CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hi, Brenda," the doctor returned the smile. "I'm actually here to see a friend--Mr. Kinney? I believe he's a patient of yours."

"Ah, Mr. Kinney--or Brian-the-Brat, as those of us on staff fortunate enough to work with him prefer to call him. He's actually right in there," she pointed to the next room, "working with Patty, his occupational therapist."

"How's he doing?"

"Hard to tell."

"Is this a code-phrase around here for 'not so well'?"

"You could say that. Truth is, Brian is somewhat behind, making predictions both unwise and inaccurate." She shrugged, too professional to commit herself any further. "Why don't you go and see for yourself? He doesn't mind visitors. Besides, we've gotten used to tripping over one member or another of his extended family, 24/7." She opened the door to the OT center, arm extended in a gesture of invitation.

Brian was seated by a table, his good arm immobilized by a sling, a slightly built woman standing by his side and coaxing him in soft-spoken tones. Her hands braced his arm and elbow as he struggled to move his affected shoulder. Finally, with her help he lifted the shoulder and arm high enough to flop his unresponsive hand to rest on the table. Praising his effort, her fingers were lightly rubbing his stiff shoulder muscles. They both turned and looked up at the sound of the approaching steps.

"Good morning Dr. Gottlieb," she acknowledged the psychiatrist, a familiar face from Psych Counseling.

"Morning, Patty," he nodded then turned to her patient. "Hello, Brian, how're you doing?" A natural observer, he was struck, as always, by appearances. The man before him was pale and painfully thin, his lanky frame captive in the wheelchair and slumped slightly toward his paralyzed side--to all appearances, not the swaggering, cocky figure the psychiatrist remembered so well from many previous encounters on their favorite hunting grounds. Yet, there was nothing weak or pathetic about the seated figure, for, within a heartbeat underneath the surface, the strength, the vitality, the aura of self-assurance were unmistakably present and palpable. And as Brian looked up, a smile of recognition lighting his face, the older man experienced again the same pull he'd known, and fought unsuccessfully before, defining the other's presence and casting its spell on all those in his orbit.

"Why Sigmund, I didn't know you made house calls," Brian called out teasingly. He and the good doctor used to be casual acquaintances, frequenting the same bars and baths of the Great Gay Way. They had become closer since Brian had first sought out the psychiatrist for advice following Justin's bashing. That was also when he had begun to call the other 'Sigmund,' a name that had stuck ever since.

"I usually don't make house calls," Dr. Gottlieb responded, "unless the company promises to be as engaging as the present one." He'd been to see his friend soon after hearing about the stroke, but this was the first time he'd had a chance to visit Brian since his removal from the critical list and transfer to Rehab. "Last I saw you, you were unconscious and hooked up to a veritable maze of tubes, monitors, and machines. This," and the sweep of his hand took in Brian, the chair, the OT tools-of-trade, "is a vast improvement."

"You think so." Brian's tone was dry. "Wish I could dazzle you with my achievements but, other than pissing all by myself, I still can't do much on my own. Don't know if I ever will. And this--this contraption," he pointed with his chin to his good arm and the sling, "is the latest tool of Inquisition, decommissioning my one functioning appendage."

"Actually," Patty cut in, "it's part of a relatively new approach, 'constraint-induced movement therapy,' proven to facilitate the use and recovery of the other, affected, extremity."

They all stared for a moment, somewhat doubtful, at Brian's hand still resting on the tabletop. Then, with clear disgust, Brian turned to the other man, "Do you have time to visit the communal trough and have a cup of coffee? We're done here."

The psychiatrist only nodded and reached for the wheelchair handles. "May I?" He began to turn the chair, hesitated for a moment, then lifted the limp hand from the table and carefully placed it in Brian's lap. They were off for a private talk.

The patient dining room was nearly deserted, except for one table occupied by an elderly man in a wheelchair and a younger woman accompanying him, sniffling and periodically dabbing at her eyes with a soggy tissue.

A momentary look of disdain crossed Brian's face as he surreptitiously glanced in their direction, but he remained silent while the doctor maneuvered his chair to another table and locked the brakes.

"Coffee?"

"Please. Black. Large." With a grin, he added, "When reviewing the long list of substances I abuse, the Rehab Nazis forgot to notice and eliminate caffeine from the list." Then, more for shock value than for a possible affirmative answer, he asked, "Have any weed on you?"

The other just shook his head disapprovingly as he headed to the drinks counter, returning with two cups of coffee. Looking at the steaming-hot drink in front of him, Brian began to laugh. 'Now what? Do I wait for you to hold it to my lips?"

Realizing the problem, the doctor freed Brian's left arm from the sling and couldn't help but comment, "If I were to hold anything to your lips, it would most assuredly not be a styrofoam cup."

Brian pointedly ignored the verbal pass, an act of charity from a past pursuer, he was sure. Pity wasn't his thing.

They sipped their drinks silently for a few minutes before the doctor spoke again. "So, did the rehab team talk to you yet about any release plans? You know, the when, where to, and how?"

"Yep, repeatedly," Brian nodded with a heavy sigh. "We've even made a 'home visit' with the whole Brady Bunch. It was a fucking circus." Rubbing his temples, he added, "they want to release my sorry ass ASAP--something about my needs, for the long haul, being better met in the community. Only problem is . . ."

" . . . that you don't want to," the other completed the sentence for him.

"Nope. Can't wait to get out of this animal farm, but I'm checking myself into a nursing home," he squared his gaze at his friend as he continued, "with all the other freaks, broken souls, and pathetic rejects. C'mon, try to talk me out of it--everyone else has," he challenged.

"No, no way, I wouldn't even try. You're too stubborn a son-of-a-bitch to argue with. Besides, you obviously know what's best for you, and that's all that matters."

"Funny, Sigmund, but I could almost swear you're accusing me of being a selfish prick for not wanting to be anybody's burden."

"Who's to tell? One person's burden is another's . . .kin, friend, lover? You sure didn't feel that that young man--what's his name, Justin?--was a burden to you. Incidentally," the psychiatrist added, "is he still around?"

"Yeah, he's still around . . . after a fashion. But not the way you think."

The doctor, aware of Brian's many and unshakeable principles about relationships, didn't actually know what to think and wouldn't have presumed to do so. Brian, as always, was his own unique invention. But he was aware of the rumors that had circulated about those two on Liberty Avenue, had heard about the RAGE party. It was after that infamous fiasco at Babylon that Brian had vanished from the scene. Still, he needed to ask, "Is he one of those you don't want to burden?" From the look on Brian's face he knew he was treading on treacherous ground. He expected no direct answer, and none was offered.

"Ever watch the Discovery Channel?" Brian asked instead, clearly savoring the look of confusion on the other's face. "I'm a big fan. And you know what? Animals have no welfare system, ADA legal rights, grass-root support groups, none of that bullshit. Injured, sick, defective--they die. Often mercifully fast. They starve, or are eaten." He paused, staring at his hand. "They used to call me 'the shark of Liberty Avenue,' often to my face. A predator. Had some great times at it, too. But my prowling days are over, no more adrenalin-highs of the hunt, no more prey. I want to quietly go away. With my pride--if not much else--intact."

Taken aback, the doctor scrambled for a response. "We humans developed something called 'civilization.' You might have heard of it. We measure ourselves by how we treat our weakest, most needy members. Besides, we know that needfulness is a merry-go-round we'll all ride one time or another. It just happens to be your turn now. Why can't you be gracious about it, and allow those who care about you to care for you for a while?"

Brian's eyes clouded over, their hazel depths opaque as he sat for a while, pondering the other's words. "Sigmund, I'm broken. Useless. What am I going to do?"

The older man pulled his chair closer, placed a comforting hand on one thin shoulder. "You remember our early impromptu sessions together? Inadvertently, you told me a lot about yourself. How you had to fight for everything you have, everything you are. This is just another fight. And I know you are strong enough for it."

Brian seemed to digest the words, the confidence implied in them. "You think I'll ever be well again?"

The raw vulnerability of emotion, the almost-childlike quality of the voice struck the doctor, made him want to reach out and embrace the man in the wheelchair. Still, his answer was honest. "Will you ever be well again? Definitely. Will you be fully restored to where you were before the stroke? Not likely. But, more importantly, will you be useful once again, functional, loving and loved--Yes, most emphatically."

Brian took a few ragged breaths, successfully holding back the tears threatening to spill. "Gee, I could use these pep-talks on a regular basis, Doc. Would you take me on as a head-case?"

"Can't. The Hippocratic oath, not to mention the AMA, frowns upon medicine men and shrinks sexually harassing those they serve to heal." He watched as the meaning of his words sank in, then added with an affectionate grin. "And rest assured, Handsome Prince, that you're still quite the predator, and I am still the willing prey . . . in case you ever change your mind."

He pushed through the door and dropped the heavy backpack on the floor, eyes scanning the place for Michael.

"Hey, Boy Wonder," Michael greeted him from behind a new display he was in the process of arranging, "you look positively harassed--is school too much for you?"

Justin gave him a pained grimace. "No, life is. I should just take off the rest of the semester and go back for spring classes."

"You might have to," Michael cut right to the reason of their get-together. "Can we sit and get our ducks in a row before the meeting?"

"Sure." Cross-legged, Justin plopped on the floor. "So, who exactly is going to be there?"

"The entire rehab team. It's a round-table, to plan Brian's release. Problem is, Brian's gonna be there too. He's not a minor--although he often acts like one--and we're not his legal guardians. So, he's in." And, as they both knew, Brian would do his best to be a stubborn, prideful pain in the ass, opposed to their plan as primary caregivers every step of the way. "'Course," Michael added chagrined, "his useless blood-kin are MIA; mom and sis can't be bothered with a meeting, much less with offering to take in their own." Bitterness stifled Michael for a moment, then he continued. "Anyway, is the plan still okay with you, Justin? It wouldn't be an easy job with anyone--and Brian can be a handful, even at the best of times."

"Yeah, I know. I think the term 'high maintenance' was coined with him in mind." Justin's voice grew sincere as he continued. "But it's what I want to do. And, more importantly, it's what Brian needs, whether he admits it or not."

"You sure you're up to it? 'Cause once we take him on, there's no going back." Unspoken behind Michael's words lay the cold reality of mistrust still between them.

"I'm sure. You can put your mind to rest, I won't run out on him." Not this time, not ever again. "And even though you appointed yourself the Guardian of All Things Brian, I . . . I care about him too."

"We'll see." Michael was non-committal.

Temper flaring, Justin shot back. "You realize we'll have to be a team on the 'Brian Project,' partner; anything less and we'll fuck up and let him down. We'll have to play nice and get along."

"Aha. Well, I'll be fine--we both owe it to Brian," Michael sounded less than enthusiastic as he added, "as long as you watch your step."

Justin gave the other an undecipherable look but kept to himself what he was about to say. Instead, he asked, "Are we set then?"

"I guess." As an afterthought, Michael added, "Does that mean you're moving back to the loft?"

Justin paused, fleeting pain clouding his youthful features. "No. It means I'll be there for him. But this time I won't move in until he asks me--wants me--to."

Already at the door, the two left together for Pitts General.

The faux ambiance of the room, set aside for occasions such as this, pushed Brian's buttons the minute he entered. The setup was vaguely theatrical, with his rehab team seated in an orderly row on one side of the table, his considerably more nervous and fidgeting pair of friends on the other. All eyes turned to him, the star of the little production about to commence, making a grand entrance--if being pushed in a wheelchair could be called that. Shit, he thought, clamping down on his knee-jerk instinct to flee, any more advocates and Jerry Lewis will personally launch a charity drive for me . . .

Willing to rein in the apprehension underlying his cynical facade, Brian leaned back in his chair with a sigh and smiled. "Hello Mikey, Justin . . . members of the jury. Can we get started? I have a dance lesson scheduled with Madonna for later this afternoon."

"Real funny, Brian," Wilma Dodd, his case manager, retorted. She was clearly in charge of the meeting. "Let's roll. The purpose is," and she pointed to the elaborately diagramed plan lettered in multi-color markers on the whiteboard, "to finalize Mr. Kinney's release, and make all the necessary arrangements."

Pompous-ass, pedantic medical bureaucrats, Brian eyed the plan with visible mistrust, they reduced my life to a fucking multicolor diagram. He wasn't quite sure why he felt a spring of anger bubble up inside him; in his saner moments he tolerated, even liked, some of his rehab team. They weren't bad people, and given the earthly compensation paid for all their trouble, they must have cared.

The plan, both systematic and eminently logical, laid out the goals for the patient and the "how to's" to get him there. His loft was being adjusted to his needs, a leased hospital bed to be delivered within days. Two nurse's aides had been retained to cover morning and afternoon shifts for the first couple of weeks, and a 24/7 schedule was being worked out to provide coverage by his friends. Daily therapy sessions were planned, both out-patient and home visits, with exercise routines in-between. It was also highly recommended that the patient seek professional counseling or join a stroke-survivors' support group. It was too soon to address some other issues, such as driving or returning to work.

As the case manager proceeded to count down and explain each item, she tried to drive home a few inescapable points. Given his deficits, Brian would need extensive and lengthy rehabilitation. Given that, and his age, he would benefit most from a return to the community. That, in turn, would be made possible by the home care net woven around him by his friends, supplemented temporarily by professional help. She stopped at that, recognizing Michael and Justin with a nod. "And as I understand, following our recent home visit the two of you volunteered to share primary care duties for Mr. Kinney. Given that, he could probably be discharged within the week."

As the two began to respond, Brian tuned out their words--he'd heard those before in his daily arguments with them--centering instead on their faces. The emotions boiling inside him coalesced, found their focus. Anger. Directed at himself, his fucked-up body, overbearing neediness. Anger at the other two. For caring. For ensnaring themselves in the ties that bound the three of them together. Chaining their lives to his.

He swallowed hard, fighting down the bile of resentment chocking his throat. Afraid to divulge the turmoil inside, he closed his eyes, staring blindly at the red-hot lining of his eyelids, listening to the drumbeat of his heart. Fear laced his anger as he wondered for a moment whether he was about to suffer another stroke.

Michael and Justin, Michael and Justin, a high, keening voice inside him sang. His significant others. His 'girls.' Always depending on his machismo, counting on his strength. Was it all ego, sinful pride and stubborn obsession with independence that wouldn't, couldn't, accept their generously offered gift? And, in the final count, wasn't that an insult to all they were and all they tried to give? For when all pretenses were stripped and reduced to naked truths, there was steel, strength and determination in his two friends that had nothing to do with stature, muscle-mass, age, or whether they preferred to take it or give it up the ass. It had to do with having heart.

"Brian, Brian?" Brenda's voice, climbing with alarm, finally reached him. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not." He blurted. "And no way am I accepting their foolishly noble sacrifice." Seeing the ominous stare Michael shot in his direction, he added hastily, "at least not on a long-term basis."

"And what the hell does that mean?" Michael was all attitude, ready and rearing to jump down his best friend's throat.

"I - I appreciate the offer. And I wouldn't mind sleeping again in my own bed," he stopped for a moment, a small smile breaking up the harsh planes of his face as he remembered his favorite proclivities in that bed, much of which did not involve sleep. "But it might be too hard for me to manage."

This time, both Michael and Justin ganged up on him, their words tumbling out in tandem. "Since when did you add 'too hard' to your vocabulary? . . . That's why we'll be there for you . . . Where the hell do you get off deciding for us? . . . Bossy as ever . . . Well, this one isn't up to you."

"Are you quite done?" Tongue playing inside his mouth, Brian just stared for a moment at the two with amusement. "Some factual information for your enlightenment: 'home' is for independent living. If I have to rely on the kindness of friends, it ain't independent. That's what 'assisted living' Meccas were invented for by therapy-eggheads. But," and he raised a hand in an attempt to stem the next wave of protest, "I'll think about it. Maybe give it a try. For a limited time. Maybe." With that he pushed his chair away from the table and began to turn the wheels toward the door. This meeting was over as far as Brian Kinney was concerned.

He was already out of the room, but he couldn't arrest the flow of images parading through his mind, visuals of the loft, his possessions, his memories . . . Events, meals, parties and people. All part of his life. Home. The images rode on a tide of emotion that hit him square and hard in the stomach and made his eyes mist over. How strong did he have to be, to resist the urge to go home?

He heard the sound of running feet behind him, and hastily dabbed at the corners of his eyes with his shirt sleeve. His friends caught up with him, and flanking him on both sides, hugged his shoulders. They fell in step with each other--certainly a memorable first for those two, he observed--and began to push his chair as they broke out in song in a blood-curdling, off-key falsetto, ". . . All you've got to do is caaall, and I will be theeere; You've got a friend . . ."

Brian had been worn out by the morning's physical therapy session, and his community-style lunch had been a disaster of sloppy embarrassment, so the empty afternoon was a decided oasis in his day. He wanted nothing else but to lie on his bed and sleep, think about nothing, do nothing, simply rest and replenish his reserves. Justin had gone shopping with his mother, Mikey was at the store, and as far as he knew, Lindsay was home with a feverish Gus. Free time, with none of his wardens to disrupt the peaceful lull.

Then--a soft knock on his open door. Expecting it to be someone from the staff, collecting blood or other bodily fluids, wanting to jab him with a needle or poke at him with another cattle prod, he opened his eyes balefully to address the interruption with a pithy comment.

It was. . . oh, no. . . Melanie Marcus, Attorney-at-Law. Dressed for success in a dark blue tailored suit and a powder blue silk blouse, she had obviously come straight from her office. Perfectly groomed, sharp and smart, candidate for Dyke-of-the-Year, she made him feel grungy and unkempt in his stretched-out sweat suit and white cotton socks, his hair tumbling into his face.

And why the fuck was she here, anyway? Surely not a social call. . . Grabbing hold of the trapeze bar above the bed, he struggled to pull himself into a sitting position; this was one visitor he would not greet lying down.

"Why, Miz Melanie, ah do declare..." He affected a strong Southern accent with a falsetto tone. He pushed his bum leg over the side of the bed and twisted himself around so that he was sitting with his feet on the vinyl floor.

She took several strides into the room, her face stern, and got right to the point of her visit. "What's this shit about you not wanting to go home?"

Nonplused, he stared at her. "Tactful as always," he mumbled. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

She managed an icy smile. "Tactful is as tactful gets. Answer the question."

"Are you deposing me?" he challenged. "I don't remember getting a subpoena."

"Look, Brian, cut the crap. I've been up half the night listening to Lindsay rant and rave, so let's just say I have a personal stake in this."

"Aww. . . poor little Melly didn't get her beauty sleep. . ."

"What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?" she asked, ignoring his jibe. "Independent, I can understand, but to cut off your own nose to spite your face--"

With a self-deprecating laugh, he threw his head back and glanced up at the ceiling. "I think we don't need to elaborate on what is wrong with me, counselor."

She took a deep breath and seemed to regroup, as if reconsidering her stance. "Okay, bad choice of words. Look, Brian, I -- " she looked over at the empty wheelchair. "Would you like me to help you get into the chair?"

"Why?" he asked suspiciously, wondering what she had in mind.

"Well, I thought we could take a walk--"

"You could walk," he reminded her, deliberately digging, making her uncomfortable by choice.

"I just thought. . . away from this room. . . You must get sick of it. . ." Her tone was wheedling; she was trying to make nice now.

"I was just taking a well-deserved nap when you barged in," he responded. "I'm fine right here." Damned if he'd make it easy for her, whatever she had to say. He was suddenly tired of the vitriolic banter. "Look, Melanie, I don't know what you're doing here, but I'm really not in the mood for it, okay?" He desperately wished that he could stand, knowing that he wanted--no, needed--the psychological edge that his height would give him. He didn't want to be looking up at her.

Without taking her eyes off him, she pulled a chair over toward the bed and sat down, thereby granting his silent wish. The movement surprised him. Her expression was uncomfortable. "I guess I just wanted to say. . . I think I know how you feel, I really do. We're alike in that way, you and me. I've always prided myself on making my own way, being independent and. . . well, strong."

He laughed, a harsh sound. "Making your own way? That's a joke! You had parents who gave you anything you wanted, paid for your fancy college and law school--"

Her voice was quiet. "Money isn't everything, Brian."

Surprised at the honesty--and the truth--in that simple statement, he nodded. "No, it isn't." Then he grinned wickedly. "But it damn-sure helps."

"Lindsay is worried about you."

He lifted an eyebrow. "But not you. Don't tell me you weren't dancing a jig when you heard about me. You were probably counting the insurance money already."

She winced. "That's not fair. But no, you're right. I'm not worried about you. Because I know what a tough bastard you are."

"I'm not sure whether that was meant as a compliment or not, but thank you, I think."

"And like I told you once, shit just doesn't stick to your goddamned Teflon ass." She smiled softly and returned to her original agenda. "They're all worried about you. And you're happy as a lark to play the suffering martyr. Well, it's bullshit, Kinney."

He was truly startled at her analysis. "You think I'm playing, here?"

"Do you really think you're a martyr?" she countered. "Look, you've got friends--good friends, devoted friends--and you can't be gracious enough to let them help you. That's purely selfish, that's all it is."

"Yeah, well, I've never been known for my altruism," he muttered, suddenly weary of the whole conversation. It was getting into an area where he definitely did not want to go. "If you don't mind, visiting hours are over."

"Oh, yeah, that's right--just turn your goddamned face to the wall and hide. That's really a good solution. . ."

"Look, I told Michael I'd give it a try."

"And after a brief trial run, you'll decide it was a mistake and make a beeline for an assisted living community or a fucking nursing home. Don't you think we all realize that?"

He bit down on his lip and didn't make any response. He so did not want to hear this, did not want to be here. But he couldn't get up and walk out. Instead, he did the next best thing and rang for the nurse. Melanie watched him push the button and stood up.

"Okay, you've made your point. But I hope I've made a point or two myself. Just think about it, Brian. Ask yourself why it's so impossible for you to be the one on the receiving end, why you won't allow your friends to come through for you during a difficult time. Try to put yourself in their place and stop being such a fucking brat."

Brian felt the tremors begin, felt himself starting to quiver inside, but he had to hold himself together until she was out of sight. He would not dare to show weakness before her, not her. . . . It was damned well none of her business.

Of course, she loved Lindsay and was concerned for her welfare, but wasn't that the whole point? He was trying not to hurt Lindsay, or Michael, or Justin, or any of them--not to become a burden or a responsibility to any of them. His welfare was his own responsibility, not theirs. He had always made his own way, been successful at it through hard work and sheer drive. He didn't know how long he would remain helpless, how long it would be before he could resume anything like a normal life. Suddenly Melanie was in his face, standing right in front of him. "I know that no one can say they understand what you're going through. But I know how I'd feel if it were me in your place. And I'd probably want to slit my throat. But I wouldn't. And you know why? For two of the same reasons as you wouldn't do it-- Lindsay. And Gus."

He was amazed to see tears forming and falling from her eyes. Not that he'd never seen Mel cry--she was still enough of a woman that her emotions were often erratic--but that he perceived that these tears were for him, at least in part. He didn't speak, but he reached out with his left hand and cautiously touched her cheek, blotting the wetness there. Then he found his voice.

"Don't turn all mushy on me, Marcus. . ."

She laughed tightly and threw her head back. "Not a chance, Kinney. I'll just--"

The nurse interrupted her, arriving at last to Brian's summons. "Is there a problem, Brian?" Florence Nightingale asked, stepping over toward the bed.

Melanie glanced at her as she gathered up her attaché case from the floor. "Yeah. The baby wants his pacifier," she answered smartly. As she headed for the hall, she turned and pointed her finger at Brian. "You--think about it!" she demanded.

On the bed, Brian let the tremors loose and felt his shoulders begin to spasm. "I need my medication. . . ." he whispered to the nurse. Gently, she helped him lie back down. He stared sightlessly at the far wall, eyes open, seeing nothing, Melanie's words ringing in his mind: ". . . turn your goddamned face to the wall. . ." He shuddered.

Load of crap. . .ran through his mind as he took up a position at some distance from the others, on the outer periphery of the circle, and balefully eyed the casually dressed young man at its focus. A refrain ran through his mind as he gave the speaker an appraising once-over. "I want to rip off your clothes and make you sit on my nine-inch cock. . ." Despite himself, he giggled at the impression, and at the unlikely image of the staid-appearing man standing there completely naked, his cock at full attention.

Despite all his efforts to avoid attending the requisite group therapy session at the rehab center, he had finally been coerced into attendance during this, his final week before going home. They had made it a condition of his early release, indicating that he would not be pronounced "fit" until he had clocked in at least one session. Up until this, he had been able to contrive excuses to avoid the obnoxious bullshit sessions, but they'd finally caught up with him and, reluctantly, he had agreed to attend just this one in order to get his discharge.

He glanced around at the others with little interest. The group of sorry stroke victims--oops, stroke survivors, he corrected himself caustically--were all old geezers on the bad side of 40 at least. Three women, five men not counting the psychologist who was leading the session. Pathetic specimens in varying stages of mobility and mentality; a few of them he vaguely recognized from the PT room and the cafeteria. One particularly sorry-looking woman had a face that was all screwed up to one side, her mouth drooping to her chin on the left, her eye hanging down to her cheekbone. One of the men had nervous tics that kept him jumping in his chair, shaking his fists, rotating his ankles, making faces.

He was partially immune to it all; he had been living with these people for several weeks now and the sight didn't shock or disgust him anymore, but being called to associate with them, socially as it were, made him painfully aware of their deficits in a new, startling way.

"Listen up, everyone--let's get started. You'll have time to socialize after our meeting. . ." The young psychologist was desperately trying to gain control over the friendly group who were chatting to each other. Brian looked him over again; he was short but his body seemed fairly well defined under the broadcloth shirt and jeans; he wasn't half bad, in an academic kind of way. He wondered which way he twisted. His impression screamed "het" but sometimes they fooled you. Certainly there was no gaydar sounding. . . Brian recalled his doctor telling him that the therapist's name was Frank DeLucca. Italian. He didn't look it, though.

"It seems that we have two patients here today who are about to be released this week," DeLucca stated as the group quieted down and paid attention to him. "Mrs. Coberly will be discharged to Mt. Hope on Thursday, and a new member..." he glanced down at his clipboard, "Mr. Brian Kinney... will be going into home care on Friday." He looked around as if searching for the "new member." When he spied Brian, he smiled. "Welcome, Brian."

Is it 'show and tell' yet, teacher? I've got something I could show you. . . Brian managed a laconic smile in response. Let's just get this over with, okay?

"Therefore, I thought we might take this opportunity," DeLucca went on, "to talk a bit about the issues involved with leaving the hospital. How you all feel about it, what you expect or anticipate..."

It was strange, Brian reflected, how sometimes you have a mental vision of what you look like, and the reality bears no resemblance. In his mind's eye, at that moment, he was seated in a hardback chair whose back two legs were the only ones on the floor. He was slumped down on his coccyx, arms folded across his chest, a slight sneer curling his lips. It was so real that his muscles seemed to be frozen in that position. Yet his reflection, in a mirror along the side wall of the room, proved the lie of that vision. He was slumped, all right--in a wheelchair, listing to the right, his hands lying on the armrests, one foot slightly turned inward without his brace. His expression looked more like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights than the Bad Boy of Liberty Avenue. His casual attire was designed for comfort and ease of application rather than style or panache--black sweat pants, a sleeveless orange teeshirt that was well stretched out yet still managed to hug his chest, one concession to his vanity. His feet were shod in black sneakers with idiot-Velcro fasteners that he loathed, over heavy white socks. All in all, he looked as geeky as everyone else in the room.

Reluctantly, and partly to avoid the confrontation with his image, he tuned in to the conversation which had proceeded without him. One of the women was speaking, if you could call it that.

"My...her...has home. Nice home..."

"Your daughter, Mrs. Coberly?" DeLucca clarified.

"I said... go stay with you... till I'm...all better," the woman, a plump blonde perhaps in her sixties, went on, "Her say... don't even think it." Her laugh was slightly embarrassed. "Not go there..."

"She felt you'd be better off at Mt. Hope," DeLucca attempted to appease. More like, Mt. Hopeless, Brian reflected. He knew the reputation of the nursing home out in Oakland. It was one of the worst.

"Don't... wanna go... there." The woman began to cry, and Brian began to wish he were anywhere else. What possible use could this session be for him? He damned himself for caving in and agreeing to it.

An old, white-haired guy whose dentures had apparently gone AWOL, nodded vigorously and spoke up. "Yep. You care for your children, and what do you get? Tossed out with the garbage. With the garbage. My wife, God rest her soul, would have done right by me, but she's gone to live with Jesus, no one left but the ungrateful brats we raised..."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to be such a burden to my children," demurred one of the other women, a thin, pale brunette who was probably the next youngest to him.

If he could have slunk down lower in his chair, Brian would have done so. As it was, he mentally sang a chorus of an old ABBA song to distance himself. These losers were nothing but a bunch of crybabies, feeling sorry for themselves.

"My wife's takin' me home, when I'm ready to go," said another gentleman, this one probably not more than fifty or so. He was smiling eagerly, and actually not looking all the worse for wear, Brian apprized. I'd like to rip off your clothes and make you sit on my nine-inch cock . . .he mentally repeated the litany. This time, though, it didn't make him giggle.

DeLucca looked at the man who had spoken up. "Jim, did she tell you that?"

"Not exactly." Jim seemed to deflate slightly. "But I know she will."

"Isn't your family making arrangements to send you to Golden Acres?" DeLucca persisted.

"Yeah, but only until I've improved enough. . ." Jim thrust his chin forward. Golden Acres, Brian knew, was an assisted living facility that had a reputation for being like a roach motel--you checked in, but you never checked out.

"I think this is a crucial point," DeLucca remarked, his voice even. "We all need to recognize the difference between what we want to happen in our lives, and what is projectable, considering the circumstances. And we have to learn to be content with those projections.

"Stroke has altered your life. That's an indisputable fact. How you adjust to that alteration is what can make the difference between happiness and bitterness."

Brian tensed. Oh, that's easy for you to say, standing there in your pompous-ass position. What the hell have you adjusted to? He resented the hell out of the patronizing speech. All at once, he felt an uncommon kinship with the others in the room. We're all pathetic creatures, walking blindly along a path none of us anticipated taking...

"Brian--" He heard his name called as if from a distance. He glanced over at DeLucca. "Would you like to share your discharge plans with the group?"

"You mean you don't have it all written up on that little clipboard of yours?" He couldn't resist the barb, did not appreciate being put on the spot. Why hadn't they gotten Sigmund to lead the group. At least he had a basic understanding of human nature.

DeLucca smiled. "Well, I understand you have a group of friends who are going to serve as joint caregivers, and you're returning to your own home."

Brian smirked in acknowledgment and nodded his head slowly.

"Friends?" came from the brunette woman who wouldn't want to burden her children. "You have friends who are willing to take on the responsibilities of--" she broke off, obviously surprised.

"You're shittin' us, right?" asked the man who had complained about his children. "What, are you payin' them?"

Brian felt a flush climb up his face and his hands dampened. He wasn't sure what to say, whether to defend his decision to allow the gang to help him return home, or whether to feel guilty about it. DeLucca saved his butt.

"Sometimes it just works out like that," he said softly. "All the pieces fall into place with amazing ease. Most times it doesn't. Brian, you're an extremely fortunate individual. And you must be highly cherished. But the choices aren't always easy, for us, for our families. . ."

Brian tuned it out again, lost in his own thoughts, grateful to be out of the spotlight. Highly cherished? Him? I've never been anything but a pain in the ass to everyone. Why are they doing this? An awkward and unfamiliar feeling of self-worth washed over him for a dizzying moment. Unlike some of the others, he'd had to fight to resist being provided for. How crazy was that? There had never been any question of his going anywhere but back to his loft, never a thought given to farming him out to a rehab facility, nursing home, or assisted living community. From the beginning of his ordeal, it had always been an issue of when, not where. The where was a given, undisputed. And at the beginning, before he knew any better, he had expected nothing else. Later, when he'd seen what was obviously ahead for himself, he had begun to rethink the equation. Only no one would let him give up on his goals. They had all stood by him, even the people he'd never counted on to help in a pinch--Ted, Emmett, Melanie...

Humility was never an emotion he engaged easily, but he felt it right now, at this moment. It forced tears to his eyes and a sudden weakness in his limbs. He felt... highly cherished. And he vowed to make them proud of him. To come back, one hundred percent. With their help. His friends. His surrogate family.