No Next of Kin


AUTHOR: ericaphile



E-MAIL: ericaphile@hotmail.com



RATING: PG, for language



SUMMARY: Nick's under the weather.



AUTHOR'S NOTES: The timeline is very early in Season I.
 
I've had a very good time reading all the fanfic in this group. I
only started watching the Guardian a few months ago. I missed most
of the first season although I've read the transcripts to check on
the details from iconic soup's site. English isn't my first language
so feedback will be nice. With fingers crossed, I'm posting this





…………………….


The lights of Pittsburgh cast a glow through the windows of CLS.
Although James didn't have a window in his office, he could work by
the light of the single lamp that was turned on because of all the
glass on his front wall. The dust at the CLS had finally settled
this Tuesday night. Mondays and Tuesdays were frantic days of the
week in the clinic, a result of most people's grappling with their
children's legal issues over the weekend then with a firm resolve
gathered, they flock to CLS to obtain the legal help they needed.

Alvin assigned a lot of new cases on Mondays, too, and James just
finished reviewing them. He leaned back on his chair and rolled his
neck to get the crick out. He decided to call it a night and stood
up and started clearing his desk. Six thirty already, he noted as he
glanced at his wristwatch.

From his open door, he heard a cough from the meeting room. He knew
Nick just dropped in an hour ago and had promptly fired up the coffee
maker. He'd said he needed to get more work done after a day at his
law office.

James had to hand it to Nick. Fallin wasn't the first one who had to
do community service at CLS. The clinic has had its share of
probationers. But Nick, James had to admit, was one of the hardest
working. In the few months he'd been here, voluntary or not, Nick
consistently stayed well beyond the time Alvin and James spent here.
At first, Alvin told James in confidence to keep an eye on Nick.

Probationers at CLS had been known for crazy stunts, like petty theft
in the office, general vandalism and one time, a probationer doctor
even threatened to jump out the window. From James' experience,
those who fell farther from grace are the ones who tend to crash
most. But Nick was turning out all right, after the first few rough
weeks when he practically ordered everyone to do his due diligence.
Another reason Alvin wanted James to watch out for Nick was due to
the probationer's inexperience in court. He said so himself, when he
was assigned the first few cases.

James could see that Nick's current zeal for CLS work was based on
the challenge of winning in court. Winning to Nick meant everything;
he's one person who truly believed the end justified the means. He
was one cold fish, still basically unaware that the cases were
people, not files, not manila folders with facts that had to be
gathered up that morning then dispensed with as the court schedules
went through its day, to be forgotten after a few minutes. Clients
were people with their own lives. In CLS, desperate clients with
desperate lives.

James shook his head ruefully. The nearest Nick probably ever
encountered desperate people was in raves and clubs, people wanting
their next hits. In all of James' experience, the closest he'd ever
encountered people like Nick was—-never.  That white boy was so white!  
James bet Nick was hopeless on the basketball court.

He heard another cough from the next office, followed by a longer
coughing fit then a sniff.

"Hey, Nick, you all right?" James called out as he gathered up his
lunch kit and coat. He stepped out of his own office for a few
minutes, casting a critical eye on Nick through the door of the
meeting room. It wouldn't do if Nick were doing coke in the clinic's
premises. Alvin hid his bottles and it wasn't illegal to have
alcohol in an office. Cocaine, on the other hand, was entirely
different. If a client, or worse, a child got their hands on it,
well…

The meeting room table was clean, from what James could see of it.
Nick however had his face in his handkerchief, coughing and sneezing
into it. James dropped his guard.

"I'm fine. I've been coughing all weekend," Nick replied.

James took a final look at his own office, trying to remember if he
forgot something. He had a familiar sinking feeling. "Oh, shit."
He hurried back to his desk, when he saw the purple file folder at
the very bottom of the pile. He dropped the things he had in his
hand then perused the folder. He was supposed to call Sherry's
grandmother in Scranton to double check the social worker's report.
And Sherry's shelter hearing was tomorrow. He looked at the time
then made the call.

Sherry's grandmother was in the middle of dinner and it took more
than twenty minutes to get her to cooperate and answer questions that
James posed to verify the facts the social worker unearthed about
Sherry's mother. By the time James was satisfied with her answers
and hung up the phone, it was past seven.

Once again, he collected his things, turned off the lamp in his
office and shut his door. Only the lights in the meeting room and
the bullpen remained. James' eyes narrowed when he saw Nick slumped
on the table.

"Hey, Nick? You okay, buddy?" James rapped on the meeting room
glass window. He was near enough that he heard Nick's audible intake
of breath.

"Nick?"

"I c-can't…breathe." Nick wheezed out, as he loosened his
necktie.

James sprang into action. He dropped whatever he had in his hands,
and rapidly went by Nick's side. He heard the wheezing.

"You have asthma, Nick?" James asked as he reached for Nick's wrist
and felt for his pulse. It was very rapid but strong. He wasn't
turning blue either. Nick shook his head when James repeated the
question.

James did a rapid calculation. From experience, he knew the
ambulance could get here in three minutes. Three years ago, a
client's father collapsed from a heart attack right in front of
Barbara. After that, Alvin ordered every member of the CLS staff to
take CPR courses every 6 months. James had his refresher course only
three months ago. Nick didn't need CPR yet, but James could bring
him to the hospital in much the same time as an ambulance. He
grabbed Nick's arm and his coat and headed to the elevator.

"Come on, I'll take you to the hospital." In the short ride in the
elevator, Nick shrugged into his coat with James satisfied that Nick
could still breathe. He was making short, barking coughs, too.
Fortunately for Nick, James had parked right by the building and they
didn't have to cross the street to the car park.

"How long have you had this cough?" James asked casually once they
were on their way. He couldn't keep an eye on Nick and drive at the
same time, but if Nick could talk, it meant he still had enough
oxygen in his lungs.

"Started last Friday," Nick replied.

James drove through two red lights with his hazard lights turned on.
Pittsburgh County was only three blocks away and with the rush hour
essentially over, he had Nick by the door of the ER in less than two
minutes. His flashing lights attracted the attention of two medical
personnel and he sighed with relief as Nick got out and was brought
in.

James parked his car and hurried to the ER. He found Nick on a
stretcher surrounded by more people and James was hustled off the
floor by a huge orderly and ordered to go to the waiting room. This
certainly wasn't a slow night at Pittsburgh County. Was there ever a
slow night at Pittsburgh County Hospital, James wondered as he
gingerly made his way through the waiting throng of friends and
relatives before he found a seat. The ethnic mix of the waiting room
was mixed, indeed. Nick was a long way from Pittsburgh Memorial or
Presbyterian Hospital, where the more genteel folk of Pittsburgh
prefer to be treated, James thought.

He cooled his heels for half an hour before James suddenly remembered
Alvin's admonition to watch out for Nick. Should he call Alvin?
James got up from the uncomfortable fiberglass seat and lined up at
the telephones.

"Nicholas Fallin? Who's with Nicholas Fallin?"

James' hand shot up automatically from where he stood at the line of
telephones. He approached the nurse holding a plastic bag and a
clipboard.

"Are you a relative?" The nurse asked in a bored voice. James looked
incredulously back at him.


"Am I a relative?!" he exclaimed. "Did you take a good look at your
patient? I'm a friend."

"Mister, here are his personal effects," the nurse dumped the plastic
bag in James' arms. "If you are a friend, I suggest you call a
relative. He had a moderately severe asthma attack from his
pneumonia, but the bronchodilators have taken effect and he's
breathing easier now."

"Can I go see him?"

"Not yet. We'll call you again." Before James could say anything
more, the nurse turned on his heel and went through the swinging
doors and into the restricted area.

James shook his head, lined up at the telephones once again then
while waiting, rooted in the plastic bag for Nick's wallet. He
stared in mute incomprehension when he flipped it open. The ID's
James found in the wallet didn't have a next of kin. What the
f…? Nick's driver's license had Nick's address, organ donor
consent and blood type; his other ID's had all the blanks filled in
diligently with information, but each next of kin blank was empty.

He went through the wallet once more and found Nick's calling cards
at Fallin and Associates. Once James reached the head of the line,
he made the call to Nick's office. Just his luck, no one answered.
James wracked his brain, trying to remember the senior Fallin's name
as he went through the tattered phone book. He remembered Nick's
father from a CLE session he attended a year ago at the Radisson, but
his name escaped James' mind at the moment. There were about ten
Fallins in the phone book but none were familiar.

"Relative of Nicholas Fallin?" Someone called out again.

James ran to the front where another harassed looking nurse stood.

"You're not a relative," she said suspiciously. James rolled his
eyes. Tall, black man out to con the hospital? The stereotypical
response was something he was used to.

"I'm Attorney James Mooney, a friend," James stressed his title,
holding up the white plastic bag with the Pittsburgh County Hospital
logo and Nick's name magic markered on it. "I have his things with
me."

"You can go in." She held the door open for him. "Turn right, then
left through the red double doors."

James found Nick sitting up on a narrow ER bed where a resident in
scrubs and a white coat was talking to him. Nick certainly looked
better than two hours ago.

"Your friend can go home," the doctor announced, handing James a
prescription. "Pretty powerful antibiotics here and asthma
medicines. Nick, we talked about the nebulizer you have to get
tonight. You can get it at the hospital pharmacy but I suggest going
to Rite Aid, where the lines are shorter."

Nick nodded impatiently.

The doctor turned to face James. "He has the bug that's been
going around, but for some reason, his turned for the worse. We
pumped him up with IV antibiotics and nebulized him. He's much
better now. Not admittable. But he has to stay home and rest for two
weeks. Two weeks, Nick. The antibiotics won't kick in until two
days. Which means he can't go home, to his home, I mean where I
understand,he lives alone?"

James shrugged. He knew nothing of Nick's living arrangements
despite the probationer having gone to CLS almost daily for the last
four months.

"And Nick, you have a very high fever. At home, don't wrap up under
thick blankets or else you'll make your fever worse. Even with the
antipyretics, mucolytics and antibiotics, we don't expect the
fever to fully lyse until the third day. So, any questions?"

"None," Nick replied as he got back into his coat. The doctor left
their curtained cubicle. A nurse gave last minute instructions on
how to use the nebulizer, and then Nick was free and clear to go.

"Thanks, James," Nick mumbled uncomfortably as he slid off the high
ER bed and walked to the exit. "I owe you big time for this."

"Let's fill this prescription and get the other stuff you need,"
James brushed off Nick's gratitude to avoid embarrassing them both.
They returned to James' car and got in. James turned up the heat to
maximum, finally noticing how Nick lay back exhaustedly in the seat.
Despite Nick's protests, James left the engine running at the Rite
Aid. He'd noticed how Nick shivered in his coat in the short walk
from the ER doors to the car. James filled the prescription himself
and got the other stuff from the doctor's list. In ten minutes, he
was back in the car to find Nick dozing off.

"Hey, Nick," James nudged him awake. "Your parents--their address?"

"What?" Nick exclaimed crabbily through chattering teeth. "I live in
Shadyside. Please t-take me back to the clinic so I can drive myself
home."

"Nick, I heard the doctor," James countered just as crabbily. It was
ten at night and he was tired, too. "You're not to spend the night
alone in case you have another asthma attack. You can't drive home
either, because I have the keys to the Beemer. I'll park it where it
can't get towed. So what part of town do your parents live?"

"I'm fine," Nick said through gritted teeth. "I-I know you mean
well, but I just want to go home. I'll be out of your hair if you
take me back to the clinic where I can get my car."

"I'll take you home," James cut in grimly, finally fed up with this
ungrateful spoiled brat and his abrupt mood swings. God, after all
he'd done for him tonight! "I'll never hear the end of it from
Alvin if you crash your car on the highway. Now shut up."

An uncomfortable silence descended as James made a turn for the
highway. He was alone with his thoughts after ten minutes when Nick
finally nodded off once again. James found his way to Nick's house.
He still remembered Nick's address from his driver's license; with
James' photographic memory, very handy for law school, he even
remembered the number on Ellsworth Avenue. Nick's street was
fortunately easy to find.

So this is what corporate law could buy, James muttered to himself as
he stopped the car at Nick's front stoop. The house was huge for a
single guy, obviously bought for investment purposes. James knew
Nick easily made nine or ten times the money he did, but he sure
wasn't happy with all that wealth. And now, he was sick as a dog,
too, probably from burning the candle at both ends. He didn't even
have anyone to call on when he was sick. Asking for his parents'
address was like pulling teeth.

James abruptly felt sorry for him. Suddenly, growing up in a two-
room apartment with Grandma Annie looked much better to James. He
knew that if he ever called her from Pittsburgh County because of
pneumonia, she'd move heaven and earth to get there probably even
borrow money for the taxi then take him home to nurse him back to
health. In Nick's world, he was coming home to a colorless,
completely dark huge house. No wonder Nick was one cold fish.

Maybe because the car was at a standstill, Nick woke up abruptly.

"You're home," James announced.

"James, thanks," Nick rasped as he picked up all his stuff from James
and stepped out of the car.

"Get some rest, man," James admonished him. "Call if you need
anything. Better yet, give your mom a call and tell her what
happened. Or a--a girlfriend…?"

"I'll be fine," was the terse answer.

The streetlamp illuminated Nick's sudden icy glare. Once more, James
wondered what was with this arrogant guy. He had enough from Nick.
He drove away, just as angry and puzzled.
 
……………………………


 
Part 2

Nick fumbled for his keys from the hospital plastic bag with his
personal effects. He was chilled to the bone and sighed with relief
the moment he stepped into the foyer of his house. He immediately
walked over to the thermostat and cranked it up five degrees before
going to the kitchen. His throat was so dry and his tongue had a
funny furry feeling.

The refrigerator was almost empty, but Nick only wanted orange juice
anyway and he had lots of that. He gulped down a glass and a half
before he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, balancing his second
glass of orange juice with the box of the nebulizer and his paper bag
of prescription medications. He sat on his bed and closed his eyes
from sheer fatigue. Every muscle in his body ached and even in the
warmth and safety of his bedroom, still in his coat, he shivered once
more.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open; he'd almost fallen asleep sitting up.
He shook his head to clear it, dug through the Rite Aid prescription
bag and popped two Tylenols and one capsule of the antibiotic in his
mouth and washed it down with juice. He swallowed down another pink
pill. After a few more minutes, he finally shed his topcoat and suit
jacket, uncharacteristically leaving these draped on the footboard of
his bed.

He undressed and went to the bathroom where he took some minutes
brushing his teeth to get the nagging taste out of his mouth. This
aggravated another round of coughing and he spat out green phlegm
into the sink. Finally, he got into bed and was asleep even before
his head touched the pillows.

…………………….

He couldn't breathe.

Nick woke up, coughing and wheezing, kicking away the bedclothes as
he sat up to catch his breath. He could feel the whistling of each
lungful of air, which warred with the gunk he was trying to cough
up. He was near panicking when it seemed he wasn't getting enough
oxygen, his heart pounding in his chest. Nick's fear upped a
notch when he realized he was alone.

And he couldn't breathe!

His panic ebbed as he took stock of his situation. His bedside clock
showed it was five in the morning. Nick consciously slowed his
breathing and looked around for the nebulizer. He recalled the final
instructions given by the Pittsburgh County nurse. Fortunately, Nick
left all the lights in his room switched on when he turned in last
night so he reached for the apparatus and poured the medications into
the canister. Then he tackled all the tubes and attached it to the
facemask. With the nebulizer switched on, he placed the mask over
his face and let the micronized medicines clear his starving lungs.

In a few short minutes, Nick's wheezing subsided significantly.
The next cough issuing from his throat was looser, still with the
rattling sound but the tightening with each breath was gone. He
abruptly stood up on rubbery knees, pushing away the facemask and ran
to the bathroom where he spat out more green phlegm into the sink.
He tiredly rinsed out his mouth and was relieved to find that he
could inhale deeply once again.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, Nick wearily remembered James'
well-intentioned remark about calling his mother.

…………………………..

He was too warm. Nick woke up slowly, the discomfort of a high fever
penetrating his nightmare-laced sleep. He couldn't even move without
groaning, his muscles protesting and aching each time he tried to
seek a comfortable position. He twisted under the covers and then
peeled off the top layer of comforter, relying on the sheet to cover
him. Then he opened an eye and groggily noted the bedside clock read
9:45.

He'd never slept in this late, not even at the height of his partying
days, the heady time right after law school when he worked at Swann
and Cranston. He remembered all of his appointments today, the
meeting at eleven with the financial officers of Troika Industries,
then the shelter hearing at two. Nick made a motion to get up but
his limbs were molasses, not moving the way he wanted. He kicked off
the sheet and attempted to think through his fierce headache.

He coughed once more then rubbed his eyes to clear his thinking.
Nick reached out for his ear thermometer and checked his
temperature. The digital readout showed 104 degrees. No wonder he
felt so lousy. When he put back the thermometer onto the nightstand,
he thirstily drank the last of the juice, downing another antibiotic
and two Tylenols with it. He was so shaky that he even spilled some
of the liquid onto the sheets.

Next, he reached for the bedside telephone and called the office.
One of the newer secretaries, Michelle, answered his call.

"I can't go to work today," Nick croaked into the phone. "Can you
tell Jake to cover for me?"

"He's in a meeting right now, sir," Michelle answered.

"You tell him he should cover for me," Nick mumbled. "Can you do
that?"

"Yes, Nick."

He switched off the phone. He didn't think he needed to call CLS.
James could fill in everybody.

………………………

Nick groaned when the telephone rang an hour later. He fumbled for
it, and then dropped it. He reached out for it on the floor.

"Hey, Nicholas? What is with you? What are you doing home? You
haven't checked your voice mail." Burton Fallin was on the other end.

"The Troika merger…" Nick was so hoarse, he croaked out the
words. He left his cell phone at CLS and Michelle obviously didn't
relay his message.

"Chapman is onto it," Burton said impatiently. "We need the Pacific
Cable file, Nick. Do you have it? Didn't I tell you to follow
procedures by the book? Every first-year associate knows better than
to keep the files in their possession without notation from upstairs."

"It's—it's in my office," Nick's mind raced, his head a pounding
throb due to the fever.

"That's the first place we looked, we've combed your desk through,"
Burton barked in exasperation. "Do you know where else it could
be?'

"The bottom filing cabinet behind my desk," Nick suddenly
remembered. "The key's in my pencil holder."

He heard his father yell at Jake. Nick could hear the hubbub in the
background, then a few seconds later, Jake must have returned. Nick
had misgivings about Jake rooting through his personal files, but
then it can't be helped at this point.

"We have it," Burton snapped with relief. "I shouldn't be doing this
crap, running after the files you take but don't sign out for."

"Yes, sir," Nick mumbled tiredly. He had that sinking feeling he'd
screwed up again at work. Once more, Jake witnessed his dad chewing
him out over the phone. By the afternoon, the others would know and
Amanda would give him her intolerable sympathetic looks the moment he
stepped into F & A.

He recalled what happened a few hours ago and sat up reluctantly to
use the nebulizer once again. He felt like he was on a bad trip.
The nightmares he had before he woke up, the feeling of unreality
when Dad called and his foggy response to Dad's questions, the way
his body was moving so slowly as if it wasn't his own, and most of
all, using this damned contraption.

He forced himself to get up after the nebulizer's stuttering finish.
He took a leak, then a very quick shower. He rarely used pajamas,
but he felt it was called for considering he was chilled most of the
time even with all the bedclothes piled on him. He really wanted a
shave but with his shaky hands, he doubted he could do it without
nicking himself. Nick checked his temperature again. Down to 103.5
degrees. Whoopee.

He remembered the doctor telling him he shouldn't be taking the
antibiotics on an empty stomach. A short shaky trip to the kitchen
for a meager meal of crackers and more of the juice. He shuffled to
the den where he turned on the television. Occasionally, he would
have spasms of coughing, somewhat relieved by sips of water.
Predictably, he nodded off, totally wiped out by his illness.

…………………………

Nick woke up abruptly when he heard gunfire. Geez. It was the
television tuned to a documentary.

The house was completely dark except for the light from the
television. His hands and feet were freezing. He moved around the
lower floor of his house like an old man, all the aches and pains
magnified after spending hours sleeping on the couch with his head on
the armrest. He was hungry this time, really hungry. It's been more
than 24 hours since he last had real food.

The hunt through the refrigerator yielded one lone egg. He scrambled
it, zapped it in the microwave and made a sandwich; then tore off a
banana from the bunch. He went back to the den and ate in front of
the television. After the small dinner, brushed his teeth, took his
medications then went straight to bed.

…………………………

The next morning, Thursday, Nick called Jake and told him he wouldn't
be able to get in today. The next asthma attack happened midmorning,
milder this time and it didn't scare him as much. He noticed he was
coughing much less although his fever was still up at 104.

The telephone rang and Nick braced himself for a continuation of his
father's tirade on Punctuality, Consistency, Reliability, and, most
of all, Responsibility. After his arrest and probation, there were
only two things Dad ever called about: work and the PCRR's (as Nick
called it to himself). Midmorning on a Thursday and he wasn't at
F&A? Definitely, a PCRR.

For a second, he planned on having the machine pick up. But old
habits were hard to break and he steeled himself for the verbal
assault that was to come. His mental preparation was for naught,
however, when he heard Barbara's voice from CLS. He noticeably
slumped back into the pillows in relief.

"Nick, I heard you were unwell," Barbara sympathetically clucked. "I
hope you're better and getting some rest. Don't worry about your
things here. Your cell phone and briefcase are safe with me. Do you
want someone to drop if off at your place?"

Barbara was so easy to get along with, someone so talkative and warm
that Nick never needed to say much around her except a yes or no. He
demurred, telling her she could keep his things until he returned to
CLS in a few more days. The last thing he wanted was for people
dropping by and seeing him when he wasn't his best. She hung up
shortly, after wishing he get well soon.

He finally had groceries delivered. With all his free time, he might
as well stock up his pantry. He had an improved lunch of tomato
soup. This time, he had Mom's warm afghan with him in the den as he
curled up on the couch for a rare afternoon in front of the
television. He was getting better, the nagging headache was gone and
he could actually concentrate on the program.

If only he could be spared another PCRR call.
 
----------------
 
Part 3
 
Burton parked his Cadillac in front of Nick's house and stepped onto
the sidewalk. He'd slowly driven on Ellsworth Avenue and hadn't seen
Nick's car parked on either side of the street. He had a nagging
suspicion of what was going on with his son and wanted to confirm
it. It had only been four months since Nick started serving his
sentence. He missed three meetings at the firm this week and the
associates were giving Burton these shy, sympathetic looks as if they
knew something he didn't. Very much how it was at the firm before
the drug possession charges blew up in their faces last year.

The associates and paralegals knew Nick was using, but Burton was
oblivious that was why last year's revelation of possession had
struck Burton unawares. He finally learned to monitor Nick for signs
of drug usage, educating himself on what to watch out for. All the
calls Burton made to Nick's cell phone went unanswered and the one
time Burton called Nick's house yesterday, he was momentarily
startled with Nick's groggy voice at eleven in the morning. He'd
been drinking, Burton thought, wondering if that was more preferable
to doing drugs. Burton already left three messages on Nick's home
answering machine this afternoon and no calls were returned. If his
car wasn't in the vicinity, was Nicholas even in his house?

The past month, he'd tried to give Nick some slack, but his son
continued to infuriate him with his tardiness at the firm's meetings
and occasional outright absences. The associates were covering for
him; Burton wasn't blind. It wouldn't be long before they would
start resenting Nick if he persisted with the way things were going.
And if they resented Nick for piling work on them, it wouldn't be
long if they also start seeing Burton as a bad boss.

The partners were beginning to talk and Landsburg even confronted him
two weeks ago and voiced his doubts that Nicholas could handle the
workload of both F & A and CLS. So Burton swung to the opposite side
of the pendulum and he'd been keeping a close eye on Nick since,
which resulted in more dressing downs than usual.

Burton went up the stoop to Nicholas' front door and to his dismay,
found all the windows dark as the night, seemingly empty. He knocked
then rang the doorbell but the door went unanswered. Burton then
went over to the left side of the house where the kitchen was, again
ringing the doorbell. He leaned on the doorbell some more and
finally, the light in the kitchen was switched on and the door opened.

Nicholas stood there in his bare feet and pajamas, with his arms
crossed around his chest. Burton entered, all the while taking a
close look at his son, his general disheveled appearance and the red-
rimmed eyes. The stubble was totally uncharacteristic of his son.
Burton's anger flared.

"Why weren't you at work" He snapped. "What have you been doing home
the whole day?"

"I called Michelle yesterday and Jake, today," Nick said
defensively. "I—I told them I couldn't come to work."

"We all assumed you had something going at that—children's
services thing." Burton argued. "Then I find you here. Have you been
drinking—or…" Burton couldn't finish.

Nick's face was stony, thus Burton restrained himself.

"I haven't been drinking and I haven't done coke," Nick said
tersely.

"We have a meeting with Pacific Cable tomorrow; Jake's drafting the
opinion letter which was supposed to be your job," Burton retorted
sharply. "You should be there. On. Time."

"I'll be there." Nicholas abruptly went past him and held open the
kitchen door for him, an obvious sign to leave.

……………………………….

Good, Burton thought as he glanced around the conference table and
found Nick at the other end. Eight in the morning at F & A on a
Friday, when the biggest deals of the week were made. Pacific Cable
Company was going to buy up the two small cable television outfits
that serviced the rural towns of southern Pennsylvania. Jake did the
presentation, and Burton did the wheeling and dealing. At half-past
ten, all sides finally agreed to abide by the amounts and conditions
set, and the clients finally left.

Burton went back to his office, stopping by Sheila's desk. Then as
he stood by his office's anteroom, he heard Gretchen call out to him
from the receiving area of the firm. He turned around to find a
heavy set woman with striking red hair talking with Gretchen, who had
a puzzled frown on her face.

Sensing Gretchen's confusion, Burton went over to them.

"Mr. Fallin, this is Barbara Ludzinski from Nick's…" Gretchen was
at a loss.

"I'm from CLS, Mr. Fallin," Barbara shook his hand, noticing Burton's
blank look. "Where Nick has his community service? I dropped off
his car downstairs, and here are his things: his briefcase, his cell
phone's inside. I must say, I've died and gone to heaven after
driving around town in THAT car—"

"Whoa, whoa," Burton couldn't make heads or tails of her
statements. "You have his—things and his car?"

"Yes," Barbara said cheerfully, dropping Nick's car keys into his
palm. "I hope he's feeling better. James and Alvin said we couldn't
keep his car too long in that part of the town. With the clinic
empty on weekends, you'll never know what might happen to it."

"Nick feeling better?" Burton scratched his head, straining his neck
to see if Nicholas was still in the conference room, which was
already devoid of people.

"From what James said, Nick was really sick last Tuesday when he
brought him to Pittsburgh County?" It was Barbara's turn to be
confused when it dawned on her that Burton didn't know what she was
yapping on about. "But I talked to Nick yesterday and he said he was
better." She finished lamely, trying to salvage the situation to
save both parties from mutual embarrassment.

"Oh, yes, Ms. Ludzinski, thank you so much for all your trouble." He
scooped up Nick's briefcase under his arm. "Do you need a ride back
to—to CLS?"

"Oh, don't bother, Mr. Fallin. Alvin gave me the rest of Friday off
so I can start my weekend early. I'm going to Lightstone's for
window-shopping. Please send Nick my regards."

"I'll do that." He shook Barbara's hand once again and saw her off
at the door. "Thank you very much."

Once she got on the elevator, Burton's shoulder's sagged. He found
Gretchen avoiding his eye, where she tried to look busy fumbling with
her telephone headset.

Nicholas was ill, and everyone at the community service place knew.
No one at F&A knew and, Burton least of all. He even accused his own
son of drinking and using drugs, and callously ordered him to go to
work today.

Nick was in his office; elbow on the desk and chin in hand, but with
his eyes closed. Burton couldn't tell if he was asleep. His son
gave a start when Burton placed the briefcase and car key in front of
him. Burton's long-buried paternal instincts were rusty and only now
did he notice Nick's significant weight loss and the dark circles
under his eyes.

"A Ms. Ludzinski dropped this off at the front desk," Burton
said. "Son, you didn't tell me you were sick."

"I'm fine," Nick unlatched the briefcase and took out his cell phone.

"Nicholas, you should go home."

"I'm fine." Nicholas repeated tightly as he switched on the phone and
it beeped to life with a barrage of noises Burton couldn't make heads
or tails of. Nick took out papers and folders from the briefcase and
laid it out in front of him. "I'll stay here and work, I'll take my
pills, the legal ones, and drink lots of fluids."

"Nick, I am—I'm, uh…think you should rest." Nick ignored him
and continued flipping through a file.

Burton reluctantly left Nick at his desk, from where his son refused
to budge.

………………………….

For the rest of Friday, Burton kept a surreptitious eye on Nicholas.
Fortunately, Burton didn't have meetings away from the Frick today.
He passed by the hallway at the rear offices of F&A more often than
he normally did, freaking out associates who mistakenly thought
Burton was checking up on them. Each time he passed by Nick's open
door, Burton only heard an occasional cough.

He himself got caught up in the work and suddenly at seven in the
evening, remembered to check if Nicholas had gone home. His son's
office was empty and Amanda verified that Nick left hours ago.

Burton wrapped up all the things on his desk and called it a night
himself. He drove to Shadyside, where he lived less than a mile from
Nick. He doubted if Nicholas would tolerate him after his
accusations last night. However, Burton took the time to pass by his
son's house, noting the BMW parked right in front of the house.
Again, like last night, the whole house was dark. This time, the
kitchen doorbell went unanswered.

Burton hurried to his car, grabbed the flashlight from the glove
compartment then went to each of the large planters by the kitchen
door. He'd suggested that Nick leave a key under one of the planters
when Nick moved in, for emergencies. Burton didn't actually know if
Nick followed his instructions, but short of kicking the door in, he
had to search for it first. The key was under the smallest planter.
Burton opened the door and switched on every light switch he could
find in the kitchen.

"Nick?" Burton called. "Nicholas?!"

The kitchen breakfast nook was unused save for an empty drinking
glass on the table. Nicholas moved into this house a month ago and
the hallway only contained the telephone and answering machine on a
stand. Burton's sharp blue eyes caught the empty cradle on the
cordless phone. The living room was sparsely furnished, but his son
wasn't there either.

Burton vaguely knew, from the single time he'd been here, there was a
separate room at the back where the television was. With bated
breath, Burton headed for that room and fumbled against the wall for
the light switch. At first, Burton felt deflated. All he could see
was the back of the sofa, which seemed empty. Fortunately, he caught
sight of a bare foot dangling from the armrest.

"Nicholas?" He rushed to the front of the sofa and found his son
under an old blanket. Burton sat on the coffee table opposite the
sofa. "Nicholas?"

Nick stirred but didn't open his eyes. Burton reached over and felt
Nick's forehead with the back of his hand; Nick was burning up.

"Hey," Burton murmured gently as Nick finally opened his eyes. Nick
drew away when he felt his father's hand on him. "How are you?"

Nick sat up slowly and the cordless handset and television remote
fell from his lap to the floor. His wan face and pinched look
verified to Burton that his son was not well at all. With his curly
hair in disarray and dressed in crumpled flannel pajamas, Nick
reminded Burton of the little boy he used to be. "You hungry?
Thirsty?"

A fit of coughing was the only answer. Burton stood up and went to
the kitchen. After taking off his coat and hat, he returned to the
den with a glass of water. Nick took the glass gratefully and drank
it down in one gulp.

"What time is it?" Nick's voice cracked after he cleared his throat.

Burton glanced at his watch. "Nine o'clock. You go on up to bed.
I'll fix you some food."

"Dad, I can take care of..."

"Go up to bed and I'll bring you your dinner." Burton made sure his
tone of voice brooked no argument.

Nick shuffled out of the den, all the more worrying Burton. He
really was sick if he didn't protest being ordered around in his own
house, Burton thought. Especially after what I told him yesterday.

…………………………..

With a plate of grilled cheese and tomato sandwich in one hand and
the other with a tall glass of milk, Burton went up to Nick's
bedroom. He found Nick half-awake but with that particular set of
his lower jaw, which meant he was ruminating over something.

"Eat up, son," Burton said as he placed the food on the
nightstand. "Eat while it's hot."

Nick sat up on the bed and reached for a triangle half of the
sandwich but paused.

"Dad, about the Pacific Cable…"

"We don't have to talk about that now," Burton replied. "You're
looking a little peaked. Better get some food into you. Have you
taken your medications?"

Nick nodded then swallowed his first bite of the grilled cheese
sandwich.

"Well, what did the doctors say you have?" Burton surveyed the
bedroom, and then set to work straightening up the place. The shirt,
socks and handkerchief he put into the hamper while he carefully
placed the discarded suit onto a hanger, noting that the label in the
suit's inner lining was some unpronounceable Italian name.

"Pneumonia."

Burton almost dropped the suit from his grasp.

"Shouldn't you have told me about this?" Burton said brusquely.
"Nick, I wished you'd told me specifically what was wrong with you."
Burton ran a hand over the back of his head, exhaling another
exasperated sigh. "The doctors said you'd have lung problems, that's
why Mom always went cuckoo the moment she heard you cough."

"I had this before?" Nick queried and it was followed by another
mild cough.

"Yes, you were two," Burton said. "Nicholas, you almost..."

Burton checked himself before he revealed too much. He recalled how
sick Nick was and how frantic they'd been when he took a turn for the
worse. Anne had always overprotected their son, coming after two
miscarriages before he was born and three more after. However, two-
year-old Nicholas had to be attached to a respirator to help him
breathe; in those days, being on a respirator meant the patient was
literally dying. The tubes coming in and out of his little body had
multiplied at an alarming rate as the pneumonia progressed.

Nick miraculously recovered, and as a result, he became more of
Anne's son. Nick rarely left Anne's side and Burton found himself a
mere satellite in his own family with Anne and Nick at its center.
His smoking was another wedge between him and the two of them. Anne
didn't want him around Nick when he smoked.

Because he was busy starting the firm when Nick was four years old,
Burton was only too glad mother and son were very close. The
closeness, though, had major repercussions after the divorce and
Anne's subsequent death. Much as Burton hated to admit it, Nick's
relationship with him was forever colored by Anne's hostility to her
husband. The resentment towards his father only increased a hundred-
fold with Anne's death at such a critical time in Nick's life.

"Once you were on the swim team and didn't have any problems, I
figured you'd gotten over it," Burton explained as he continued to
fix up Nick's room and put a sense of order in the chaotic adjoining
bathroom. He noted with satisfaction that the sandwich on the plate
was gone. "Hello, what is this?" He held up the nebulizer Nick kept
plugged at his other nightstand.

"It's for asthma," Nick responded. He wiped off his milk moustache
with a pajama sleeve.

"Shouldn't you be in the hospital?" Burton was jolted. Not again!
All he could think of was little Nicholas going blue in the face and
that terrible wheezing, a sound Burton would never forget. "The
doctors said the asthma could reactivate on top of a pneumonia, or
any lung condition."

"I WAS in the hospital, Dad," Nick's voice continued to fade as his
full stomach encouraged sleep to overtake him once again. "They sent
me home with this and…"

Burton looked up from what he was doing and found Nick sound asleep.
Heaving a sigh, Burton went over to the other side of the bed,
brushed off the crumbs that dotted Nick and arranged the bedclothes
over him.

No use interrogating Nick on who saw him at Pittsburgh County, if it
was a resident or an attending, a pulmonary specialist or a family
physician. Pittsburgh County! Christ, F&A represented the hospital
and Burton knew almost all the malpractice suits the hospital had to
deal with. Why did Nick end up there, of all places?

Parenthood was a never-ending cycle, Burton thought as he used the
ear thermometer to find Nick's temperature was at 101.2. Just when
you thought everything was all right, you have to pick them up and
brush them off at the next stumble. All the years he spent avoiding
being the proper father to his son and this was the payback. All his
fault. Rick Stanton finally told it to his face a week ago, when he
was bemoaning all the trouble Nick's been having lately. Here was
Nick, thirty-one already and not one ounce of common sense in his
head. Burton found a book from a shelf in the guest room and
prepared for the long night ahead. God, he could use a cigarette!


THE END



Former ICU Babies (exhibited by SOME,not ALL):

1.hypersensitive to pain (try to avoid actual painful stimuli or
psychic pain – thus might resort to drug use)

2.touch aversion – difficulty making friends/intimacy issues

3.anaclitic depression (because of sudden absence of parents while
confined at the ICU) – rarely smile even as a child

4.difficulty verbalizing feelings