This story is dedicated to Betty – with grateful thanks for all her help and support both in beta reading my stories and for being a friend.  

Trouble in Mind

by

5.30 AM

Steve Sloan was halfway through his early morning run when the mild headache he’d woken up with began to worsen.   At first he did his best to ignore the pain and picked up his pace, hoping that he might be able to burn the damn thing away.    He was sick and tired of the perpetual, nagging ache that had haunted him night and day for the past three or four weeks.

His plan of action failed however; the pain increasing in intensity until he was forced to stop and sit down, pressing both hands against either side of his head which felt as though it were on the point of exploding.    A sudden wave of nausea assailed him and, in the next instant, he was on his knees retching helplessly, grateful for the fact that, at this early hour, he was alone on the beach with no-one to witness his embarrassment.

When the spasm finally - mercifully - passed, he sat down and drew in first one shaky breath and then another until his roiling stomach was finally under some semblance of control.    Then and only then did he feel able to stand, noting as he did so that the headache had vanished as rapidly as it had arisen.   The omnipresent ache was still there but the knife-like pain that had been ripping his head apart had - thankfully - abated.

All thoughts of running abandoned, he walked slowly back to the beach house.

7 AM

“Dad, could you please pass me the …..”

Steve fell silent, thoroughly perplexed at the fact that he’d forgotten the name of the condiment that sat next to its mate on the table.    He knew the other receptacle was the pepper but, no matter how hard he racked his brains, he couldn’t think of......

“Salt!” he announced triumphantly as, like a light going on in the dark, the word finally sprang into his mind.

Having complied with his son’s request Mark Sloan was surprised when, a few moments later, he raised his eyes from the letter he’d been reading to discover that, far from using the salt cellar, Steve appeared to be examining it, turning the object round and round in his hands as though it were some strange artefact he’d just that moment discovered.

“Are you alright?” he enquired.

“What?    Oh sure, dad,” came the somewhat sheepish reply as Steve realised what he’d been doing and how strange his behaviour must have appeared to his father.     Turning his attention to the food on his plate he gave it a light dusting of salt before realising that his appetite had completely deserted him.

THE DOCTORS’ LOUNGE AT COMMUNITY GENERAL - 9AM

“Hi Mark?” Jesse Travis greeted his friend and mentor cheerfully.   “How are you this morning?”

“Just fine thank you,” Mark replied, handing the young doctor a mug of steaming hot coffee which Jesse accepted with a grateful smile.

“And how’s Steve?” he queried as he took a tentative sip of the liquid, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Okay young man, what’s wrong?” Mark queried.    He’d been a doctor for far too long not to recognise when a casual enquiry more often than not concealed a far more serious intention.

“I’m .....,”  Having come this far Jesse knew he couldn’t back out now.  “Worried about him,” he confessed.

“Worried?   Why?”   Mark’s brows knitted together in a heavy frown.    “Specifics please Jess.”

“Well .....,” Jesse paused for a moment, unwilling to worry Mark unnecessarily but also unable to ignore the matter any longer.     “Steve just hasn’t been himself for the past couple of weeks is all.    But I guess you’ve noticed that yourself haven’t you?” he enquired.

“With the shifts that Steve and I work, I’ve been lucky to see him at all lately,” Mark regretfully replied. “Now, please, Jesse, tell me what it is that has you so concerned.”

“Well, apart from the headaches, which seem to be his constant companion judging from the amount of Excedrin he’s been taking ..... You didn’t know he’d been having headaches?” he asked, as he caught sight of Mark’s startled expression.    “Sorry, dumb question,” he apologised.    “If you did, you would have asked him about them, right?    I guess I only noticed because of seeing him swallowing the pills on a regular basis when we’ve been working at BBQ Bob’s.”

“How long has he been having them?”

“About three weeks.”

Jesse quailed at the “And you didn’t think to mention this to me before?” look in his mentor’s eyes.

“I was going to say something to you, I just didn’t want to over-react and then have Steve get mad at me because you know how much he hates people fussing over him,” he babbled.    “And I thought that maybe he was working too hard and that was causing him to have the headaches, but then last night .....,” his voice tailed off.

“Last night, what?”

“We were cashing up for the evening,” Jesse replied.    “Mark, you know that Steve has used that cash register so many times he could probably ring figures up on it in his sleep.”

Mark nodded his agreement.

“I turned around to ask him something and he was just standing there, staring at the thing like he didn’t have the first clue how to use it,” Jesse continued.    “I crossed over and asked him if he was okay and he turned to look at me and, well for a minute Mark, I got the feeling he didn’t know who I was.”

“What happened after that?” Mark enquired in a voice barely above a whisper.

“He looked at me for a little longer before he seemed to remember me,” said Jesse. “And then he asked me to cash up because he had a headache.     His speech was slurry, Mark; almost like he was drunk, but I know for a fact that he’d only had one beer the entire evening.”

“I see.”

It was all Mark could do to choke those few words out of a throat constricted with fear.   

“It could be any manner of things,” Jesse said reassuringly.    “Overwork, stress, too little sleep, a virus, even.”

Which indeed it could and Mark readily acknowledged that fact.   Nonetheless he couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of dread that it was none of those things; that it was, in fact, something much worse.

9.30 AM - THE PRECINCT

“Lieutenant Sloan!     Sergeant Archer!    My office, right now!”

Steve winced as Newman’s voice appeared to carry on reverberating inside his head long after the man had ceased shouting.

“I’ve received a homicide report,” Newman informed them when they were ensconced in his office.    “From what the attending officers tell me it sounds as though it could be the same killer you’re pursuing in the Fletcher case.    I want you both at the scene right now.   Here are the details,” he added, extending a sheet of paper containing the requisite information to Steve, frowning when the detective made no move to accept them.

“Allow me.”

The paper was deftly extricated from Newman’s hand by Tanis who then turned and strode swiftly out of the office.   Not so Steve who, to Newman’s consternation, appeared to be rooted to the spot.

“Right now means with immediate effect Lieutenant,” he said caustically, astonished when the man still remained immobile.

 “Lieutenant,” he bawled at the top of his voice, his yell having the desired effect, jolting the detective out of his reverie.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he turned to follow his partner.

“Have you been drinking Sloan?”  Newman’s eyes hardened both at the slurred apology and the clumsy way in which the man turned and was walking, or attempting to walk, out of his office.

"No sir," came the vehement, and equally indignant, reply.   

“Well, if you’re not feeling well detective you should go home,” said Newman, softening his tone as he realised that Sloan really didn’t look – if not well - then just not right.

“I’m just fine sir,” came the swift retort as the lithe detective exited the Captain’s office and hastened to catch up with his partner.

---

“Want me to drive?”

Tanis’s innocent offer was met with a look of such ferocity that even she, well used to her partner’s gruff character, quailed, and then her feisty nature kicked back in with a vengeance.

“Jeez Sloan, don’t give me the death glare just for posing a simple question.   I only asked because you don’t look so good.”

“I’m FINE!” Steve snapped as he slid behind the wheel of the car, reaching up to massage his left temple, his actions belying the veracity of that statement.

“Jeez, pardon me for caring in the first place,” Tanis swiftly retorted as she buckled up, casting a murderous glare over at her fractious partner as he concentrated on easing the vehicle out into the swiftly moving traffic.   That task accomplished, she leant back in the seat and proceeded to ignore her partner, focusing her thoughts on the Fletcher case.

It was the tiny moan which drew her back to the present.   Glancing sharply over at Steve Tanis felt a wave of alarm course through her as she noted the way in which the man was clutching at the steering wheel as though it were a lifeline; noticed also the thin beads of sweat on his brow.

“Are you all right?” she queried, reaching out to touch him gently on the arm.

“Just a headache,” came the surly reply.

“Maybe you should let me take over.   Just until it passes,” Tanis added swiftly as Steve turned to face her.   One look from her partner’s glassy, unfocused eyes told Tanis all she needed to know.   Sloan was in trouble, ergo so was she because the man was, for all intents and purposes, in control – or not as the case may be – of a lethal weapon.

“Stop the car,” she demanded.

“What?”  Again Steve turned to face her, this time his handsome countenance creased with puzzlement.   “Why?”

“Because it’s quite clear to me that you’re sick,” Tanis replied.  

“I am NOT sick,” Steve angrily retorted.   “I just have a headache is all.”

Whereupon to her abject horror, Steve removed both hands from the wheel, reaching up to place them either side of his head.

 “What the HELL are you doing?” Tanis yelled, reaching over to grab the wheel.  “Stop the car.    Right NOW.”

But it was already too late.   In those few seconds between Steve relinquishing his hold on the wheel and Tanis seizing it, regaining at least some semblance of control on the errant vehicle, they’d swerved into the path of an oncoming car.

COMMUNITY GENERAL

“Sloan will you just do what the paramedic says and LIE STILL,” Tanis roared as the gurney bearing her struggling partner was wheeled into the ER.    

“I am perfectly FINE!” Came the peevish response.

“Yeah right,” Tanis scoffed.   “Dr. Travis,” she called out, having spotted the diminutive blond exiting one of the treatment rooms.    “Oh button it Sloan,” she added in an aside to her partner having heard his anguished moan.    “There’s no way you’re leaving here until you’ve been thoroughly checked out, so just live with it okay?”

“Hello Sergeant Archer,” Jesse greeted the cool blonde with a radiant smile, which smile rapidly faded as, upon drawing closer, he recognised her thoroughly disgruntled companion.   “Trauma 1 please,” he instructed the attending nurses, “And have Dr. Sloan paged and ask him to join me there immediately,” he added, ignoring Steve’s indignant protests that he didn’t need to see a doctor, much less his father.

“What happened?” Jesse enquired of Tanis once Steve had disappeared from view.

As Tanis related the sequence of events culminating in their appearance at the hospital, Jesse felt an icy wave of fear wash over him.

---

“No!” Steve angrily expostulated, glaring first at his father and then Jesse.    “No tests, no way.    There’s nothing wrong with me.   I had a lapse of concentration that’s all.   I don’t know why everyone is making such a big deal out of it,” he grumbled as he slid off the treatment table and headed for the door.

“Don’t even think of setting one foot outside of this room,” Mark said grimly.  

At the tone in his father’s voice Steve turned, looking for all the world like a six year old who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.   The situation would have been funny, thought Jesse, had it not been so very serious, so potentially life-threatening.

“Now come back here and sit down.”

Steve dutifully complied with his father’s instruction, staggering slightly as he made his way back to the bed.    He shrugged off Jesse’s offer of help impatiently, hauling himself back on to the bed where he sat staring at them both mutinously.

“That’s better,” Mark smiled.   “Now suppose you just lie back and relax while I go and speak to Paul Benjamin.”

“It doesn’t look as though I have much of a choice does it?” Steve mumbled as he settled back on the narrow, uncomfortable bed.   “And who’s Paul Benjamin,” he demanded of Jesse as his father swiftly vacated the room.

“He’s a .....,” Jesse hesitated for a moment, unsure whether or not to divulge Benjamin’s field of expertise to his fractious friend.

“Travis,” Steve growled.

“Paul Benjamin is a neurologist,” came the whispered response.

---

“Well I have to say that, from what you’ve told me, all the symptoms would certainly indicate a tumour of some kind,” Paul Benjamin, Head of Neurosurgery at Community General informed Mark.   “Of course my diagnosis is purely supposition at this point in time,” he added hastily as the older man’s face drained of all colour.   “I would need to conduct a neurological exam to ascertain exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“When could you ....?”

“I could schedule Steve in for the exam at 3 PM this afternoon,” Benjamin replied.    “It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours and we should know the results by the end of the day.   Let’s go speak to your son, Mark.   I like to meet my patients beforehand to talk things – procedures – through, and set their minds at rest as much as I possibly can.”

---

“You can’t be serious,” Steve scoffed, his disdainful cerulean eyes traversing Benjamin’s long, lean frame.  

“Oh, but I am.   Perfectly,” came the sombre reply.

“But …,” the detective stammered.    “I feel fine.   Perfectly fine,” he added as he defiantly met, and held, Benjamin’s cool, clinical gaze.  

“Really?”

For a long moment both men simply stared at one another, and then Steve sighed, shook his head and admitted, “No, but I thought that it was a virus or something.   I figured that if I ignored it then the thing would eventually work its way out of my system.    It could still be a virus though couldn’t it?” he enquired, raising hopeful eyes to once again meet those of the eminent surgeon.

“Yes it could,” Benjamin acquiesced.    “But just in case it isn’t then I’d like to conduct a neurological exam to rule out the possibility and it IS,” he stressed the word, “Only a possibility at this stage.”

“But you think it might be, don’t you?” Steve queried.    “A … tumour,” he added, stumbling over the last word as though, by speaking it aloud, it would transform his – their – fears a reality.

“Yes,” came the forthright reply.    “From the symptoms you’ve been both experiencing - and displaying; headaches, slurred speech, clumsy co-ordination, memory lapses, to name just a few, it’s entirely possible.    Steve,” he continued gently, “I really need to run the tests so that I can eliminate a tumour as being at the root cause of your problems.”

“Or to confirm it,” came the husky response.

“Yes,” said Benjamin.    “But let’s not look that far ahead just yet.   Let’s run the tests and see what they do – or don’t – tell us.”

6 PM

Benjamin’s face told the assembled quartet – Amanda having joined them after her shift ended – all they needed to know.   

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said quietly, at which news Steve’s vision greyed and he slumped back on the pillows, one trembling hand groping blindly over the covers where it was caught and seized in both of Mark’s.

“The results of the neurological exam confirm the presence of a tumour.   An extremely large one,” Benjamin added.    “It’s a mid-line tumour; that is it’s located where the two cerebral hemispheres of the brain meet, which would explain your headaches Steve.   Also,” he continued briskly, his heart going out to the shell shocked father and son, knowing however that he had to apprise them fully of the situation because time was most definitely of the essence.   “Your optic nerve is swollen which, again, is indicative of this particular kind of tumour. The papilledema - swollen optic nerve,” he explained upon noting Steve’s puzzled expression, “Is a clear sign of IICP; increased intercranial pressure.    I’m sorry Steve,” he apologised.   “I don’t have any easy way of breaking this to you so I’m just going to come right out and say it.     The tumour is growing and it’s pressing on your brain.    We have to operate, and soon, otherwise you’ll die.   Before we do that, however, I want to schedule you in for a needle biopsy so that we can determine what we’re dealing with.”

“What you’re ….,” Steve regarded the man in genuine puzzlement.   “I don’t understand.   It’s a tumour; you said as much, right?   So why?  Oh, I see,” he said dully.   “You mean you need to establish whether it’s malignant or benign?”

“Quite so,” Benjamin replied.   “Steve,” he continued briskly as he saw the man’s shoulders sag at that piece of information.   “The vast majority of brain tumours are benign so there’s every reason to be optimistic.   Let’s get the biopsy done first thing tomorrow morning and then we can take things from there.”

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON

This time when Benjamin entered the room, his handsome face wreathed in smiles, there was no doubt that he was anything other than the bearer of good news.

“The tumour is benign,” he announced.

“Oh thank God!” Mark exclaimed, turning to smile delightedly at his still drowsy son.

“But you still have to operate, right?” Steve groggily enquired.

“Yes,” Benjamin replied.    “The tumour must be excised Steve, but let’s look on the bright side.   Yes, there is one,” he added noting the look of incredulity on the detective’s face. “First of all the tumour is benign.    Secondly it’s easily accessible so I don’t have to go through any part of your brain to reach it, which would almost certainly result in some form of permanent neurological damage.   Thirdly, you’re young and extremely fit.  Now,” he continued briskly, “Given that time is of the essence due the pressure the tumour is exerting on your brain, I’ve scheduled you for a stereotactic craniotomy first thing tomorrow morning tomorrow.”

“Stereotactic?” Steve queried.

“I’m sorry,” Benjamin apologised.   “That’s where we use computers to assist us. “Stereotactic surgery is an invaluable aid to a neurosurgeon.     X- rays and MRI scans can only provide us with a two dimensional image, whereas stereotactic surgery provides us with a three dimensional image of the tumour: coronal - that’s left to right; as well as sagittal - front to back.  It allows us a greater degree of vision and accuracy,” he concluded, smiling.

“Will you ......?” Steve started to ask, before obviously thinking better of asking the question and falling silent.

“Will I what?” Benjamin enquired, coming to sit down on the side of the bed.   “If you have any questions, Steve, then please ask them.   I’m not and never have been one of those doctors who believes that the less the patient knows, the better.”

“It’s just that,” Steve kept his gaze firmly fixed on the bedcovers, clearly embarrassed by what he was about to ask.    “Will you have to shave all my hair off?” he finally had the courage to ask, knowing that, in the scheme of things, it was an inane question; nonetheless the thought of losing all his hair was somehow more daunting than the actual surgery.

“No,” came the sympathetic reply.    “Just the area where the tumour is located.   And that will grow back very quickly.   Now,” Benjamin stood up and prepared to leave.    “Get some rest young man and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

THAT EVENING

“Dad ....,” Steve began hesitatingly, after Jesse and Amanda had left; the former to begin his shift, the latter to care for her infant son.    “If anything should go wrong tom....”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” Mark swiftly interrupted. 

“You don’t know that for certain,” Steve said quietly.     “So, if, IF,” he stressed the word, “Something should, then there are a few things we need to discuss.”

“I don’t want to .....”

“We have to talk about it dad.”   Now it was Steve’s turn to interrupt his father.    Mark recognised the steely determination in his son’s eyes and realised that this was one argument he was not going to win.

“Okay,” he reluctantly acquiesced.

“Good,” Steve nodded approvingly.

---

By the time they’d finished talking and drawing up a list, the last vestige of light had faded from the sky.   

“Try and get some sleep,” Mark counselled as he switched on the small lamp on the bedside table, the light from which bathed the room in a soft glow.    “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Steve smiled at that statement.   It was no less than he expected.    Wild horses wouldn’t drag Mark Sloan out of the room and away from his son’s side; not tonight, nor the days and nights that would follow.  

7 AM THE NEXT MORNING

“Jess,” Steve murmured drowsily, having recently been administered with his pre-operative injection.    “While my dad is out of the room I need to ask you a favour.”

“Sure Steve, anything,” came the swift response.

“If .....,” Steve swallowed hard, his mouth and throat as dry as a desert, “Anything goes wrong today, I want you to promise me that you’ll take care of my dad.”

“I ...., That is .....,” Jesse stammered, his thoughts and emotions thrown into turmoil by his friend’s unexpected request.

“Please,” Steve implored.    “I need to know that you - that you and Amanda,” he corrected himself, “Will be there for him.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” Jesse said emphatically, echoing Mark’s words from the previous day.  

“Promise me,” Steve persisted.

The two friends’ eyes met and locked for the longest time before Jesse slowly, reluctantly, nodded.

“I promise,” he whispered, just as the door to the room swung open and Mark, his face ashen, re-entered.

“They’re ready for you in the OR,” he announced huskily before stepping aside to allow two burly orderlies in charge of a gurney, to precede him into the room where Steve was swiftly transferred from the bed to the conveyance.

“Wish me luck,” he murmured as he was wheeled from the room.

Mark’s throat was so choked with tears that, try as he might, he simply couldn’t speak.   Sensing the older man’s distress, Jesse stepped forward, reached out and gently squeezed Steve’s shoulder before whispering the words.

“Remember what you promised me Jess,” were his friend’s final words before the door closed softly on the departing gurney.

8.30 AM - THE DOCTORS’ LOUNGE

It took 16 paces to cross the length of the room, 18 to cross its breadth.   As he tried to calculate how many steps he had taken in total throughout the long, interminable, hours which followed, Mark’s mind threatened to burst.    His body was wired, not just from stress as he worried about his son – but from the endless cups of coffee he’d consumed.   His system was so loaded up with caffeine his heart was beginning to make its displeasure known.    As his pulse began to race, his breath catching in his throat, Mark stopped his endless pacing to place a hand against his chest, taking slow, calming, breaths in an effort to bring himself – his fried body – under some semblance of control.

“Come sit down.”

Amanda’s voice echoed in his fevered brain, cool, calm and soothing.   Gentle hands guided him to the couch where he acquiesced to their tender – yet firm - ministrations and allowed himself to be seated.

“I can’t lose him Amanda,” he whispered.   

“You won’t,” Amanda soothed, taking the older man’s hands in both of her own.   “He’s going to be just fine.    In three weeks’ time we’ll all be having supper on the deck at the beach house, you just wait and see.”

SIX HOURS’ LATER

“The operation went well,” a weary, but clearly delighted Paul Benjamin informed the exhausted looking trio as he entered the doctors’ lounge.    “The tumour was excised with no problem.    Steve is in the recovery room as I speak.   From there he’ll be transferred to the ICU for 24 hours, which, you all know, is standard procedure.    After that time period, provided there are no complications – and I certainly don’t envisage that there will be - he’ll be moved to a room upstairs.”

“I need to see him,” Mark said baldly.

“Of course,” Benjamin acquiesced.

ICU

At the door of the ICU Benjamin hesitated and turned to face Mark, his tired face wreathed with concern.

“I know I don’t have to tell you what to expect; nonetheless I’m going to because, no matter how many times we doctors visit a patient in ICU it’s different when that patient is someone we know, someone we love.     So,” he continued when Mark showed no signs of objecting, looked if anything, thought Benjamin, grateful for the explanation which was to follow.

“Steve’s head is heavily bandaged so you should prepare yourself for that fact Mark,” Benjamin warned.    “Apart from that he also has a breathing tube inserted in his mouth, throat and windpipe, which is attached to a ventilator.      The machine is breathing for him until such time as he regains consciousness, when it will – provided there are no complications arising from the surgery - be removed.”

Benjamin waited a moment for Mark to digest that information before continuing.

“As well as being catheterised, he’s also linked up to various IV’s.  They’re providing him with the requisite fluids and medicine he requires.”

And, with that, Mark was gently ushered into the unit, where the first thing he noted was the preternatural silence, broken only by the eerie rush from the ventilator as it breathed for his insentient son; coupled with the various electronic beeps from the myriad equipment which kept a careful watch over its fragile charge.

In the midst of the seemingly endless succession of tubes, drips and machinery, lay Steve, looking so shockingly small, white and helpless that Mark was unable to prevent the hot tears, which escaped from his eyes to cascade down his cheeks.

“I’m afraid to touch him,” he hoarsely confessed.

“He won’t break,” Benjamin murmured reassuringly, as he drew up a chair, placing it alongside the bed before gently steering the exhausted older man toward it.

“Stay as long as you like,” he added although he doubted if Mark had even heard him, his hungry eyes drinking in every inch of his son’s precious form.

FOUR DAYS’ LATER

When he’d told Mark to stay as long as he liked Benjamin hadn’t anticipated that his colleague would take up permanent residence at Steve’s bedside, as a result of which the eminent doctor was beginning to look ever more exhausted with each hour that passed.

When Benjamin entered Steve’s room a little before noon to discover Mark asleep in the hard, plastic chair at the side of his peacefully slumbering son, something inside the eminent surgeon snapped.    He could not - would not - allow the situation to continue any further.    Crossing over to the chair he gently roused his colleague.

“Go home,” he said sternly when Mark was fully awake.

“I can’t leave my son,” came the obdurate - and expected - response.

“You can and you will,” Benjamin ordered.    “Don’t talk, listen,” he continued, raising one hand to quell the words of protest that were already bubbling to Mark’s lips.   “Steve is making excellent progress.      The bandages have been removed, as has the tube that was draining the excess fluid from the site of the operation.   The swelling and bruising is diminishing thanks to the oral steroids we’re administering.    Everything is progressing very well and I anticipate that Steve should be able to go home very soon.     When he does he’s going to need your help and support, but if you carry on the way that you have been for the past few days,” Benjamin fixed Mark with a stern glare, “Then you’re not going to be any help to him at all because you’ll have collapsed with nervous exhaustion long before he sets one foot inside the beach house.”

Benjamin paused for a moment to let Mark absorb what he’d said.

“I’m sorry if I sound harsh, Mark but even though Steve came through the surgery with no complications, it’s inevitable that he will experience problems.”

“Such as?” Mark queried.

“It’s hard to say,” Benjamin replied.    “Because recovery from brain surgery varies from patient to patient.    But the most obvious things will be headaches, fatigue. Incredible fatigue,” he added.  “It’s also probable there will be some short-term memory loss and almost certainly some form of depression, anger and fear.    Fear that the tumour may return,” he explained, noting Mark’s anxious expression.     “What I’m trying to say Mark is that the road ahead won’t be easy and you, my friend, are going to need the patience of a saint because your son’s recovery will not be instantaneous.    So will you please do me a favour?” he entreated.    “Go home, take a long, hot shower, ditto food and then get some much needed rest.”

“All right,” Mark reluctantly acquiesced.

“Good man,” said Benjamin as he gently ushered the weary man out of the room whereupon he once again turned to face him.

“Steve has a hard road to travel,” he cautioned.     “He’s going to be fractious, frustrated and angry and he’s going to take that out on you.”

“My shoulders are broad,” said Mark.

“I’m sure they are.  Nevertheless, if things get tough, come and see me.    There are people I can recommend who can help your son overcome any problems he may experience.     Don’t suffer in silence, Mark.   If you need help then don’t be afraid to ask for it.”

TEN DAYS’ LATER

“Oh, dammit,” Steve yelled, hurling the book he’d been reading - or attempting to read - away from him in total disgust.   No matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate, no sooner had he reached the end of a paragraph, much less a page, he’d already forgotten what had preceded it.    

The only thing he had managed to achieve during the fruitless hour he’d spent laboriously poring over a novel he knew - because Mark had told him - he’d read and enjoyed many times before, was to make his headache, his ever-present companion since the operation, worse.    As he snatched up the packet of Excedrin tablets from the coffee table, hastily shaking two into the palm of his hand, Steve gloomily recalled the conversation he’d had with Paul Benjamin a few days before he was due to be discharged from the hospital.

“Headaches will be a common problem for a while because the surgery has irritated the delicate brain tissue,” the distinguished surgeon had informed him.

“How long is a while?”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Benjamin replied.   “It could be weeks or months before you’re completely free of them.    Steve,” he continued patiently, “You have to appreciate that you’ve undergone major surgery.  You can’t expect that after a  few days bed rest you can carry on as normal.   You’re going to have to take things easy for the considerable future.   Which means no work, no strenuous exercise and absolutely no driving - not until I say so anyway.”

“Great,” Steve muttered, reaching up to rub at the site of the operation.

“Does it hurt?” Benjamin queried.

“Itches,” came the grunted response.

“That’s very common, but once the staples come out that should soon stop.  What you might also notice, and again it’s perfectly normal, is a clicking sound from time to time at the bone flap site.  That will gradually disappear as the edges of the bone heal.”

“And how long is this healing process going to take?”

“Six months to a year,” at which revelation Steve let out an anguished moan.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Benjamin said solemnly.  “Now, as to your recuperation, I think you would benefit immensely if, after you’ve been discharged from the hospital, you attend a rehabilitation centre.   It’s standard procedure after any brain surgery,” he added, noting Steve’s perplexed expression. “Rehabilitation centres are staffed with professionals; therapists who can help you to overcome or adapt to any …,” he hesitated for a moment, searching for the right word, “Deficits that you might have to cope with.”

“No way,” Steve was emphatic.

“All right,” Benjamin acquiesced, recognising defeat when it was staring him in the face.   “But if you change your mind .....”

“I won’t.”

“Then day after tomorrow you can go home.”

Dry swallowing the Excedrin Steve lay down on the sofa and waited for the violent pounding in his head to subside.

THAT EVENING

At Mark’s behest, Amanda and Jesse arrived at the beach house a little after 6.30 PM to join the Sloans for supper; their first supper together since Steve had been discharged from the hospital.     However, despite Mark’s hopes that the four of them would enjoy a pleasant meal together, the reality turned out to be far from agreeable.    Steve was surly and uncommunicative, seeming to resent both his friends’ company and their constant, light-hearted bantering.    As the meal progressed it was clear from the hostile looks he kept levelling in their direction that he was finding their verbal antics more than a little irritating.

Had he explained; told those present that his beleaguered brain simply couldn’t cope with the constant chatter, the volume of which appeared to be increasing with each second that passed, then the outcome of the evening might have been different.    As it was his head hurt so badly that Steve was beyond both rational thought and explanation.   All he wanted - needed - was for the noise to cease.    As Amanda pealed with laughter at something Jesse had said, he finally snapped.

“Dammit you two, will you please SHUT UP,” he roared before standing up and stalking off to his apartment.

“I’m .... We’re,” Jesse glanced over at his mortified friend, “Sorry Mark,” he whispered.

“It’s not your fault Jesse.”   Mark shook his head sadly.    “It’s not either of your faults.      I thought this evening would help Steve to relax a little.   He’s been so uptight, so volatile and, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to do anything right.   If I try and help him when he has trouble remembering things he accuses me of fussing over him, but - conversely - if I stand by and leave him to cope by himself he accuses me of not caring.   I feel like I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea,” he reluctantly admitted.

“Mark” Amanda’s voice was stern. “You HAVE to go back and see Paul Benjamin.”

“Steve won’t go into a rehabilitation centre Amanda,” Mark felt honour bound to point out.

“Okay, fine.   Then you have someone come to the beach house to help Steve. Mark,” Amanda reached out and gave the older man’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “You must do something, and soon.    You can’t deal with this on your own, you need professional help.”

“You’re right,” Mark sighed, hating himself for admitting it, knowing that neither he - nor Steve - could go on the way that they were.   “I’ll go and see Paul first thing tomorrow morning.”

THE NEXT DAY

“Frankly I’m surprised you’ve managed for as long as you have,” Benjamin admitted, after Mark had finished recounting the events of the past ten days.

“It’s ..... Been difficult,” Mark confessed.

“Well you don’t have to worry about it any longer,” said Benjamin, smiling.   “And, since Steve obdurately refuses to attend a rehabilitation centre then we’ll just have to bring the mountain to Mohammed, so to speak.    Leave it with me, Mark.    I know just the person who can help your son.    I’ll have them come see you.”

5 PM THAT AFTERNOON

Mark was just thinking about starting supper when the front doorbell rang.    Glancing over at Steve, who sat slumped on the couch in front of the TV, and seeing that his son wasn’t about to rouse himself any time soon, Mark levered himself out of the comfortable chair and went to discover the caller’s identity.

Upon opening the front door he was confronted by a waif like girl dressed in the standard uniform the youth of the day appeared to have adopted; battered trainers, faded blue jeans, ripped at the knee and a white, short-sleeved tee-shirt.   Cropped white-blonde hair framed a tiny, heart-shaped face.     The girl resembled a sprite, so tiny, fine-boned and ethereal looking that a puff of wind could have blown her over.

So Mark was astonished when, upon thrusting out her right hand, the young woman announced in a surprisingly deep voice that was totally at odds with her fragile appearance,  “Dr. Sloan?   I’m Debbie Fraser.   Paul Benjamin sent me.”

It wasn’t very often that Mark was lost for words but, as he shook hands - surprised at the strength of the young woman’s grip - and ushered Debbie Fraser into the beach house, he found that this was just such an occasion.    As though sensing his confusion, Debbie turned to face him, smiling broadly.

“Before you ask Dr. Sloan, I’m 33 years old. I’m a fully qualified cognitive therapist and I’m here to help your son.    Now,” her bright green eyes roamed the interior of the living room, before alighting on Steve’s inert form, “Why don’t you introduce me to my patient?”

For the first time since Steve had been discharged from the hospital, Mark felt himself starting to relax.

---

“NO!   NO WAY!” Steve angrily expostulated after Debbie had introduced herself.   “I do NOT need help.    I can’t believe you did this, dad,” he snapped, rounding angrily on his father who visibly quailed under the force of his son’s wrath.

“Dr. Sloan,” Debbie smiled sweetly at the anguished man, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to step outside for a few minutes while I speak privately with your son.   Please?” she entreated.

While he was reluctant to leave the diminutive young woman alone with his surly son, Mark nonetheless found himself complying with Debbie’s request, sliding the balcony door shut to ensure their privacy.

“Right,” Debbie announced once they were alone.    “I want you to listen to me very carefully Steve, because I’m going to tell you exactly how things are going to be from here on in.”

“You.....”

“Be quiet and sit down!” Debbie commanded, whereupon Steve sat, too surprised to do anything else.   

“Good,” Debbie nodded approvingly.     “Now I want you to drop the self pity and open your eyes to what’s happening to your father.    You’re so wrapped up in yourself you don’t seem to either know - or care - that he’s practically on the verge of collapse.”

“I .....”

“Well, let me tell you that I am NOT about to let that happen.   That’s why I’m here, to take the burden from your father’s shoulders and put it on mine.    I’m stronger than I look, Steve,” she warned, noting the way the detective’s eyes flickered over her slender frame.   “Never forget that.   Now,” she continued briskly, settling herself down opposite the stunned detective.    “Why don’t you put your macho image to the side for a while and tell me exactly what kind of problems you’re experiencing?”

HALF AN HOUR LATER

“So let me see if I’ve got all this,” said Debbie after Steve had, with great reluctance, admitted those areas with which he was having the most difficulty.    “You’re suffering from short-term memory loss, word finding difficulties, chronic fatigue, depression, mood swings and lack of motivation.”

Steve nodded.

“Anything else you’d like to add to that synopsis?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Came the testy reply.

 “Let’s get one thing straight here and now, Steve,” said Debbie. “I am not the enemy here, despite what you might be thinking.   I’m here to help you and I WILL help you.    The methods I use might seem trivial, even ridiculous, to you but they will work.    However they won’t work overnight, so you’re going to have to learn to be patient, okay?”

A long silence ensued.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Debbie grinned as she stood up and prepared to leave.    “Get a good night’s rest, Steve.   I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.   Oh and by the way,” she added, as she headed for the front door.    “You can let your father back in now!”

THE NEXT DAY

“Hello Dr. Sloan,” Debbie greeted Mark cheerfully when he answered the door.   “How’s my patient this morning?”

“First of all, it’s Mark, and in answer to your question - fractious, extremely so,” Mark replied.

“Oh good,” came the cheerful response as Debbie swept past him and into the house.  “I do so enjoy a challenge.    Hi Steve,” Mark heard her call out as he turned to leave.   Let’s drop the attitude straightaway shall we and get on with some work?”

Smiling, feeling more cheerful than he had done in a long while, Mark closed the door to the beach house quietly behind him and headed off to the hospital.

---

“Okay,” said Debbie as she upended her large, leather bag, spilling its contents out on to the breakfast table and sifting through the contents.    “I think that’s everything.  Notepad, crossword puzzles, flashcards, calendar, colouring pens and pencils - Just kidding Sloan,” she laughed, blithely ignoring his icy glare.    “This is for you,” she added, pushing a large, loose-leafed notebook across the table towards him.   “It will help with your short-term memory problem,” she informed him upon catching sight of his puzzled expression.    “I want you to write down everything you do from the minute you get up to the time you go to bed.”

“What for?” Steve grumbled.

“Because it will serve as a guide to help you remember what you’ve done throughout the day,” Debbie patiently explained, totally unfazed by Steve’s surly manner.    “So that, rather than working yourself into a rage because you can’t remember what you did five minutes earlier, you’ll be able to refer back to your notebook and then you’ll know.    Trust me, it will help you,” she added, seeing the doubtful expression that crossed his handsome countenance.    “Lots of people with short-term memory loss use this method initially until things begin to improve.  And, anyway, as a cop, you should be used to making notes,” she triumphantly concluded.

“And how long will I have to do this for?”

“For as long as it takes your short-term memory to improve.    Which WILL happen, but it’s going to take time and you’re going to have to accept that and learn to adapt to your shortcomings for the time being.    Now,” she announced briskly.    “I think it’s time we went for a walk.   It’s a beautiful day and I don’t want to stay cooped up indoors so get your butt up off that chair Steve and let’s hit the beach.”

---

“Okay, that’s far enough,” Debbie announced after they had been walking for a little over 20 minutes.   “Let’s sit down.”

Whereupon she promptly sat, leaving Steve with little choice but to join her.

“Comfortable?” Debbie enquired.   “Good,” she declared before Steve even had a chance to reply.   “Now we’re going to play a little game, the name of which is word association.   I give you a word and you tell me the .......”

“Opposite of it,” Steve completed the sentence.

“Exactly so.”

“But what’s the point?” Steve grumbled.

“The point,” Debbie patiently explained, “Is to re-train your memory to both recognise, and remember, those words that you’ve forgotten.     So we’re going to practice word drills until you can recite them in your sleep.   You’d better get used to it Steve because we’ll be doing this over and over again.   Now, anymore arguments or objections?”

Steve shook his head.

“Good.    Then let’s get started.”

3 PM

“Three letter word for a domestic feline,” said Debbie, glancing up from the crossword puzzle book to meet Steve’s cold, hard glare.

“What - too hard for you?” she enquired when he remained studiously silent.

“No it’s NOT,” Steve retorted.    “It’s cat - obviously it’s cat.”

“Excellent.     Right next clue.”

And so it went on for the rest of the afternoon, by the end of which Steve was ready to rip the crossword book out of Debbie’s hands and tear it into little shreds.

Sensing her patient’s growing impatience, Debbie suddenly closed the book, declared that their session for that day was over, and began to gather up her things.

“Going so soon?” Steve enquired sardonically.    “Gee, and just when I was starting to enjoy myself too.”

Debbie said nothing; she didn’t have to.   Her expressive face told him quite clearly what she thought of his facetious comment.

As the silence between them stretched to the point where it was becoming uncomfortable, Debbie finally murmured, “You know Steve, you really are very fortunate.   You still have all your faculties - both physical and mental.    Some people aren’t so lucky.    You might try and remember that.”

And then, with a quiet “See you tomorrow,” she slipped out of the front door, leaving the chastened detective to sit and reflect on her sobering statement.

TWO WEEKS’ LATER

“Time to get out of the house for a while,” said Debbie, which announcement was like manna from heaven for Steve who saw it as a welcome chance to escape the endless, relentless round of word association drills, word finding exercises and crossword puzzles.

“Where are we going?” he enquired as they pulled out on to PCH.

“If I told you that, it would spoil the surprise,” came the maddening reply.   “Now how about a little word association while we travel?”

“Oh, terrific,” Steve groaned.

---

“You’re kidding me, right?    A shopping mall?”

Steve looked up at the glass-domed building with an expression of pure horror.

“Come on.”

Grabbing the reluctant detective firmly by the arm Debbie hauled him out of the VW whereupon he found himself being inexorably led towards the entrance.

“Don’t worry,” Debbie said reassuringly, having noticed his anxious expression.   “We’re not staying long.”

Which was, thought Steve, as the vast edifice swallowed them up, at least one piece of good news.

---

The noise assaulted him the moment they entered the building, an endless cacophony of elevator music, public announcements, screaming children, and ceaseless chatter.     It was all Steve could do not to clap his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the din.

“Debbie, I ca....,” he got no further, panic locking both his voice and body down.   He froze to the spot, as still and rigid as a statue.

“It’s okay,” Debbie soothed as she turned to face him, reaching out to take his hands very firmly in her own.

“I can’t take all this noise.   I have to …. Get out of here,” he moaned.  

“Soon,” said Debbie.   “No Steve,” she held on tightly as he attempted to wrest himself free.    “You can’t run away from this.   You’re going to deal with it and I’m going to help you.   I want you to listen to my voice and nothing else.   Just shut the rest out.”

“I can’t,” Steve protested.

“Yes, you can,” came the firm response.    “Just focus on my voice and take long, slow, breaths.   Come on Steve,” she gently cajoled.   “Breathe in and out, nice and slow.    That’s it,” she said encouragingly as the detective struggled to comply with her instructions and slowly - very slowly - brought both his breathing, and his panic, under control.

“Good, that’s very good,” said Debbie.   “You’re doing really we...”

“Is everything alright here?” a clipped voice interrupted.

Debbie tore her eyes away from Steve for just long enough to meet the concerned gaze of a burly security guard.

“Is this man bothering you ma’am?” the guard enquired, his fingers already straying to the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, ready to call for reinforcements if the need arose.

“Everything’s fine thank you,” said Debbie, turning her full attention back to Steve who, while pale as a ghost, was now perfectly calm.   He even managed to direct a wobbly smile in the guard’s direction as if to reinforce her statement before turning back to face her.

“Can we go now?” he entreated.

“Not just yet,” said Debbie, linking her arm through his.    “First of all you and I are going to have a coffee.    Yes, we are,” she added firmly as he began to protest.    “You have to get used to dealing with these kinds of situations, Steve.   People, music, noise.    I know it’s frightening, and I know that your head feels like it’s going to burst from the sensory overload, but if you feel yourself starting to panic again, just remember to concentrate on your breathing and hold on to me, okay?”

Taking a deep breath Steve squared his shoulders, managed a whispered “Okay,” and allowed himself to be led towards the escalators leading up to the first level and the busy cafeteria.

5 PM

“Do you think Jesse and Amanda would like to come round for a meal this evening?” Steve enquired of his father when Mark returned from the hospital.

“Well I ....,” Mark looked doubtful.

“It’s all right dad, I promise I’ll be polite,” said Steve, grinning.  

“Well, if you’re sure.”  Mark still didn’t look entirely convinced.

“I’m sure,” came the resolute reply.   Hell, thought Steve, as he headed down to his apartment to shower and change, if he could face the horrors of a shopping mall and live to tell the tale, an evening with his friends wasn’t going to pose any problems.

7 PM

“Before we eat, there’s something I want - I need - to say to you both,” said Steve, his gaze travelling from Amanda to Jesse.    “The last time you were here, I was unforgivably rude to you both and I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

Mark’s heart lifted at Steve’s honest, heart-felt words and he smiled approvingly at his son.

“It’s going to take time, I know that,” he continued, “But it’s going to be fine - I’m going to be fine,” he concluded, smiling benevolently.

TWO MONTHS’ LATER - 7.30 AM

“I’ll get it,” Steve announced, swiftly vacating his chair as the front doorbell heralded Debbie’s arrival.

Trying his hardest to suppress a grin at the speed and eagerness with which his son hastened to admit the slender blonde, Mark began collecting up the breakfast dishes and stacking them in the sink.  

“Hi Mark.”

The subdued greeting from the normally vivacious and cheerful young woman was enough to start alarm bells ringing in Mark’s head and his heart sank because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had come to say goodbye.

“So, what are we going to do today?”   Mark winced at the bright tone in Steve’s voice, knowing the disappointment his son was about to face.

“We ....,” Debbie’s eyes met those of Mark’s.   “Let’s go for a walk, Steve,” she said, even as she placed a gentle hand on his arm and led him towards the balcony doors.

“Sure.”   The detective felt a wave of apprehension wash over him as, in uncharacteristic silence, they made their way down to the beach.

---

He didn’t want to - nonetheless he knew that he had to - ask the question even though, in his heart, he already knew the answer.

“You’ve come to say goodbye haven’t you?” he hoarsely enquired.

“Yes,” came the quiet response.    “It’s time for me to move on, Steve.   I have another patient I start working with tomorrow.”

She stopped walking and turned to face him.

“Your progress has been tremendous, and that’s due solely down to your hard work and persistence.    With a little - okay a lot of help - from me,” she added, grinning.   “But you don’t need me anymore Steve.   It’s time for me to move on.”

They stood looking at one another for a long, lingering moment.

“Debbie would you …..,” Steve started to say, just as his dad called to him from the deck to inform him that Chief Masters had arrived and was asking to speak with him.

“Duty calls,” Debbie whispered.    “I’ll go out round the side of the house.   Take care Steve.”

And with that, she turned and began walking away.   Steve was about to follow her; had actually taken two steps forward, when a quiet “Hello Lieutenant,” halted him in his tracks.    Turning, he discovered that the Chief of Police - not content with waiting inside the house - had followed him on to the beach.  

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Masters enquired, his gimlet eyes having caught the wistful look in the detective’s eyes as he cast a regretful glance over his shoulder at the rapidly retreating form of a young, slender blonde.

“No,” Steve said dully, as he realised that both the moment - and the opportunity - had been lost.    “Nothing.”

ONE WEEK LATER

“What’s wrong with Steve?” Amanda enquired as, supper over, the glum looking detective declined to join his father and friends, saying that he preferred to be alone, whereupon he had strolled down on to the beach where he stood looking the very picture of dejection.

“He’s moping,” Mark replied.  

“About what?” Jesse queried.

“It’s not a what,” said Mark, smiling at Jesse’s obvious confusion at that remark.    “It’s a who.   Debbie Fraser to be more exact.”

“Ah,” Amanda smiled enigmatically.

“Maybe I should go down and talk to him,” said Jesse, pushing back his chair and standing up.   “Man to man,” he added, grinning wryly.

“And maybe you shouldn’t.   Sit!” Amanda said sternly.    “Steve will work it out for himself,” she added softly, to take the sting out of her words.

THE NEXT EVENING

The wailing shriek of a siren was not unusual and Debbie – in common with everyone else intent on one thing only - getting home - ignored it; that is until she realised that it was growing louder and closer; that it was in fact right behind her.   Glancing in the rear-view mirror she groaned as she saw the burly figure of a motorcycle cop waving at her to pull over.    Wondering what she could possibly have done to incur the wrath of one of LAPD’s finest, she complied with the instruction, pulled over, switched off the engine, rolled down the window and waited for the officer to impart what particular vehicular rule she’d managed to transgress.

“Would you step out of the car for a moment, please ma’am?”

“Oh, hell!” Debbie muttered under her breath.   “What exactly have I done wrong officer?” she enquired as she dutifully complied with the request.

“Nothing ma’am,” came the polite response.

“Well then … What … Why did you … ,” Debbie started to splutter.

“I asked him to pull you over,” a voice Debbie recognised only too well announced.   Turning, she saw Steve Sloan striding purposefully towards her.     “Thanks Tom,” he said, nodding towards the motorcycle cop.

“No problem lieutenant,” the officer replied, before making a tactful withdrawal.

“What’s going on Steve?” Debbie enquired softly.

“I’ve got a problem,” he replied, raking a hand through his soft, brown hair.   “And, since you’ve been so much help to me over recent months, I figured who better to ask for help in solving it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the detective continued, warming to his theme.   “All the time we’ve been working together, well I know that you only ever viewed me as your patient and, as such, you wouldn’t consider getting involved with me.”

“That’s true,” Debbie agreed.

“But, then, when you said you were moving on, I figured that I didn’t have anything to lose in asking you out on a date.    I wasn’t your patient any longer after all,” he pointed out.

“Also true,” Debbie solemnly acknowledged.

“But then,” Steve sighed, “Just when I was about to ask you, I was interrupted.    And then, later, well I … I guess I lost my nerve.   I was afraid to call you, come see you, in case I’d gotten it wrong; that you had only ever seen me as your patient and nothing more.    But even if that’s the case, I had to – have to,” he swiftly corrected himself, “Know for sure.   Even if the answer is an unequivocal no, well then I guess I’ll live with it, but I can’t go on like this; driving myself crazy wondering whether – if – I’d had the chance to ask you, you would have said….”

“Yes.”

“Like I said, I had to come find you and ask you because I needed to know that if I asked you would have ..  What did you say?”

“I said,” Debbie stood on tiptoe to place a gentle kiss on the stunned man’s cheek.   “Yes.”

“Well that’s just ….,” Steve could barely contain his delight.   “There are just two conditions though,” he added, his face grave.

“And they would be?”

“No crossword puzzles and definitely NO shopping malls.”

The End