Author: doc, who's hoping not to get skewered!
Subject: 'Between a Rock and a Hard Place' -- Part 1a -- October 2007 HBX Challenge


Between a Rock and a Hard Place by doc

AN #1: This is my answer to the October 2007 HBX Challenge.

I’m well aware that I still owe you a September challenge story, but I’m of the opinion if I start at the end and work my way backwards, I just might manage to catch-up…possibly in ‘this’ lifetime.

AN #2: PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTES! YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!

AN #3: I’m banking on the ‘goodwill’ generated from my last piece of ‘fluff’. I’ll warn you up front, this story is a little different and more than a bit dark. It’s been bugging me for a while, nudging at my mind, poking me in the ribs, waking me up at night, insisting on being written. If you don’t like the story…TALK TO THE MUSE! Hopefully my last piece of marshmallow fluff topped with whip cream and sprinkles will buy me a little leniency and PATIENCE.

Okay, stepping off the cliff…

Most of you are aware that Mattie wasn’t my favorite character. I found the storyline more than a little contrived and unrealistic. In the ‘real world’, a single, unrelated, male ‘acquaintance’ living in an open ‘one-room’ loft would NEVER be given custody of a young, impressionable, teenaged-girl. And with absolute certainty, I can promise you that there is no way Child Protective Services would allow said teenager to live down the hall in a different apartment from her court-appointed guardian with an unrelated, unapproved, un-appointed, substitute adult. Whew, was that enough ‘nevers’, ‘no’s’ and ‘un’s’?!

All those facts aside, I thought I would tackle a ‘realistic’ continuation of the Mattie storyline. I find it rather amusing when folks write the character of Mattie as a happy-go-lucky kid. Worse yet, when they write her as a 5-year old sitting on Harm’s lap, holding his or Jen’s hand, or spending all her time ‘basking’ in her guardian’s glow. Granted, I wouldn’t mind basking in Harm’s glow, but I’m an adult of the female ‘human’ persuasion. Teenagers? Well, thems another story or is that species? Just kidding! (Smiling, while bowing in contrition). I mean this as no disrespect to my younger readers, but most teenagers are aloof and independent creatures…it’s a normal part of growing up and asserting your independence from your folks. They hibernate in their rooms with the door closed, growling at anyone who ventures too near, while loud music shakes the rafters!

In addition to normal teen behaviors, I always viewed Mattie as a ‘very old soul’ in a ‘very young’ body. She’d been through so much in her short lifetime that she was worldly-wise beyond her years. She’d lost one parent to death, and another to the bottle. She ran a business and a home, commanding/supervising adult men in the task of crop dusting. When she moved in with Harm, she actually expected him to rent her an apartment…a rather impertinent request if you ask me! Despite all that, she allowed Harm into her life and even further into her heart. I think their relationship helped both of them to grow emotionally. Through Harm, Mattie learned to trust and to forgive. I loved the fact that Harm helped Mattie reestablish a relationship with her father. When Mattie went back ‘home’, I thought the storyline had run its course. What a great moral victory…Tom sober, stable and supportive…Mattie happy and reunited with her father, family and friends.

THAT SHOULD’VE BEEN THE END! But alas, TPTB had to ‘screw-up’ happiness in their ploy to rid the JAG world of our hulking hero, Harm.

Once Mattie was injured, and Tom fell off the wagon…Mattie’s world was once again wracked to the core. Most of the emotional growth garnered from the benefit of Harm would’ve faltered if not been completely lost. Throw in an absentee father, a devastating injury, abandonment issues, and a move halfway across the world, and well… Let’s just say that Mattie would’ve had a lot of grieving to do over the losses in her life. Grief occurs in 5 stages. I would expect Mattie to experience and hopefully successfully transition through those stages: Denial…Anger…Bargaining…Depression…Acceptance.

Finally, Mattie survived a fatal collision between two airplanes, in the midst of a driving snowstorm. A horrendous collision involving two large-scale, multi-ton objects, which claimed ALL of the other participants as its victim! She was unconscious for weeks, and as of the final episode, had not recovered any functions, except for consciousness and the ability to speak and breathe. For the purpose of this story, Mattie is wheelchair-bound, with complete paralysis of her lower extremities, and restricted use of her arms. This outcome is not just realistic, but PROBABLE.

Read at your own risk! Although, I do promise happiness for all in the end! Sorry to wax long and not so poetic with psychobabble nonsense. Now…ON WITH THE SHOW!!!


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Disclaimer: I don’t own JAG or any of the characters. I just take them out and play with them on occasion before replacing them safe and sound back on the shelf.

Please excuse the omissions, misspellings and errors. The mistakes are all mine. Mom had no part in the proofing of this tale.

***


Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune—without the words,
And never stops at all,

~ Emily Dickinson


Part 1a

02:00
Thanksgiving morning
November 22, 2007
The MacKenzie-Rabb Household
London, England

In the dim light cast through the partially opened bathroom door, she quietly stared into space searching for the strength to follow through with her task. It was time, long past in fact…hours, weeks…or was it months? Somehow in the turmoil of the past year, she’d lost her ability to accurately predict time. It seemed as if each day some little part of her died, crushed into nothingness by the weight of her oppressive defeat. It was this startling insight into her soul that had finally spurred her to action. This very real fear that one day soon she might fade into oblivion and completely disappear. Far more distressing, she wasn’t sure her absence would merit notice or if the shadow that had overtaken her person would even be missed.

Glancing back toward the head of the bed, she squinted into the darkness for any signs of life. If she didn’t move soon, he might awaken. And she didn’t think she had the courage to follow through if she had to look him in the eye. It was her biggest fear really. To peer into the vastness of his blue-grey depths, and find herself buried there amongst the disappointment and sadness, the resignation and hurt, or even worse…the acceptance and loathing.

She shivered in the cool morning air. She never used to mind the draftiness of the apartment or the inconsistencies of the aged furnace, not when she was wrapped in his arms. He’d always had heat enough for the both of them. But it seemed of late, this bone-chilling cold was her only steadfast companion. No matter the layers of clothing or the thermostat set, she couldn’t get warm. There was probably significance there too, she reasoned, but was too worn out to care.

Another intense shiver racked her body, and reflexively she rubbed her hands against the thick chenille robe, which clad her trembling arms. The brisk movements evoked immediate mind-numbing pain, and she covered her mouth to stifle the instinctive yelp. Carefully peeling back the pink fabric, she gently fingered the bruises and cuts soothing away the ache, which spread like piercing daggers along the length of the limb. She studied the angry purplish-blue discolorations that covered the dorsal aspect of her forearm before ending in a whirl of jagged gouges under her wrist. The iced compress had done little to hide the evidence of the mishap. Mishap, she chided herself for the use of an old familiar euphemism, as if it were merely an accident.

Accident.

Another one of those covert words laden with hidden meaning like clumsy, tripped, and fell. She knew them all, been well versed from a young age in the appropriate verbiage and half-truths of ‘little white lies’. She closed her eyes against the repressed memories of a horrifying childhood long, long past. The yelling, the taunting, the screams. Panic and fear. Hiding in cabinets or closets, hunkered down under beds. Sounds of flesh hitting flesh. Deafening thuds. Tearful apologies, pleas for forgiveness, promises of ‘never again’. Car rides to the emergency room in the middle of night. Glaring lights, antiseptic smells and piercing screams. Blood. Always blood accompanying the cuts, abrasions and breaks. Her mother’s cries…her father’s threat…a terrified little girl forced to tell lies. The incessant buzzing noise like insects in flight caused by the murmurs and whispers uttered just out of sight…the looks of pity and sad innuendo from people dressed in white.

She covered her ears to stem the haunting noises. Loud and menacing…’useless’, ‘whore’, ‘mistake’. Horrifying shrieks. The overwhelming echoes from her past reverberated and impacted with resounding force trying to escape the steel vault of her mind. Fist impacting bone. Blood-curdling screams. Sobbing pleas to stop…for divine intervention…the blessed peace of death. Beseeching to Him the Holy One on High. A little girl hidden in the cloak of darkness bargained with God promising to be…better, quieter, stronger, smarter…anything to make it stop. Hours, nights, years spent in prayer, but divine intervention never came…

Until…

The cries finally ceased…to be replaced by a mother’s silence. Alone. Left behind…discarded like yesterday’s trash. Unloved. She was nothing but an unwanted burden abandoned to the mocking fates.

Sweat drenched her brow and rolled down her face intermingling with tears. Inhaling deeply, she gulped for cleansing breaths, fighting valiantly to banish the demons and ghosts back into the cellars of her past. “I will survive. The past can no longer hurt me. I am in charge of my own destiny. I will survive …” she chanted the survival mantra mastered in the battleground of an Arizona desert at a beloved uncle’s knee.

Pounding her fist into the bed, she fought to regain her inner strength and control. Dammit! She had survived! Spurred on by her uncle’s encouragement, she’d escaped the misery of her childhood through grit and determination. Escaped the clutches of alcohol, the spiral of violence, and the preordained doom of that life. A Survivor! She’d made a clean break throwing off the shackles of her predestined fate. And in that moment of clarity long ago, she’d vowed never to look back…never be a victim…never be the one to hurt. On those rare moments when she remembered those days, all she could recall was the look in her mother’s eyes…wounded, weak, defeated…vulnerable. A pathetic creature who chose to flee rather than fight. And each time with renewed fervor she vowed never to see that pathetic character staring back as her reflection in the mirror. NEVER!

Never…

So, how had she allowed it happen? To succumb? To become that cowering reflection in the mirror? In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined the future that had become her fate. It had begun so innocently, and even now she sometimes wavered on the maliciousness of the intent.

Her eyes roamed randomly across the room before settling once more on him. Two and half years, a mere 30 months, and yet sometimes it seemed like a lifetime. She could still see the coin rotating in the air, light reflecting off its edge. “Heads!” Bud cried out. “London,” she whispered back. Harm questioned her repeatedly about the outcome, her happiness, leaving the Corp. He offered a second and third chance at fate. Each time she declined happily accepting her lot. She finally had him, what more could she ask? A whirlwind ceremony at a Justice of the Peace witnessed by old friends. A single honeymoon night, brief in time, but eclipsing all she’d ever hoped to dream. Tearful goodbyes, lingering kisses and promises of better things to come.

She’d stayed behind to tie-up loss ends, dot the ‘i’s’ and cross the ‘t’s’ so to speak, while Harm had set off for London. It was in that first two months that she and Mattie had come to an understanding…she would become the primary caregiver, nursemaid, parent and friend…and Mattie would begrudgingly accept the role of injured child while vocally detesting every interminable minute of it. She’d understood the young girl’s reticence…frustration…brooding, despondency, sadness, anger, and despair…Mattie’s flare of reactions ran the emotional gambit from one moment to the next. At the tender age of 16 years, Mattie had lost her whole life. Instead of planning for college and a future filled with potential, she was dealing with profound loss and grieving all the ‘should’ve’s’ and ‘would’ve’s’ and ‘could’ve-beens’. Instead of driving a car, she was learning to navigate a motorized wheelchair. Instead of graduating high school and excitedly entertaining the prospects of college, she was trying to master menial tasks like writing and brushing her teeth. Instead of dreaming of marriage, a husband and babies, she was mourning the loss of a father, a home and a foreseeable future. All in all, she understood Mattie’s prolonged bouts of silence, glaring refusals to participate in prescribed therapies and counseling, moody rebuffs of visitors, and sick fascination with all things eerie and dark. It was the untimely Mt. Vesuvius volcanic-eruptions of Mattie’s repressed emotions that sent Mac scurrying for cover.

Finally, six months into their new life, Mattie was released for travel abroad. The judge begrudgingly approved the custody arrangement with the caveat that Mattie return to Virginia for frequent medical and social service supervision. Once they arrived in London, Mattie’s spirits lifted for a spell, a direct consequence of her close proximity to Harm. But as his workload and need for travel escalated commensurate with his new position, the waves of outburst returned. Mattie was careful to check her moods in the presence of her heroic protector. Afraid that he too might abandon her to her fates, she put on a brave face. It was during those long hours when she perceived captivity at the hands of her primary caretakers that the frustration, depression and anger would abound.

Mattie’s medical care had mounted a steep burden, the coverage for physicians, therapists and durable goods being limited outside the States. Mac had counted herself lucky to secure part-time employment with the U.S. Embassy, and quite to her surprise, found herself loving the work. Piecemeal schedules with medical aides had filled in the resulting gaps in care. Harm, for his part, volunteered help when available, but found his usefulness limited when it came to personal needs. The chores of bathing, dressing, and personal hygiene fell almost exclusively to her.

As Mattie’s schizophrenic ebb and flow of emotions continued to escalate like a roller coaster ride veering dangerously out of control, Mac had sought the help of a mental health specialist to counsel the family as a whole. The psychiatrist had come highly recommended by Mattie’s physical therapist. The new physician found the road difficult to hoe as Mattie for her part refused to engage in the conversation of her plight. Slowly, meticulously the physician began to piece together the young girl’s story…history of alcohol, death and abandonment, forgiveness which came to naught, a harrowing accident, disability and loss of control, the end of dreams…life.

It was a little over a year into her current existence, when the abuse had started. Harm had been summoned to Washington, an urgent meeting, and Mattie hadn’t taken the unplanned absence well. During a transfer from her wheelchair to the bed, Mattie’s weight had shifted precariously to one side sending the both of them to the floor. She’d collapsed under the girl’s weight and lay gasping for breath, as Mattie lay prone upon her chest. When she’d finally gathered her faculties enough to assess the situation, she found Mattie staring into her face with a peculiar frown. Asked if she was injured, Mattie retorted with a negative grunt and Mac had carefully lifted her back into bed. It was then she noticed the large bruise blossoming on her own forearm. Rubbing the spot, she turned to Mattie to express remorse at her clumsiness resulting in the fall. She was disconcerted to notice a gleam appear in the teen’s eyes. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it faded back to the ubiquitous expression of apathy surrendered of late. Mattie, it seemed, ran hot and cold. She dismissed the girl’s disturbing sense of pleasure as a byproduct of her own exhausted imagination. But as the saying goes, ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.’

From that moment on, it was difficult to assess ‘accident’ from ‘mishap.’ Mattie’s neurologic sequelae had left her with intention tremors and uncontrolled jerks. In the beginning, she’d discounted the bruises and scraps as incidental contact sustained in day-to-day care. It escaped her notice, whether through benign inattention or willful ignorance, that she was the only one to sport the purple and blue badges of shame.

As Mattie’s mood deteriorated further, the psychiatrist recommended medications to treat the depression and violent mood swings. Mattie flatly refused to take the meds, and Harm, who witnessed little evidence of her oppressive behavior, felt compelled to side with the tearful pleas of his beleaguered charge. Mattie had found an unwitting ally in her attempts to wrangle back some modicum of control.

When the situation turned from grave to worse, Mac sought out counsel and advice from Mattie’s therapist. The proposed solution was placement in an assisted-living facility; a home specializing in the rehabilitation of individuals with brain and spinal cord injuries perfectly tailored to meet Mattie’s needs. The emphasis of the center was on treatment of the whole person, both body and soul. Mattie willfully dismissed the idea out of hand…she would not be displaced. Harm perceptively read the teen’s curt response as yet another abandonment fear, and came to Mattie’s aid. Long arguments ensued lasting well into the late hours and over days and weeks. Finally resigned to her fate, Mac had given up and given in. Mattie preened in triumph, although she’d mistakenly lost so much more than she’d won. Mac felt something die inside…and life moved on.

The final inciting incident had occurred just two days prior. Harm had been called to a meeting in Naples, leaving she and Mattie alone to plan for the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities just a few days away. Mattie upset over her preferred guardian’s absence on a special holiday had refused to attend her therapy sessions that a.m. Mac had cajoled and finally insisted on the prescribed plan. While performing their morning routine of personal grooming, Mattie had fallen dead weight against her and sent them both careening within the small confines of the bath. When the freefall finally came to a blessed stop, she lay winded and unable to speak with Mattie propped above. The pain along her right side made breathing a nearly impossible endeavor and a burning sensation spread like wildfire up her left arm. She’d barely been able to gasp out Mattie’s name panting against the searing pain. Gently brushing the curls aside from the teen’s face, she immediately noticed the blossoming bruise over Mattie’s cheek, which had already begun to swell. She carefully shifted them onto their sides and slowly maneuvered to stand. Mattie glared from her perch on the floor. With great effort, she was able lift Mattie back into her chair and gently inspected every inch of the girl’s skin searching for cuts, abrasions or breaks. Satisfied the only apparent injury was the growing black eye, she quickly finished with their grooming tasks and headed off toward the hospital.

Arriving late for their appointed therapy time, an unfamiliar nurse checked Mattie in. The bruising duly noted, Mac was dispatched to the waiting room so Mattie could be thoroughly interviewed. It was only by luck that Mattie’s psychiatrist happened to be on the duty roster for on-call that day. The physician had quickly dispensed with the nurse’s insistent concerns having full knowledge of the troubled teen’s past. Once Mattie was whisked away to commence her scheduled therapy session, the psychiatrist had turned to Mac asking to examine her ‘war wounds’. Initially reticent to share, she’d finally acquiesced to the inspection and the follow-up x-rays and scans. Luckily for all, the films showed no fractures of long bones or ribs.

It was the nurse’s glare and not so silent accusation that finally spurred her decision. Despite a year’s worth of injuries, she’d stalwartly remained, but the prospect of being charged with abuse and willful neglect had shaken her to her core. Her good name, it seemed, was all she had left. She would not be labeled yet another ‘Joe MacKenzie’. Figuring it was better to be remembered as weak than cruel, she chose her mother’s fate.

Shaking her head to clear the horrible memories of the last few days, she studied his face. That beautiful face she knew better than her own. Her fingers twitched at her sides and she fisted her hands to prevent their movement. She longed for one final touch or the caress of his lips. How would he remember her, if he did at all? Would he see the tough, untrusting marine who held him at gunpoint in an Arizona desert? Or would he remember the loyal friend who’d followed him to Russia and back, twice. Maybe the withdrawn and emotionally downtrodden woman from the Admiral’s dining out? They’d seen each other through tough times, both thick and thin. She only hoped good times were the memories that danced in his dreams…if he chose to remember at all.

“Mac?”

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Continued in Part 1b