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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SCENE 13:

 

TRUE CONFESSIONS

 

“You look tired,” Sofia observed, “more than tired.  You look down.  Is everything all right at work?”

 

“Mom, it's the same old, same old.  Every day, we win some and we lose some.  But lately?  Lately, it seems like we're losing more and winning less.”

 

Sarah was massaging her coffee cup, but she had barely taken a sip.  And her Finnish pastie, a Thanksgiving morning breakfast tradition that went back unbroken to her early childhood, also sat largely untouched. More alarming still, she had yet to dip even one bite of her mouthwatering treat in the small mountain of ketchup that also graced her plate.

 

Up on the Keweenaw peninsula, the Finnish pastie was akin to a religious experience.  The twelve or sixteen ounce pastry shell was stuffed sinfully full with diced beef, ground pork, carrots, onions, potatoes and rutabaga.  No true child of the Keweenaw would ever commit the sacrilege of covering their pastie with gravy, like the barbarians who lived elsewhere in the U.P., or their cousins in Minnesota and the Dakotas.  Many of the tourists who flocked to the peninsula to enjoy its stunning fall foliage, confusing the pastie with pot pie, requested gravy.  What they got instead was an earful.  The more diplomatic members of the bakery community settled for stern looks and a dress down in Finnish.  Not everyone, however, was quite so forbearing.

 

“Child, you have hardly touched your pastie,” Kaarina complained.  “I baked it for you myself; it is not store bought.”  Kaarina Koskinen was Sarah's spry 77 year old grandmother, a retired RN who continued informally to practice her profession.  In this remote, rural corner of America, midwives played a critical role in the medical infrastructure.

 

“I'm sorry, Gran; I just don't have much of an appetite at the moment.  I've really got a lot on my mind.”

 

“Well, your mother administers the largest hospital on the peninsula.  She has to deal with all of your problems, and a great many more besides.  And, as you can see, none of it has affected her appetite!”

 

Kaarina gestured at her daughter's empty plate, the barest trace of ketchup having been left behind.  “So,” she continued, “it must be boy trouble.  Have you found a boyfriend?  And why did you not bring him up to meet us?”

Kaarina was worried about her granddaughter.

 

She's thirty-two, and still without prospects.  If she does not act soon, I will never have a great grandchild to spoil …

 

“I do have a boyfriend, Gran, but it's complicated … really, really complicated.”

 

“Have you spoken to Rita yet,” Sofia interjected.  She could read her daughter like an open book, and it was obvious that she was troubled.  Sofia suspected that she had come home in search of advice, but it would not do to rush her.

 

“I tried last night before I went to bed, but she wasn't home or at the office.  And it's the same story this morning.  I'm getting worried … she's supposed to be babysitting my boyfriend.”

 

“Babysitting him?”  Kaarina made no effort to keep the incredulity out of her voice.   “How old is he anyway?  Two?”

 

“Oh, come on, Mom,” Sofia cut in, with a sharper edge to her voice.  “We all know that men are nothing but big babies.  The only difference between a grown man and a two year old ...”

 

“Is the price of his toys,” Kaarina laughed as she finished her daughter's thought.  “You're right, of course.  Ah, but I'm getting old,” she sighed, “and I sometimes forget even life's most basic truths.”

 

“Ian's thirty-three, Gran, but you're right as well.  Much of the time he behaves like a two year old-- and that's on his good days.  On his bad days, I feel like I'm coping with an eight month old!  Would you believe that he still bites his fingernails?”

 

“NO,” Kaarina giggled; “are you kidding us?”

 

“Nope.  And for all I know, he still sucks his thumb in his sleep.  Or he would if I didn't send him to bed with mittens locked on ...”

 

“Like a certain little girl of my acquaintance,” Kaarina chortled, staring at her daughter.  “It took me almost three years to get your mom's thumb out of her mouth!”

 

“Are you living together,” Sofia quietly asked.

 

“No, Mom, we're not.  Actually, he has the apartment directly above me.  But I'm hopeful that this relationship is really going somewhere.  Ian's gentle and kind, considerate, thoughtful ...”

 

“Does he have a good job,” the ever practical Kaarina queried.

 

“Gran, he's a university professor … at a university that's lucky to have him.”

 

Kaarina clapped her hands with delight, her face lighting up with joy.

 

Maybe I'll get my great grandchild after all!

 

“So, cutting to the chase: is he the one?”

 

I think so ...”

 

Kaarina clapped again, and with even greater enthusiasm.  “All men are babies, Pupu, which is a very good thing because it makes it so easy for us to manipulate them into doing what we want!  So what if he behaves like a two year old?  At least you don't have to change his diapers!”

 

“Actually, Gran … I do.”

 

“Huh,” Sofia and Kaarina exclaimed more or less simultaneously.

 

“Ian's incontinent, both bladder and bowel, and he's all thumbs when it comes to changing his own diapers, so I do it for him, with Rita's help and that of a few other nurses in our circle.”

 

“So, you've fallen in love with a big baby … an honest to God big baby,” Kaarina whined, her disappointment evident.  “Pupu, I want to have a great grandchild.  I'm looking forward to changing diapers one more time, but this is ridiculous.  What are you doing?”

 

“I told you, Gran, it's complicated … really, really complicated.”

 

“I could use some help in the kitchen,” Sofia pointed out.  “We have eleven more guests coming to dinner, and I haven't even started the sapas.  Pickled herring is your specialty, Mom, so get to work!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Becky was aghast.  She was watching the video feed for the second time, her mind still not crediting what her eyes were seeing … Ian being laid in the crib by Amos and Andy ... the surreal moment when Amos snapped off a crisp salute … the methodical, almost slow motion way in which Vickie systematically locked Ian's restraints, imprisoning him so completely that he would barely be able to flex a muscle through the long hours of the night.

 

“With all due respect, Rita, but have you lost your mind?  Didn't Tuesday night's debacle teach you anything?  My God!  You've got that poor man fully restrained in the most secure room in the most secure wing of this entire hospital!  HE DOESN'T BELONG THERE!”

 

“No, he doesn't,” Rita agreed.  “But he's there of his own free will.  Do you see him offering any resistance to Vickie?  Physically?  Verbally?  I don't.  I think he's right where he wants to be-- and Tuesday night was the first time that Sarah and I have made any progress in finding out why.”

 

“But how … how did you get him through the door in the first place?  Does he have any idea of what he's got himself into?”

 

“Yes, he does, and we can all thank Vickie for having the insight to spot his Achilles heal.  It's his sense of duty, Becks-- and yes, it's really that simple.  I begged him to help with Don Phillips and Phil Kettering, told him what it would take and what it would mean for his permanent record, and he signed on the dotted line without any hesitation at all.”

 

Rita brought up another feed.

 

“Now I want you to see what happened after dinner-- the second time that Ian and Phil started talking.  We struck gold here, but your name came up in the conversation in a way that leaves you with a decision to make.  It's going to be obvious what I want you to do, but like Ian, it's something for which you will have to volunteer.”

 

Rita began replaying the tape, leaving Becky to watch in rapt silence …

 

          Would widdle baby Ian like his aunt Vickie to babysit him for a while?  Hmm?”

          “Is she your girlfriend?”

          “Huh?” 

 

Ian whirled around; Becky could see that Phil had taken Ian by complete surprise.

         

          “I like her … I like her a lot.”

          “What about you, Phil.  Is there a nurse on the staff that you really, really like?”

          “I like Becky.”

 

A wistful smile creased Phil Kettering's rugged features. 

         

          “I like her a lot.”

 

“Becks, it's Vickie's day off, so I would like you to march down to room eleven, wake the baby up, release him, change his diaper, get him properly dressed, bottle feed him-- there are two bottles of breast milk in the ward frig set aside for him--and then track down Phil and pair them off.  This includes sitting down with them over our Thanksgiving meal … you know the tradition.”

 

“And you want me to do what?  Get inside Kettering's defenses?  Ian's?  Both of them?”

 

'Precisely.  Oh, I don't want you to start probing, but if they continue batting their wartime experiences back and forth, just insinuate yourself into the conversation … something simple like asking them to explain something that you didn't understand.  The idea is to get both of them accustomed to your presence, and talking to you.”

 

Becky leaned back in her chair, evaluating the risk, but also the reward.  She knew how she would answer, but she wanted assurances. 

 

“Is there any limit to how far I can take this?”

 

“So long as you use common sense, none whatsoever.”  Rita leaned forward, and paused while she carefully considered her next words.

 

“It's not Ian and Phil that I'm worried about, Becky.  It's you.  I want you and everybody else on staff who interacts with Ian to test his need for dependency in general and for being treated like a baby in particular.  This should be a walk in the park for all of you.  But you need constantly to keep in mind that Phil will relate to you as an adult male-- a sexually charged adult male.  Keep a firm grip on your emotions, and on the signals that you're sending him. Do not start something that you are not prepared to finish!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Becky entered the code to unlock the door to room eleven, and entered as quietly as she could.  Still trying not to wake the baby, she crept to the desk and deposited Ian's briefcase on the floor.  Then she approached the crib.

 

It's one thing to see this on video, and another to see it up close.  My God!  He really is our little baby Ian.  Even with the restraints, he looks so peaceful … or is it because of the restraints?  There is no tension in his body at all; truly, a crib is where he belongs.

 

Becky touched the bottles of breast milk in the pockets of her smock.  Like Rita, she couldn't wait to see Ian's reaction to a bottle feeding.  And when he was changed and fed, she intended to march him over to the desk, sit him down, lay a dozen blue books out in front of him, and order him to get to work.

 

How quickly will he transition from infant to adult … and vice-versa?  And which personality should we be treating?  Could it possibly be the case that we'll have to treat both?

 

The young nurse bent low over Ian's mid section and took a sniff.

 

Yep, he's my little poopy pants …  so, let's get him out of the restraints …

 

“Wakey, wakey, baby; it's time to rise and shine!”  On impulse, Becky planted several big, sloppy kisses on Ian's abdomen, causing him to laugh uncontrollably.

 

So like a baby …

 

“I need to change your diapee, baby; you are very wet and very poopy.  So, let's get you from your crib to the changing table, shall we?”

 

Ian groaned.

 

“I know, baby, I know.  You love your crib and you want to stay her all day, but it's very hard for aunt Becky to change you here.  Let's get you onto the changing table.” 

 

She grabbed both of Ian's wrists, and rolled him onto his side; getting him onto his feet and then onto the changing table proved less difficult than she had expected.  With the baby fully cooperative, cleaning Ian's messy bottom and getting him into fresh diapers and baby pants went quickly, and equally getting his diaper cover pulled up and locked tightly into place.  Becky marveled at his complete lack of resistance to being treated so openly as an infant.

 

“Now, it's time for your bottle!”

 

Becky got down on the floor, and placed Ian's baby bottles at her side.  Both were soft pink, and again she wondered whether he would see the significance of what she was offering him.

 

Following her lead, Ian laid down with his head cradled in the beautiful nurse's arms.  When she waved the first bottle in front of his eyes, Ian's mouth fell open, eagerly awaiting the nipple that was now just out of reach.  Becky eased the teat into his mouth, and instantly the baby began to suckle.  It was a completely natural and deeply instinctive reaction. 

 

Ian's eyes slowly closed, but he continued to nurse.  He was hungry, and the warm milk tasted wonderful

 

My little baby … my sweet little Ian.  Aunt Becky wants you to stay like this forever and ever.  It's wrong to force you to grow up when you just want to be a little baby.  Rita and Sarah have got to understand that what they are doing is not in your best interest.  The crib is where you belong, not in Sarah's bed.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“My God,” Marge exclaimed, nodding at the video feed coming out of room eleven.  “If I wasn't seeing this with my own eyes, I never would have believed it!  He isn't play acting.  Ian really is an infant trapped in a grown-up's body!”

 

“Let's see how he reacts when Becky tells him that he's been drinking human breast milk.  Then she's going to offer him a pacifier … a pink pacifier.”

 

“You suspect that he's … what? A transsexual?”

 

“Sarah says that he can't get it up, but Vickie tells me that he gets raging hard-ons when she penetrates him and teases his prostate.  So, the idea is worth pursuing, hence the pink baby bottles and pacifier.  If he accepts both, then I want to lose his male clothing and take him home in a dress … ideally, something really frilly, really infantile … something that a baby girl might wear.”

 

“That's going to be hard to find on Thanksgiving Day.”

 

“Not to worry.  Vickie got here well ahead of us.  She went shopping on Monday.  I'm not sure that we want to know how or why, but she knew exactly where to go to find a princess dress for Ian.  It's hanging in the garment bag”  Rita nodded in the direction of her office door.

 

“May I take a look?”

 

“Of course”

 

Marge closed the door, and unzipped the nondescript garment bag.

 

“Oh, my,” she whispered, “if Ian really is a princess poopy pants, he's going to love this!  Just look at it … pink satin, short enough to show off his diapers, all the expected frills and flounces ...”

 

“Take a look at the back side,” Rita encouraged.

 

“IT LOCKS,” Marge exclaimed; “my God in heaven, IT LOCKS!”

 

“If he's wearing this when I take him home,” Rita grinned, “I'll conveniently forget where I placed the key.”

 

“I have a suggestion … two, really.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“The first is that I hang this at the foot of his crib.  This way, when he's going beddie-byes, it will be in his direct line of sight.  Even if he initially resists, curiosity might get the better of him.  As for the second, I think that we should make his locking diaper cover a permanent part of his wardrobe.  Babies don't change their own diapers, and boy or girl, our Ian really is just a baby.  And now that Ian's secretary has signed on, there is no longer any reason for him to concern himself with his diapers at all.  Let's give Amy and everyone else responsible for his care one of the unlocking devices; this will drive home to him in the most direct way imaginable that he is helpless and dependent upon his aunties to keep him clean and dry.”

 

Rita nodded in agreement.  “When she comes in tomorrow, I'll tell Vickie to have Amy stop by on her way to work.  We can give her the key, but I also want to give her four bottles of breast milk-- two for Ian's lunch, and one for his mid-morning and mid-afternoon snack.  I want to start weaning him off of regular food; a newborn's poop is a lot easier to deal with than an adult's.  And from the looks of what we just saw on the feed, Ian will be only too delighted to have ba-bas on a regular basis.”

 

And in the fullness of time he will be nursing at my breast … and Vickie's … and maybe Sarah's.  We are going to create the ultimate safe space for our little princess, and oh so gently prod him to break down his wall.  If this works, I'll be writing papers and delivering lectures for years to come!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Mom, you're a wonder … you and Gran both.  The cousins all came back for seconds, even thirds, and my nieces and nephews all seemed to have a great time.  And you have an entire hospital to administer.  How do you find the time to prepare a feast for fourteen people?”

 

“It's called compartmentalization,” Sofia laughed.  She and Sarah finally had the kitchen to themselves.  Kaarina had taken her turkey coma and gone happily to bed, and their extended family, groaning under the weight of all the leftovers that Sofia had deposited in outstretched arms, had finally gone home.  The Thanksgiving ritual had once again gone off without a hitch.

 

“Desserts on Sunday, the green beans on Monday, the cranberries on Tuesday … the trick is to leave as little as possible for Thanksgiving day itself.  Believe me, dear, I have this down to a science!”

 

“You certainly do,” Sarah agreed.

 

“So, are you ready to talk about your young man … about what happened?”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Sarah, a thirty-three year old, fully incontinent male is … I was about to say unusual, but that doesn't cover it.  This is rare in the extreme.  There are only a couple of things I can think of, and an industrial accident seems unlikely.  So, that leaves us with a really bad automobile accident or ...”

 

“The war,” Sarah quietly finished; “Viet Nam.”

 

“I see.”  Mother and daughter sat quietly for several moments.  “We are talking about a combat veteran, then?”

 

“Yes.  Mom, he won't talk about it.  All I've got out of him so far is that he was awarded four Purple Hearts.  I don't know his rank or unit, how long he was over there … nothing.   He won't talk to me, and every time I circle around the edges of it, he shuts down completely.  He freezes me out.”

 

“That's actually fairly normal, Sarah.  Your father fought his way across the Pacific, and I knew that he was wounded on Okinawa, but it wasn't until ...”

 

Sarah wrapped her arm around her mother's shoulders, and hugged her close.

 

“Until after he passed that I discovered the Silver Star in an old foot locker.  He never talked about the war, Sarah, not once.”

 

“And grandfather?”

 

“The same thing.  He was wounded in the Battle of the Somme in 1918.  He came home, went to work in the mines, got married, raised a family … Kaarina was barely out of high school when she had me.  Nineteen years old!  That's life,” she sighed.

 

“You must be so disappointed in me … thirty-two, and on the cutting edge of spinsterhood.”

 

Sofia laid her head on Sarah's shoulder.  “There are no words to describe how proud I am of you,” she whispered; “no words.”

 

“And I know you too well,” she added, “to think that incontinence … changing Ian's diapers … that it would have any impact on your feelings for him.  And I can see that you love him; it's as plain as the nose on your face.”

 

Sofia sat up straight.  “It's something else that's making you hesitate-- and we don't need to discuss it right now.  We have the rest of the weekend.  Whenever you're ready, we'll put our heads together and try and work it out.”

 

“Now,” Sofia added as she stood up.  “Why don't you give Rita another call?  You must be anxious to find out how Ian likes being babysat by your best friend!”

 

SCENE 14:

 

THE MANY FACES OF IAN GRADY

 

“You are such a good baby,” Becky whispered as she wiped Ian's face with a damp cloth.  “Did you like your milkies?”

 

“Uh huh.  They was gwate.”

 

Wow!  He is even beginning to talk like a young toddler!

 

“It was very special milk, my sweet little poopy pants … very special.  It was breast milk.  Would you like to have more?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Could he possibly end up pre-verbal?

 

“We have plenty for you.  You can have it every day, as many times as you want, but first you have to do something for me.”

 

Becky got up and walked over to the desk.  She picked up Ian's briefcase, opened it and scattered blue books and pens across the surface.  Then she looked back at her charge.

 

“Crawl over here to your auntie Becky, and sit in this chair.”

 

She patted the seat, and Ian obediently crawled over and hoisted himself up.  He looked inquiringly at his nurse.

 

Becky pulled a large, pink pacifier out of her pocket, and wordlessly held it up in front of him.  Ian opened his mouth and willingly accepted the gift.  He began instantly to tease it.

 

“I want you to grade a dozen of these blue books.  When you finish, I'll give you another ba-ba.  Now, get to work!”

 

Ian rapidly sorted the blue books into different piles-- one for each of the four questions that had appeared on the test.  Picking up a red pen, he opened the top blue book in one of the piles, and began to read.  Becky watched as he proceeded to score the essay with check marks and marginal comments.  When he finished, he wrote a long summary note on the last page, and affixed a grade.  Throughout, he continued to nurse on his pacifier.

 

As Ian was picking up his second blue book, in the office Rita and Marge were looking at one another with open disbelief.

 

“There's no transition,” Rita whispered, “none whatsoever.  One second he's a baby who can barely speak, and the next he's a mature adult going about his job.  Is the pacifier a binding agent?”  Rita scribbled a note, reminding herself to have Becky try the experiment without the pacifier.  “Marge, do you have any idea what this means for therapeutics?”

 

“Charly,” Marge replied, her voice equally awed; “do you remember Charly?”

 

“Of course.  Cliff Robertson at his best.  But Charly was the product of surgery.  This is totally different.”

 

The two senior nurses watched Ian methodically grade blue book after blue book.  When he finished the first dozen, he put the marking pen down and turned to Becky.

 

“Ba-ba, auntie Bec...kee, ba-ba.  Bay-bee dursty!”  All this with the pacifier still firmly  wedged in his mouth.

 

“You're such a good baby,” Becky said again as she stroked his hair.  “Now, get down and crawl back to the changing table.  Auntie Becky will go get you another nice, warm ba-ba.”

 

As she approached the door, Becky looked up at the camera and mouthed the word “more.”  She knew that Rita and Marge were both evaluating the scene that had just played out in room eleven.  She would follow up the next bottle feeding with another round of blue books, check her baby's diaper, then hopefully have an adult to escort out to the atrium for the rendezvous with Phil Kettering.

 

But no matter how you cut it, we're going to need a lot more breast milk!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“We meet again.”  Ian nodded at Phil Kettering as he sat down to his right.

 

Different time, same station.  Just me and the Everly Brothers

 

“When's chow?  I sort of missed breakfast.”

 

“Rumor has it 14:00 hours … turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans … the usual.  Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll toss in some cranberries.  How did you miss breakfast?”

 

“I spent the night in eleven-- a crib with all the trimmings.  Becky parted the seas, changed me, and then proceeded to bottle feed me … breast milk, no less.  Not exactly filling, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Can't say that I do.  What did it taste like?”

 

“Oh … sort of like the hooch juice that we tanked up on over in Cambodia.  But, hey, with my head cradled in Becky's lap?  It could have been machine oil for all that I cared.  I was sightseeing, my friend-- and nurse Becky's got a pair that are truly a sight to see!”

 

“I know.  I like her, you know?  I like her a lot!”

 

“That's good, because she says that you are her favorite patient.  She thinks that you're a hunk.  She wants you to get better, blow this place, and take her out on a date.  You game?”

 

“She thinks I'm a hunk?”

 

“Yep.  No accounting for taste.”

 

Ian looked up, and saw Becky meandering slowly in their direction.

 

Right on cue.

 

“Say hey, Willie Mays, here she comes!”  Ian nudged his seatmate, and nodded in her general direction.  He noted that Becky's hair had recently encountered a brush, and that her makeup was oozing sex appeal in all the right places.

 

“Let's impress her with sordid tales of our feats of far off derring-do,” Ian whispered in Phil's ear; “it's a well known fact that heroes get nurses all hot and bothered.”

 

“So, you were saying that you were a Delta rat.  My Tho?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You were down there during Tet?”

 

Becky quietly sat down to Phil's left, but she kept her eyes moving around the room, pretending that her attention was elsewhere.

 

“Yeah.  They hit us during the night on the 31st … first night of Tet.  Took us completely by surprise.  Over a thousand strong.  It came down to hand to hand in the streets, and it took us a while to get control of the situation.  Late the next afternoon.  I crapped my pants so many times I lost count.  That's what I remember most … the smell … feces, urine, the gas from oozing guts that made the streets so slippery.  And then there was the sound … guys on both sides dying, calling out for their mommas.  I still hear them in my sleep … what little I get.”

 

Phil leaned his head against the wall.  Glancing to his left, he saw that Becky was sitting close.

 

She smells so good …

 

“After that, I pretty much spent the rest of my tour doing the boogie shuffle ...”

 

“Jitterbugging,” Ian surmised.

 

“Yeah, in and out, in and out, over and over again.  Bravo Company's luck ran out on 26 Feb.  We hit a village called Binh Phu, but they had the LZ mapped, and laid on mortar fire as soon as the choppers hit dirt.  Hottest LZ imaginable.  We lost over half our complement.  Got out without a scratch, and ended up going Riverine.  Different outfit, same shit.  Honest to God, I don't know how I survived.”

 

Becky's hand slid over to pat Phil lightly on the thigh.  “I don't understand half of what you two just said.  What's jitterbugging?”

 

“Oh, small assault units at the tip of the spear,” Phil explained.

 

“Helicopter air assault teams,” Ian added.

 

“We were just probing … see what we could stir up.  If we boogied ...”

 

“Got into a firefight,” Ian interpreted.

 

“Then we'd call in the gunships to light up the perimeter.  A-1 Skyraiders saved our butts more than once.”

 

“But not at this Binh Phu?”  Becky sensed that they had hit paydirt.  A nondescript village halfway across the globe was ground zero for the nightmares that had brought Phil Kettering home without the will to live.

 

“I hit the ground before the chopper did,” Phil sobbed.  He was rocking back and forth, drowning in the memories, not fathoming just how close to the surface they really were.

 

“Went out the right side, rolled, and came up ready to rock and roll.  Ricky … my best friend Ricky Naull … he went out the left … straight into a white phosphorus mortar round.  He screamed … Jim Bradshaw … these were guys I went to high school with, junior high … and they screamed, begged for someone … anyone … to kill them.”

 

Becky wrapped her arms around him, hugged him close …

 

“And I couldn't do it,” he screamed; “I COULDN'T DO IT!”

 

Survivor's guilt, Becky judged, hugging her haunted warrior still more tightly to her chest.  Phil was sobbing uncontrollably now, breath coming to him in giant heaves.

 

“Let it go, Phil,” she soothed, “just let it go.  Can you hear me?  Just let it all out.  I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.  However long it takes, I'm here.  We'll get through this together.”

 

Major Ian Grady climbed abruptly to his feet, and held out his hand to warn off the two male orderlies who were rushing out of the corridor to come to Becky's rescue.

 

And they stopped dead in their tracks.

 

Becky was rocking her patient, comforting him in the tone of voice that parents everywhere used to calm small children awakened by demons in the darkest hours of night.  As for the man standing behind them, the mysterious patient from room eleven?

 

There was steel in his eyes, and it gave them pause.  Both men had served, in different branches of the military, and both knew command presence when they encountered it.  This man had it in spades.

 

Being careful to keep his hands loosely at his sides, Ian ambled over to make their acquaintance.

 

“Gentlemen,” he winked, the devil dancing in his eyes, “as you can see, Nurse Becky has everything under control.  But she gave me breast milk for breakfast, and it's run right through me.  So, who do I see around here for a diaper change?”

 

Utterly dumbfounded, one of the men wordlessly pointed at the open door leading to the changing room.

 

“Thanks,” Ian said as he casually wandered off-- only to stop dead in his tracks as he neared the doorway.  Gagging, he frantically waved his arms in front of his face.

 

The stench was overwhelming.

 

Taking a deep breath and trying his best to hold it, he charged forward, only to find himself quickly surrounded by laundry carts piled high with wet and dirty diapers.  There was a lone changing table, and beyond it a single nurse, Playtex gloves reaching almost to her elbows.

 

At least I think it's a she; with that gas mask, it's hard to be sure …

 

The creature gestured at the changing table, it's invitation clear.  Ian readily accepted, even as he lost the battle and had to take his next breath.  He wanted to pass out, only to discover yet again that life is just not that merciful.  Instead he coughed and he sputtered as the creature efficiently went about the all but automated process of stripping him bare, cleaning his messy bottom, and girding his loins with a fresh diaper and baby pants.  He did, however, get his old locking diaper cover back.  As the lock clicked home, he felt a momentary sense of triumph, knowing that he had somehow survived yet another hot LZ.  But it faded as he stood up and finally spotted the sign painted in crude letters over the doorway:

 

WELCOME TO THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA

 

And below it, in much smaller print, some wag had added the parting verse:

 

YOU CAN CHECK OUT ANYTIME YOU LIKE

BUT YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE

 

Rita, you sadistic bitch, I swear to everything that's holy … I AM GOING TO GET YOU FOR THIS!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“This had better be good, Rita, as in really, really good.”  Vickie took off her coat and swept the last of the snow out of her hair.  “It's snowing like crazy out there, the road's are a nightmare, the hospital's a morgue, and I'm now officially a no-show for a very promising Thanksgiving dinner.  Thank you very much.”

 

“How many invites did you get this year?”

 

“Four.”

 

“And you accepted them all?”

 

“Of course.  If I can't score a single guy at a Thanksgiving dinner, you can stick a fork in me because I am well and truly done.  Now, while I'm still in the mood to be polite, what's up?”

 

Rita had the tape rewound and ready to go.  She had already moved Vickie's favorite chair around to her side of the desk.  She gestured for Vickie to join her, and then hit Play.

 

“Vic, I'm giving you full credit for what you're about to see, and you deserve every bit of it.  Without your insight, none of this would have happened.  Act One took place in eleven, when Becky went in to run an impromptu experiment on Ian.  Watch.”     

 

Rita ran the first tape to the end, shutting it off at the moment when Becky had left the room to get Ian another bottle of breast milk.  Then she sat back, savoring the moment, waiting for Vickie to share her thoughts.

 

For her part, Victoria Robinson was dazed.  “Did we … did we … just throw everything the textbooks taught us about dissociative disorders out the window?  All of it?”

 

“I believe so,” Rita murmured as she prepped the stage for Act Two.  It would only take a moment for Reiko, Candy and Marge to join them.

 

“It's not possible,” Vickie protested.  “No one can be that divorced from reality and still function.”

 

“It's only impossible until it happens, Vic; we all know that our profession is simply a work in progress.”

 

The three other nurses drifted in and leaned against the window.

 

“Did you manage to reach her,” Rita asked as she swiveled her chair to face Reiko.

 

“She's on her way up,” Reiko confirmed.  “But she's working ER, so I had to clear it with her supervisor.  Rita, there are going to be a lot of questions asked about this.”

 

“I know, and I'll deal with it.”

 

“Would someone like to tell me what the Hell is going on,” Vickie complained.

 

“We're waiting for a Vietnamese RN, a friend of Reiko's.  Her name is Bian Nguyen.  She's a refugee … one of the boat people … and apparently the only Vietnamese medical professional on salary at this hospital.  I want her to see what happened next, and then we're going to decide what to do with Ian's request.”

 

“I'll wait for her at the door,” Reiko murmured as she left.

 

Rita's telephone rang.

 

“Stevenson,” she snapped.

 

Finally, Sarah sighed, relaxing her stranglehold on the telephone in her mother's home office.

 

SCENE 15:

 

MY SECRET GARDEN

 

“Rita, where have you been?  I called your office last night … your home.  And again this morning.  What ... is ... going … on?”

 

“I'm sorry, Sarah, but you know what it's like during Thanksgiving week.  Everybody's short staffed, and we're all doing double and triple duty.  And when we finished up last night, Vickie and I went to a Lake Street bar to grab some Juicy Lucies.  One thing led to another, and we ended up closing the place.  I didn't get home until after one in the morning.  And this morning?  Sarah, this place is a zoo.  I've got half a dozen people in the office as we speak.”

 

“And Ian?  What about Ian?”

 

Sarah waved frantically to her mother, who was standing in the doorway.  She put the phone on speaker so that Sofia could join in.

 

“Ian stayed here last night, Sarah … in the secure wing.”

 

“WHAT?  WHAT THE HELL IS IAN DOING IN THE SECURE WING?”

 

“Helping me.  Sarah, at my request Ian signed the paperwork for a voluntary admit, and he went straight inside to work with two Viet Nam vets who came to us off the streets.  They won't talk to us, Sarah, any more than Ian will, but I was gambling that they just might talk with him.  And it worked!  We've had a major breakthrough with Phil Kettering; Becky's with him right now.  And Ian … Ian's signaling us that he wants to take on Don Phillips over Thanksgiving dinner.  Don's been catatonic since he got here.”

 

On screen, Rita was watching Ian lift an imaginary fork to his lips over and over again, pausing only to turn around and regularly check on Becky, Don and Phil.

 

“Right now, we're scrambling to see how we can assist.  Reiko's come up with an idea-- send someone in who can speak Vietnamese with Ian.  If Phillips won't react to English, maybe … just maybe … he'll react to Vietnamese if he hears it all around him.  So we're waiting for an ER RN, Bian Nguyen, to come up … do you know her?”

 

“Vaguely … a nodding acquaintance in the cafeteria.”

 

“Rita, hi, this is Sofia.  Sorry to butt in, but I take it that Sarah's boyfriend has been doing some heavy lifting.  How did he get the other soldier … Kettering?  How did he get the other soldier to open up?”

 

“Sofia, hi … it's incredible.  He sat down next to Phil, and just started rambling on about his own war experience.  And Phil responded.  It took two sessions, but Ian opened the door enough that now I know what to ask Glenn Albright for out at the VA-- an after action report at a village called Binh Phu.  Once I've got that report in hand, it should be straight sledding, especially since Phil's ga-ga over a nurse who is holding his hand even as we speak ...”

 

Rita was staring at the video feed; it was clear that Becky had penetrated Phil Kettering's defenses.

 

But has he penetrated hers?  God, Becky, I warned you … I warned you!

 

“Rita, I want him!  You've got two in your ward?  Well, I've got seven in mine.  Seven!”

 

“Mom, wait,” Sarah cut in.  “Rita, tell me that Ian is free to walk out of that ward any time he wants …”

 

“Of course he is.  But Sarah, you need to prepare for this.  None of us think that he wants to leave.  We put him in eleven last night.  Amos and Andy put him in the crib, and Vickie did the honors with the restraints.”

 

“YOU RESTRAINED HIM?”

 

“Vickie was just testing his responses, but he offered no resistance … none whatsoever.  Sarah, he can come home with me tonight, but I will bet you anything that he will choose to stay in eleven until you come back.  It's his safe place, Sarah, and I want you to think about that long and hard.  Going forward, I do not want you involved in his therapy.  I'm handing him over to Vickie.  Your job is to be his girlfriend and his mommy-- the human component of his support structure-- but we are not going to let Tuesday night happen again.  Are we clear on this?”

 

“We'll discuss it when I get back.”

 

“Agreed.  And here is a little of what we've learned so far.  Ian did three tours with Special Forces, fought in Laos as well as Viet Nam, and was a Major when he left the service.  Despite his incontinence, he wanted to go back, but the army refused.  So, he resigned his commission and went back as a civilian to take care of some unfinished business.  We have no idea what it's about, but there are clear indications that in his mind he's still not done out there.  I want Vickie to pursue this angle, in the hope that it will lead us back to whatever it is that's eating him alive.”

 

Rita looked up.  Reiko had returned, with their Vietnamese guest.

 

“Sarah, we can do this, but you have to give us time.  Now, I have to go, but I have Sofia's telephone number, and I will call you back with an update before calling it a day.”

 

Rita hung up before Sarah could reply, then turned her attention to their guest.  She judged Bian to be in her early forties, but remembering that she had been a refugee, she quickly revised her estimate to mid to late thirties.  She was tiny and compact, but her eyes were alert and her gaze calculating.

 

She's reading the room, gauging the mood … always a good sign.

 

Bian worked her way around to Rita's side of the desk, and studied the imagery being supplied live by the video feed.  She did a double take and then looked up, her confusion evident.

 

“What he doing here,” she asked.  She reached out and delicately tapped the image of Ian Grady, who was looking directly into the camera, still pantomiming shoveling food into his mouth.

 

“He is good man, and fine soldier.  What he doing here?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Daughter of mine, methinks the time has come for us to speak of cabbages and kings.”  Sofia beckoned for her daughter to take the desk chair.

 

“Mom, it's like I told gran; it's really, really complicated.”

 

“Well, let's see if we can't simplify it.”

 

“Okay.”  Sarah paused to organize her thoughts, trying to factor in the information that Rita had just dumped in their laps.

 

“Okay.  My boyfriend is a decent looking, super intelligent guy with the proverbial heart of gold.  He thinks about others, and he likes to make people comfortable, so he's a natural for the classroom.  With his gift for languages, he could make a fortune in the business world as a go-between, but he doesn't seem to care about money, possessions … any of it.  Mom, if you saw his apartment?  There's no table and chairs, nothing in the bedroom except the bed … he lives like a monk.”

 

“Hmm.  He sounds like a people person.  And yet you seemed surprised that he agreed to help Rita and her two troubled vets.  What am I missing here?”

 

“I think … I think she's manipulating him, using his sense of honor-- a soldier's sense of honor-- to get him to do what she wants.  And I don't like it.”

 

“Why?  Sarah, women have been using manipulation to control men since the beginning of time.  It's in our DNA.  And from my vantage point, it looks like Rita has simply drafted Ian to help with two of her patients.  Believe me, if I can get my hands on him, I'm going to do the exact same thing!  So unless you think that Rita has a hidden agenda ...”

 

“We do have an agenda, Mom, and this is not part of it.  Ian has a problem with alcohol, and Rita is supposed to be babysitting him, not 'testing his responses' to being put down in a pediatric crib and fully restrained.”

 

“And she's doing that … why?  Why does he need a safe space?  A crib?  Restraints?  And what did she mean when she said that your job is to be his girlfriend and his mommy?  HIS MOMMY?  Come on, Sarah, out with it!  What is this all about?”

 

Sarah threw her hands in the air in defeat.  “The alcohol is easy enough to explain.  Something bad happened to him out there … something really, really bad.  He's using liquor to hold his demons at bay, so we're going to dry him out, take away his crutch, and force him to deal with the guilt head on.”

 

“Which is straight out of the textbooks.  Likewise having you and Vickie playing good cop, bad cop.  But what isn't straight out of the textbooks is treating him like an infant … swaddling him with restraints.  Would this be the part of your relationship that you keep calling 'really, really complicated'?”

 

Sarah nodded in mute agreement.  She badly wanted to tell her mother everything, but at the same time she did not want to embarrass herself.  Above all, she did not want to be judged.

 

She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to start a conversation that had no logical beginning and no inevitable end.

 

“Mom, do you know what a D/s relationship is?”

 

“Of course,” Sofia laughed.  “I have read The Story of O, and my copy of Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden is very well thumbed!”

 

“MOM, NO!!!  Are you telling me that … that”

 

“That at my advanced age I still have an active sex life, and occasionally indulge in a bit of role playing?  You bet your sweet bippy!  You'll meet Bob tomorrow night.”

Sofia grinned from ear to ear.  There was her daughter, sitting there, slack-jawed and wide eyed …

 

“Pupu, if you could just see the look on your face!  Now, would I be correct in assuming that you are a Dominant, and Ian is your submissive?”

 

“Yes ...”

 

“And did the two of you sign a contract?”

 

“WHAT?  A CONTRACT?  MOM … WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

 

“It's customary for the couple in a D/s relationship to put the terms that govern their relationship in writing, lest there be any misunderstanding of what the roles require.  Barring that … do the two of you at least have a verbal understanding?”

 

“Absolutely.  I am in total control … make all of the decisions for both of us.  He knows that I expect complete obedience, and that he will be punished if he's naughty, talks back, or disobeys me without a really, really compelling reason.”

 

“You spank him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.  Are you giving him maintenance spankings?”

 

“What?”

 

“Maintenance spankings, pupu.”  Sofia rolled her eyes; her daughter's naivete amazed her.  “You keep a written log of his misdemeanors, and set aside a time each week for the two of you to sit down and review the entries.  Then you spank him … just as I spanked your father week in and week out for more than twenty-five years.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Shocking, isn't it,” Sofia smirked.  “Well, no matter.  I'll draw up a contract for you, but first I need to know more about the mommy part of this relationship.  How old is your baby?”

 

“Mom, I don't ...”

 

“Oh, come, dear.  Do you keep him as a two year old?  Eighteen months?  Twelve?  Six? He gets no say in this matter, you know.  This is just one more thing that, as the Dominant, you decide.  And if he rebels, you spank him.  It's really that simple.”

 

“But I haven't given any thought to ...”

 

“Do so.  Rita said that he welcomed being crib bound and fully restrained, which suggests that he wants to be treated as a newborn.  That would put a bit of a dent in your sex life, but on the other hand he sure doesn't seem to be behaving  like a toddler.  Maybe an eight month old?  Crawling?  Pre-verbal?  When you spank him, does he cry convincingly?”

 

“Gosh, yes!  Mom, Vickie spanked him on Tuesday night, and he was bawling just like a baby!  That's when we made our first breakthrough, and finally learned something about his time in Viet Nam.”

 

“Ah, so that's what Rita was referring to!  Pupu, she's absolutely right.  You need to stay far away from his therapy; you're his mommy, not his therapist!”

 

“Okay, okay … I see what you mean … what you both mean ...”

 

“Now, about your sex life ...”

 

“What sex life?”

 

“You mean you haven't?”

 

“Not yet.  Every time I change his diaper, it … well, it just lays there.”

 

“Oh, dear.  Well, is he any good with, you know, his tongue?”

 

“Mom, he's a magician!  He can do things with his fingers and tongue ...”

 

“Have you tried penetrating him anally?  A prostate massage?  Maybe there's a little girl in there that's just dying to come out and play.”

 

“Mom, what?  No … NO WAY!”

 

“It's just foreplay, dear, just foreplay.  You get him hard and then you mount him, but for your pleasure, not his.  If this really is a D/s relationship, then you want to limit his orgasms.  In your situation, I'd seriously consider doing away with them altogether.  After all, he's just a baby, and baby boys get hard, but they don't come.  You should milk him, tease him, give him ruined orgasms, but never let him experience the real thing.  Orgasm denial and spankings will transform your incontinent adult into a happily babbling baby boy in no time at all.”

 

Sofia stood up and walked over to a large filing cabinet.  Bending over, she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a thin, nondescript folder.

 

“Would you like to read the contract that your father and I signed?”

 

SCENE 16:

 

PRINCESS POOPY PANTS

 

“You know this man?”  Rita was stunned.

 

“Yes,” Bian replied.

 

“But where?  How?”

 

“In Hue.  I was nurse at Central Hospital when VC violate Tet … Vietnamese New Year.

When VC come to hospital, they shoot doctors, patients, nurses.  Husband shot.  I go to American compound, stay many weeks, nurse wounded soldiers.  This man … Captain … shot three times.  I fixed shoulder, then leg, other shoulder.  Never give up fighting.  Very good soldier.  Speaks my language … what we call sinh cao.  You say 'high born.'   Like priest, only warrior.”

 

“I told you,” Reiko hissed, “samurai.”

 

Rita held up her hand to silence them all.

 

“Bian, this is very important.  Do you know how long Captain Grady had been in Viet Nam before Tet?”

 

“Yes.  He told me … five months.”

 

“September of '67.”  Reiko was calculating out loud.  “Three tours … Rita, I've got it!  We're not looking at a degenerative process.  We're looking for a specific event that ended his third tour sometime in late '69 to late '70.  Something happened on that battlefield-- not a mistake but something so dishonorable that the shame is killing him.  A samurai cannot live with shame.”

 

“We need some way to narrow it down,” Marge observed.  “By 1970 we were fighting in Cambodia … Laos … remember, that's what the Kent State massacre was all about-- the expansion of the war.  An officer with Ian's language skills could have been just about anywhere.”

 

“He also speaks high born French,” Bian added in an attempt to help.

 

“First things, first.”  Rita wanted to get the meeting back on track.  “Bian, I want you to go into the secure wing and talk with Ian … with Major Grady.  If you wish, you can speak English when you are alone, but only Vietnamese when this patient can hear you.”  Rapidly juggling images, she brought up a feed that zeroed in on Don Phillips.   

 

“No English in his presence; do you understand?”

 

“Yes, but why?”

 

“Major Grady is trying to help this man, another veteran.  We want this soldier to hear your language because it might set him off … get him to speak or act.  Then we can help him.  So, this is what I want you to do ...”

 

Rita laid out the whole plan, which also involved Marge and Vickie as well as Becky and herself.  When she finished, she threw everyone out of her office and picked up the phone.

 

Sorry to spoil your holiday, Amos, but I need Sergeant Waring to minimize the damage if Corporal Phillips explodes.  And, yes, by all means, bring Andrew along.  This might well be a Thanksgiving to remember!

 

.  .  .  .

 

Well, I did give it the good, old college try …

 

Ian was hungry.  No, truth be told, Ian was ravenous.  He had stared at the camera, dramatically rubbing his stomach, then pantomiming a fork shoveling food into his wide open mouth.

 

Hello?  Knock, knock?  Is anyone there, or is the whole freaking staff zonked with a turkey coma?  I want a steak, damn it!  Medium rare, with a baked potato and sour cream nudging the bloody ceiling.  And how about fresh asparagus?  How do babies survive on this shit, anyway?

 

He had mentally reviewed the taste of the breast milk, and all things considered, had come to the conclusion that it wasn't altogether bad.  But then Ian had had occasion to drink yak milk.

 

And then there's Bactrian camel milk … top of the pops for the lactose intolerant!

 

Ian turned around to survey the room yet again, only to conclude that nothing much had changed.  Don Phillips was still doing his enigmatic Buddha routine.  Madonna and child had nothing on Becky and Phil.  The two keen-eyed orderlies were paying close attention to where Phil's hands were wandering, in the process completely ignoring the guy in the middle of the room who was having a go at standing on his head.

Maybe he needs a diaper change …

 

Ian decided to tackle the orderlies, on the theory that at least one of them had to have a candy bar secreted somewhere on his person.  He slowly crossed the room, trying to enter their field of vision before he got close.

 

Success!

 

“Guys, I'm starving.  Could one of you wrestle me up something to eat?”

 

Ian decided to nickname them Barney and Fred.  He loved the Flintstones.

 

Especially Pebbles.

 

Barney and Fred looked at one another, and then they both stared at Ian.

 

“The Thanksgiving meal will be served in about two hours,” one of them answered.

 

“Sounds good, guys, but by then I'll be passed out on the floor, dying from malnutrition.  So, I'd really appreciate it if one of you could get a hold of Rita and tell her that I need real food, preferably a New York strip from Murray's, medium rare with all the trimmings.  You can contact the outside world, right?”

 

“Wait here,” one of them replied, “and I will try and communicate your needs to Miss Stevenson.”  He disappeared into the chamber that Ian now thought of as Hell's own diaper changing room, only to reemerge a bare minute later.

 

“Miss Stevenson has instructed me to escort you back to your room.”  Barney's tone (or was it Fred?) was as bland as his expression.  “This way, Sir.”

 

Ian had learned a lot of nasty tricks during his time in Southeast Asia, and he knew that he could dismantle the two orderlies in a matter of seconds, but doing so would not get him any closer to his next meal.  Instead, he put his head down and meekly shuffled down the corridor.  Once he was inside room eleven, he made one last attempt at getting something, anything, to eat.

 

Barney (or was it Fred?) pointed at the blue books scattered across the desk top. 

 

“When you have graded another twelve blue books, Sir, someone will bring you something to eat.”

 

He closed the door, which locked with an audible click. 

Ian sat down at the desk, not quite sure whether he should grade blue books or eat them.  In the end, it was his sense of duty that prevailed-- that and the belated realization that his diaper was once again heavily soiled.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Twelve blue books later, Ian put down his red marking pen and swiveled to face the camera above the door.  He began counting in his head, and had reached forty when he heard the door click.

 

So someone's paying attention after all …

 

“Hello, Princess!  Are you being a good widdle baby?”

 

“Vickie!”  Ian jumped to his feet, as delighted as he was surprised.  “What are you doing here?  Don't you ever get a day off?”

 

“This is my day off, Princess, and I want to spend it with you … with my sweet little Princess Poopy Pants.  I want to give you a big reward for helping Rita, and for helping Phil.  He's had what we call a Breakthrough.  Becky will take it from here, and don't be surprised if you get an invitation to their wedding.  Did you know that Phil was a carpenter in civilian life?  Or that he dreams about designing and building his own furniture line out of exotic woods?”

 

Ian shook his head.  He knew a little about the soldier, but nothing about the man.

 

“That's great, Vickie; I mean, Phil seems like a pretty nice guy, and Becky's a wonder.  I hope that it works out.”

 

His face turning red with embarrassment, Ian lowered his gaze to study a spot on the floor.

 

“Vickie,” he stammered, “I, uh … well, I mean … um, you know, my diaper … I'm really messy, and I stink!  Can you change me?  Please?”

 

He is so unbelievably cute!  But it's time to set friendship aside …

 

“Princess, pardon the pun, but we need to clear the air.”  Vickie's tone was suddenly cold and distant.  “Your auntie Rita has asked me to become your therapist, and I have agreed to take you on.  So, first things first.  From now on, when we are alone, you will always address me as Aunt or Auntie Vickie.  If you fail to do this, you will be punished, and like any other baby, your punishment will take the form of a spanking.  And it will hurt … I promise you, every time I spank you, it will hurt.  You have to earn the right to address me by name.  Helping Rita and Phil … these were the first adult things I have ever seen you do-- your first baby steps away from infancy to adulthood.  I”m going to reward you for that, and if you can help Don Phillips, this will earn you a second reward.  Then we shall go on a journey together, and the more cooperative you are, the more rewards you will earn.  If you got all that, say 'yes, auntie Vickie'.”

 

“Yes, auntie Vickie.”

 

“Good, now get down on the floor and crawl over to the changing table … which brings us to rule number two.  In this room, when we are alone, you will remain on the floor and crawl about.  You are not to stand unless I am physically assisting you.  Any violation of this rule will get you a spanking. You may, however, stand up and walk normally when others are present; again, the rule about crawling applies only when we are alone.  Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, auntie Vickie.”

 

“Also good.  Now, get down on your knees and crawl over here.”

 

Ian hastened to obey, and Vickie dropped to her knees to confront him.  She cupped his chin, and forced him to look into her eyes.  She wanted to make it very, very clear to her patient that she was all business.  Play time was over.

 

“This is your moment of decision.  You are here voluntarily, so all you have to do is tell me that you want to leave, and I will open the door, walk you out of this facility, hand you your clothes, wait for you to get dressed, and then take you out to the waiting room.  You can leave with Rita, or, if you want to go home, I'll get you a cab.”

 

“That's option number one.  We'll still be friends, but your therapy stops here and now, and you and Sarah will just have to make the best of it.  Option number two?  Option number two is you formally request that I become your therapist, and you agree that we keep going until you have achieved your Breakthrough.  Ian, I do not want there to be any misunderstanding about this.  You are not going to waste my time by starting something and then running away when we start to make progress … very painful progress.  If you have the courage to see this through, I promise you that we'll tear down the wall, banish the ghosts, and you'll get your life back, just like Phil Kettering is doing right now in the other room.  No more drifting through the days like a zombie … you'll be whole, and you and Sarah will be happy.  That's the prize, if you have the courage to reach for it.  Do you?”

 

Ian shivered, and it wasn't from cold.  For nine years, he had dreaded this moment.  He had kept the wolves at bay during the long months at Yokosuka and Tripler, but in his gut he had always known that there was a wolf out there somewhere that would sink its teeth into his very soul, and not let go.

 

And now that moment had arrived.  Sweat erupted on his brow, and he could feel the blood draining out of his face.

 

Three weeks ago there would have been no decision to make because three weeks ago I hadn't met Sarah, so I would never have ended up on the path that brought me here.  What would Sarah want me to do?

 

“Aunt Vickie, I need to talk to Sarah ...”

 

“No, Ian; you don't.  I'm sorry, but this has to be your decision.  If it helps, just keep focusing on the fact that Sarah will still love you no matter what.  Focus!”

 

An alarm bell was starting to ring inside Vickie's brain.  Without his formal consent, she could not become his therapist.  Surely he knew this.  Why was he reacting so strangely?

 

“The only question is whether she will be getting a zombie who's just going through the motions, or this wonderfully complex guy who's a baby that she can mother one minute, and a man that she'll respect and admire the next-- the man who's giving his all for Rita and Phil, and in an hour or so will try and help Don.  Who do you want Sarah to marry?”

 

Ian closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.  He was boxed in, he knew it, and the room was starting slowly to spin around him.

 

This was all preordained … from the moment that I met Sarah, there was never any way out …

 

He bit down hard, took a deep breath, trying to fight off the dizziness.  If he could just hold on ...

 

“Aunt Vickie, if you are still willing, I want to become your patient … want you to be my therapist.  And I promise that I will see this through to the end.”

 

Ian suddenly looked up, directly into her eyes.  And in that instant Victoria Robinson grasped what it was that Amos Waring had seen, and the two orderlies who had halted in their tracks when he confronted them.  This was a man who kept his promises, no matter the personal cost.

 

But on that last day, in that last battle, he had broken one.

 

And it was killing him.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“This changes everything.”  Marge was rapidly processing the implications of what they had just witnessed.

 

“I know.”  Rita had decided to keep her replies to the minimum.

 

The two senior nurses were encamped in Rita's office, watching the events in room eleven run their course.

 

“You have his signature on a voluntary committal form, and he has just verbally agreed to full-on therapy inside the secure ward.  It would be easy for you to make the case on Tuesday for his involuntary committal, but that would put an end to his career, and we are not going to do that.”

 

“Agreed.  I have already worked up his file, but it is for Sarah, not the court.  I want her to be good with this.”

 

“She'll come round, but Vickie is a loose cannon.  She needs to understand that all of the rules governing a patient-therapist relationship are now in play.  She can't let her personal feelings get out of control.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“From now on, in this room, until further notice for me Ian Grady does not exist.  Oh, we shall talk about him, and other members of staff may want to converse with the Major, but you are just my little Princess Poopy Pants-- not a man, not a baby boy, but a baby girl.  It's understandable that a baby girl can't get it up for her mommy Sarah, but we both know that Princess Poopy Pants just loves to have Nanny Vickie finger fuck her ass, and we both know that only baby girls get off this way.  But of course I could be wrong about this, and you can easily prove me wrong by showing mommy Sarah what a big boy you are when she changes your diaper.  For that matter, you can show me what a big boy you are when I change your diaper!  Show me what I see when I play around with your prostate and you'll have proved me wrong. That's how you go back to being my little baby Ian, which is just one short step away from being a man.  Do you want to be a man, Princess?”

 

“Yes, auntie Vickie!  I'm not a Princess!  I swear, I'm not!”

 

“Then, let's get you up on the changing table so that auntie Vickie can change your icky diaper.  Here's your chance to prove it.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Rita, she's skating awfully damned close to the edge.”

 

“Vic's a pro, Marge; she'll bend the rules, but she won't break them.”

 

“The problem here is that Ian isn't just another patient; he's her friend.  And it's pretty obvious that she wants to take their friendship to the next level, and in the process push Sarah out of the picture.  Personally, I don't care whether they get it on or not, but that's what the car park is for.  I'll say it again: the ward is off limits.”

 

“Agreed, and if she crosses the line she'll face a Disciplinary Hearing.  But let's not jump to conclusions.  I want to see how the diaper change goes, and how she plays it.  Then I'll head in with Reiko and Mrs. Nguyen and brief him on what we've been planning.  When we get him into the dining area, you grab the princess dress and hang it on his crib, then come back here and wait for Amos and Andy.  As soon as they arrive, I want the three of you to go in and take your places at the table.  We want Phillips to crack, but I've worked up a seating chart to keep the wreckage to a minimum.  Candy is laying it out as we speak; just give the guys a heads up … oh, and find out if Amos speaks any Vietnamese … the kind that one hears in a whorehouse.  I'm betting that what Phillips kept hearing out there in the night wasn't exactly the Queen's English.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Such a stinky baby!  Oh yes she is!”

 

Ian giggled as his auntie Vickie swiftly ran her fingernails all over his tummy.

 

“Princess Poopy Pants is just a little stink pot; oh yes she is!”

 

Vickie had removed Ian's diaper cover and tossed it aside, making way for his baby pants, which went straight into the diaper pail.  Then she had tackled his diaper, discovering in the process that all the rumors about breast milk were true.  Ian's poop was runny and yellowed, just like a newborn's.  She used the clean edges of his diaper to  good effect, then efficiently finished the job with baby wipes.  She pinned him into a clean diaper, slid a fresh pair of baby pants over his obliging hips, and then directed him to get down on the floor to receive his reward.

 

Ian's penis wasn't hard as a rock, but Vickie was relieved to see that, after her well practiced ministrations, it was at least semi erect.  She had taken her time with the cleanup, using her fingernails here and the tips of her fingers there as she worked baby oil into the folds of his skin and caressed the surface of his cock and balls.  A liberal application of baby powder had afforded her a second opportunity to bring his member more fully to life, and she had taken full advantage of the opportunity.

 

Vickie eased to the floor, and just as Becky had done earlier in the day, she invited Ian to lay with his head cradled in her arm while she fed him his bottle.  Despite his earlier complaints, Ian once again began eagerly sucking down the warm breast milk.  Still, he moaned as Vickie's free hand wandered around his body, sliding with gentle pressure over the glistening surface of his vinyl pants.  Vickie had deliberately foregone the locking diaper cover, knowing that the thick canvas effectively doubled as a chastity belt.  She wanted Ian to cum, and her fingers were drawing him ever closer to the edge, but the ethics of her profession made demands upon Victoria Robinson eerily similar to the way in which duty called out to Major Ian Grady.  So, while he nursed, she gently guided his hand to his groin, and just as gently urged him to claim his reward.

 

His body arced, and she removed the nipple from his mouth.  His climax, long frustrated by the diaper cover that in due course would once again imprison his loins, was thunderous.

 

Even as she hugged him close, Vickie sighed deeply with relief.  Until this moment, she simply hadn't been sure whether her arsenal of erotic tricks would get any response at all.

 

Maybe this isn't a psychological issue … or maybe only partly so.  We need to schedule Ian for a full neurological exam.  Pudendal nerve damage explains his incontinence, and erectile dysfunction sometimes goes hand in hand.  There's no cure, but electrical stimulation can help. 

 

Does Sarah have a Wand?  Would she be willing to use it?  Does she have any idea of the commitment that this relationship is going to demand to make it work?  Can you deal with the simple, ineluctable truth that Ian might never be capable of making love to you spontaneously?  But he needs to work with me, no lies, no evasions before I'll even think about letting little baby Ian out to play.  That's a long way down the road ... 

 

Vickie bent over and lightly kissed her charge, whispering in her ear that Princess Poopy Pants was such a good baby, and that her auntie Vickie was so very, very proud of her.  Just twelve more papers, and her sweet little baby girl would get still another reward, oh yes she would.  Then Vickie offered her the nipple, and Ian resumed nursing as if he had never been interrupted.

 

She gently rocked her, then smiled up at the camera.

 

Not for the first time, Victoria Robinson had bent the rules, but she had not broken them.

 

SCENE 17:

 

A COMEDY OF ERRORS

 

Sarah closed the file, and stared up at her mother.

 

“All those years … was I simply blind, or were the two of you that skilled in deceiving me?”

 

“It was probably a combination of the two,” Sofia conjectured.  “But what you need to understand is that I rarely had to discipline your father.  We rarely disagreed about anything important, and when it came to raising our daughter, we were very much on the same page.  If he disagreed with my decision, I always listened very carefully to his objections.  I welcomed his counsel.  Sometimes I took it, sometimes I didn't.  But it was always my decision.  Even when he was certain that I was wrong, he obeyed me.  That is the essence of a D/s relationship.”

 

Sofia pulled up a chair, and sat alongside her daughter.  “Now I have questions, more or less for the record.  Let's go right to the heart of the matter: do you love him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And does he love you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does he respect you … trust you?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Do you respect and trust him?”

 

Sarah thought hard about how to answer the question.  “I trust him implicitly.  And I respect the man, but not his judgment.  He is deeply principled, and I am going to have to learn to respect his boundaries.  But he is punishing himself, and I am going to put an end to it.  I WILL NOT ENABLE HIM!  I will be the mommy that he wants me to be.  I'll change his diapers, and clean his messy bottom.  I'll nurse him at my breast.  I'll do all these things and more because I love him, but Ian and I both understand that this relationship will endure only if he submits to me … gives me total control.”

 

“Then a D/s relationship … a contract … will work for you.  Do you want to use mine as a template?”

 

For the first time since she had come home, Sarah's smile was heartfelt. 

 

“Thanks, Mom; it turns out that I really am your daughter.  And I want the same relationship with Ian that worked for you and Dad.  Your contract will do just fine.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Victoria smiled down at her beautiful baby, and ruffled her unruly mop of hair.

 

“Do you love your mommy?”

 

Ian nodded, but he remained silent.  Silent, and expectant.

 

“And does Ian love Sarah,” she continued.

 

Ian frowned, not understanding the question.

 

“We know that Princess Poopy Pants loves her mommy very much, but does the Princess think that grown-up Ian loves Sarah?”

 

Finally getting it, Ian smiled.  “Yeth, Auntie Vickie; Ian wuv Sarah sooo much!”

 

Yes!

 

Vickie gave herself a mental pat on the back.  She wanted to condition Ian to see himself as Princess Poopy Pants, and to think of his adult personalities in the third person.  She reasoned that the Princess might be able to talk about the trauma that the Major and the Professor so feared.

 

But do they have the same memories?  Or will this be another dead end? 

 

“So tell me, Princess, where is Professor Grady?  I don't see him anywhere!”

 

Ian laughed.  “Professor Grady sits at that desk and grades blue books, auntie Vickie.”  There was genuine merriment in his voice as he nodded in the direction of the desk on the other side of the room.  There was a neat stack of thirty-six blue books to one side, and an untidy pile scores deep littering the rest of the surface.  “In this room, he exists only when you will it.”

 

“And who are you the rest of the time?”

 

“I'm just a baby, auntie Vickie.  I wuv my crib and my ba-bas ...”

 

“I know, baby, and you can have them for as long as you like.  But what about when you go home?  You have no crib at home.  Will Princess Poopy Pants be going to bed with her mommy, or will Sarah be wrapping her arms around Major Grady?”

 

“I don't know, auntie Vickie; I don't know.  I want to be whatever mommy … whatever Sarah … wants me to be.  I wuv her sooo much!”

 

“Well, right now, I want to speak with Major Grady about his time in Hue.  Can I do that?”  Vickie continued to tousle her hair.

 

“Only if you promise to get me something to eat, aunt Vickie.  Princess Poopy Pants may be able to get by on breast milk, but Major Grady is really in the mood for a thick steak, medium well, with all the trimmings.  Breast milk just doesn't cut it!”

 

“Well, then, Princess Poopy Pants should be delighted to settle for turkey with all the trimmings,” she laughed.  Vickie was scrambling to conceal her amazement.  She had been schooled to look for triggers when working with split personalities, and it was rapidly becoming clear that Ian didn't need them.  “What I want to know is whether Major Grady really exists.  I'm still not convinced that there's anyone in this room with me except Princess Poopy Pants!”

 

“I don't understand, aunt Vickie.  Why Hue?”

 

“I want to find out whether Princess Poopy Pants and little baby Ian have the same memories as Major Grady.  And as it happens, we have a Vietnamese nurse on staff who remembers the Major from his time in Hue.  You will be meeting her shortly.  I want to hear the Major's perspective on what she has already told us happened during Tet.  Later, I will check to see if Princess Poopy Pants remembers any of this.”

 

“Can I stay here, aunt Vickie?  I really like the way you cradle me.”

 

“Hmm.  Normally, I would refuse, but you have been such a good girl today that you deserve a treat.  Sooo … you told Phil that you were with Special Forces in Nha Trang; what were you doing in Hue?”

 

Even as Vickie concentrated on building a mental diagram of Ian's personality matrix, she was sliding her fingers under one of the thigh bands on her vinyl pants.  She was not at all surprised to discover that she was already quite damp.  With breast milk now the mainstay in her diet, she calculated that she would soon need twelve to fifteen diaper  changes a day.  In fact, she was confident that she would need another poopy diaper change before they adjourned for dinner.  More diaper changes meant greater dependence, and greater dependence was a lever that she intended ruthlessly to exploit to ferret out the truth.  She had already decided for the time being to stay far away from little baby Ian because he was uncomfortably close to the Major and the Professor.  She would use him as a buffer, and leave it to Sarah to choose the infantile personality that she wanted to mother.

 

Diaper rashes are nasty, Princess, but they are also unavoidable. 

 

Vickie's fingernails were tracing lazy circles on the Princess' thigh …

 

Spankings and foreplay aren't the only tools in my arsenal by any stretch of the imagination!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Tet was a comedy of errors-- a nationwide engagement for which neither side was prepared because they ruled the ground by night, and we ruled the air by day.  We crushed them on a hundred different battlefields, only to find out that we had lost the war in the only theater that really mattered … the one in people's living rooms back home.  We didn't know it at the time, but Tet was the beginning of the end.”

 

“All I know is that Tet was the Lunar New Year, and that an armistice allowed all the soldiers to go home and celebrate with their families.”

 

“And the North violated the armistice.”  The Major completed Vicki's thought.  “Most of the ARVN … the South Vietnamese army … was scattered all over the country.  Only a few of their senior officers heeded our warnings and kept their units intact.  But down in Saigon, MACV did have its head in the game.”

 

“MACV?”

 

“Sorry … Military Assistance Command Vietnam.  General Westmoreland and friends.

Anyway, MACV didn't believe that the truce would hold, so they wanted to take advantage of the lull to reposition our forces for the big offensive that the North was obviously planning.  But where?  There was a raging debate going on in Saigon that started in the ballroom of the Huong Giang hotel in Hue; it's a beautiful old colonial hotel on the south bank of the Perfume River, in what's called New City.  The government buildings, the university, one of the biggest and oldest hospitals in the country, the radio station … and our own MACV compound … they were spread out along the shore, facing the ancient Citadel on the north bank, which was the symbolic heart of Viet Nam, and almost totally undefended.  There were about a hundred Americans inside the compound, a few more manning the boat ramp and the radio tower-- and thirty-two of us inside the hotel … intelligence pooh-bahs all, except for a couple of techs who handled our communications gear.  We were there to try and make sense of all the reports coming in about massive enemy troop movements.”

 

“So you were what … a spy?  Some kind of James Bond in a uniform?”

 

Ian chuckled, amused by the very idea.  “Nope.  I was the youngest officer in the room, but the only one who spoke the language.  There were only three of us who had been in the field, working the villages, and out there I kept the fact that I was fluent very much to myself.  It's amazing how much you can learn when the other side is convinced that you can't understand a word they're saying.  And what I learned, in more than thirty villages, was that the Viet Cong were everywhere, that they were well armed and utterly ruthless, that they were coercing peasants who just wanted to be left alone into submission.  I argued that we needed to fight with bulldozers … level the villages and tear up the ground.  I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we would find weapons caches in every village from the DMZ to the Delta, but no one in the higher ranks wanted to hear it because most were chasing medals and slots in the Pentagon, and you needed to win big battles to get a seat on that particular bus.  By the time the first shots were fired in the wee small hours of Feb one, the debate was pretty much over.  Saigon had been notified that it was the DMZ, either Pleiku or Khe San, and the marines were on the move ...”

 

Ian suddenly started coughing, and he didn't stop until breast milk was running down his chin.  Vickie grabbed a diaper off the nearest shelf and mopped up the mess, which had dribbled onto her baby's gown.

 

“Going forward,” she smiled, “you're going to need a bib.  And I'm going to start burping you after each bottle.  That should be fun for both of us.”

 

Yeah, about as much fun as a root canal.  Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah ...

 

“Or rather, it was their equipment that was on the move!  The choppers were hauling everything north … everything but the marines.  It's called pre-positioning-- first you move the goods, and then you move the guys.  Long story short, the North caught us completely flatfooted.  And in Hue, we had nothing to fight with except small arms and the odd grenade.  At 8 AM we could see the VC flag flying over the Citadel, and we figured we'd be dead before noon.  But there was no movement on the bridge carrying Highway 1 across the river, and no movement in the streets to our south.  We lucked out because the North's command was as inept as ours.  So as the sun went down there we were, a bunch of Davy Crocketts defending a Vietnamese Alamo.  We just had to find some way to hold on until Sam Houston could ride in with the cavalry, in the form of the 1st Marine division.  The guys were south of the city, but a big chunk of their equipment had gone north.  Anyway, we did hold, and on the sixth we knew that we'd made it because the North blew the bridge. It took another three weeks for the marines to clear the city, in the aftermath of which we counted more than ten thousand Vietnamese civilians dead or missing.  That hospital I mentioned?  Within easy walking distance of the hotel?  It was a charnel house.”

 

He's talking, but it's all textbook stuff.  And I'll bet anything that this was not, repeat not, what all those faculty wives and girlfriends on the prowl wanted to here at dinner parties.  What were you doing, Ian?  For six long days and nights, what were you doing out there?  Were you chasing medals?

 

“How did you survive?  I mean, you must have been badly outnumbered..”

 

“Mostly by keeping our heads down ...”

 

“No.  Stop right there.  Princess Poopy Pants will be crying herself to sleep tonight because she is going to be spanked … spanked hard … and all because you just lied to me.  Get this, and get it good: if Professor Grady misbehaves, Princess Poopy Pants gets spanked.  If Major Grady lies to me, Princess Poopy Pants gets spanked.  She is your responsibility.  Now, let's try it again, Major; how did you survive?”

 

“I told you the truth,” Ian protested.  “We kept our heads down ...”

 

“No, you didn't.  I know for a fact that you were wounded on three separate occasions during those six days, so stop lying to me!”

 

“Okay, okay!  You win, all right?  You win!”

 

“We only found out what was happening long after the fact, from prisoner interrogation.  Two battalions of the North's best, the 1st and 2nd Sapper battalions, were supposed to hit the compound and the hotel simultaneously at 04:00, while three more battalions of regulars were tasked to seal off the whole south bank-- two crossing the river to the west of us and a third coming up the river from our southeast.  But they had no heavy weapons … nothing more than what they had hauled in on their backs over the Ho Chi Minh trail.  2nd Sapper hit the compound right on schedule, but for some reason decided to retreat as soon as the guys returned fire.  1st Sapper didn't show up on our doorstep until 05:00, which gave us plenty of time to organize a defense.  The two battalions to the west didn't cross the river until 04:50, and the one that was supposed to come up in support for 1st Sapper actually got lost!  If you want to know the meaning of surreal, try imagining a battalion commander pounding on the door of a gas station at five thirty in the morning to ask for directions!  In retrospect, it's easy to understand why they never tried to lauch an all-out assault on our positions--  nobody, and I do mean nobody in this farce, had ever fought in city streets.  The landscape?  Broad boulevards, lots of parks and plazas, and plenty of tall buildings.  We scrambled to find places that we could use as sniper nests, which is exactly what the other side was doing.  Every time you peeked out from a window or around the edge of a building, you were taking a chance.  Donnie Freeman went down out in the open; we lobbed smoke grenades, and then I went out to drag his ass to safety.  Only somebody got lucky and put a round through my shoulder … clean through.  A simple patch job.  Then they clipped me with a ricochet … can you believe it?  A ricochet!  But hey, when you're fighting in buildings with cement walls, just put your trusty AK-47 on full auto and pump thirty rounds through the window.  What the Hell; you're bound to hit something, right?”

 

Ian suddenly sat up and stared across the room, but Vickie knew that it was Hue that he was seeing, not the desk and its scattered blue books.

 

“By the last day … we had never been resupplied, so we were pretty much out of everything.  I mean, roast rat was beginning to sound like a real treat.  And then the North blew the bridge.  Well, someone had to go out and assess the damage … see whether there was enough clearance in the channel for PBR's to reach the boat dock.”

 

“PBR's?”

 

“What we called the brown water navy.  We used patrol boats a lot, including for things like resupply.  Anyway, guess who got the short straw?  Why, it was yours truly.  Coming back, I took fire, and one of the rounds tore up my left shoulder pretty good.  My third and last visit to the compound, where Vietnamese doctors and nurses fleeing the hospital had set up shop for the duration.  I gave them a fair amount of business.”

 

Ian turned his head and looked her straight in the eye.  “Happy now, aunt Vickie?”

 

Vickie winced.  It wasn't the anger in Ian's voice-- she had expected that.  It was the bitterness in his eyes. 

 

If the eyes are indeed a mirror to the soul … and they're powder kegs, all of them, just waiting to explode.  We got off easy with Phil, but Don …

 

Vickie checked Ian's diaper once more.  He was wet, but she decided to postpone his change until he pooped.

 

And I hope that Rita's got her shit together.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Vickie looked up when the door opened, and was relieved to see that Rita and their Vietnamese co-worker had arrived.  Ian had shut down so completely that she wasn't sure what personality she was dealing with.  The silence had become oppressive.

 

Rita and Bian quietly approached, but Rita held back when Bian stopped at Ian's side, gazing down on the diapered patient whom she had nursed so long ago and so far away.  It was odd to see a man who had so adamantly refused to wear a combat diaper sitting on the floor in the real thing.

 

She reached out and lightly ran her fingers over his left shoulder, wondering if it had properly healed, whether the pain had finally gone away.  No one fleeing the hospital had thought to carry supplies, so they had had to make do with what was available inside the compound.  And they had run out.

 

Unbidden, tears began to well up in Bian's eyes.  Eleven years had passed.  She had stood over her husband's bullet riddled corpse.  She had fled her country on a leaky boat.    She had built a new life in a strange country whose customs mystified her, and whose language was a constant challenge.  But nothing that she had experienced afterwards  could dislodge the horror that had gripped her on the fifth and sixth of February, in the year that Christians called 1968.  Operating without morphine or any other anesthetic.  Sterilizing with alcohol, the bottles carried from the hotel bar by heroic men braving sniper fire, risking their own lives for those who had fallen but might yet be saved.  The two days had been hard, but the nights had stretched into eternity.

 

He never went home, she suddenly realized, looking at the ugly scar on his left thigh, knowing with certainty that it had not been there when the helicopter had evacuated him. He stayed, and he continued to fight …

 

Bian knelt on the floor before him, and reached out to take his hand.

 

And now he fights a new war … new, yet somehow the same.  Will it ever loosen its grip?

 

“Hello, Captain Grady.  Bạn có nhớ tôi không.  Do you remember me?”  Bian's voice was little more than a whisper.

 

For a long moment, Ian was certain that he was dying, the vivid memories of a later life nothing more than shadowy dreams meant to ease his passing.

 

And then he remembered, and he opened his eyes.

 

“Hello, Mrs. Nguyen.  And yes; I remember you very well.  Và vâng. Tôi nhớ bạn rất rõ”  He covered her hand with his own, a deep sense of warmth flooding his body.

 

“We must fight again, to save the other soldier.  Bạn đã sẵn sàng chưa?”

 

“Đúng … I'm ready.”

 

“Rita will explain.”

 

And kneeling at their side, Rita proceeded to do so.

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