Burden of Guilt





PREVIOUSLY:
Carefully he was helped to a standing position once again. Both men put an arm around his waist and they continued their trek to the inviting warmth and safety of their broken down vehicle.

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Mark's van was a welcome sight to all three men. It was apparent that Carter was ready to collapse; he was basically dead weight in their arms. Mark opened the back door and both men carefully lowered Carter onto the seat.

"We're going to keep you sitting up so we can get those wet clothes off, and then you can lie down," Mark said as he reached over him to scavenge for something for Carter to change into. "Is your suit jacket in the front seat, Carter?" Mark asked the shivering man.

"Yeah Think so."

"We need something more than his suit jacket. Do you have any other clothes in here?" Peter asked as he checked Carter's pulse again. It was getting a little faster. He frowned anxiously.

"Yeah. We need something warm; fleece or wool maybe," Mark called from the front seat. "I found his jacket. Doesn't look too warm, but it's better then nothing." Mark used his penlight to search the dark car for clothing. He shoved newspapers under the passenger seat out of the way, and came across one of his white T-shirts. He checked underneath the driver's seat, finding some dirty sweat pants, probably stashed there after a long run. He crawled back to the other two men with the clothes that he'd found.

"Pulse is up to 100. When we get him dry, I'll re-examine him," Peter said, moving out of the way. "I'll get your medical bag while you help him take off those wet clothes." Peter got out of the car and walked around to the other side to find the much needed medical instruments. He avoided Mark's confused look, as he was left to the task of helping Carter change.

Mark sat next to Carter, who was resting his head against the inside wall of the van. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be oblivious to everything going on around him. His face was seemed contorted with lines of pain. Some people just never get a break, Mark thought sadly.

"I'm going to remove your shirt and pants, Carter. Try to help me if you can." Carter nodded vaguely. Mark slid his suspenders down, unbuttoned his dress shirt. He didn't want him to have to lift his arms above his head to get his undershirt off, so he called for Peter to give him the scissors from the medical bag.

Peter rummaged through the medical kit, finally locating the desired tool. He wordlessly handed them to Mark, and watched the man cut the wet T-shirt away. Carter was shivering in earnest, so Peter handed the other doctor some paper towels that were lying on the floor of the van. Mark took them and tried to dry Carter's chest and arms. They were quickly soaked through. Mark began dig in his pocket.

"What are you looking for?" Peter asked when Mark came up empty- handed.

"My keys, so we can turn the heater on," Mark said, wondering where he'd left them.

"I've got them. Dammit, I should have thought of that earlier," Peter berated himself as he walked around to the front seat. He slipped the keys into the ignition and turned the heater on full blast. His fingers clumsily searched for the button to switch on the interior light. He finally located the knob and turned it, illuminating the cabin. When he returned to the back he found Mark was having a difficult time getting the new shirt on their patient. Carter seemed to be struggling against him while Mark tried to slide the shirt on him.

"What's going?" Peter asked as he sat down next to them.

"I think he's disoriented," Mark responded as he tried futilely to get Carter's arms into the sleeves. Peter moved closer to Carter and helped slide the combative man's arms through the holes of the shirt.

"Hey, Carter, calm down, man. We're getting you warm," Peter told the struggling doctor comfortingly. Together they completed the difficult task, then attempted to put the suit jacket on too. Carter opened his eyes and looked wildly at both men, clearly having a hard time focusing on either of them.

"What's going on?" he asked in a worried voice. "Where are we?" The simple struggle he had put up seemed to have drained away what little energy he had left. Even in the dim light his face looked pale and sickly.

"You were hit by a car, Carter. Do you remember?" Peter asked, a little nervously. Carter closed his eyes as if trying to recall the memory. When he opened them, it was evident that he knew what was happening.

"Yea, it-i-it took me a second to-remember it."

"Good, okay," Mark said, sounding relieved. "We need to get those wet pants off now." He didn't need to confirm anything with Peter; both knew that severe concussions caused confusion and short-term memory loss.

"I can do it." Carter fumbled with the button of his slacks. He had a hard time getting his fingers to work. "I guess---it's a good thing I don't---wear a belt," Carter said jokingly, his voice shaking.

"I'll help." Mark quickly undid the button and slid the pants off. He gathered the sweatpants in order to put them on quickly, since wet boxers were next to come off, and he wanted to save the man as much embarrassment as possible. Mark heard Peter searching for medical instruments from his bag; a distraction scripted to give Carter privacy. To try to get his mind off the task, Mark asked him a question.

"Why do you wear suspenders, anyway?" he asked, trying to get Carter's leg into the sweatpants.

"My grandfather always wore them. And-well, when you have a high metabolism like my-m-me. Suspenders keep my--pants on--since most belts don't have enough holes." Mark chuckled at this answer, and Carter smiled.

"High metabolism, hmm, explains why you eat like a horse," he replied.

Carter shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position, and quickly regretted it. Blackness clouded his vision and pain ripped through his chest. He put his hand to his injured sternum in a weak attempt to alleviate the pain. Peter brushed past Mark and put on his stethoscope. Peter rubbed the end of the instrument to warm it before placing it under Carter's new shirt. He listened to his lungs, recognizing the sounds of harsh, labored breathing, and carefully repeated the procedure around his abdomen.

"Normal bowel sounds, heart rate up to 110, breath sounds are still shallow. Without proper tests I can't say for certain that you haven't lacerated your liver or your kidney, but I would say that you haven't punctured either of your lungs." Peter squeezed Carter's shoulder reassuringly and slung the stethoscope around his neck.

"Now, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Hmmm, four?" Carter answered woozily.Peter looked over at Mark, and they shared a worried glance. Peter put down the three fingers he had been displaying. "Alright, I want you to track my finger." Peter took his pointer finger and leaned in closer to watch Carter's pupils react to its movement. After a few minutes of very little response, he put his hand down and turned to face Mark.

"What is--it? What's wrong, Dr. Benton?" Carter asked his mentor.

"Nothing, Carter," Mark answered him. "We're just concerned about that bump on your head. You know the drill; you were a bit sluggish reacting to Peter's tests." Mark wanted Benton to understand that it wasn't a good idea to let Carter understand the severity of the situation.

"You don't need to hide anything from me, Dr. Greene," Carter stated through chattering teeth. "I can figure out o--o--on my own what the problem is. I--I was trained by the b--best."

"Obviously you weren't paying attention to the part about needing to finish an examination before making a diagnosis," Peter said, a bit too harshly.

Mark scooted over next to Carter and placed his hands on the younger man's neck, then went about feeling his face and hands. "Peter, could you find my thermometer and check if the heater is on its highest setting?"

"I already looked for one, and there aren't any in your bag. The heater's on full blast. This is as warm as it's going to get in here." Peter's voice was edged in defeat and anxiety.

Mark stood up as much as he could in the cramped car and climbed out and around to where Benton was sitting. "Look, his skin is cold and clammy. We need to do something more to keep him from slipping into further shock. I know I overruled you out in the field, but this isn't the time or place to get angry about it."

"We compromised his health by moving him," Peter said tersely. "I will not let you question my judgment again."

"What happened out there, Peter? You usually like to redirect your anger at others." Mark looked intently at Peter.

"We don't have time to argue right now. How do you suggest we continue with his care, Dr. Greene?" Peter folded his arms across his chest.

"We don't have any blankets or anything. We'll use body heat." Mark turned away and sat down next to Carter. "We can take shifts. Do you want me to go first?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Peter said quietly, as Mark positioned himself behind Carter.

Mark sat behind Carter so he could wrap his arms around him. Carter leaned into the embrace for warmth, and Mark rubbed his hands over Carter's shaking arms. The younger doctor didn't say a word, resting his head on Mark's shoulder. Mark knew from experience that Benton was uptight because he felt helpless at the moment. They were both trained doctors, yet they couldn't do anything for Carter at that moment.

"Don't fall asleep, Carter," Peter warned. "You need to stay awake."

"I-I am awake," Carter whispered. "This is-humiliating."

"It's proper medical procedure, Carter, don't worry about it," Peter said dryly.

Mark was about to say something reassuring when both men heard the sound of an approaching car. Peter awkwardly climbed over the front seat, since Mark and Carter were blocking the path out the back. He frantically yanked at the inside lever and released the door, then jumped out and ran after the sound of the retreating vehicle.

Mark strained his neck to see out the dark window. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear running footsteps. After a few minutes the dejected doctor climbed back into the front seat. He remained still, his head bowed over the steering wheel, resisting the urge to take his frustration out on the instrument panel.

"The car was already driving past us by the time I got outside." Peter stared at the wheel for a few more seconds, only looking up when he heard Carter speaking.

"Don't worry, Dr. Benton, I'll be fine," Carter gasped. That word again.

"Fine." And once again, it was miles away from the truth.

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It had been forty-five minutes, and no more cars had approached. Peter sat in the front seat with the driver side door open a crack, waiting and ready to flag down an approaching vehicle.

Mark was beginning to feel cramped and uncomfortable, and the small talk he was making with Carter was becoming more and more difficult. Mark's fear of hypothermia was fading, as the younger doctor's skin felt warmer and his shaking had subsided. However, it was apparent that he couldn't string together complete sentences, and this had Mark very concerned.

Mark decided to break the silence with Peter. "I think I'm going to try to walk outside and use my cell phone. Maybe I can find an area where the signal might work."

"Isn't that how this situation was created in the first place?" Peter asked solemnly.

"Yeah, well, I don't think waiting for help to find us is going to work. These roads probably get flooded during these intense storms and I doubt we'll be seeing any traffic anytime soon." Mark didn't wait for another rebuke from Benton. He carefully lowered Carter flat on his back feeling each and every grimace that spread across Carter's face as he was moved.

"I think letting him lie flat is the best thing for him right now. Normally I would want to elevate his legs, but I think that would only put further strain on his broken ribs," Mark reasoned, not looking at Peter.

"Moving him around didn't seem to concern you too much earlier," Peter replied stoically as Mark opened the back door of the van to exit. Mark lingered for just a second, letting Peter's words sink into his already burdened conscience. Before he closed the door to keep the wind from blowing in he said quietly, "We all have regrets that cannot be undone, Peter."

The door was slammed shut, leaving Peter alone with Carter. Silently, Peter considered the regrets which weighed the most heavily on his heart at that moment.

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"Why--do--you always--do that?" Cater asked without bothering to look up. Speaking was pure torture; the exercise of inhaling and exhaling was putting a tremendous exertion on what felt like the collapse of his chest cavity. However, the question was one that he often thought about, and always wanted to ask. No time like the present.

"Do what?" Peter asked, frustrated.

"Shut--yourself--down. You're ssssso--scared..."

"Carter, now's not the time to try to analyze me. There's more..." Peter was silenced, not by an angry verbal interruption, but by the feel of someone's hand squeezing his arm. It was not a signal of comfort. It was a gesture that clearly communicated "Shut up!" The grip loosened when it won its desired effect, then remained as one in need of human contact.

Carter could tell it made the surgeon slightly uncomfortable, but for once he didn't care what Dr. Peter Benton thought about him. He needed the reassurance of his presence. The younger doctor resumed his conversation, fighting for every word.

"You're scared to show--any feelings. T-t-that you're human. T-t-that you--care." Carter could feel the tide changing; the wave of pain was starting to take him under. His thoughts were muddled and it was hard to focus on talking. "Its--easier--for you to--be--c-c-cold-- detached." Carter swallowed painfully, his chest compressed by an unbearable weight.

"Stop seeking my approval, Carter. You don't need it anymore." Peter lowered his head, his words soft and genuine. "You've had it for a long time." Instead of seeing happiness, or at least ease, Carter's eyes seemed to be filled with even more sadness.

"I--I know. I-I-I j-just wanted your--friendship." Carter couldn't hold out anymore; finally letting the agony win him over. He groaned as the double images inside the car blurred into an unrecognizable montage of color. Then he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

His hand slipped from Benton's arm and fell unceremoniously to the side. Peter was overwhelmed with an intense fear, and grabbed Carter's wrist to check his pulse. Relief flooded him when he felt it; weak but steady. He moved his hand to grasp the younger man's. He held it tenderly in his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Carefully gathering the unconscious man in his arms, he gently embraced him. His face moist, Peter whispered in his ear, "I've always been your friend."



Part 5
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