Finding Home
by Philippe de la Matraque
Sequel to Alien Us
Chapter Nine
It was after eleven by the time Trip set the flitter down. Malcolm hadn't said a word the whole hour it took to get home. Trip powered down then turned to look at his friend. And he wondered if Malcolm could come out of this. His eyes seemed unfocused and his cheeks were tear-stained. He looked like an empty shell of a man, and Trip sincerely hoped he or Trevon could reach him before Trip had to go back to Enterprise. That was scheduled for Thursday, in just two more days.
"Can ya walk?" he asked Malcolm, "or do you want the chair?"
Malcolm didn't respond or even act like he'd heard. Still, he had to get Malcolm up either way. Trip took the blanket off and laid it across the back of his own chair. Then he put his hands under Malcolm's arms and lifted him up. And he stayed up. Trip put the blanket over Malcolm's shoulders. Then, holding on to Malcolm's shoulders, he guided him to the hatch.
The hatch opened and Trip saw his dad and Miguel. "I don't know if he can step out," Trip told them.
Miguel nodded then reached in and put one arm on the back of Malcolm's knees. Trip got a better grip on Malcolm's upper half, and the two of them got Malcolm past the lip of the hatch. And again, he stood. That's when Trip saw his mom.
She approached and kissed Trip on the cheek. She looked at Malcolm and put a hand against the side of Malcolm's face. "Welcome home, Malcolm." Then she moved to his other side. She and Trip got Malcolm walking toward the open door of the house.
Behind him, Trip heard Dad and Miguel in the flitter, and he knew they were getting Malcolm's bag and the wheelchair. Trip had to sort of lift Malcolm over the step. Mom had stepped back but she joined them again inside the house. "Your room, Trip," she said. So they went down the hall to the first door on the right. Trip noted they'd cleaned it up. He always had some projects to work on scattered about. Miguel entered behind them as Trip sat Malcolm down on the bed. "We need to get him out of those wet clothes."
"I'll do it," Trip replied. "I helped him dress recently. Besides he might mistake you for a rather large pterodactyl. I'll try and introduce you tomorrow." Miguel nodded and fished out a T-shirt and some sleep pants from Malcolm's bag. Then he stepped out of the room.
"Your pants are all muddy," Trip told Malcolm. "Heck, mine are, too. Let's get 'em changed then you can get in bed."
He stood Malcolm up again and tugged his pants down to his ankles. He noted the bandages were also muddy and wet. He realized he'd have to introduce Miguel tonight. He sat Malcolm again and lifted one foot and the other until the wet pants were off. He worked in reverse to get the clean pair on. It was like dressing an over-sized doll. He remembered Lizzie playing with dolls when she was little. Still, he wasn't sure how exactly to get Malcolm's shirt changed.
Mom stepped in then and pulled the blanket off Malcolm's shoulders. She lifted his shirt up to his armpits and, one by one, got it off his arms and over his head. She pulled the clean one over his head and gently inserted each arm. "I remember dressing you like this, Trip," she said, smiling. "You were quite a bit smaller then."
Trip put the blanket back on Malcolm's shoulders. "His bandages need changed."
"I'll get Miguel." She left and Miguel returned a minute later with a med bag over his shoulder.
"Malcolm," Trip tried. "This is Miguel, my brother's husband. He's gonna be around to help you."
"Hello, Malcolm," Miguel offered. He knelt down in front of Malcolm. "I'm gonna look at your ankles, okay?"
Malcolm's head was down, so maybe he saw Miguel, but Trip wasn't sure. It only took Miguel a few minutes to strip off the dirty bandages and put nice, clean ones back on. "You're healing well," he told Malcolm. Then he turned to Trip. "Can you get a wet cloth, please?"
"Uh, yeah." Miguel started on Malcolm's left wrist and Trip went to the adjoining bathroom and wet a washcloth with hot water. He took it back to Miguel.
Miguel had the splint and bandages off the one wrist. He held it still with one hand and cleaned Malcolm's fingers with the other. Trip used the cloth to wipe the edges of the splint, then Miguel put it back on after he'd replaced the bandages. They did the same for Malcolm's right wrist. "If you can get him up, I'll pull back the covers," Miguel offered.
Trip stood Malcolm up and held him there. "We're gonna help you through this, Malcolm. You're a survivor, remember?"
Miguel got the bed ready then helped Malcolm to lie down. Then Malcolm turned himself over to face the wall. Miguel tucked the blankets around him. "We need to talk," he whispered to Trip. Then he left the room.
"Try and get some sleep, Malcolm," Trip said. "I'll just be in the kitchen with my folks. I want you to feel at home here. You're my brother now, Malcolm." He turned, grabbed Miguel's PADD, and left, wiping a tear from his own cheek.
Mom hugged him when he got to the kitchen. "What happened? He's not how you described him."
Trip rubbed a hand through his hair and sat down. He suddenly felt very tired. He handed Miguel the PADD, and Dad put a mug of coffee in front of him. "He was. He was doing fine. We went to the park this morning. He loved it out there. We talked at dinner." He sighed. "After I left, his folks showed up. His dad started yelling that they had murdered their daughter and cut her up to save her brother who wasn't worth it. He heard that."
"His sister was his donor?" Miguel asked. "Did he know? That's gotta cause mixed feelings."
"He didn't," Trip said. "I didn't."
Mom looked like she might start crying. "That poor man. He's only feeling hurt right now. His sister is dead and his father didn't care that he almost died. You were right to be worried about his family."
"His sister apparently volunteered," Trip told them. "She had brain cancer. Terminal. She chose to be his donor. I met her. She hid it. Said she was sick, but not that sick, ya know?"
"Was he like that when you got there?" Dad asked.
Trip took a sip then set the mug back down. "He was kneelin' by the pond in that park. He was thinking of drowning himself. He's aquaphobic and he was gonna drown himself."
"He's going to need a mental health professional," Miguel pointed out.
"One's comin'," Trip replied. "The one he'd been talkin' to there." Trip put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. "I've never seen him like that. How can I leave if he's still like that?"
Dad put a hand on his back. "He's family, and we'll help him get through it."
Trip dreamt of finding Malcolm face down in that pond and snapped awake. Miguel was right there. There was a soft light behind the curtains that hung behind the couch he was laying on. "My turn for the couch," Miguel said, sitting down by Trip's legs. He looked tired. "I checked on him through the night. No change. He never even closed his eyes. Physically, I can tell he's in pain. That's to be expected so soon after major surgery. I left a message for Dr. Perez to see if I can give him something. It might help him sleep."
Trip sat up and rubbed his eyes. "His heart?"
"Still pumpin'" Miguel assured him. "A lot of that pain is likely emotional. Even with what happened in the last year, the stuff with his family probably goes a lot deeper."
"Something happened when he was twelve," Trip told him. "I wish I knew what."
"I hope your guy gets here soon, but I need some sleep. Mom's got breakfast ready. Go get it before it gets cold."
Trip stood and stretched his legs. He went down the hall to the main bathroom and took care of his needs. Then he stopped in his—Malcolm's room. The lights were off and the curtains drawn, so it was still fairly dark. Malcolm hadn't moved. And yes, Trip could see his eyes still open once his own eyes adjusted to the dark again. "It's morning, Malcolm," he whispered. "The sun's shining out that window. I can hear the birds chirpin' outside. It's gonna be a pretty day. If you're up to it, I can take you for a walk in the neighborhood. We still have the wheelchair, so you don't have to worry about gettin' tired."
Nothing. Trip tried again. "Madeline loved you, Malcolm. She really did. Your dad was wrong. She gave you her heart. She was sick, more than she let on. She wanted to save you and she did."
Then he remembered the metal case, the one Ms. Farmer had left. Trip picked it up and set it on the desk. He opened it. Inside were two PADDs. One had a list. A very short list. The first item was an address. Trip guessed it was Madeline's London apartment. The second item was all contents of said apartment to be kept or disposed of in any manner the recipient chose. So, in a sense, she left him everything.
Third was a small container, for memorial purposes, if desired. Trip found it and gave it a shake. It sounded like sand, only softer, and he guessed it was ashes. It was too small to be all her body, and Ms. Farmer had mentioned a funeral. So this was just a small amount in case Malcolm wanted some sort of memorial. He put the container back.
The final item on the list was the other PADD: a video-journal of the deceased, to be viewed by her beloved brother. He pulled out the PADD and turned it on. He could see the first entry was more than six months back. He queued up the last entry, from the week before she died. He didn't play it. That was for Malcolm. He switched off the PADD and put it back in the case. Then he closed the case and put it back on the floor.
In a very small way, Trip felt jealous of Malcolm. He had a whole apartment of things from his sister, some of her ashes, and her own words. Trip lost everything of Lizzie. Her house was gone, her body vaporized. There were no good-byes or last I-love-you's.
Trip had parents that loved him but nothing of his sister. Malcolm had everything from his sister and awful parents. Trip wasn't jealous of them, for sure. And he wasn't jealous of all the hurt Malcolm was stuck in, or how he felt without Hoshi, or everything he suffered in Zheiren. Malcolm needed help, more than Trip knew how to give, and he hoped Trevon would come soon.
He made sure Malcolm was still tucked in well, then went to the kitchen.
Dr. Koy Trevon left the house where he would be staying. It was within walking distance of the address Commander Tucker had given Dr. MacCormack. The elderly couple he would be staying with had offered a furnished guest room. They were happy to share meals and offered free use of the kitchen. They only asked for one hour of therapy, together, each week. They had been quite terrified after the Xindi attack. And while they had not lost anyone they were particularly close with, they were traumatized by the thought of the Xindi's return to destroy the planet. This was somewhat alleviated by the destruction of the planet-killing weapon by the Enterprise crew.
But, still, they had nightmares and such. And they had issues as a couple. They were committed to their marriage, but the wife was more laid back and had less severe trauma whereas her husband's trauma was worse. He felt she was losing patience with his recovery, and she felt he wasn't trying hard enough to recover.
It would be a complicated but more typical trauma case than that presented by Malcolm Reed. Trevon was unsure yet of how to reach the man. Obviously, family issues could stem from as far back as early childhood, even from the womb. Whereas he'd been assigned to help Malcolm with his trauma over the last year, he would now have to widen the scope to Malcolm's early and deepest hurts. And that could only happen if Malcolm could communicate in some manner. Last night, that had not been possible except to rename himself Faramir from Sam.
Sam represented the early days of his stay in Zheiren, when he buoyed Hoshi's Frodo up. Frodo had been increasingly burdened by the Ring he carried. Faithful Sam had helped Frodo find hope over and over in the depths of Mordor.
Faramir, on the other hand, was a faithful son of his ungrateful father. Denethor showered affection on his elder son, Boromir, and had none left for his younger son, who could never measure up in his father's eyes. Typically, that family dynamic would cause a rift between the siblings. The favored child would often mock the unfavored status of the other. And the unfavored child would typically act out, fulfilling the father's view of him as inadequate. But in the fictional case of Denethor's sons, he found a loving relationship between the brothers and a valiant, upright unfavored son—even one who could resist the call of the Ring where Boromir could not—without bitterness.
But Faramir, potentially, like Malcolm, had yearned for his father's affection and approval. The realization that he would never receive it had come after Boromir's death. Denethor, likely fueled by his grief and the corruption of the Palantir, had finally spoken outright of his disdain for his surviving son, admitting that he wished Faramir had died instead. He even ordered Faramir to lead an impossible mission. One last time, Faramir outwardly asked for his approval: "But if I should return, think better of me!" Denethor made it clear his approval was conditional: "That depends on the manner of your return."#
Faramir, for his part, was devastated to the point of accepting his suicide mission. Gandalf tried to buoy him up: "Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end." He was right. Denethor did remember but only when his last surviving son appeared to be dead or dying. He fell into madness and Gandalf had to save Faramir from his father. He then awaited the coming of the king after the grand battle. Aragorn healed him of the illness known as the Black Breath, which came from close contact with a Nazgul. He met the similarly healed Éowyn in the Houses of Healing and went on to a happy ending as Steward of Gondor under his new king.
Faramir was definitely a better fit for Malcolm. But it didn't appear that his father would remember his love for his son. Malcolm had been dying and the elder Reed still had disdain for his son. Given, he was perhaps fueled by grief as Denethor was. But this had to go deeper and further back. Had Malcolm, like Faramir, never received his father's affection or had something caused the rift between them. Was it that secret hurt Trevon had sensed?
There, he was at the address. He hesitated to ring the chime on the door. It had been a late night in this household and someone may still be sleeping. So he tried a subtler approach. Commander Tucker. It is Dr. Trevon. I am outside your door.
"Oh, wow. Never had this happen before, well, except.... But anyway, it's probably a good thing. Miguel's asleep on the couch. I'll be right there."
A moment later, the door opened to reveal a somewhat disheveled Commander Tucker. "Come on in," he whispered. "And call me Trip."
"Ah yes, I forgot," Trevon whispered back. A young man with a slightly darker complexion was sleeping on the sofa in the main room. The aforementioned Miguel. Dr. MacCormack had told him a relation of Trip's was a home health nurse. So he had probably stayed up the night with Malcolm.
Trip led him first into the kitchen and quietly introduced his parents as Charles and Elaine Tucker.
"Would you like some coffee, Dr. Trevon?" Elaine offered.
"Thank you, but, please, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Leave the 'doctor' off and just call me Trevon."
"Please, have a seat," Trip said, pulling out a chair. So Trevon sat and Elaine set a steaming mug in front of him. "I'm glad you could come so soon."
"What have I missed?" Trevon asked. "How has he been?"
"Catatonic?" Trip guessed. "He never said a word, just stared and looked pitiful. But he was kind of pliant. He stood when I stood him up, walked where I led him. He let us change his wet clothes. Then he curled up in bed. He hasn't moved or even closed his eyes all night."
"He did speak to me once," Trevon admitted. "Last night while you were collecting his things. He told me he wasn't Sam. Instead, he was Faramir. Are you familiar with this character?"
"Kinda," Trip replied. "We watched the movies on the ship before the crash. He was Boromir's brother."
"Oh, I remember," Elaine spoke up. "He broke my heart. The way his father treated him."
"It seems a fitting analogy," Trevon surmised, "but I'd be interested to know what you've seen or heard about Malcolm's feelings in regards to his father."
Trip pondered the question for a moment. He seemed puzzled. "Malcolm's not the most forthcoming person when it comes to his private life. I know he said he wasn't particularly close with anyone in his family. He must not have meant Madeline. She left him everything in her will. Everything."
Trevon considered this. "It could be that she wasn't allowed to show her affection for her brother. There's a lot we don't know yet. Anything else?"
"I think I remember him slipping a remark here and there," Trip said, "about how he hoped his father would be proud of him. But I never heard if he was. I know that no one knew Malcolm's favorite food. Not his parents, Madeline, an uncle, a couple of aunts or a friend from the Academy."
That was odd. So Malcolm's reticence to speak about himself reached into his family life.
"That's not normal, right?" Trip asked.
"Not in healthy families,' Trevon confirmed. "Anything else?"
"That's about it," Trip answered. "Malcolm Reed is known on the ship as an enigma wrapped in a mystery. I'm his best friend but there's a lot I don't know about him."
Trevon smiled. "And that didn't hamper your friendship?"
Trip shook his head but then changed his mind. "Well, at first. We got stuck together in a shuttlepod. Comm went out in an asteroid field. We saw debris from Enterprise and thought it was destroyed and then microsingularities—yeah, they're a thing—put holes in one of our oxygen tanks. We thought we were going to die out there. The first few days, he drove me nuts. I won't go into it because I don't think he'd appreciate it. But it was like he was droppin' pieces to his puzzle, too. Once I stopped bein' so selfish, I could see 'em. Long story short, we found a bottle of bourbon, got the comms fixed enough to hear Enterprise. So we were happy for about thirty seconds. Then we realized we'd be dead long before Enterprise could reach us at their present speed. I lowered the temperature to use less oxygen. Malcolm had the idea to blow up the engine. Maybe the ship would see it and speed up. Eventually, we passed out. Woke up in Sickbay." He chuckled. "Nearly died of hypothermia. Still had a few hours of oxygen left. So really, I nearly killed us. Anyway, after that, we were friends. He was still an enigma but it didn't matter anymore. I accepted him as he was."
Trevon smiled in earnest. "You are a good friend, Trip. And I appreciate your respect for his privacy. From here on out, I will have to respect it as well. I may come to you for clarification at times before you leave, but what I learn from him will be between us, unless he divulges it himself."
Trip nodded, as did his parents. "May I see him now?" Trevon asked.
Trip stood. "I'll show you to him." Trevon stood and Trip led him back to the front room, then down a hall and to the first room on the right. It was quite dark in the room so Trip raised the lights somewhat. "You ever just read someone's mind?" Trip whispered.
"Only in severe cases," Trevon responded in kind.
"I think this might be one of those cases."
"That will need to be determined," Trevon told him. "If I need that 'clarification', may I contact you telepathically?"
Trip nodded. "Sure." He looked toward the bed then sighed. "I'll leave you to it. Good luck." He left the room and Trevon closed the door.
There was a chair at the desk so Trevon pulled it over to the side of the bed and sat down. Malcolm was turned to face the wall. He gave no sign that he was aware anyone was in the room with him.
"Malcolm," Trevon tried. "It's Trevon. I was hoping we could talk today. I know last night was very difficult for you. It's understandable. I'm very sorry for the loss of your sister, though I'm grateful to her for loving you enough to give her life for yours."
Nothing. The only movement was the in and out of the blankets as he breathed. The movement was regular, so he wasn't crying. Trevon opened his mind to see if Malcolm was still projecting that deep sadness. But he felt no difference. It was almost like Malcolm wasn't there.
Trip was right. This was one of those cases. He pulled a PADD from his pocket so that he could record notes or whatever clues he should find in Malcolm Reed's mind. Then he took a smaller device from a different pocket and attached it just behind his left ear. Once synchronized to the PADD, it would record any telepathic communications between therapist and client. He could telepathically dictate notes to annotate those communications. He synchronized the device then prepared himself.
It was easier if he could look his patient in the face, but he focused on the back of Malcolm's head. Then slowly, he opened his barrier just a little but said nothing. And Malcolm was there. The PADD stayed blank. Not enough information yet. He went wider bit by bit until he could hear—and see—Malcolm's thoughts.
While it outwardly appeared that Malcolm had no thoughts, in truth, he was drowning in them. The PADD lit up with line after line of text in Betazedian. Trevon tried to annotate, to translate when he saw only images and or heard only voices.
But the thoughts swirled so fast, tumbling over each other, so that he could only consciously catch a few at a time. There were images of a blond girl at various ages. Madeline. Angry, demeaning messages from Stuart Reed, echoed by Mary Reed, though more softly. Meals at a table when Malcolm felt ill eating the food in front of him but choked down every bite. Water. Lots of water. Malcolm in water. And not swimming. More of the orcs and T-Rexes. Violent scenes. What must have been Baezhu's corpse disemboweled. Malcolm's execution. A blinding, burning, oppressive sun. Back to the white blond hair of his sister and around and around it went.
When Trevon had recorded for more than an hour, he slipped back out. The lines of data ceased on the PADD. Trevon scrolled up and scanned the whole thing, trying to sort as best he could. Family memories, Zheiren memories. Drowning memories. He tried to infer ages, if humans and Betazoids developed similarly. Madeline at three or four, teenaged, a grown woman.
Do you know the age difference between Malcolm and Madeline, by chance? he asked Trip.
"Four years," Trip replied. "Though he's a year older than he is, technically."
Thank you, Trevon cut the connection. So now if he could estimate Madeline's age, he could extrapolate Malcolm's in the thoughts of her. Harder to do with the parents.
He opened the connection to Trip again. Can you get background checks on his parents—and not read them?
"I could try. Dr. MacCormack could probably order them after the outburst last night. Should I give her a call?"
Please do. It may help me to sort through my findings.
"Is he talking?" Trip sounded hopeful.
No, Trip. It's one of those cases.
"I'll give her a call."
Thank you, He closed the connection again. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Malcolm. But I understand now what's happening. You are spiraling through your hurts. You can't focus or speak of one because it leads to another and another and another. You've left me quite a puzzle. It will take me a little while to get through it. But once I do, I hope we can talk. I'll guide you. I'll ask you questions, lead you to one hurt at time. Please try and sleep. You need the rest. I'm staying just a short walk away. If ever you need me, you may call for me. Either by comm or by your telepathy. I will respond. I will come."
He stood and replaced the chair. He was reasonably certain that Malcolm hadn't heard a word or even noticed the intrusion into his mind. Trevon left the room and returned to the kitchen. "I've done all I can today," he quietly told Trip and his parents. "I can tell you that he's in there. It's not that he's not thinking. His body is on automatic because his mind is too preoccupied with memories and thoughts. He is not aware of his surroundings."
"I told 'em about Betazoids bein' telepaths," Trip admitted. "And that you don't go around readin' minds, except in severe cases."
"Thank you," Trevon said. "It's so common on Betazed that I sometimes forget it's not here. I do not enjoy intruding in such a way. But I was able to glean a lot of information. I need to parse through it. Background checks on the parents may help me put some of it into context. And Trip, could you summarize what happened to Ensign Sato when she was separated from him?"
Trip nodded. "MacCormack's on the background checks. I leave tomorrow. Any chance he'll be able to talk by then?"
"I think he'll talk," Trevon said, "but it will be on his timetable. Right now, he can't. You might be able to feed him, as you said he was pliant. Your relation, Miguel, can perhaps help with that and other necessities. I'd like to speak to him when he wakes. You can contact me at any time. I'm staying within walking distance."
Trip went to the comm. "What's the address?"
Trevon told him and Trip added it to the contacts. "Call me if anything changes. I hope to return tomorrow morning, if that is amenable?"
"Anytime," Charles said. "Just let one of us know you're at the door."
"Thank you. It's very kind of you to take him in."
"He's family," Elaine remarked. "He just doesn't know it yet."
Trevon smiled again. "That may be just what he needs in the end. I'll let myself out."
Malcolm Reed had no sense of time as he lay in bed. He wasn't even so much aware he was in a bed except that his body, for the most part, was comfortable. Meaning that few parts of his physical body bothered making themselves known. His wrists were sore as were his ankles. There was a deep pain in his chest, however, and it anchored him to the mattress for countless hours.
His thoughts boiled with images and voices, memories of his sister, the orcs, his father, the water, the torture, the fountain, the surgeries, the pond, the laboratory, the ocean, the desert, the tub of water, and T'Rex's clawed hand on his neck. They played over and over, digging deeper and deeper in his memory to find forgotten scoldings and unremembered frowns, moments of terror that bled into each other.
Over time, other parts of his body vied for his attention. His stomach, his bladder. The force of the memories and grief were such that he hadn't noticed either. Hours had passed until they became insistent.
So Malcolm turned. He pushed the blankets off and found, to his surprise, that he wasn't cold. Why had there been a blanket? Had the orcs given up so soon?
The room he was in was dark, the building quiet. No red lamps to heat the night. There was a small light off to his right so he sat and pushed himself up until he was standing. He moved toward the light. He found a restroom. So he could quiet one of those insistent needs.
Once he'd done that, his stomach insisted he stay up. The orcs hadn't fed him. He dreaded what that meant. Memories of darkness and immense pain canceled out all other thoughts, pausing the roiling litany for this one or six. His chest, his leg, his arm, his eye, his back, his head, his groin.
When those memories subsided enough to let his father's voice chide him for not fighting back, Malcolm found himself on the cold floor of wherever he was. And he found his stomach fairly screaming its need for food. He pushed himself up onto his knees then used the sink beside him to stand again. He walked back into the room with the bed and noticed another light to his right. So he walked through a door.
He was in a corridor, narrower than the ones he'd seen in the lab. More like home. He turned left, toward a lessening of the darkness. He could make out two sleeping forms in a larger room. The orcs were sleeping. He had to be quiet or he'd wake them. Maybe he could get out. He crept closer, using the wall for support and hoping they couldn't hear his father yelling back in that first room.
More light to his right, another doorway, wider than the last. There was light beyond, not bright, but like the desert at night. He went through it and found a room bright with moonlight shining through a wide glass door. There was a table with many chairs and a hum of low-powered devices. He stopped walking as his memories tried to make sense of this place.
"Malcolm?"
A woman's voice. Not Madeline, not Mother. Not Hoshi. Someone rose behind him and he was afraid to turn. A hand on his shoulder, turned him gently. "Are you hungry?"
It was as if the world had become silent. He couldn't hear his father, the orcs, any of it. Slowly the sounds of nature, birds and insects, filtered through the large glass door to his ears.
He looked at the woman. She was older than he was, more Mother's age, but with more lines, dark circles under her eyes. She wore her hair in a pony-tail. She was wearing a robe over a gown and house slippers. He didn't recognize her. Or the room he was standing in.
He took a moment to look around now that his eyes had fully adjusted to the relative light in the room. There was a stove and storage cabinets, an ice box or refrigerator. The table with its chairs. He was in a kitchen. A kitchen where?
His voice was breathy when he finally used it. "Where—am—I?"
The woman pulled out one of the chairs then took his hand and led him to it. "You're in my home. Trip's home. I'm his mother. Would you like me to make you something? Maybe some scrambled eggs?"
Malcolm's stomach growled. "Please." Trip's home.
She retrieved some items from the ice box and a dish to mix them. "I have trouble sleeping, too," she said.
Trip's mother. Trip's sister. Dead. Her daughter. Dead. Elizabeth. Dead. Madeline. Dead. The pain in his chest came roaring back as the memory slammed into him. Madeline was dead.
"And for what?" Father was back. "If you hadn't needed a heart, she would be alive. It's your fault!"
Malcolm closed his eyes, wishing for the silence, the birds and insects.
A hand touched his arm. "Here, eat. You'll feel better."
He opened his eyes to find a plate with yellow, scrambled eggs in front of him. The steam warmed his face. There was a glass of milk, too. He lifted the fork from the plate, but his father's voice behind him caused his hand to shake, and he dropped it.
"We ought to have been done with you by now," he harangued. "So many opportunities to rid us of your disgrace."
"It's alright," she said, picking up the fork. She scooped up a bit of the eggs and put the fork back in his hand. She helped him hold it steady as he brought it to his lips.
"Look at you!" his father spat. "You're weak. A Reed man would never let a stranger, especially a woman, see himself like this."
He couldn't even taste the eggs as she helped him eat bite after bite until they were gone. It settled his stomach, which left the pain dominant. His throat hurt, making it hard to swallow.
"I know grief," she said. "You don't have to hide it from us, from me."
He looked across the table and, for just a moment, he saw Madeline smile at him. He felt a hand on his back, but it wasn't his father. It was gentle, soothing. He looked at the woman, Trip's mother. The words came out before he could hold them back. "I think I'm losing my mind," he whispered to her.
She scooted her chair closer and let her arm reach around to his other shoulder. "Well, this is a safe place to do it." She smiled, then pulled the glass closer. "Have some milk." She wrapped his hand around the glass and helped him lift it.
He drank half then sat it on the table. She stood and helped him stand, then led him by the hand to a bench set into the wall. She sat and pulled him down to sit beside her. "I have trouble sleeping sometimes, too," she said, without letting go of his hand. "Sometimes I dream of my daughter, and it feels so real, it wakes me up. Then I come here to sit and listen and remember."
Malcolm didn't want to remember. Any of it. Not his father's voice, not his sister's death, not the orcs, not the water. He remembered Hoshi. He wanted memories of her. He wanted her. But all the other memories crowded her out. And she was gone. Madeline was gone. Bayzhoo was gone. His father glared at him from the table.
"Do you mind if I tell you about her?" the woman asked. "She was beautiful. She had long, blond hair, like her father's used to be. Albert has my dark hair. Trip is somewhere in the middle. But Lizzie's was all blond. She was funny and loved telling jokes. We weren't surprised at all when she wanted to study architecture. She had just gotten her first real job as an architect."
Madeline was an architect. Madeline was blond. She liked telling jokes. Even if they weren't funny.
The woman sighed. But then she started again. "Albert was maybe too old for her, but she latched on to Trip straight away. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was going, she wanted to tag along."
Malcolm's eyes grew heavy as he listened to her voice. For a moment, he felt he could make it. It wasn't Hoshi, but her voice gave him something to hold onto. If he closed his eyes, he couldn't even see his father, and he felt safe.
It felt good to remember Lizzie when she was young and vibrant. Memories she hadn't thought she still had came to her, and she found herself telling him another story. But she'd noticed when he'd closed his eyes. A little while later, his body had relaxed and he'd nodded forward. She caught him and gently pulled him towards her, so that his head ended up on her shoulder.
She smiled. When she spoke again, she lowered her volume. "Well, at least one of us can sleep. I think you need it more than I do."
Then she told him another story. Or she told herself. It didn't really matter, as long as he was peaceful. She thought maybe her stories had kept his demons at bay. And something good had come from her own sleeplessness.
As she spoke, she could see Lizzie and Trip chasing each other around the kitchen table as kids while she cooked at the stove.
"Gracie?" The voice surprised her. She opened her eyes to bright light beyond the glass door on the other side of the kitchen. Charlie stood beside her in his robe and slippers. She turned her head to see Malcolm still there asleep. Her arm felt odd and tingly. He looked so peaceful she didn't want to wake him, but she needed some circulation in her arm. She tried opening and closing her fist a few times but it was no use.
Charlie had that look on his face that told her he was thinking, with his lips pressed to one side. "Think he'll want breakfast?" he whispered.
She nodded her head toward the table where the plate and probably warm milk still stood. "He had a little," she whispered back.
"Not like we can pick him up and carry him back to bed."
She smiled remembering doing that with the kids. But Malcolm was not one of those. "Maybe Trip can coax him back there. Hopefully, he can get back to sleep."
Charlie nodded and left the kitchen. She heard him waking Trip in the living room. Not two minutes later, they were back.
Trip bent down and kissed her forehead then turned to his friend. He put out a hand to touch Malcolm's other shoulder, but Malcolm bolted upright and his expression scared Elaine. His sleep had been anything but peaceful. He was terrified.
Trip grabbed his shoulder, touched his face. "It's okay. You're safe." Malcolm's hands had gone to his chest, like he expected it to burst open. How invasively had he been studied? she wondered.
Malcolm's breathing calmed. The initial terror was gone but now, in the light she could see that he was gone again. He looked around like he didn't know where he was. Maybe he was right and he was losing his mind. She hoped the therapist could help him. She wanted to think he could heal here.
He seemed to trust Trip and stood. Trip walked him out of the kitchen. Charlie waited until they were down the hall. "I'll get breakfast going. How long was he here?"
"It was dark," Elaine told him. "Couldn't see the clock." She could now. It was 6:43. And she remembered Trip had to leave today.
Despite the abrupt waking, Malcolm still seemed tired when Trip got him back to the still rather dark bedroom. But Malcolm didn't go right back to sleep. So Trip pulled the chair close.
"You're safe here, Malcolm," he said. "Mom and Dad are going to make sure of that. Miguel is here to help you stay healthy. Your parents don't know you're here. They won't know. You can be a part of my family now. It'll be different than what you're used to, I think. But I'm sure you'll get the hang of it."
Malcolm didn't say anything or even give him any way of knowing that he'd understood. The only difference from yesterday was that his eyelids were heavy and kept trying to close.
Trip realized now why Malcolm kept forcing them open. The terror he'd seen on his friend's face, the way he'd clutched his chest, had told him that Malcolm hadn't been sleeping peacefully. He guessed Malcolm had been dreaming he was paralyzed. And being cut open.
"I wish I could help you have better dreams," he told Malcolm. Malcolm had been awake for the better part of forty-eight hours now. That couldn't be helping his mental state. But neither could nightmares like that. And maybe they were more terrifying or vivid now because of the state he was in.
"I wish you'd talk to me." He remembered the letter he'd seen addressed to Hoshi. "I have to leave today. To go back to Enterprise. I want to tell Hoshi that you're okay. That you're healing. You were. And I gotta hope you will again, but we won't know until the mission's over and we can come back here."
Nothing. Trip had really hoped that Malcolm's night-time walk to the kitchen and falling asleep on his mother's shoulder had meant some sort of breakthrough, that Malcolm was coming back from the brink or at least further away from catatonic. Maybe a few more hours of sleep, however that went, would get him back to at least some level of lucidity.
Hoshi and he had told each other stories to help them through their respective horrors. So Trip thought it was worth a try. "Did I ever tell you what it was like for me growing up? I'm a middle kid. Not the oldest and not the baby." So he told Malcolm about Albert and what it was like when it was just the two of them. Then when Lizzie was born and how he'd been disappointed she wasn't a boy. Though not for long.
By the time he'd gotten to some of their epic games out in the yard with the other kids from the neighborhood, Malcolm's eyes were closed. Trip ran his fingers through his hair. He was certain he still had bed head. Dad had woken him up and brought him right to the kitchen. He thought about using the bathroom here but didn't want to wake Malcolm with the noise. So he quietly left the room and went to the one in the hall. It was 0730 when he made it back to the kitchen, where Mom and Dad had cooked a big breakfast. There was toast, eggs, ham, pancakes, milk and juice.
Trip sat down and started filling up his plate. Miguel stood, having just finished his. "How is he in there?"
Trip sighed. "Kind of like yesterday except he's asleep this time."
"That's good," Mom commented. "He needs it."
"Yeah, but what he's dreaming," Trip replied, shaking his head. How much should he tell them, and at breakfast? "What they did to him in that lab, it was horrendous. As scared as he was when he woke up, I gotta think he's dreaming it. I hate leaving him like this."
"Maybe you should ask Starfleet to let you stay," Dad suggested.
"Tempting, but there's the other side of it." He washed some of the food down with some orange juice. "I have to get back to Hoshi. I promised her I'd take care of him. And I promised him I'd take care of her when I got back. I was looking forward to telling her that he was healing and getting better. But now?"
"When do you leave?" Mom asked.
"This afternoon," Trip said. "I'm supposed to be at Starfleet Headquarters at 1600."
"Dr. Perez wanted to see him," Miguel said. "I told her I didn't think it was safe to move him right now. So she's coming here. Malcolm had surgery just a week ago. He's got to be in serious pain."
The comm system in the kitchen chirped. Miguel was still up so he answered it. Trip recognized Trevon's voice. "Is it too early for me to come over?"
Trip stood and met Miguel at the comm. "He's asleep and we're having breakfast. Give us about thirty minutes then we can fill you in on last night when you get here."
"That will be fine. See you in thirty minutes." The call blinked off. Trip went back to the table, and Miguel left to check on Malcolm.
By the time Trevon got there, the table was cleared but Trip's parents were still sitting there with cups of coffee. Trip brought Trevon in and offered him a cup.
"Thank you, but I have yet to develop a taste for it. I find tea more to my liking, but don't bother. I've had some already before coming. May I sit?"
"Of course," Mom answered.
"So tell me," Trevon said, "what happened last night?"
Trip deferred to his mother. She'd been the only one up.
"I sometimes have trouble sleeping," she told him. "So I come in here to sit." She indicated the bench set into the wall behind Trip. "I hadn't been there long when Malcolm walked in. He stopped at the door and looked very confused. He asked where he was. I could barely hear him. I told him and made him some scrambled eggs. His hand shook so much he could barely hold the fork, so I helped him. Got him to drink a little milk. He kept looking like he was seeing or hearing someone else, too. He said he was afraid he was losing his mind. I told him it was a safe place for it. I had him sit beside me and I told him about our Lizzie. As I told him stories, he fell asleep. He started to nod over so I pulled him to my shoulder."
"Dad found them over there this morning," Trip added, picking up the story. "I touched him on the shoulder and he jerked awake, but he was terrified. I could see it in his face. He clutched his chest. I think he was dreaming about what happened on Sharu. I took him back to his room, figured stories worked with him and Hoshi, and now Mom, so I told him stories and he finally went back to sleep after the better part of an hour."
"So he's asleep now?" Trevon asked and Trip nodded.
"Miguel says Dr. Perez is coming over to check on him."
"It's good that she's coming here," Trevon confirmed. He paused for a moment, thinking. "I hate to wake him now that he's actually asleep." He looked to Mom. "I would guess that his biological needs got him out of that bed. Otherwise, he hasn't eaten or drank anything?"
"No," Trip answered. "First words he spoke since comin' here, too."
"Then it was good you got some nourishment in him," Trevon said. "I'll want to talk to Perez when she arrives."
Trevon didn't have to wait long. Dr. Esmeralda Perez was young, perhaps in her thirties, with short-cropped brown hair and eyes to match. She came with several cases and a couple nurses to carry them.
"You must be Dr. Trevon," she said, holding out her hand to him. She had a heavy accent, which he'd learned was regional.
"Dr. Perez, I presume," he replied as he shook her hand.
"A telepath, huh?" She smiled. "I never met one before."
Well, you'll meet two today, he thought. "I've met more than I can count," he answered, smiling in kind.
"What's your take on Lt. Reed's mental state?" she asked, getting right down to businesses.
"He's severely traumatized and basically stuck in a cycle of flashbacks. He found out that his sister died to give him his new heart, and not in a helpful manner. And there's the year that put him in the condition to need a new heart."
Perez sighed. "Yeah, I got to read those notes. So what we need to determine is his physical state and how much of his pain is physical and how much is emotional. I'd think you wouldn't want him so drugged up you couldn't work with him."
Trevon nodded. "It would be counter-productive, but I don't want him to suffer needlessly either. That surgery was a week ago. I can guarantee he's in physical pain."
Perez sat down on the sofa so Trevon sat in one of the armchairs nearby. "So I've been thinking," she said. "We want something local with minimal intrusion." One of the nurses handed her a case. She put it in her lap, opened it and withdrew what looked like tan papers. "Time release patches. We used these a century ago for various things like birth control or smoking cessation. We can get them under his bandages so long as we can get in there and change them. They should be good for up to a week. We'll want to reassess dosage by then anyway."
"The fact that you are female might make it easier," Trevon said. "There were no females where he was held during that year. That made a difference before he found out about his sister and entered this state. He seems to have tolerated Miguel Tucker, here."
"I was able to rebandage his wrists and ankles the night he arrived," Miguel said, speaking up from his spot in the doorway to the kitchen.
Perez regarded him. "Well, then maybe between you, me, and Nancy here we can get his chest, too. Sorry, Nikita, you'll have to stay out here."
Miguel looked to the other male nurse. "Mom's got pecan pie in the fridge." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
"Well, now I'm jealous," Perez said. "I do hate to wake him as I've been told he didn't sleep since he got here."
"Not until very early this morning," Trevon agreed. "Perhaps you should let me try." He tapped a finger to his forehead. He stood and started down the hall, waving for her to follow. He stopped at the door and opened his barrier, expecting the flood of cascading memories and thoughts. But there was only one scene. Trip had been right.
Malcolm was screaming in his mind. Trevon couldn't see anything but he felt his back was on fire with lacerations and fingers reaching in. It took his breath away. He had to put a hand against the door to steady himself.
"You okay?" Perez asked.
Trevon raised his other hand. He tried Malcolm's trick. A console. He pulled one to mind, labeled the controls and shut off Tactile. The pain began to fade. The screaming remained. "He has horrible nightmares," he explained to the doctor.
Malcolm, he tried. You're not there anymore. You're on Earth. You're safe."
The screaming stopped.
Open your eyes. You're lying in a soft bed, in a bedroom in a house. Trip's house. You're safe.
Now the memories came and the cascade began. Trevon closed the connection. "He's awake." Then he had another thought. Trip, perhaps you should come and introduce the doctor.
Trip dutifully sidestepped into the hall and motioned the doctor into the room. Trevon followed and stood in the corner by the door, out of the way.
"Malcolm, this is Dr. Perez," Trip told him. "She's gotta check you out. Think you could sit up for her?" Malcolm was pliant as Trip did most of the lifting until Malcolm was seated. Trip then beckoned the two nurses in. "That's Miguel. You've already met him. And Nancy here, is a nurse, too."
"Hello, Malcolm," Dr. Perez said. Malcolm didn't even look at her. She looked to Trevon.
He's compliant, he told her telepathically. That may be as good as you'll get for now.
She turned back to her patient and scanned him. "You're dehydrated," she told him, "but your wounds are healing well enough. We do need to change your bandages, however. Would you mind if your friend steps out so we can do it quickly?"
Trip's expression was troubled but Trevon surmised that was more due to Malcolm's state than being told to leave. Trevon followed him out. They stopped in the hall to wait. It wasn't long. The doctor emerged and met them there while the nurses finished up.
"The patches should begin to work in the next fifteen minutes," Perez told them, keeping her voice low. "When the pain subsides, he may come back."
"The patches can't stop all the pain," Trevon commented. "Emotional pain is my department. Still, it's likely to help."
She nodded. "It would be good if you could get him to eat, drink some liquids. Meet in the middle and try some soup."
"He did get himself up last night," Trevon replied. "Could be that he'll notice clues like hunger more when that pain subsides."
"I'd like to see him at the hospital for physical therapy in a few weeks. But I can see that's a big ask at the moment."
Trip showed her to the front room again, and Trevon went inside to wait the fifteen minutes with Malcolm. The latter was lying down again, facing into the room, which was more helpful than facing the wall. By the sleeve on his upper arm, he could see that his night-clothes had been changed as well.
Trevon pulled the chair closer so that Malcolm was in reach. He had an idea that might allow Malcolm to stop his cascade and hold his attention.
Malcolm visibly relaxed as the minutes ticked by. He had been so still that Trevon had not thought him tense. The patches were apparently working.
Malcolm, do you hear me? He eased open the barrier to listen in on Malcolm's thoughts without being bombarded by them. Malcolm turned his eyes toward Trevon for just a moment before they lost focus and moved to another part of the room.
He had gotten the background reports from Dr. MacCormack yesterday evening, and Trevon now had some inkling of how bad things had gotten between Malcolm and his father. But he didn't understand why. For that he needed to know Malcolm. Not the Malcolm that survived his time on Sharu, but that twelve-year-old Malcolm who had lost the love of his father.
Malcolm, he began again, I know I told you it's better if you speak. But if you can't speak with your voice, speak with your mind. And if you can't do that, you can show me.
And things changed. The cascade of memories had slowed to more coherent thoughts running from one trauma to another. Water was the most common of them. But he could now also see what Malcolm was seeing in the room. An old man harangued him from the corner by the door. His father. A pretty blond woman, probably his sister, showed up now and then. The orcs strode past the door, occasionally looking in.
Malcolm Reed was out of time again. Not physically, as he had been after the crash but in his mind. So Trevon tried something he usually wouldn't. As a rule, he did not touch his patients. Most wouldn't have taken well to such intimate connection.
But Malcolm needed an anchor. So Trevon took hold of Malcolm's exposed left hand. This is real. This is now. We're on Earth, in the Tucker family home. You are safe here.
It silenced the father, though it didn't banish him completely. The orcs disappeared from the hallway though.
Malcolm, I think it's time you shared that secret hurt, the one your father used against you.
The cascade stopped; the father vanished. Trevon could still see the bed with Malcolm in it, the curtains on the window behind the bed, but he could also see a schoolyard under a partly-cloudy sky. His viewpoint was closer to the ground than Trevon was used to. He was walking past a building, and somehow, he knew it as Grayton Hall. He could hear the Tuckers quietly speaking in the kitchen. But he could also hear a child crying not too far away, and, louder than that, the unmistakable, gleeful laughter of others tormenting that child.
The vision from Malcolm froze. Trevon knew that if they moved forward, their shadow would give their presence away. But they're tormenting one of the other boys, young Malcolm thought. If I run to get a teacher, they'll be gone by the time I get back. That the older Malcolm could share all this detail in memory and even his thoughts within that time was astounding.
Then young Malcolm looked back. At the side of a cottage there was a gardening implement. A rake. Trevon felt the younger Malcolm's trepidation, but he also felt proud of Malcolm for his own part. "Let him go!" Malcolm yelled as they rounded the corner, brandishing the rake. And Trevon knew the actors in front of him. Victor Renslow, the victim from a form below him. Leslie Morris, the ring-leader. Terrance Bishop and Gerald Balinsweel, the henchmen. Bullies were universal.
"Getoffofhim!" Malcolm shouted. The words rushed out in one long burst as his fear met his determination.
"Get out of here, fish-boy," Leslie spat. "Before we make you sorry you turned up here."
The name-calling meant nothing, didn't cut the way Leslie wanted. But Trevon didn't miss the venom with which it was spoken. "No, you get out of here." The rake swung in Malcolm's hands, and Trevon wondered that he felt that swing as if Malcolm had used his arms.
One of the henchmen, Terrance, backed away, which loosed the victim's arms. Young Malcolm moved forward and swung again. "Move off."
The third swing, dangerously close to Leslie's face, had the desired effect. He got off the younger boy. "You've just made a big mistake, fish-boy."
"I don't care, Leslie," Malcolm said, and Trevon felt the young man's pride match his own. Victor scrambled to sit up and spat out the mud and gravel. "Are you alright, Victor?" Malcolm asked. But neither he nor Trevon saw the other henchman throw something.
Trevon felt the sharp pain in the side of his own head, felt the dizziness even as he was still sitting in the chair. But young Malcolm had closed his eyes and only swirls of colors were superimposed on the room. Still, young Malcolm swung, but to the side so as not to hit Victor.
With a shout, they were on him, and Trevon felt the blows, wanted to curl up just as he sensed young Malcolm was doing. On and on it went until Trevon felt them lift his arms and drag him forward to somewhere. His whole body felt heavy and sore. He couldn't see where they were taking them, and the voices of the bullies seemed to come from far away.
Then cold engulfed his head. Trevon felt Malcolm's hand tighten on his own with strength born of panic. He looked to his patient, focusing more on the reality of him than the memory. Still, he knew where young Malcolm was, and that he could not push off his attackers. Malcolm on the bed began to shake, to try and push himself back to the wall. He'd closed his eyes tight against the memory.
Young Malcolm's eyes opened, and Trevon saw the concrete bottom of a pool or fountain. Fountain. His instinct was to hold his breath, but he was aware enough not to do so. Malcolm, his patient, however, was not. He was drowning.
Trevon put his other hand on Malcolm's quaking shoulder and tightened his own grip on Malcolm's hand. This he reminded him, this is real. This is now. You are safe. I see it. Let it go. Come back.
And then he heard a woman's voice. "It's the air," she purred. "It's hurting you. Let it go."
"Stop," Trevon told him and used his voice. "It's over. I understand." Malcolm's other hand reached out and grabbed their joined ones and slowly, the shaking stopped, the vision faded. Trevon left the chair to kneel in front of Malcolm. "They drowned you. This is why you're aquaphobic. Someone must have saved you."
Flashes of moments came to his mind. Coughing out the water, a woman beside him. Medics lifting him on a gurney, a hospital room, coughing some more. Malcolm's parents at his bedside, worried looks on their faces. A doctor's words. Pneumonia. A news program. "...could not positively identify the attackers."
Trevon found that odd, considering that Malcolm—and likely Victor—could have identified them. Perhaps Malcolm had still been in the hospital, too sick to answer investigators' questions. Maybe Victor had been too scared.##
The images stopped. Trevon could see that Malcolm was exhausted. The memory of his first drowning had taken a lot from him. Trevon still didn't understand how Malcolm's assault had changed his relationship with his father. How had the anguished father at his bedside turned into the criminal Trevon had found in the background check?
Trevon gently pulled his hands back. He stood and adjusted the blankets over Malcolm. "I'll let you rest. Then you should try to eat something."
He left the room and found Trip in the kitchen with his parents and Miguel. "Perhaps you can sit with him for a bit," he suggested to the engineer. "It was a difficult session, but important."
Trevon could see the urge to ask questions in Trip's eyes, but he sighed and left the table for Malcolm's room. "I'm hoping he'll eat something after he rests some more," Trevon told the others. "I think I could use a break as well. Perhaps I can return in the afternoon?"
"Of course," Mr. Tucker replied. Trevon let himself out.
# Quotes from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994, p 798-799
## As told much better in the novel Last Full Measure by Michael A Martin and Andy Mangels, Pocket Books, 2006, New York, pages 146-150.
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