Batman: Lost to the Night--Part XIV

“For Good” written by Stephen Schwartz. From the Wicked CD (Copyright 2003 by Decca Broadway.)

Good Luck, Vol. 1 written by E-Jin Kang. Copyright E-Jin Kang, Daiwon C.I., 2002. English text copyright 2006 by Tokyopop. The excerpt quoted appears on pages 11-12.

“He’s stable.” Dr. Wiacek looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. “He’s still critical, but he’s stable. We’ve sedated him for now. We’re going to have to keep him out of it for at least the next day or so. Possibly longer.” He looked from one person to the next. “Would any of you know how long he was unconscious in that fire?”

Dick cleared his throat. “Batman told me it wasn’t for very long. Maybe one, two minutes tops. Then the firefighters and paramedics stepped in.” And if you need anything more specific, first I’ll tell you, and only then will I try to figure out how Dick Grayson could have all the details when he, supposedly, wasn’t anywhere near the fire. Secrets be damned.

The doctor nodded. “That’s heartening. Much beyond that and we’d have more cause to be concerned about oxygen deprivation. In brief, he’s intubated. We’ve put him on a neuroanaesthetic, to block his gag reflex so he won’t try to pull out the tube. We’ve had to order wrist restraints for the same reason. Now we are planning to keep him heavily sedated until it’s time to pull out the tube, so the restraints are more of a precaution in case we misjudge and he wakes up early.” He waited for Dick to nod before he went on. “Since his blood pressure’s dropped significantly—it happens in cases such as this—we’re keeping his feet elevated and his head lowered. There’s a Demerol drip set up for the pain as well—and believe me, tracheal burns are painful.”

Dick nodded again. As Wiacek continued to reel off what had been done, the implications of the medical procedures slowly sank in. Bruce wasn’t going to be struggling to get out of bed against doctors orders any time soon.

“Now, within the next day or so, we’ll probably have to schedule a session in an HBO—that’s a hyperbaric oxygen chamber…”

“When can we see him?” Dick asked, struggling to keep a quaver out of his voice. He thought he succeeded.

“You’re his son?”

Dick nodded.

Wiacek made a show of consulting his clipboard again. “I can let you have fifteen minutes now. And only you. He won’t be awake with the level of sedation we’ve had to administer, but he might still hear what you say and remember it when he wakes up.”

“I understand.” He looked at the others.

Gordon smiled. “Go on. But you tell him we’re all out here pulling for him, Son.”

Dick didn’t trust himself to reply as he fell into step with Wiacek.

It wasn’t really the lighting. Dick had been expecting that. He knew that UV lamps accentuated pallor, and made old scars stand out. It did the same for bruises, but thankfully, Bruce didn’t have any of those at present. He’d been prepared for the eerie glow that white sheets—or anything else white for that matter—acquired under those conditions.

Rather, it was the machines. He found himself unnerved by the beeping and humming of the equipment that surrounded the bed, by the trachea tube, the IV drip pole, the monitoring systems, the various clear tubes that poked under the blankets, the…

…He wrenched his eyes away from the nearly half-full collection bag at the foot of the bed and focused on Bruce. His face and what was visible of his body had swollen grotesquely. As the doctor had told him, Bruce was asleep, seemingly oblivious.

“Hi, Bruce.” He’d been aiming for a casual tone, but his voice was shaking. “What happened? You missed striking terror into the hearts of the underworld, so you settled for scaring the rest of us?”

He hadn’t really expected a response. Dick considered. If despite the meds some part of Bruce was still aware, that part was probably disoriented and confused from the medications, possibly still in pain…

Dick took a deep breath. “You’re at Saint Swithin’s trauma center in the ICU. I popped in to say ‘hi’ but the doc says I can’t stay long, ’cuz you need to rest. Heh. Shows what he knows, right?”

He placed a gloved hand on Bruce’s forehead. “We’re all rooting for you. Babs and her dad are in the waiting room. I think Cass might be here too, by now. She was patrolling before. Someone had to.”

The plastic garments were hot. And to top it off, his upper lip was itching. He shook his head.

“You just had to go running after me, didn’t you? Of course, I had to compound things by leaving the cape behind. Nobody’s listening, so don’t worry,” he added hastily. “Maybe if I’d held on to it, you would’ve turned back. Or maybe you would’ve just pushed ahead without it. I don’t know anymore. I…”

He stopped. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Bruce. “Just concentrate on getting better, m’kay? They don’t like long visits in this part of the hospital. Now if you can improve enough that they move you into a regular room…” He let a smile creep into his voice.

Was it just his imagination, or did Bruce seem calmer? Dick reached down and gave his hand a squeeze. Then he settled back to make the most of the fifteen minutes. Bruce didn’t open his eyes, but neither did any of the machines connected to him emit any warning beeps.

Precisely a quarter hour after he’d entered the room, there was a knock on the door. A nurse stuck his head in. “Time’s up. You can come back in a few hours.”

Dick rose to his feet. “Guess you heard that. Medical orders and all. Get some rest. See you in a little while.”

Outside the room, he stripped off the protective gear, telling himself that it was only shock of the cold air blowing from the vent that was making him shiver.

They looked up at his approach.

“Well?” Cass asked.

Dick forced a smile. “He’s stable. They’re taking good care of him. I’m sure he’ll…”

“Dick…” Barbara interrupted. “How is he?”

His face crumpled. He reached for her hands. She pulled him gently down toward her.

“I’ve never seen him this bad,” he whispered. “Not even when he got infected with that experimental virus and I had to give him a full-body blood transfusion. It’s…”

Barbara nodded. “I know. But he’s a survivor. He’ll make it. It’s what he does, Dick.”

He was aware of that. He was just having a hard time internalizing it at the moment.

Gordon cleared his throat. “I think we could all do with a change of scene. There’s a coffee shop about two blocks from here. I’ll bet you anything they’ve got something better than that sludge that I bought before.” He turned to Dick. “How long did they say before we could see him?”

Dick looked up. “Maybe another six hours or so, assuming he stays stable.”

“Just this once,” Gordon said, “let’s assume. We’ll go out, walk around a bit, get some air, and then come back here with maybe a little more energy.” He dropped to a chair so that he could make eye contact with the younger man. “I’ve sat a few of these vigils before, Dick. Trust me. You need to get out of here for a bit. Right now, when he’s stable and you know you can’t do anything here but sit still, this is the best time to take a break. Come on.”

Dick nodded slowly. “I’ll leave my cellphone number at the desk, though,” he said. “Just in case.”

Once in the bookstore, the four split up. Barbara headed for the history shelves. Gordon selected two local and one out-of-town newspaper. “I wouldn’t,” he said blandly, as Dick reached for International Health News.

Dick’s hand stopped just short of the cover of the journal.

“You’ll only make yourself crazy second-guessing the doctors.”

“Point taken.” He straightened up with a sigh. “I’m not sure what else to look for, though.”

Jim pushed up his glasses. “My suggestion? Get something you read a long time ago and enjoyed. It’ll probably help you relax. At the same time, when you do get to go back in to visit, you’ll be able to put the thing down more easily.” He shrugged. “Or maybe get something you can leave for Bruce to read, when he’s feeling up to it.”

Dick thought for a moment. Then he smiled. “I’ll bet anything they’ve got some detective pulp fiction, here.”

The periodicals bins held numerous magazines alphabetized by title. Browsing through them, he discovered a run nearly four feet long of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. He grabbed a dozen at random. Those, combined with a few Two Minute Mysteries he’d read back in fourth grade would hold him for awhile.

Cass darted into the stacks. She knew that it was pointless. Sooner or later, they were going to get ready to leave, and Barbara would urge her to choose something to practice with. Probably something aimed at a preschool level. She sighed. She understood that she had to cover the basics before attempting something more advanced, but reading something geared to small children made her feel stupid. It didn’t matter that she knew she was being silly. She still felt embarrassed to browse the ‘beginning to read’ section.

At random, she pulled a volume off the shelf and flipped through it. She blinked. Pictures? The major part of each page was taken up with pen-and-ink drawings. There were a few words as well, but it was mainly artwork. And it didn’t look like the art in the children’s picture books, either. For one thing, most of those pictures were colorful. After all this time, she still didn’t always have a good sense of what was suitable for children. She chalked it up to her own unconventional upbringing. Still… this material seemed to be aimed more at adults. What was this stuff? She looked up at the subject sign.

“Mmm… man… ga?” She said aloud. She looked at the text again and her face fell. Even these words were too hard. She wanted to scream. There had to be something! Wait…

One shelf below her, a two-word title caught her eye. She recognized these words. “Good. Luck.” She read. Hesitantly, she slid the book out and rifled to the first page of the story. “My name…” she read aloud, “is…” she frowned. There hadn’t been any names like that in her easy readers. So? Sound it out. “Sh… Shi? Shi. Shi-” her jaw dropped. How in the world was she supposed to pronounce the second part of the name? Hyun. She’d never come across a name that started with ‘hy’. She took a deep breath. “Shi-Huyoon Lee.” She had no clue whether that was correct. On the other hand, names didn’t have to be said right for the story to make sense. She’d leave it for now. She could always ask someone later. “My name is Shi-Hyun Lee.” She repeated. “I’m…” she frowned. The first letter was a lower-case ‘l’, but what was the second? After a moment, she realized her mistake. She wasn’t looking at letters; she was looking at numbers. She knew what a one and a seven together signified. She continued. “I’m seventeen. I just got kicked out of… of…” She frowned at the consonant blend. The word was familiar. Now what… her confusion cleared. She smiled. “I just got kicked out of school. Why, you ask?” She turned the page. “Simpluh. No.” She corrected herself. “Simpul. Simple…”

This… this wasn’t simple. She still had to concentrate. It was going to take time and effort. But she was doing it. She was picking up something that wasn’t a special ‘beginning-to-read’ text or a… a basal reader. Maybe… She flipped a few pages ahead. It looked like there was a fight scene coming up… She closed the volume and stared at the title again. Good Luck. Cass smiled to herself. She probably needed it. Slowly, deliberately, she made her way down the aisle toward the cashier.

He was running fast, faster than he thought possible. He had to get there in time. He had to reach Alfred. The roof was falling in… flaming chunks of debris brushing past him. The smoke… it was hard to breathe, but he had to keep going. He had to get Alfred out from under the desk in…

…It hurt to move. Something felt… off. Before he could fully grasp his circumstances…

He was in the alley, angling for the dumpster. The ceiling was falling and he tried to escape the debris. He couldn’t drop Jeremiah. He’d failed once before. He had to make this better. But it was hard to breathe in the smoke and heat. He had a gas mask. So why…? Why didn’t matter. He couldn’t fail again. If it killed him, he had to succeed.

This wasn’t right. The memories were all jumbled together. He had no idea where he was or what was going on. He fought down a wave of panic and tried to draw a deep breath but something was preventing him. What was going on? Was he in the alley? Or was this Arkham?

“You’re at Saint Swithin’s in the ICU. They just brought you back from the HBO chamber.”

He knew the voice, he thought, but something was muffling it. Dick? He tried to ask what was going on but he seemed to be unable to speak…

Run… run to find Jeremiah before the fire cut off his escape route. He was getting out of breath. His chest was burning. From this level of exertion? He wasn’t this badly out of shape. He caught himself. He’d been breathing in the smoke before. It was catching up with him, stealing his breath, slowing him down. So be it. He’d been too late to save Alfred, but he could still save Jeremiah. It wouldn’t make up for his earlier failure, but at least it would balance it. And if it killed him…

“Bruce? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t get all mushy or anyth—oh damn, this isn’t a joke. Please, just tell me I didn’t leave this too long. I really meant to come back sooner but…”

Time always ran out on him. He had to be faster, but breathing the smoke was sapping his speed. He had to get to the office… had to pull…

“We’re all pulling for you, son… Have to say, you had us worried for a bit.”

He felt a gloved hand on his forehead. He tried to force his eyes open. It was hard to think, hard to move… and while it wasn’t hard to breathe, something was still… off.

“Easy. Don’t try to say anything. Just relax. You’re at Saint Swithin’s, getting treated for smoke inhalation. You won’t be able to talk until they take that tracheal tube out, so don’t try.”

Intubation. Bruce felt his panic ease. That explained a great deal. He tried to open his eyes, to let Jim know that he was awake…

…“Bruce? Doctor!”

Barbara? What had happened to Jim? He tried to ask before he remembered the tube. Suddenly, he began to cough. He could hear footsteps approaching rapidly, a shouted order for some sort of medication. If his thoughts were clearer, he could probably remember what the substance was and what it would do but…

“Okay, Bruce? I want you to take it easy. You’ve shifted the trach tube, and it’s making you cough. Don’t worry. We’re going to try to remove it now, and see how you manage without it.”

Barbara’s gloved hand was suddenly in his, squeezing it. He squeezed back, as he tried to focus on what the stranger—the doctor, he supposed—was saying.

“Now as I pull out the tube, I want you to cough. You probably will anyway, and that’s to be expected. In fact, it’s perfectly normal if you cough a lot, so don’t worry.”

Bruce’s throat was still numb, but he imagined that he could feel it as the tube began to slide upwards. It gave him a queasy feeling as it did. He focused on Barbara gripping his hand. “Hang on,” she urged. “It’s coming.”

He could barely hear her over his violent hacking. His eyes were tearing up. This much retching couldn’t possibly be normal. His chest felt as though it was on fire. He heard Barbara asking the doctor something about the bed. What? Abruptly, the mattress elevated his torso to a half-sitting position. That helped. Suddenly, he could draw a breath. He exhaled, then inhaled again. He could do this. He felt his heart rate begin to subside.

“That’s better,” the doctor said. “Okay,” he said as he leaned over the bed. “Let’s just lose those wrist restraints, and then,” he looked over his shoulder, “I think you can take over, Evan.”

Barbara smiled. “Nice to have you back with us.”

Bruce watched as a nurse came forward to begin fussing at the bands that secured his hands to the bed rails. He tried to say something, but his voice was a hoarse rasp. He winced. “Water?” He struggled to say. “Please?”

His hands were free now. He brought them forward and began to rub at his wrists.

The doctor grinned. “Nurse? Could we get some ice chips?”

Bruce pulled his attention to another man, who was wheeling a large machine forward. “This is an IPPB,” the second man said. “That stands for Intermittent Positive Pressure Breathing machine. We’re using it to help restore your full lung expansion. Among other benefits.”

The nurse returned carrying a small bowl containing slivers of ice. Bruce reached for one and immediately popped it into his mouth.

“Suck it slowly,” the doctor advised.

Barbara leaned forward, intrigued by the machine. “Is that some sort of ventilator?”

The second man, whose name seemed to be ‘Evan’, smiled. “Very good. Yes, it delivers compressed gas under positive pressure directly into the airway. We’ll administer some nebulized medications in the same fashion. At this hospital, we generally use IPPB for the first twenty-four hours after discontinuing mechanical ventilation.” He turned back to Bruce. “Once you’re finished with the ice, we’ll try ten breaths now, and see how that goes. Most likely, we’ll be repeating that dose every hour.”

Bruce nodded. He didn’t want to attempt to speak again so quickly, but he lifted his hand to signal when he was done.

“Sure?” Evan asked. “I can wait if you need more ice.”

Bruce shook his head. Better to get this over with.

“Alright then.”

There was a hose with a mouthpiece attached it that connected to the IPPB machine. The doctor showed Bruce how to fit it in. “Now inhale…” Bruce was immediately aware of a difference. The machine expanded his lungs to a far greater degree than he had managed on his own. The procedure was not painful. As a matter of fact, it relaxed him. Once the exercise was completed the doctor smiled. “I’d say that went well. So now,” he said as he wheeled the machine back to its place against the wall, “we’re on to the next step.”

From somewhere behind the bed, the doctor opened a drawer and pulled out an oxygen mask. From the look of it, the device was designed to cover almost the entire lower part of his face. Attached to it was a clear bag that reminded him of a deflated hot-water bottle.

Bruce frowned. “Non-rebreather?” His voice was still hoarse, but at least it was less of a strain to make himself heard.

The doctor adjusted something on the face mask, and the attached bag began to fill with air. “I should have introduced myself first, sorry! I’m Evan Hazelwood. I’m a respiratory therapist. And yes, this is a non-rebreather mask. You’re well-informed, Mr. Jameson.”

Bruce blinked. Jameson? Was Hazelwood somehow reading the wrong patient’s chart? He became aware of Barbara hastily tapping Morse code into the palm of his hand. It’s you. Don’t worry. Just playing safe. Your name is…

Dick had to have chosen that one, Bruce realized. He was going to have to have a talk with the young man about a few things later. For now, though…

He drew another breath, marveling that he could ever have taken such an activity for granted, and he reached again for the bowl of ice chips.

“You’re home early,” Barbara greeted him with a smile. “Rae called.”

Dick bent down to kiss her. “And?”

The smile broadened. “The emergency order came through. It would’ve come through a lot sooner, she said, if Jeremiah had made better arrangements.”

“Oh?” Dick saw that she’d been in the middle of chopping vegetables. “Do you want a hand with supper?”

“You can set the table,” she said. “I was just going to throw a salad together. There’s a thick soup or a thin stew in the crock pot—I didn’t know when you’d be back so I wanted something that wasn’t going to be ruined if you came in late.”

Her smile turned to a grimace. “Apparently, Dr. Wolper was on vacation—he just got back early this morning. Wolper’s the deputy administrator of Arkham. Problem was, with Jeremiah incapacitated, this guy unreachable, and a detailed chain-of-command chart probably locked up or burned up in Jeremiah’s office—until now, it wasn’t clear who’d have the authority to submit that affidavit stating that sending Bruce to Blackgate would be a bad thing. Alex’s statement alone wasn’t enough.”

Dick nodded. “So it’s all taken care of now? Bruce is safe?”

Barbara nodded back. “It got approved about an hour ago. Situations’s still not great at the moment—judge ordered him remanded to a maximum security ward, but…”

“I know,” Dick said glumly. “It isn’t Blackgate.” He’d thought that Bruce might finally be able to catch some sort of break, but evidently not. It just wasn’t fair!

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Barbara replied. She took a deep breath. “Rae doesn’t think he’ll be on that ward for more than ten days, two weeks tops.” She took his hand between both of hers. “Because the day that Bruce leaves Intermediate Care is the day that she files a motion to review.”

Dick’s eyes widened. Barbara nodded as his smile grew to match hers. “She still wants to meet with him one more time before she submits the paperwork, but she’s pretty much convinced he can pass that hearing.”

She started to laugh as he leaned over and seized hold of the arms of the wheelchair. “What are you doing?”

For a moment, she thought that he was going to spin her—wheelchair and all—about the kitchen. Then, he seemed to think better of it as he bent down, lifted her out of the chair and hugged her. “Yes!” He exclaimed.

Bruce listened as Dick related Barbara’s findings. Slowly, he shook his head. “Can you get in to see him?”

Dick’s jaw dropped. “What?” At Bruce’s insistent look, he thought for a moment. “I doubt it. He’s in worse shape now than you were when they brought you in, and I didn’t get to see you for hours. Bruce, if they let anybody into his room, it’s going to be family.”

Bruce locked eyes with him. “Dick…” His voice dropped in volume but gained in intensity. “Jeremiah has no family. They’ve all passed on.” He looked away. “I… before all this… there were things I thought it would be better to face alone.

“Don’t!” He said sharply, as he felt Dick’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m alright. I just…” He drew a long breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. He turned back to face the younger man.

“These last days…” he shook his head. “No. These last two years… now that I look back, to have faced them alone would have been,” he closed his eyes, “impossible.”

“Bruce…” Dick started to reach for his shoulder again.

Bruce caught his hand in a fierce grip. “No.” He smiled wearily. “I’m fine. Really. But what Jeremiah is going through, he shouldn’t… nobody should have to deal with that on their own.”

Dick swallowed. “I’ll ask. But if they tell me I can’t, it’s going to have to wait until he’s recovered enough. The risk of infection with burns…”

Bruce nodded. “I’m not asking you to sneak in,” he clarified. “But try to keep asking about him. At the very least, the staff may be more attentive.”

Dick nodded back. Tim had said something very similar under other circumstances long ago. “So this is ‘step-down’,” he said changing the subject. “The lighting’s more normal, at least.”

“It’s intentional on the part of the hospital,” Bruce said. “After the ultra-violet lamps in ICU, it makes patients appear healthier by comparison.”

The door opened to admit a nurse carrying a small cooler. “Cherry, grape or orange?” She asked.

Bruce blinked. “Pardon?”

“Popsicle,” the nurse said. “Doctor said you should start on those, today.”

She smiled apologetically at Dick. “You can come back at ten,” she added. “For another twenty minutes.”

“Right, doc gave me the schedule,” he answered. “Then again at one, five and nine?”

The nurse grinned broadly. “You got it.”

Dick sighed. “Alright. I guess I’ll leave you to… breakfast,” he said. “I always thought the orange ones tasted weird, by the way.”

He’d been about to tell Bruce about the hearing, but it occurred to him that the nurse might not be aware of Bruce’s current legal situation. The update could wait until the next visit.

As he left, Dick heard Bruce request the orange-flavored one. He smirked. Bruce could probably use the extra vitamin C.

“Dick’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” Jim said a few evenings later. “He had some business that wouldn’t wait.”

Bruce nodded. “I told him I understood earlier. The city…”

“Takes precedence,” Jim finished. “At least that’s what you believe.” He shrugged. “You’re sounding better. Are you?”

Bruce sighed. “The respiratory therapy is helping. Although,” he added with a grimace, “I suspect the chest physiotherapy may leave bruises.” For the last several days, he had spent several intervals lying on his side, while Evan pounded his torso until he felt like a side of beef. He had to admit that it was easier to breathe after those sessions, though. He reached for the incentive spirometer. “This will only take a minute.”

Jim chuckled. “Your boys have been telling me horror stories about the lengths you’ll go to in order to flout medical orders.” He shook his head. “I’m just not seeing it.”

Bruce exhaled, closed his lips tightly around the sprirometer’s mouthpiece, and inhaled slowly. He timed six seconds mentally and then exhaled again. Jim watched with interest as he repeated the process a further nine times. Then he put the machine back on the night table. “It was explained to me,” he said, “that failure to comply in this instance might not be advisable when my lawyer is attempting to prove my sanity.” He shook his head at Jim’s laughter. “Dick may have a point. Besides,” he added, “it’s not as though I have anything else to occupy myself with between visits.”

“Ah.” Jim understood. “I remember the boredom from my last hospital stay.”

Bruce sighed. “The painkillers make it difficult for me to concentrate enough to read.” He gestured vaguely to the stack of Ellery Queen magazines next to the spirometer. “It’s getting better, but not quickly enough. And yes,” he added, “I do realize that if I’m bored, it’s a positive sign. It’s still… unpleasant.” He leaned back against the pillows.

“I’m told,” Jim said, “that you’ll probably get a television once you get into Intermediate Care.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine that the quality of programming has improved in the last two years.”

His eyelids felt heavier. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Sorry I’m not better company just…”

Jim’s hand was at his temple. “The meds. I know.” He smiled. “Rest easy, son. I’ll let myself out.”

His gaze rested for a moment on Bruce’s hand, where the IV tube connected. “Bruce,” he said frowning at the red blotches, “do you have any allergies they need to know about, here? I think you’re breaking out.”

There was no answer. Jim shrugged tolerantly. Whatever it was, Bruce was probably already in the best place to have the matter attended to.