'm all slept out. I'll just sit on the couch and watch the news." Ten minutes later, he had tilted sideways and was snoring gently, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle with his head on the armrest.
Jim smiled and put aside the broom he was using to sweep up broken glass. Moving quietly -- although it was probably unnecessary; Sandburg was out like a light -- he gently removed Blair's shoes and lifted his feet onto the couch. Then he shoved a bunched-up throw-pillow under the kid's neck, positioning it to a more normal angle, and pulled the afghan down to settle gently over his body.
Jim glanced at his watch. If Sandburg continued as he had been, he'd be awake again in a couple of hours. He'd probably be able to overcome the effects of the drug more easily if he ate a substantial meal, and Jim intended to provide it. It would be somewhat early for an evening meal but, if he waited till later, Sandburg might be asleep again, probably for the rest of the night.
For a few minutes he simply watched as Blair slept, incredibly grateful to have him back in one undamaged piece, then went to the kitchen and started preparations. Moving with his typical efficiency, he washed the sweet potatoes and put them on to boil, then mixed the orange juice, brown sugar and diced dried apricots and put them in a saucepan to simmer.
With both pans bubbling satisfactorily, he had to wait half an hour before beginning the next step, and Jim felt unusually restless. The remaining disarray in the living area was an irritation, but it was minor compared to the mental question that demanded his attention. There was something he needed to find, or discover. It was important, but hell if he knew what it was. It wasn't anything recent, he was sure; it must be something from his past, which had been boxed up for years. Most of it was down in the storage area in the basement, and he had no intention of leaving Blair alone while he went on a 'hunting' expedition. But there were a couple of small boxes in his bedroom; he might as well rule them out.
The service memorabilia in the compact wooden box brought back memories, as they did every time he opened it, but none of them answered the driving necessity Jim felt to find something important. He reached for the battered old shoebox, tied with a knotted piece of string. Jim hadn't opened it since he'd left college; he didn't even know why he hung onto it. Might as well go through it now, while he had some time. Kids kept the most worthless things; he'd probably just toss out most of the undoubtedly childish drivel.
As soon as Jim saw the little red ribbon, the memories came rushing back. With shaking hands, he unfolded the paper with the bold 'JIM' on the outside, its edges beginning to yellow with age. His eyes misted as he reread the childish scrawl.
Dere Jim,
In his mind's eye, he relived that special summer, watched a bright-eyed, excited little boy run across the meadow toward him and leap into his arms, heard the confident trust in Blair's voice. Jim! You came!
How could he have forgotten? That summer had been the best of his life, and he'd been closer to Blair than he'd ever been to anyone else, before or since. Jim smoothed the paper under his hand, reading the words again.
This is me, giving you a biiiiiiig hug.
Love,
Yure bestest frend,
Blair Sandburg
'Bestest' friend then, and quickly becoming 'best friend' now. Jim wondered if Blair knew. Had he also forgotten, or was he simply waiting until Jim recognized him? And, my God -- what combination of chance and circumstance had brought them back together? It seemed... miraculous.
Jim put the letter back in the box, but carried the ribbon when he went downstairs to continue supper preparations. Even though he had the ribbon's owner here in the loft -- and thank God for that -- he wanted to keep the tangible evidence with him. He folded the little piece of fabric and put it in his shirt pocket while he seared the pork chops, covered them with the apricot/orange sauce, and put them in the oven to bake. Then he peeled and mashed the sweet potatoes, sprinkled them with brown sugar and marshmallows, and slipped them into the oven beside the pork chops.
Supper would be ready in forty-five minutes but, if Blair wasn't stirring by then, it could be kept warm in the oven without damaging it. Jim continued setting the loft to rights, but slowly. He paused frequently to watch the sleeping Blair, searching his features for the child he'd once been. Now that he knew, Jim could see that little boy in the man he'd become -- still bright and energetic, almost frighteningly intelligent, with an unquenchable zest for life, enthusiastically greeting each new experience. He should have expected that Blair would have grown into exactly this sort of man.
Without being aware of his own actions, Jim sat on the other couch, a fond smile playing on his lips as he stared at Blair's face. Gradually, he lost himself in his memories -- the horses, the riding, the wolf-rescue, Blair's glee at winning his ribbon... and always, the deep-seated, contented companionship of one talkative and generous little boy. He felt that he'd just received an unexpected but precious gift -- his childhood best friend and the man who was dedicated to helping him master his wayward senses, rolled into one incredibly special person, and he was here. Now. Jim vowed to himself that he wouldn't lose Blair again. None of this 'only one week' crap; he'd keep Blair here for the next twenty years, if he had any say in the matter at all.
Jim began planning some improvements to Blair's room, something to give him an incentive to stay. He needed shelves for his books and anthropological keepsakes, and a real door instead of that old curtain. And there was no reason that Blair couldn't move some of those keepsakes out here into the main room, if he chose; this was his home, too.
Gradually, he became aware of a change; Blair's heartbeat and respiration had increased. Jim opened his eyes to see Blair watching him, looking more alert than he had since he'd been drugged.
Blair smiled when he saw Jim's eyes focus on him. "Hey, man; you okay? You got a headache, or your senses acting up?"
"I'm fine, Chief; just remembering some things. How about you? Are you getting that crap out of your system?"
Blair tossed the afghan to the side, sat up, and stretched mightily. "Yeah, I think so; I feel pretty much back to normal. If nothing else, I'll manage to stay awake for supper; whatever it is, it smells delicious."
"Your timing is impeccable; it'll be ready in five minutes. Why don't you wash up while I set the table and put it out."
With one last stretch, Blair rose and headed toward the bathroom. "Sounds like a plan."
Inevitably, the conversation over the meal became a mutual debriefing session. Blair's eyes glowed as Jim described how he'd used his enhanced senses to unravel the clues to the location of Lash's lair. "Oh, man, that is so cool! I told you your senses would help your police work. Just imagine what you'll be able to do with them after we've had more time to practice. You'll be beyond awesome!"
"You didn't do so bad yourself, Junior. If you hadn't strung Lash along, kept him talking, I wouldn't have had your voices to home in on. I'm proud of you."
Blair glanced disparagingly at the remaining disorder in the living room. "For what? I shouldn't even have let him take me out of here. I should've been able to fight him off, and I tried, Jim, I really did, but he was just so damned strong!"
"Blair, there's no shame in being overcome by a greater force; it happens to all of us," Jim said gently. "You gave it everything you had, and that's all anyone can expect. You delayed him, kept on fighting even when all you had was your words, gave me the time I needed to find you. You did everything right, Chief; you have no need to apologize for anything."
Blair searched Jim's face for confirmation. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Jim insisted. "Can I tell you a story, Chief?"
Blair raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You have the floor, man."
"When I was sixteen, I knew a little boy -- cute as a button, sharp as a tack, and loyal as a hound dog. I was practicing for a steeplechase that summer, and whenever I was at the stables, he'd be right there by my side. Nothing fazed him; the biggest horses acted like puppydogs around him, and he rode over jumps that were taller than he was. He was so full of plain, cussed courage that he even headed off into unknown territory, alone, to find and help an injured wolf." Jim pulled the little red ribbon out of his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table between them. "That little boy hasn't lost one ounce of his intelligence, courage, or sheer joie de vivre as he grew up." He had to clear his throat before continuing huskily, "I am soo proud of you, Chief, then and now, and so grateful to whatever Providence led you across my path again."
Blair's eyes had shone ever brighter during Jim's recitation, and his smile grown ever wider. Now he chuckled softly. "Well, you can call it Providence if you want; I call it ten years of dedicated searching." He shook his head ruefully. "Jim, you're the reason I've studied and researched the sentinel phenomenon, and you're the reason I'm going to college in Cascade, Washington. I'd a whole lot rather be someplace warmer and drier -- but I figured this was the only place I had a reasonable chance of finding you." He shifted slightly in his seat. "So you don't mind that I tracked you down and I'm tagging along by your side again?"
"Mind?" Jim shook his head in bemusement, then pushed back from the table. "Chief, come here." When Blair stood, Jim put an arm around his shoulders and urged him out onto the balcony. He pointed outward.
"See those three young ladies at the end of the block? They're discussing a killer math test they have day after tomorrow. Down the next block, the fire escape on the fourth floor has a planter box on it; it has hyacinths in bloom, two purple and one pink.
"I could go on, but you get the idea. You've given me this, Chief; in just a few short weeks, you've given me control over my senses that I haven't had since... since..." Jim faltered to a stop as the realization hit him. "My God, Blair; not since I was sixteen with a curly-haired little munchkin by my side." He turned, and pulled Blair into a fierce embrace. "'This is me, giving you a biiiiig hug'. I missed you buddy, missed you so much, for years and years. I don't know how I ever forgot you."
Blair returned the hug just as fiercely. "It doesn't matter, now," he said softly. "I missed you too, but I came back, just like I promised. In my whole life, you were the best friend I ever had, and I've dreamed of finding you again, ever since Naomi took me away." He chuckled softly and drew away, looking out into the gathering dusk. "But you're probably right; without the hand of Providence, or Fate, or Gods and Goddesses, I could have been searching for another ten years, or twenty years. I guess we should both offer thanks to the Universe that we're together again."
His face was split by a sudden, wide yawn, and Blair settled tiredly against the strong body of his best friend. "Sorry, Jim; I guess that crap is still affecting me, after all. Did I say thanks for coming after me? I'm so glad to be home." His eyelids drooped, and he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Yeah, buddy, you told me," Jim said as he steered Blair into his bedroom. There he urged Blair onto his futon, made short work of divesting him of shoes and jeans, and tucked the covers around him as tenderly as a mother with a child. He stared at his best friend for a moment, then caressed his cheek with gentle fingers. "I'm glad you're home, too, Chief, and I hope you'll be home for a long, long time." He bent and kissed the sleeping man on the forehead, then turned and quietly left the room.
The End
Jim's Recipe
I'm a lazy cook, and an un-adventurous eater. I once severely modified a recipe to this version --
1 cup orange juice *
1/2 cup brown sugar *
1 small package dried apricots
3 - 5 pork chops
* It's been a long time since I cooked this, and the memory is dim. Don't worry about adding more orange juice or less brown sugar if you think it necessary, or more palatable.
Slice apricots in halves or quarters, and simmer them in the orange juice mixed with brown sugar for 20 - 30 minutes. Meanwhile, trim the fat off the pork chops, and brown/sear the chops in a skillet. (I used bacon grease; olive oil would be healthier.)
Place pork chops in a baking pan, and pour orange juice / brown sugar / apricot mixture around them; cover with a lid or foil. Place in oven; bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes, or until tender.
These were the juiciest, tenderest, most flavorful pork chops I have ever eaten. Yummy!
But, if you're interested, here's the recipe that I shredded modified --
3.5 pounds lean pork butt, boned
2 tablespoons salad oil
1 package (8 oz.) mixed dried fruit
1 cup chicken broth
1/2 cup apple juice
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon honey
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon each ground ginger and pepper
1 tablespoon cornstarch blended with 1 tablespoon water
Trim and discard excess fat from pork; cut meat into 1-inch cubes. Add oil to a broiler pan; set in oven while it preheats to 450 degrees. Then add meat and bake, uncovered, stirring occasionally for about 25 minutes or until meat is browned. Stir in fruit.
Combine broth, apple juice, lemon juice, honey, soy, garlic powder, ginger, and pepper; pour over meat. Reduce temperature to 350 degrees. Bake, covered, for 40 minutes or until meat is tender when pierced.
Source: Sunset Casserole Cook Book
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