My thanks are due to Betty, for all her efforts as my Beta reader, as well as a friend.

The Ordeal
by
 

"Hi dad,” Steve Sloan greeted his father cheerfully, smiling at the sight of the older Sloan seated behind the desk in his office tapping tentatively at the keys on his computer, as though afraid they were about to jump up and bite him.

                “Oh, hi son,” came the distracted reply.   “Take a seat for a minute.  I've just got to finish this … oh DAMMIT!” Mark Sloan expostulated as his fingers – once again - hit the wrong keys.  

                Suppressing a smile, Steve sat down opposite his father and allowed his eyes to drift around the room, marvelling at the veritable treasure trove that, over the years, his father had accumulated; each item having its own individual history, not to mention immense sentimental value.   

Try as they might, no one had ever been able to part Mark from one single item although Steve guessed, as he watched his dad fight with the recalcitrant computer, that the only item in the office his father would willingly part with would be the offending object with which he was now engaged in battle.

                "Finished at last,” Mark announced triumphantly as he typed in the final word of his report and, with a theatrical flourish, pressed the save button.   "Have you got time for a coffee," he enquired.

                “I thought you’d never ask,” Steve replied.  “Hey,” he commented as he stood up, his eyes falling on the elegant carriage clock on the edge of his father's desk, “your clock isn’t working.”

"I know,” Mark’s voice was wistful as he gently – almost reverently - picked the object up.   “Your mother gave me this as a birthday present more years ago than I care to remember,” he continued, his voice full of sadness as he reverently ran his hands over the timepiece.     "I keep it right here,” he added as he gently replaced it, “because it reminds me of her.”

As they left the room Steve glanced over his shoulder, a wave of relief washing over him as he realised that – finally - he'd discovered just what to get his dad for his birthday.

THE DOCTOR’S LOUNGE – HALF AN HOUR LATER

                “I need your help.”

                No sooner had Steve uttered the words than Jesse Travis found himself unceremoniously dragged into the doctor’s lounge.

                “What’s wrong?” He anxiously enquired.  “Are you hurt, is that it?   You don’t want your dad to find out about it?   You know he will, he always does,” he babbled, “so why don’t you …”

                “I’m fine Jess.   I just need your help with something.”

                “Well, sure,” Jesse’s relief at the fact that his friend was neither injured, nor ailing, was patently obvious.

                “You might not think that when I tell you what it is I want you to do,” was the detective’s ominous reply.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON

“Mark, wait up!” 

At the sound of Jesse’s voice, Mark stepped back from the elevator he’d been about to enter.

“I’m really sorry.”   Mark frowned, at both the comment and the look of abject misery on Jesse’s face.   “It was an accident,” the blond continued to the older man’s total mystification, “and I’ll replace it, of course I will.”

"Jess.” Mark held up his hand.   "I think you'd better start at the beginning.   You're sorry for what?   What was an accident?"

"The clock in your office.   The one you keep on the corner of your desk?" 

Mark nodded; his heart sinking as he braced himself for what he knew was coming next.

"I called in earlier to give you the patient file on Mr. Simkins and, as I was walking past your desk, I must have brushed it with my elbow.  It fell off your desk on to the floor.    It broke into, like, a thousand pieces.   Still,” Jesse forced himself to sound bright – to sound glib – even though his heart ached at the sight of Mark’s evident distress upon receiving the unwelcome news, "I guess it isn’t that bad,” he continued, hating himself even more as he feigned total indifference.   “I mean, you told me the clock was broken, right?   So it’s not like it was useful to you.”

                "No,” Jesse flinched at the sadness in the older man’s voice.    "It wasn’t useful.   Don’t worry about it Jess,” Mark’s smile reached his mouth, but not his eyes and for a moment, one fleeting moment, Jesse almost capitulated, and then he reminded himself of how pleased – how thrilled – Steve had said his dad would be to have the precious timepiece back in full, working order, and that helped, but only a little.   

"Well, as I said, I’m really sorry and of course I'll replace it.”  

“There’s no need – really,” Mark reached out to place a reassuring hand on his young protégé’s arm, which action only served to add to Jesse’s crushing guilt.

“You owe me Steve,” he muttered as he headed back to the ER, leaving the dejected older man waiting forlornly for the elevator, "you owe me big time for this one buddy.”

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON

With the clock safely in his possession, Steve entered the small repair shop he’d noticed a little over a week earlier on his way to work, a tiny bell heralding his arrival.

"Be right with you,” a muffled voice announced from the rear of the store.  

In the next moment one of the most attractive women Steve had seen in longer than he could remember, came through to stand behind the counter: tall, slender, with a mane of black, curly hair that tumbled in wild disarray to her shoulders, an olive complexion, a full, lush mouth and the deepest, most soulful eyes he’d ever seen.  

“Hi,” the vision greeted him cheerfully.   “How can I help you?”

"I uh...” For a moment, Steve was lost for words.

"Did you come to collect or to deliver?"

“Um...”

Steve felt a slow blush spread across his cheeks as he realised he was behaving like a love-struck adolescent, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.   He couldn’t have formed a coherent sentence if his very life had depended upon it.

"I guess from that bundle under your arm, you have something for repair,” the woman smiled at him gently.   “May I see?"

"Sure.”    Unlike his tongue, Steve managed to get his legs to co-operate and reached the counter, on which he reverently placed the clock.   The woman picked it up equally respectfully to examine it, which was when he saw the wedding ring.

"This is a lovely piece,” she commented, not noticing the dejected look on Steve’s face as any romantic hopes he’d been harbouring were promptly dashed at the sight of that ring.    "But it's been very badly neglected,” she gently chided.

                "It's my father's,” Steve was relieved to find that his tongue had at last decided to co-operate.   "My mom gave it to him as a birthday present a very long time ago.    It hasn't worked for a while and, since it’s his birthday in a few weeks’ time I thought I'd surprise him by having it repaired.   If,” he looked into those marvellous orbs and was almost lost, "you think it can be.”

                "Oh, yes,” the woman smiled reassuringly as she placed the clock on the counter.    "It will take a lot of work but we can get this as good as new for you by next week Mr....” she looked at him questioningly.

                "Sloan, Steve Sloan.”   Steve introduced himself and extended his hand.

                "Toni Henderson.”   They shook hands warmly.

                "Well Mr. Sloan ... Steve,” Toni swiftly corrected herself.    "I'll just give you a receipt for this and if you come back in a week’s time it will be ready for you.”

                "Do you do the repairs yourself?"

                "Oh, no,” came the amused reply.    “That’s my husband, Stefan’s, domain.   When he’s not here, as now, I take care of the shop and our daughter.   Both extremely demanding jobs,” she added, laughing.

                "How old is your little girl?"

                "Tanya is five,” Toni's face glowed as she mentioned her daughter’s name.    Normally I pick her up from school, but today she wanted her daddy to do it.  Do you have children Steve?"

                "I'm not married.”

                "That’s a shame,” Toni commented, looking him directly in the eyes.

                He wasn’t sure how long they remained that way, only sure that he never wanted that moment to end.   Of course it did, Toni breaking eye contact and returning her attention to completing the receipt.

                “See you in a week then,” she murmured as she handed over the slip of paper, her fingers brushing against his.   As they did so he felt a faint tremor run through him.   At first, he attributed the feeling to physical attraction, cursing the fact that the only woman he’d been attracted to in longer than he could remember, turned out to be married.   Then he felt something shift and, suddenly, all the clocks in the shop began chiming loudly, the noise startling in its intensity.

                "What on earth?" Toni looked around her in bewilderment.   "Steve?"   She turned back to face him questioningly.

                He didn’t get a chance to speak as, in the next instant a tremendous roaring sound ripped through the air.  The ground beneath their feet started to buck and heave at the same time that invisible fingers began to rip the building apart, huge cracks appearing in the walls and ceiling.  

                "We have to get out of here,” Steve yelled, crossing swiftly behind the counter to grab Toni firmly by the arm.

They had almost reached the door, which was hanging crazily askew, when the building collapsed on top of them.

*****

His back hurt, his legs ached, in fact, his whole body was screaming with pain. Shifting slightly, Steve wondered just when his bed had gotten so damned uncomfortable. 

Then the memory of what had happened returned.

                "Toni?"  He yelled, as he realised that he was alone.    "Toni are you okay?"

                "I'm fine,” a weak voice replied and, to his intense relief, he felt her hand slip into his.

                 "How are you doing?" He enquired, alarmed to find that her touch was icy-cold.

                "Okay, for someone who just had a building land on top of her I guess,” Toni laughed, the laugh rapidly disintegrating into a harsh, painful sounding cough.

                "Help will be here soon,” Steve said reassuringly.

                “I hope so,” came the whispered response.  “What time is it Steve?”

After a brief struggle, the detective was able to free his right arm and check his watch, which had - miraculously - remained intact.

                "It's a little after 4 PM,” he replied.

                "Stefan and Tanya will be home soon,” Toni quietly informed him.   "I'll have to start thinking about starting supper.”

                The comment, together with the dreamy quality in Toni’s voice set alarm bells ringing in Steve’s head.

                "Talk to me Toni,” he said, squeezing the woman's hand tightly.   "Tell me how you and your husband met.”

                "Oh you don't want to hear boring stuff like that.”

                "Yes I do,” Steve was insistent.  He wanted to - needed to - keep the woman conscious.

"Okay then,” Toni quietly acquiesced.    “Stefan and I met in his father’s shop.   I’d gone in to buy a birthday present for my mother and he was standing behind the counter when I walked in,” Steve could hear the smile in her voice as she recalled that moment.    “I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever set eyes on - I still do,” she added.   “The rest, as they say, is history.    We fell in love with each other right there and then, got married two years later, had Tanya a year after that and then last year we moved out here to start our own business.   Do you think they're alright Steve?” She enquired, changing the subject abruptly.   “Stefan and Tanya?"

                "I'm sure they're fine,” Steve soothed.

                "Your turn now,” she murmured.    “Why don’t you tell me why a good looking guy like you is still single?”

                "I haven't found the right woman yet,” Steve wistfully admitted.  

                "You will,” came the very firm response.   "There's someone out there for each and every one of us.   It's a fact of life.”

                "You sound just like my dad,” said Steve and, despite the danger, they both laughed.

Several minutes passed and then Toni murmured, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

"What for?"

                "Your dad's clock. He'll never get it back now. It’s been destroyed along with everything else.”

                "That’s true,” Steve acknowledged.   "But my father has always considered memories to be far more important than belongings.”

                "I'd liked to have met him,” Toni’s voice was both weak and weary.

                "You will,” Steve said stoutly.   "Don’t you give up on me Toni,” he said sharply.   “Hold on.”

"I can't Steve.   I'm so very tired and I ... I don't feel so good.”

                "You have to hold on,” Steve commanded as he felt her grip on his hand begin to slacken.   "For Stefan.   For Tanya.”

                "It's too late for me Steve,” the dreadful finality of that statement turned his blood to ice.

                “Don’t SAY that,” he yelled.   "We're going to get out of here Toni and you’re going to be fine.”

                "No,” there was a world of sorrow contained in that one word.   “I wish that were true but it isn’t.”

“Toni...”

"I need you do something for me Steve,” she interrupted.   "Tell Stefan and Tanya that I love them and that I'll always be with them.”

                "You can tell them that yourself when we get out of here,” he replied, his voice tinged with desperation.

                "Promise me that you'll tell them,” there was an urgency in her voice that hadn’t been there before and he knew, as did she, that the end was drawing close.   “Please?"

"I'll tell them,” he whispered.   "I promise.”

                "Thank you.”

It wasn't until the rescue workers found them several hours later and were ready to transport Steve to the ambulance that he finally let go of the dead woman’s hand.

COMMUNITY GENERAL

"We have a white male, approximately 39 years old, who was rescued from a collapsed building.   Query possible crush injuries although he’s displaying no signs of distress,” one of the paramedics conveying the gurney on which Steve lay, briskly informed Jesse as they entered the melee that was the ER department.

“Steve!” The relief in Jesse’s voice was evident as he recognised his friend. "Boy will your dad be pleased to know that you're okay.    He’s been worried sick with not being able to contact you.     Page Dr. Sloan would you please Nurse Jackson?" He instructed.    “In the meantime,” he turned back to face Steve, “let's take a proper look at you.   Lie still,” he said sternly as the detective attempted to sit up.    "I need to check you over and then have you sent up for X-rays.”

“I’m fine,” Steve insisted as he, again, tried to get up.

“Steve!” Jesse fixed his best friend with an “I’m a doctor, do not mess with me” look. "You've just had a building fall on top of you and you're not going anywhere until I’m satisfied that you haven’t sustained any physical damage.    Now I don’t want to have to use restraints on you but...”

“You wouldn’t dare Travis,” the fractious detective interrupted.

“Wouldn’t I?”  Came the steely response.

Thankfully, for Steve, before Jesse had a chance to carry out his threat, Mark arrived.

                "Thank God you’re safe,” he exclaimed, his voice husky with emotion.    "I've been so worried.   I rang the precinct earlier but Captain Newman said that you’d taken the afternoon off and when I couldn’t get hold of you on your cell phone...”

"I'm okay dad,” Steve said quietly, reaching out to squeeze his father’s arm.   “I’m sorry about your clock though,” he added regretfully.

                "My clock?”

                “I took it to be repaired.   It was going to be a surprise for your birthday,” Steve elucidated.

"It’s not important,” Mark assured his dejected looking son.    "What does, is that you’re safe.   That’s all I care about.”

11 PM

                “Well, for a man who had a building fall on him you’re in excellent shape,” Mark informed his son, now firmly ensconced in a hospital bed.    “The X-rays show no sign of any damage.   Of course I’m keeping you in overnight for observation.”

                “Of course,” Steve gloomily reiterated, knowing there was little - in fact no - point in arguing.   Jesse might joke about using restraints; his father wouldn’t; he would use them without compunction.

                “You can go home in the morning,” said Mark, trying not to laugh at his son’s mutinous expression.  “Which means you get to enjoy breakfast here,” he added, which remark - and prospect - did at least go some way to mollifying the detective.

THE NEXT MORNING

                Breakfast had lived up to his every expectation, so much so that he’d managed to inveigle the orderly into letting him have another serving, much to the man’s astonishment.   He’d never heard of anyone actually requesting more of the hospital fare.      Figuring that the patient in Room 23 must either have lost his sense of taste, or have a death wish, he dutifully placed another tray of food on Steve’s bedside table.

                Having eaten, Steve dressed in the clothes Amanda had picked up for him when she’d swung by the beach house on her way into work that morning.   He’d just sat down on the bed, wondering how long his dad would be coming to collect him and take him home, when there came a light knocking on the door.

                “Mr. Sloan?” The quiet voice seemed at odds with the tall, stockily built young man who entered the room.

                “That’s me.   Can I help you?” Steve enquired.

                "I understand that you...” he stopped abruptly, clearly overcome with emotion and - in that moment - Steve knew instinctively that his ashen-faced visitor was Toni’s husband.

                "You're Stefan.”    He extended his hand and the two men shook hands solemnly.   "I’m very sorry about your wife Mr. Henderson.”

                "Thank you.”  The man ducked his head but not before Steve had seen the tears welling up in his eyes.   "I've just come from identifying Toni,” he was finally able to continue.    "She looked so peaceful, just as though she were sleeping.”   He shook his head.   “I still can't believe that she’s gone,” he added despairingly.

                "Would you like to sit down?” Steve gestured toward the chair next to his bed.

                "No, thank you.” Stefan drew in a shuddering breath.   "I have to get back to my little girl.   Some friends of ours are looking after her for me.   Somehow, I have to tell her that...” His anguished gaze met that of Steve’s.    "How do I tell a five year old little girl that her mother won't ever be coming home again Mr. Sloan?"

                "I don't know,” Steve replied helplessly, and then he remembered the promise he had made to the dying woman.

"Mr. Henderson - Stefan,” he corrected himself.   "Toni made me promise to tell you something.   She was most insistent about it.    She...” his voice caught in his throat and it was several seconds before he was able to resume speaking, “asked me to tell you that she loved you both very much and that she would always be with you.”

                Until that point in time, Stefan Henderson had borne his grief well, but upon hearing those few words the dam shoring up his emotions broke.    He collapsed into the chair beside Steve’s bed and allowed the tears to fall.

TWO DAYS’ LATER

“How’s Steve?” Jesse enquired of Mark as he bounced into the doctor’s lounge to top up his caffeine levels.

                “Oh, he’s...”

Quick to spot the hesitation in his friend and mentor’s voice, Jesse raised his head, his bright blue eyes filled with concern.

                “Mark?”

                “He’s not good,” Mark admitted.   “Oh, he’s putting on a brave face and pretending that everything is just fine but...” He fell silent.

“But?” Jesse gently prompted.

“Apart from the nightmares...” Mark shuddered as he recalled his son’s anguished cries as he wrestled with the demons that haunted him in his sleep.  Demons that only released their grip when Mark had gently woken him, “there are the headaches.  Steve is swallowing Excedrin like sweets.   And then there was the phone call.”

“Phone call?”

                “Yesterday morning,” Mark continued.   “Steve had just gone out for a run when the phone rang.    It was someone called Stefan and he was calling about funeral arrangements.”

                “Funeral!” Jesse looked startled.   “But who...?”

                “I don’t know,” Mark replied.   “The caller was quite clearly upset so I didn’t want to add to his distress by questioning him, but when I asked Steve... Well he flatly refused to discuss it with me.   He got that mulish look, the one where you know you’ll have more luck getting blood out of a stone?” Mark looked questioningly at his protégé.

                “I know that expression only too well,” said Jesse, who had encountered his friend’s legendary obduracy to discuss anything concerning his health or physical well being, on more than one occasion in the past.

                “I knew better than to try and push the issue,” said Mark.   “If he wants to talk about it he will and if he doesn’t...” he shrugged helplessly.    “I’m certain of one thing Jess,” the young doctor winced at the anguish in his friend’s eyes.   “Steve is hurting, very badly, and there’s nothing ... nothing,” the frustration in his voice was evident, “I can do to help him.”

THE NEXT DAY

                Head bowed, Steve stood at the graveside and watched as the coffin containing Toni’s body began its slow descent into the open maw of the grave that was to be her final resting place.

                “Toni Anderson was a bright, beautiful, woman, who lived for her family,” the pastor conducting the service gently intoned.  

                There was more - much more - but the man’s words faded into the background where they became little more than a mumbled blur.   Steve’s thoughts had returned to the fateful day when he’d walked into the small shop and met the beautiful, vibrant woman.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

"I uh...” a slow blush spread across his cheeks as he realised he was behaving like a love-struck adolescent.   Somehow, he’d manage to get to the counter although he couldn’t remember crossing the shop.  It was as she was examining the clock that he’d seen the wedding ring and his hopes had been so cruelly dashed.  

"This is a lovely piece, but it's been very badly neglected,” she lightly scolded.

                "It's my father’s,” he explained, immensely relieved to find that he was capable of coherent speech. “ I thought I'd surprise him by having it repaired.   If you think that it can be.”

                "Oh, yes,” came the reassuring reply.    "It will take a lot of work but we can get this as good as new for you by next week Mr...?”

                "Sloan, Steve Sloan.”  

                "Toni Henderson.”  

They shook hands warmly.

                “Steve.   Steve.   Are you all right?”  A concerned voice enquired, snapping him very firmly back to the present.  His gaze met that of Stefan’s before travelling from him to the little girl at his side, a miniature version of Toni, who was biting her lower lip hard and trying her hardest not to cry.     

                “I’m... fine,” he croaked, his voice dry from a combination of grief and guilt.   Grief that, at only 26, Toni had been robbed of her life; her family robbed of a wife and mother.   Guilt that he hadn’t done more to help, that he had escaped unscathed from the wreckage, and - he realised - an overwhelming, crushing guilt that he was still alive.

                “Will you come back to the hotel with us?”

                Steve’s gaze travelled over the other mourners; friends and family of the dead woman, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

                “No I... Have to get back to the precinct.”  His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.   Stefan obviously thought so too because he took a step forward, reaching out to take a firm hold of Steve’s arm, alarmed by the man’s ashen pallor.

                “There was nothing you or anyone could have done,” he murmured, as though reading the detective’s tortured thoughts.   

                “I...” He was finding it hard to breathe, the weight of his guilt as crushing as the debris of the building under which he’d been trapped.   “Excuse me,” he mumbled, wrenching himself free from Stefan’s grasp, before turning and fleeing back to his car.

THREE DAYS’ LATER

“Aren’t you going for a run this morning?” Mark enquired, having emerged from his room to discover Steve sitting quietly at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee.

                “I don’t feel like it,” Came the dull response.

                “Steve…” Mark hesitated for a moment before continuing.   “Son, I wish you would talk to me, tell me what it is that’s bothering you,” he implored.

                “Nothing is bothering me,” was Steve’s predictable reply.   “I have to get to work,” the detective added as he stood up, swaying slightly as he did so.

“Take it easy,” Mark was at Steve’s side in an instant, gently - but firmly - pushing him back onto the chair.   “How long have you been having these dizzy spells?” He enquired.

                “I haven’t been having dizzy spells,” Steve replied fractiously.   “I just stood up too quickly dad, that’s all.”

                “Son...”

                “I’m okay,” Steve stressed the last word and, as though to prove the point, stood up to confirm the fact.    “Now I have to go or I’m going to be late.    I’ll see you tonight.”

THE PRECINCT

“I’m due to see the Chief in half an hour, Sloan, and I need to update him on the Simeson homicide investigation.   What’s the current position?” Captain Newman barked, frowning as he noticed that the detective appeared to be lost in a world of his own.   Well he could daydream all he liked in his own time but not when he was working and most definitely not when he was supposed to be writing a synopsis on the Simeson case.

                “Sloan.”   Newman’s frown deepened, as the detective still didn’t respond and so, crossing over to the desk, he placed both hands on the edge, leant forward and in his most ferocious voice, bawled out “SLOAN!”

                The effect on Steve was as astonishing as it was unexpected.   The detective not only flinched violently at the sound of Newman’s voice, but the entire colour drained from his face and for one awful moment Newman thought the man was going to fall to the floor in a dead faint.

                “Take it easy Lieutenant,” Newman’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

“I’m sorry Captain,” Steve apologised.   “You startled me,” he added, raising a hand to his forehead where he began to massage his right temple.  What was it you wanted?”

                “An update on the Simeson homicide,” Newman was greatly relieved to see the colour returning to the man’s face.

                “I’ll have it on your desk in ten minutes.”

                Pausing only long enough to satisfy himself that the detective was going to stay upright in his chair, Newman turned and headed back to his office.

*****

“I’ll drive,” Tanis volunteered as - the Simeson report on the Captain’s desk as per his request - the duo headed out to follow up some leads on a homicide they were investigating.

The feisty sergeant didn’t think it would be prudent to point out that the reason for her offer was that her partner didn’t look at all well.   She knew how testy Sloan could be if anyone either commented on - or asked him about - his health and she didn’t particularly want to incur his wrath so early in the day!

To her astonishment, her offer was accepted without a murmur of protest; a sure sign that the detective wasn’t feeling well.   She only hoped, as she slid behind the wheel of the car, that whatever was ailing her taciturn partner, wasn’t catching!

The journey was undertaken in silence until, as they approached the area where the small parade of shops had once stood, Steve suddenly sat up ramrod straight and, turning to Tanis, barked, “take a left at the next corner.” 

“What?  Why?    This way is quicker,” Tanis protested.

So it might be but, as they drew closer to the wrecked buildings, Steve realised that he couldn’t bear to go past the place where Toni had died.

                “Dammit Sergeant,” he yelled at his startled partner, “will you just do as I tell you and take a left at the next corner?”

                “Jeez, who rattled your cage this morning,” Tanis muttered under her breath and then felt instantly sorry for that remark when she saw Steve’s face.    His normally healthy complexion was paper white and a light sweat had broken out on his brow.

                “Taking a left at the next corner,” she murmured; an action that appeared to pacify her fractious partner although Tanis filed his behaviour away for future reference.   Because of one thing she was certain; something was most definitely not right with Steve Sloan.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

                After another night and yet another nightmare, Steve’s anguished cries waking Mark who responded instantly, gently soothing his son and drawing him back to wakefulness, the older Sloan decided that enough was enough.   They were going to talk about what was bothering his son, even if it meant he had to cuff his obdurate son to one of the kitchen chairs!

                “Who’s Tony?” He enquired, watching as his son’s body stiffened at the very mention of the name.    “You called out his name last night when you were having your bad dream.   Just as you have done every other night for the past five nights,” he coolly informed his son, refusing to allow Steve’s infamous “death glare” either to intimidate him, or force him to abandon the subject.     Mark could be as obdurate as his son could when he put his mind to it!

                “I don’t want to talk about it.”

                “Steven.”    It was rare for Mark to use his son’s full Christian name; when he did, it generally didn’t bode well for the detective.   “Son,” Mark gentled his tone, “I know that you don’t like discussing your feelings, but don’t you see that by bottling everything up as you are, you’re only making things worse?”

                “I do not want to talk about it,” Steve growled.

                “Well that’s a shame,” Mark retorted, “because you’re not leaving the house until you tell me what’s bothering you.  You can laugh,” he added, as Steve proceeded to do just that.   “But you are not leaving until we’ve gotten this sorted.   And don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because I’m your father and an old man to boot, that I can’t stop you.   I can and I will,” he warned as Steve stood up and, seeing the look in his father’s eyes, just as promptly sat down again.

                “Dad I...” he began to say, just as the telephone started to ring.

                Much as Mark hated to do it, given that he sensed he was on the verge of a breakthrough with his taciturn son, he simply couldn’t ignore the instrument.

                “Don’t move,” he said sternly as he crossed swiftly over to his desk and snatched up the receiver.

                His words, however, fell on stony ground.   Engaged in a detailed conversation with Jesse concerning the well-being of one of his patients, Mark could only stand and watch helplessly as Steve grabbed his jacket and keys and left the house at a run.

11 AM - MARK’S OFFICE AT COMMUNITY GENERAL

“Given everything that you’ve told me, I’m of the very firm opinion that Steve is suffering from PTSD - post traumatic stress syndrome,” Angela Collinson, Head of the Counselling Department at the hospital, informed Mark.   “All of his symptoms; the nightmares, the headaches, the lack of interest in things he used to enjoy, such as his running, are classic examples of the condition.”

“And his refusal to talk about Tony?” Mark enquired.   “Who, by the way, isn’t a man as I had at first assumed.   Her full name is... was,” he corrected himself, “Antonia Henderson and she was trapped alongside my son in the wreckage of the building.   Unfortunately, she bled to death before help could arrive.   Dr. Bentley conducted the autopsy, that’s how I know all this,” he added by way of clarification.

“Again, Steve’s refusal to talk about her is classic behaviour from someone suffering from PTSD,” said Angela.   “Often the trauma is so painful and the memories so distressing, that they will do anything to avoid discussing what happened.   Many people have even been known to avoid the place where the ordeal occurred because they can’t bear to be reminded of the event.”

“But, if being shot and almost killed, not to mention being trapped after the explosion that destroyed Community General didn’t adversely affect him, why should now be any different?” Mark queried.

                “I’m sure that those incidents did affect your son,” Angela countered, “but, from what you’ve told me, he strikes me as an extremely resilient young man.”

“Stubborn would be a more appropriate term,” said Mark.

“Stubborn then,” Angela concurred.   “And it’s quite possible that your son’s tenacity helped him cope with those incidents, but we all have different limits of endurance.   Steve has shown amazing fortitude in the past, but even he has a breaking point.   Now,” she continued briskly, “as to how to deal with the problem.    In some cases, I’ve found drug therapy to be highly beneficial.    Xanax is extremely effective in helping to reduce anxiety but, as with every drug, it can produce side effects, the most common being clumsiness, dizziness, loss of desire and muscle spasms.”

“No drugs,” was Mark’s emphatic response.

“In that case, there are various forms of therapy available,” the counsellor continued.    “These range from cognitive behavioural therapy, which focuses on altering an individual’s thoughts in order to change both his behavioural and emotional state.    Then of course there’s group therapy, which is also highly effective and exposure therapy.   In the latter, the patient is encouraged to re-live the experience - under strictly controlled conditions,” she hastened to add, noting Mark’s concerned expression, “in order to help him, or her, work through their trauma.”

                “It all sounds very comprehensive,” said Mark, “but there’s one insurmountable obstacle.    Steve is a very private person Angela, he always has been.   The idea of discussing his thoughts and feelings with strangers…” he sighed.    “He wouldn’t even consider it.”

“Which leaves the last, most effective treatment of all,” said Angela,  “and that is having people who love and care, and who will listen, when,” she stressed the word, “the individual feels ready to talk.   He will,” she assured her dubious looking colleague.   “He simply won’t be able to carry on the way he is indefinitely.    There will come a point when he will need to talk, when he will need you to be there for him.”

“I’ll always be there for my son,” Mark quietly avowed. 

NOON - THE PRECINCT

“Oh, boy Sloan, are you in trouble with the Captain,” Bob Johnson informed Steve when he and Tanis strolled into the office a little before noon, having spent a fruitless morning chasing up leads on their most recent homicide investigation.  

“What?   Why?” Steve enquired of his colleague.

“The update on the Simeson homicide that Newman asked you for yesterday? The one the Chief wanted to discuss with him?”  

                “I gave it to him,” said Steve, as he crossed over to his desk.

“You gave him an update, yes,” Johnson agreed.  “Unfortunately, it was on the Simpson, not the Simeson case.   The Chief chewed Newman out for half an hour and now he’s looking to do the same to you.   If I were you, Sloan, I’d stay well out of Newman’s way until he’s had a chance to cool down.”

                Unfortunately, for Steve, before he had a chance to take his colleague’s advice, the door to the Captain’s office was wrenched open and the infuriated man emerged, fixed the detective with a withering look and snarled, “My office Lieutenant.  NOW!”

*****

                Fifteen minutes had passed and Newman still showed no sign of ceasing his angry tirade.   The man had the bit well and truly between his teeth and had obviously decided to use the opportunity to take Steve to task, not just on his current mistake, but on past errors as well.    As he ranted on interminably, Steve’s head started to ache; the pain turning from a dull thump to a loud, ferocious pounding.   As the pain in his beleaguered head increased, so too, it seemed, did the stridency in Newman’s voice until, unable to bear either for a moment longer, he turned and headed for the door.

“And just where the hell do you think you’re going Lieutenant?” Newman barked.   “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Turning back to face his superior officer was a mistake he very quickly regretted as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

“Sloan?”   The strident tone had disappeared, replaced now with genuine concern.

                “Captain I…” he started to say, just as the floor came up to meet him.

*****

                “I still think you should have let me take you to the hospital,” said Tanis for what Steve estimated must have been at least the tenth time on the short drive to the beach house. 

“I’m fine - honestly,” he added, noting his partner’s dubious expression.    “I’m just tired.   I haven’t been sleeping too well recently.   Do not,” he warned as he got out of the car, “even think about calling my father.”

                “Sorry partner,” Tanis muttered, reaching for her cell phone the moment that Steve disappeared inside the beach house, and swiftly punching out the number for the hospital. “I would rather face your wrath any day of the week than your father’s if he ever found out - and he would - that I hadn’t told him about this.”

THAT EVENING

                Mark’s natural inclination, after receiving Tanis’s phone call, was to jump in his car and drive home at breakneck speed to check on his son.   He was, however, prudent enough to realise that by “fussing” over his son’s health, he might very well spoil any chance of Steve ever opening up to him.

                Therefore, he endured the rest of the day and when it was finally, thankfully, over, drove home, entering the house with a nonchalance he was very far from feeling.

                “Supper won’t be long,” he announced as he breezed into the kitchen, determined not to allow any vestige of the anxiety he was feeling over his son, to show.   “Why don’t you get us both a beer while I’m cooking?” He suggested.

                “All right,” Came the amiable reply from his couch-bound son.

                It was as Steve placed the bottles on the kitchen table that it happened; the house appearing to... shiver was the only way Mark could have described it.

Then it was over.  Gently releasing the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, Mark almost jumped out of his skin at the loud crash that followed as Steve released his grip on the bottles, which fell and shattered on the hard, ceramic, tiles.  

“Steve!” Mark was at his son’s side in an instant, his strong hands reaching out to steady the swaying detective, his concerned gaze taking in his son’s ashen pallor and cold, clammy skin, not to mention his harsh, rapid breathing.   His son was hyperventilating and Mark was aware of the urgent need to calm him down - fast.

“Look at me, son,” he urged, having pushed Steve’s stiff, unyielding frame down on to one of the kitchen chairs.   “I want you to concentrate on your breathing,” he instructed, flinching at the look of pure terror in his son’s cerulean eyes as he struggled to draw breath into his tortured lungs.   “You’re going to be just fine but you have to…” Realising that his soothing words were having no effect on the panic-stricken detective, Mark began searching the kitchen drawers for a paper bag.    In the last drawer, he found one, which he opened and placed over his son’s nose and mouth.

“Don’t fight,” he gently cajoled as Steve tried ineffectually to remove the object.   “I want you to take slow, deep, breaths into the bag.”

It was five long, tortuous, minutes before Steve was calm enough for Mark to be able to remove the bag and, with infinite gentleness, help his son up and over to the couch.

“I thought it was happening all over again,” Steve mumbled.

“I know you did son,” Mark reached out to brush a stray strand of hair back from Steve’s ashen forehead, “but you’re safe now.   Nothing can hurt you.   I’ll make sure of that,” he avowed.

“I tried to help her,” Steve’s voice was a mere whisper and Mark had to struggle to hear him.    “But I couldn’t.   I escaped without a scratch and Toni she…” he gulped hard, swallowing down the bile that had risen into his throat.   “It should have been me who died,” he angrily declared.  

“Don’t say that,” Mark snapped.   “Don’t ever EVER say that.   Steve,” his anger dissipating as quickly as it had flared up, Mark reached out and took his trembling son’s hands in both of his own.    “I spoke to Amanda earlier today.    I asked her to pull the autopsy report on Toni Anderson.  Son,” he softened his tone even further. “There was nothing you could have done to help Toni.   She sustained fatal injuries when the building collapsed on top of her.”  Mark didn’t want to elucidate any further, he didn’t think Steve was ready to face the blunt facts that had led to the woman’s untimely demise.

“But I didn’t even try.”

“How could you?” Mark attempted to reason.   “You were trapped under half a ton of rubble.   If you’d moved you might well have brought the rest of the building down on top of you and died alongside Toni.”

A long and dreadful silence ensued, before Steve raised his head and, looking his father directly in the eyes, murmured, “Maybe I should have.” 

THE FOLLOWING MORNING - MARK’S OFFICE - COMMUNITY GENERAL

“Survivor’s guilt is a surprisingly common event to any traumatic incident,” Angela Collinson informed Mark, having instantly responded to his urgent message to meet him in his office ASAP.   “The survivor begins to question why they were spared when others perished.    Very often they feel overwhelmed with remorse.   In many cases they….” she stopped talking abruptly.

“They what?” Mark sharply enquired.   “Angela, please?” He implored.  

“In many cases people who have survived events where others have died have… committed suicide,” she reluctantly informed the stunned doctor.

“No!” Mark roared, standing up so fast that he overturned his chair.   “It will be a cold day in HELL before I allow my son to sink so far into despair that he believes killing himself is the only viable option.  There must, there has to be a way to help him, to bring him back.”

It was as he was driving back to the beach house to relieve Amanda, who had volunteered to keep an eye on Steve while Mark spoke to the counsellor - that the answer – the only possible solution to his son’s problem – became clear.

7 PM

                When the soft chime of the doorbell failed to elicit any response from Steve, who sat slumped disconsolately on the couch pretending to watch TV, Mark turned down the gas on the stove and, with a bright, “I’ll get it then,” went to admit their visitor.

                “It’s someone to see you,” he quietly announced.

                “Who is…?” The question died in Steve’s throat as, turning to see who was paying him a visit; he came face to face with Stefan Anderson!

*****

“My dad had no right to call you,” Steve furiously declared as he led Stefan Anderson out on to the deck, away from his father’s eyes – and ears.

“Your father is very concerned about you Steve and, from what he’s told me, so am I,” the young man admitted honestly.

“I am fine,” Steve placed a heavy emphasis on the final word.   

“No,” Stefan’s voice was quiet, his eyes full of sadness as he recognised what was so obviously a lie on the detective’s part, “you’re not.”

“How is your daughter?” Steve enquired, determined to change the subject, determined to avoid any discussion on his state of health; his state of mind.  

“She’s coping.”

“And you?”

“I’m taking it day by day,” Stefan admitted, with a wistful smile.    “Steve,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “Do you remember what I said to you after the funeral?”

“I don’t…” Steve looked at the man, momentarily nonplussed by the question.

“I told you that was nothing that you, that anyone could have done to save Toni,” Stefan gently reminded the detective.     “I meant it,” he murmured.

“Please…” Steve implored.  He couldn’t, he didn’t want to discuss this.

“Your father called me this afternoon.”  Despite the detective’s plea it seemed Stefan was determined to discuss the matter.   “He’s very worried about you.   He seems to think that you hold yourself responsible for Toni’s death.   I’m here to tell you that you aren’t.   If anyone is responsible, then it’s me.”

“You?” Steve regarded the man with genuine astonishment. 

“Yes me,” Stefan replied sadly.   “I should have been in the shop that day Steve, not Toni.   You don’t know how many times I’ve re-lived that day wishing that I had refused my daughter her request to pick her up from school.  However, I didn’t and I’ve had to live with that guilt ever since, as has my daughter.   Oh, yes,” he ruefully admitted as he met Steve’s disbelieving gaze.    “Tanya told me the other day that if she hadn’t insisted on me coming to collect her then her mom would still be alive.   So,” his smile was both haunted and heartbroken, “there are three people all wracked with guilt, all convinced they’re responsible for Toni’s death when the simple truth of the matter is, as I told my daughter yesterday, that bad things happen.    We have no control over our fate, Steve, that’s something that is – and always will be – out of our hands.    Of one thing I’m certain though,” he added determinedly, “I will not – will never - allow my daughter to feel guilty over her mom’s death.   Neither will I allow you to.   And if Toni were alive, she would say exactly the same thing.   There was nothing you, anyone, or I could have done.   Accept what happened Steve and move on.  Please?”

*****

Stefan left a little over an hour later, politely declining Mark’s invitation to join them for supper.

“I have to get back to my daughter,” he explained as Mark walked him to his car, Steve having remained on the deck.    “Perhaps another time?”

“You can be sure of that,” Mark replied, immensely grateful that the man – mired as he was in his own grief – had nonetheless readily agreed to come and talk to Steve.

Steve!   Mark tentatively re-entered the house, fully expecting to be on the receiving end of an angry tirade.

Instead, he was greeted by the sight of his son peering worriedly into the contents of one of the saucepans on the stove.

“I’m afraid that this…” Steve jabbed a spoon into the solidified mess, “whatever it was, has burnt to the bottom of the pan.”

“Never mind,” Mark padded cautiously into the kitchen, expecting Steve’s wrath to fall at any moment.   “I’ll order some food in.    Pizza or something more exotic?” He enquired as he crossed over to the phone on his desk.

“Pizza sounds just fine.   Dad?”

Here it came, thought Mark, bracing himself for the inevitable.  

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, as he turned to face Steve.   “I know that I was out of line – way out of line - asking Stefan to come talk to you, but I… what?” He enquired, noting the way his son was grinning at him.

“You look as guilty as a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar.   I don’t mind, dad.   I’m glad that you called Stefan.   Honestly.” He assured his dubious looking father who still looked as though he were waiting for the proverbial axe to fall.

“I know I’m not very good – hopeless in fact,” he admitted with a rueful smile, “At talking about how I’m feeling, what I’m feeling,” he continued.   “But that’s going to change, I’m going to change.   I’d like to talk – I need to talk about what happened that day.   So…” his gaze was almost shy as he met his father’s eyes.  “Do you think that we could?”

“Of course,” Mark croaked, crossing over to slip an arm around his son’s broad shoulders.

“Before we do,” Steve’s smile was tremulous, his eyes bright with the first of many tears that, Mark knew, would be shed both tonight and in the nights to come; tears that would both cleanse, and heal, his son’s wounded body and soul.   “Do you think we could order in that pizza?”

The End