JULY 20 1998
FATHER DAMIEN SAT AT HIS NEPHEW'S BEDSIDE AS HE HAD FOR THE PAST twenty-six days, sometimes holding his nephew's hand, sometimes reading to him quietly. Ever since he'd been brought in almost four weeks ago Damien had shown no sign of waking up, no sign that he even knew anybody was there. The heart monitor, simply a precaution now, beeped as background noise, but didn't change its rhythm or pace. It sounded almost like water dripping, constant and unchanging. An IV was hooked up to Damien's right arm, the arm that had sustained fewer fractures; it was the only life support he had right now. The doctors had hooked him up to a respirator at first, conscious that his broken ribs might yet pierce his lungs; they had taken him off it almost immediately, seeing it was unnecessary. He was breathing on his own, but that was all. Other than that and his heart beating he would have seemed dead.
Father Damien preferred not to think about it that way. His nephew had been given back to him; unconscious, but alive. There was time for him to wake up. As long as it took he'd wait for it. He looked at his nephew now. A long time past the oxygen mask had been removed and replaced by a tube going up Damien's nose; Father Damien thought that actually looked worse than the mask, but said nothing about it. The bandage and stitches had also been removed from his forehead, as well as the casts on his forearms; now they were encased in stiff braces to prohibit him from moving his wrists--which Father Damien knew he did, a lot, when he was awake. The doctors could do nothing about his ribs other than wrap him tightly with long cloth bandages; Father Damien wondered if that made it harder for him to breathe or not. He hoped it didn't. He hoped he wasn't uncomfortable, even if his nephew didn't know it. [Note--this event, the car crash, has become so pivotal in the storyline that even in "nonstory" life I imagine how it affected Damien. His arms were supposed to have been most badly fractured, as he threw them up to shield his face when the steering column of the car rammed up against him, and so he was to have worn arm braces for quite a while after.]
Of all his injuries, the cuts and bruises, the fractured forearms, the three broken ribs, the worst had been the concussion. His skull hadn't been fractured in any way but the doctors had told Father Damien about having to do a CAT scan and reduce the swelling. They couldn't tell him if there was any permanent damage or not. They had to wait for him to wake up before they could observe anything. The best-case scenario, nothing would be permanently affected. Worst-case scenario, he would never wake up, so they wouldn't have to worry about it. Most probable scenario, several things might be affected, such as memory, balance, speech.
The priest felt as if his heart were being wrung when he heard that. Of everything, every last horrible thing they'd said speech struck him as the worst. Damien made his living as a professional musician; his band had been just about to release their fifth album when the accident occurred. It had been held back but released just last week; already it was at the top of the pop charts. [Note--this is now mistaken--I believe the album was released one week AFTER the crash. Name of that album? Still Lives.] Orders for it had shot up the moment news about the accident had spread, and already industry people were talking about Grammys. But singing was more than just a career for him; it was what he liked to do. If Damien lost his speech, what would he do then?
It was weird, hearing his nephew singing on the radio at night, waking up and going to see him lying in a coma in the hospital the next day.
The room was littered with cards and get well presents. The police, especially Trooper Broderick, had been good in keeping the place free of reporters and well-wishers. None were allowed within a hundred feet of the hospital. If he wanted to, Father Damien could simply get up and look out the window to see the few people who insisted on remaining despite an inability to obtain any new information. The door was guarded too, by a couple of officers Father Damien knew and trusted; they made sure no one managed to slip in even with the barricade outside.
Every piece of mail that came in was carefully checked. Because the cause of the crash was still under investigation. Father Damien knew his nephew drove a little recklessly now and then, but not recklessly enough to drive head-on into a tree. Especially not at midnight. Trooper Broderick had been the first officer on-scene, and had called Father Damien to let him know about the "accident"; that was the way all of them said it, as if the listener could see quote marks dangling around the word. So far, none of the police believed it was an accident. Father Damien was relieved they didn't.
He knew that the only reason his nephew would have crashed the car this way would have been if he were forced off the road. The police were looking for dents or paint scratches on the side of what remained of the mangled Lamborghini. It was difficult because not much remained. The bomb had taken care of that.
He shuddered a little to think about it, about how if his nephew hadn't been removed when he had the device hidden in the trunk could have killed him off for sure. It had probably been intended to do the job, Trooper Broderick told him. He and Detective Mulroy had stood talking it over with each other where the pathetic remains of the car had been impounded, and both of them had let Father Damien in on their theory.
It was definitely a bomb, some kind of explosive device, they told him. Rigged to go off after a certain period of time, hidden in the trunk; right in front of the steering column. We're just surprised it didn't go off when the car hit the tree, but somehow it didn't. The timing mechanism must have been knocked out of joint somehow. Maybe that's why he was forced off the road. Because whoever was following him, whoever set the thing up, knew he wasn't going to be in the car when it went off. And so tried to get the job done a different way.
So far, that was how the police were approaching it, though all they would tell the reporters was that they believed the accident may not have been an accident, and it was being investigated. They were good at keeping their mouths shut.
Damien's lawyer, Temple, had shown up at the scene before Father Damien could be called. He'd witnessed the explosion. He'd told Father Damien about it the next day, speaking in a low tone as if cautious of being overheard.
I'd just gone over there to pull off the license plate. I thought he might want it later on. An unusual thing to think about, but Father Damien hadn't blamed them for all thinking oddly. I pulled it off and no sooner had I walked away than the thing blew sky-high. I'm amazed I wasn't hurt, but it knocked me right off my feet. That's why the car's in such bad shape. What's left of it, I mean. I keep thinking what would have happened if I'd had any trouble pulling the plate off, or walked away a little later than I did...
Father Damien kept thinking about what would have happened if the timer on the bomb had been functioning. It was a small bomb, but strategically placed; what would have happened then? [Note--in my newest version of events, I don't think the bomb had a chance to detonate. I think it was located in the wreckage of the car afterwards, and removed, or purposefully detonated, or whatever it is that the cops would do.]
It was the steering column, however, that had caused most of the damage. Trooper Broderick had pointed out how. When the car crashed, the thing had been pushed up and inward; judging from Damien's injuries, he could guess how everything had happened. Father Damien still shivered to see in his mind's eye the position Trooper Broderick took to demonstrate what his nephew must have done to protect himself from the crash. He'd put up both of his arms, to shield his face, and had brought his head forward, an imaginary steering wheel slamming forward into him, his forehead and forearms slamming back into it, the whole coming at him with such force it cracked his ribs. He was lucky, Trooper Broderick said, he'd been wearing his seatbelt. If not, he'd have gone flying through the front window and straight into the tree itself. The policeman knew. He'd seen it before.
But he always wears his seatbelt, Father Damien thought now, looking down at his nephew. He always wears it. So why did this have to happen?
Detective Mulroy had summed that one up nicely, in his usual, blunt way.
Because someone wanted him dead. That's why. [Note--all righty, ONE more note. In the original storyline, this car crash was to have had some relation to the cult investigations--possibly caused by Scorpio or the Black Eagle. As I've figured it out now, it wasn't related in the least, but was in fact caused by an obsessive fan/stalker (male). This stalker would go free for a few years (identity unknown) before another attempt on Damien and the other band members, when he would be apprehended and deemed legally insane. All of that happens outside the bounds of the series, so in a rewrite the bomb probably wouldn't be mentioned. Oh yeah, I forgot. The reason this guy caused the crash was because the bomb hadn't gone off when it was supposed to. I think. Unless I've changed my mind on that too. *checks* Nope, I see I already stated this in the story itself. Moving on.]
He wondered if Damien were dreaming. He knew his nephew had nightmares almost constantly; so why not now? He hated the thought that even now, looking so peaceful, he wouldn't be able to wake up from it all, to scream that something frightened him. He could be dreaming right now and Father Damien wouldn't even know it.
He sighed and squeezed his nephew's hand, turning away and looking at the window. The walls were covered with cards. The table hadn't been able to hold them all. Father Damien had read every one. He was surprised by some of the places they'd come from: Canada, England, France, Sweden; there were even a couple in there from Japan and Australia. Australia. The other side of the Earth. He couldn't get the idea in his head that, even that far away, right at this moment, someone might be listening to a copy of Still Lives, the band's latest album, and wondering how Damien was doing in America. Maybe Damien would be able to picture it; he was better with distances. Father Damien couldn't.
He sighed again and let his gaze drop to the floor, where one of the cards had fallen. He'd have to pick that one up, put it back where it belonged; it left a gap on the wall. For some reason that bothered him. He had to replace it. Before he could will his knees to unbend, however, he froze and felt a distinct chill run through him.
Was his hand being clasped back?
He glanced down at his nephew, trying to will any premature feelings of hope back down where they belonged. When people came out of comas, they usually did so gradually, didn't they? He was almost certain he could feel Damien squeezing his hand back; yet the longer he looked on and waited, and nothing happened, the more foolish he felt for having gotten his hopes up so easily. It had probably been a reflex action, if anything at all. He should have known better; the doctor had warned him about this.
Yet a moment later he saw Damien's eyes, beneath their closed lids, start to move, as if in a dream; his eyelids began to flutter, and then slowly dragged open. Damien's pupils dilated sharply and then contracted again in the light shining in the window. He blinked.
"Damien?" Father Damien had to force the word out, and then it only came out in a whisper, he was so certain any loud noise would wake him back up where he would find his nephew still unconscious. But Damien's eyes immediately turned in his direction; the priest saw recognition there, and felt his heart flooding with relief and joy. He clasped his nephew's hand tighter; Damien shut his eyes, and for a moment Father Damien thought he'd lost him again when he opened them and looked up at him once more.
"I'm still here," he said softly.
Damien appeared to sigh and shut his eyes again. This time Father Damien knew he wasn't going anywhere.
He waited for him to open his eyes again before speaking. Damien looked around the room without moving his head before focusing on his uncle. And he had to focus, as Father Damien saw his eyes go blurry and blink several times before his pupils adjusted again. He bit the inside of his mouth. Hopefully, that wasn't permanent.
"How do you feel?" he asked, praying also that his nephew's voice would work.
He needn't have worried. Damien offered a slight, pained smile, swallowing several times before he managed to speak, his voice coming out in a dry, harsh croak. "Like I've been steam pressed." [Note--one of my favorite lines from Damien, ever.]
Father Damien's own smile widened. Damien coughed and winced, his hand going to his ribs; he was in pain, but he was talking, and moving, and remembering. The priest put out a hand to steady his nephew as he tried to sit up.
"Take it easy," he said. "Careful. The doctors don't want your ribs moving around too much. You might still puncture a lung."
"So that's what that is." Damien wheezed and slumped back against the pillows. His voice was already growing stronger. "My ribs. Feels like my chest's on fire. How many are broken, anyway?"
"Three. Your arms are still healing, too, so don't overexert yourself any. You don't want to be in here forever, do you?"
"I suppose not." Father Damien had to force his smile down this time at the slight resigned tone that had entered his nephew's voice. Damien rubbed his neck and frowned. "Jeez, my neck... How long have I been in here already?"
"Almost four weeks." Father Damien nodded when Damien looked at him to make sure he wasn't joking. "So like I said, take it easy. The doctors will have you walking around your room before they send you out."
"What are all these cards for?"
The priest felt a sharp pang of fear that maybe his memory had been affected. "Get-well cards," he said carefully, watching for Damien's reaction. His nephew only looked around at them all.
"You'd think I died or something."
Father Damien paled; Damien turned to him and immediately changed the subject.
"The album," he said suddenly, as if just remembering. "God, I forgot. What about the album?"
"They delayed it a little after you ended up in here." He didn't mention how his nephew had ended up in here; he hoped Damien could tell him how. "But they released it early last week. Don't worry, I believe they've already nominated you for like twenty Grammys."
Damien winced again, this time with a hint of exasperation. "Uncle. They don't do that till January. Next year." [Note--I may be wrong on that. All I know is the Grammy Awards always seem to be in February!!]
Father Damien smiled. "Well, you'll be winning anyway, with how people are snatching that thing up. You're probably the only person who doesn't have a copy yet." [Note--this album, in the storyline, would go on to be nominated for four Grammys, and to win two, one for Song of the Year--the first such award for Radioactive.]
"Yeah, my dumb luck, huh? I would end up in the hospital the week it's supposed to be released."
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