Sins of the Father (Part 2)

-1-

3 weeks later...

"That's it, Graham. Squeeze. Good. Now throw the ball to your father."

Sitting across from his wheelchair-bound son, Harry extends his arm and easily makes contact with the ball. Thwap!

"Excellent!" The therapist says before Harry can say the same. But his smile says it all. Not only is his son doing well in therapy, he's actually smiling. At him. Granted, the smile is a bit crooked due to the stroke, but to Harry, it's beautiful. And just as miraculous as Graham's first smile as newborn all those years ago. Harry continues to beam, the years disappearing from his face.

"Ok." The physical therapist says, breaking into Harry's thoughts. "You're done for today. Great work, Graham. You're really making progress!"

"Yes," Graham says. "Ok."

"Only ok?" Harry asks, still smiling across at his son.

Graham shrugs a bit, one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. "Ok. Not. Great." He says, articulating each world slowly.

"It is great," the therapist chimes in. Her blonde hair cut into a bob, swings along with her enthusiastic nod. Harry nods emphatically as well.

"It is." Harry says, getting up and going over towards his son. "You are, you know. Doing great." Then putting his hand on the wheelchair, he says, "I'll take him back."

She nods. "Tomorrow, then. Same time. Same place." Smiling, she leans towards her patient. "Slap me five!" And she raises a hand expectantly.

In response, Graham easily raises his left hand.

"Oh no, you don't," she says, grinning. "Right hand."

Graham smiles again. And with some difficulty manages to raise his right hand, the side affected by the stroke. His eyes fix upon his hand and slowly he makes contact with the young woman's hand. Not exactly a slap but contact nevertheless.

"Good boy!" She says, her hair swinging again.

At her words, the young man cringes and catches his father's eye. Neither man say anything until they are out of earshot. "I know," Harry says, bending down and speaking into his son's ear, "you're not a boy. Nothing could be further from the truth." Pushing the chair into an area with a few chairs set aside for residents and guests in the rehabilitation centre, he sits in one of the chairs facing Graham. A sign directly above the two men reads 'Just Do it!' along with an illustration of men in wheelchairs playing rugby.

"You're not a boy." Harry says again, this time in earnest. Then his face softens a bit. "In fact," he says, "I think she rather has a crush on you."

Graham's eyes open. Then slowly shakes his head.

"I do." Harry says in all seriousness.

The young man shakes his head again.

"Why shouldn't she?" he asks. "You're handsome and smart and working hard and besides-"

Graham flaps his good hand and Harry stops suddenly. His gaze follows his son's who looks down at his own damaged body. And when he lifts his eyes to meet his father's again, Harry is jolted by the pain and frustration reflected in his son's eyes.

"Listen to me," Harry says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping a notch or two, "you're going to get out of that chair for good. And your speech will come back. All the way back. Of this I have no doubt." And he nods for good measure, "And so will everything else."

His son nods, his eyes not quite meeting his father's.

"You ok?" Harry asks.

Another half-nod.

"Tired, then?""

Intelligent grey eyes lift back to his father. A few moments later, he pushes out the word. "Yes."

Getting up, he says, "Let s go back to your room. Which it won't be for much longer, you know. That's how well you're doing." And he nods for good measure. " You know," he says before pushing his son down the hall, "your speech is really coming back, too."

There is no response from his son, not even a half-nod. Standing behind his son, Harry leans down and says into the young man's ear, "I couldn't be more proud of you than I am right now."

His son extends his left foot and the chair stops. "What is it?" Harry asks, more than a bit concerned.

The words are slow in coming. But when they do, they are crystal clear. "Thank. You."

Harry rests his hand on his Graham's shoulder for a long moment before removing it almost reluctantly. Then clearing his throat, he wheels his son back to his room.

Although only away from the Grid for little more than three weeks, it seems a lot longer when Harry finally does return. And for the first time that Harry can remember, the glass box looming before him and the world he knows so well seems strange. A lifetime ago. He blinks a bit at his desk now vacated by his temporary replacement, Sir Richard Dolby. The desk is clean save for a few sheets of paper on it. In fact, nothing looks different. Or changed. Yet everything is. He stares down at his desk for a moment longer before actually stepping into his glass cubicle. To his surprise and consternation, the off-kilter sensation doesn't fade. Not even when he sinks down into his chair and tries it out for size. It too is as he left it. He shakes his head a bit trying to remember if he had ever felt this way after a prolonged absence from the Grid. But even after Tom shot him years ago, even after his painful rehabilitation and time off, that return felt right. Where he belonged. Unlike now. And despite his son doing better than he had dared hoped, and those nightmarish first few days of sleeping at his son's bedside hoping for a miracle were now in the past, his office still does not feel like his own. Perhaps, Harry tells himself, the enormity of so much happening in so short a time is the culprit. After all, everything and everything had changed. Except of course, for the one constant.

Ruth.

This in itself is ironic, he knows, given the metamorphosis of their relationship, also in just three short weeks. Looking through the glass and at the petite figure only a few feet in the distance, he schools his features into his work face. But he still gazes outward, sure that she can feel his eyes upon her even though her back is turned from him. In fact, he knows she can. He doesn't exactly know how he knows this but he does. Come on. Turn around, he thinks, willing her to do just that. Or come into his office. Or just get up and walk past him and glance his way, her lovely eyes meeting his if only for a moment. Anything, he thinks, still staring at her through the glass. And he knows that when she does, things will right itself once more. Orient him to the world he used to know so well. Here. At his desk. Keeping his officers and the world at large safe from those who commit unspeakable acts upon their fellow man.

But his touchstone continues to lean into her monitor, headset on, attending to the job at hand. Outside. Yet inside his heart. His mind. And his bed. He manages not to smile at the last, but cannot still the trill of excitement that courses through his body especially down below thinking of her. With him. He shifts a bit and clearing his throat, picks up a piece of paper. And forces himself to focus upon it. And very nearly succeeds until a shadow fills the threshold.

She is standing there. And smiling at him, a piece of paper in her hand as well.

His world rights itself once more.