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It hit Harvey like the proverbial bolt from the blue.
Saturday evening, he had plans to cook dinner for Scottie, after which they would likely talk/argue about a possible/impossible future together, followed by a lengthy bout of electric, spine-melting, toe-curling sex.
He should have prepared himself for inevitable disappointment, shouldn’t have been surprised to receive her news, via text message, that she was sticking by Darby and moving back to London permanently. He’d made the decision to give things a legitimate try with Scottie, to follow their path together as far as it might go. Having made that decision, he was blindsided by her abrupt abandonment. It hurt like a hard punch to the gut.
He frowned into the refrigerator, eyeing the marinated salmon steaks with hostility, taking deep, measured breaths in an effort to dissolve the tightness in his chest by force of will. He didn’t cry, no actual tears leaked from his eyes, but his chest jerked spasmodically as he wrestled down painful, unwanted emotion.
Disappointment, that's all it was. Not grief or regret. Not sudden, crushing loneliness.
The salad was already tossed and dressed, and the salmon only a quick broil away from being ready, so he convinced himself he was hungry, that her latest betrayal hadn’t driven his appetite away, and he went to work cooking the salmon and setting a solitary place at his kitchen bar.
When he tugged open the silverware drawer, a flimsy silk scarf fell out and drifted to the floor. He couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there, but recognized it as one of Scottie’s favorites. He bent to pick it up, meaning to throw it in the trash, but somehow it made its way to his nose, and in an almost involuntary reaction, he inhaled deeply, taking in her sweet, flowery scent.
In the midst of his second deep inhale, his olfactory system decided it was every bit as unhappy with Dana Scott as his mind and heart, seizing up preparatory to his nose and lungs exploding in a series of violent sneezes.
Sardonic thoughts flitted through his mind of how appropriate this reaction was as he finally and decisively tossed the scarf in the trash. He removed the cooked salmon steak from underneath the broiler, turned off the oven and settled onto a stool to eat his dinner.
He lifted a forkful of salmon and sneezed again. Grimacing, he shook his head and shoved the fish in his mouth.
Three bites in, the lightning bolt struck.
He was in the middle of debating whether or not to open the obscenely expensive bottle of Sauvignon Blanc he had selected for the evening. A wave of dizziness coursed through him, causing the room to waver, and he looked around the kitchen in confusion, half-expecting to find someone hovering nearby who had put the whammy on him, or slipped something into his ice water or food. There was only him, however, and he had prepared every single bit of food from scratch.
He reached for the glass of water with his left hand and watched with dull, distant alarm as the glass slipped from his suddenly clumsy grip and fell to the floor with a wet crash. Moving the hand closer to his face felt like forcing it underwater through a heavy current. He made a fist – or tried to, since his fingers wouldn’t close all the way. It felt as if slow-drying glue had been injected into his veins.
The dizziness had receded a bit by now, and a floaty sensation filled his head, like being drunk or high, but he knew that he was neither.
He didn’t understand what was happening to him, couldn’t get a handle on what to do or how to react. Instinct had him reaching for his phone, shifting it from his misbehaving left hand to a right hand that seemed perfectly fine…and that meant something…what did that mean?
He tapped phone, and there were Mike and Donna’s numbers, the two most recently called. He debated for what felt like a stupidly long moment before selecting Donna. Nothing happened. He remembered sluggishly that he had to tap the red picture of the phone. Even as he tried to recollect how to turn the speaker on, he heard two faint rings followed by Donna’s voicemail greeting.
“Shit,” he tried to say, but it came out sounding more like, “Schllii.”
That was when the first chilly spike of fear touched him. Hospital. The word popped into his mind like a concept he had just now remembered. That’s where he needed to be. And lucky him, he had taken a car for the weekend and it was parked downstairs in the underground garage.
Much later – days later – he would find himself attempting to justify his next actions to too many people. Why, they all wanted to know, didn’t you simply dial 9-1-1?
It was a legitimate question. Why didn’t he? Much later, he would decide that he didn’t – couldn’t – acknowledge that something very very bad, something paramedic bad was happening to him. And really, he could still walk – if haltingly. His right side was working just fine. By the merest of chances, the car parked downstairs had an automatic transmission, and his right foot worked, which was all he needed, so come on, what was the problem?
Sure, his mind felt badly scrambled, but no worse than after a night of drinking, and although it was nothing to be proud of, those nights and early mornings of driving home ever-so-slightly under the influence had absolutely prepared him for this.
Perhaps he should have put the brakes on all of his fuzzy justifications when the car reached the garage exit, which required that he push a big green button to open the gate, and the button was located on his left side. But he was a problem solver, and after only a few seconds of befuddled frustration, he grabbed his left arm with his right hand and slapped it over and against the button like the dead slab of meat it seemed to have become.
He had only a vague knowledge of where the nearest hospital lay, and the crowded streets made him itchy and angry. Come on, come on you fuckers, get out of my way. He would have said it out loud, but was leery of producing another slurred mess of words.
Then, as if some bored angel had stopped picking its fingernails long enough to glance down, and decided to take pity on him, a street sign appeared with a big arrow pointing him in the direction of the hospital. Keeping his eyes wide and unblinking, as if that would help him to think better, he followed the signs, and finally arrived at the ER entrance, not entirely clear on how he had gotten there.
He limped his way inside, dismayed to find at least half the chairs in the waiting area already occupied. He went straight to the check-in desk, and was asked to describe his symptoms.
“I got dizzy all of a sudden. My hand doesn’t work right.” He knew he was slurring, but must have gotten it out well enough, because he was handed a clipboard full of paperwork and told to have a seat.
When he set the pen to the first form, intending to write his name, he saw that his hand was shaking. In fact, his entire body was shaking.
It wasn’t from fear. No way. He was Harvey Specter, and he didn’t get scared. This…whatever it was…was simply an annoying inconvenience, and the professionals would have it figured out and handled, and he would be on his way in no time at all.
He was doing an adequate job of calming himself down until a frowning woman in burgundy scrubs appeared from behind the desk, and called his name, ushering him past all of the other people who had been there before him, waiting for who knew how long, while he was whisked to the head of the line.
Harvey felt like he should have had a million questions, should be taking charge of the situation, but instead he followed meekly past the desk and through two swinging doors. A wheelchair materialized next to him, and another stab of fear tried to penetrate his fog. He eyed the wheelchair with something approaching superstitious dread – if he sat, he was admitting…something.
“I don’ needit,” he forced past lips and tongue that seemed heavy and useless.
She – the nurse or whatever she was – appeared prepared to argue the point with him, but was interrupted by a trim young man in scrubs and a white coat.
“Mr…Specter.” He glanced over the chart, and really, Harvey had a chart already? “I’m Dr. Carney. I understand you’re having some difficulty this evening. Debra is going to help you to an exam room. It’s just up ahead and to the right.”
Harvey ignored the wheelchair and started walking, feeling Debra’s hand tighten on his arm. No one tried to stop him though, even though he knew his gait was wonky, and he had to concentrate to walk in a straight line. When his left leg started to slip out from under him, the doctor was right there to steady him, and then he was in the room, and didn’t argue when he was directed to lie on the gurney.
Dr. Carney was murmuring to the nurse. “…deficits on the left side…schedule him right away…vitals.”
The doctor swept from the room, and then the nurse handed him a well-washed hospital gown and told him to change his clothes. She returned two minutes later, and he still hadn’t gotten his shirt all the way unbuttoned, so she helped him undress and change, and he should have been embarrassed, but she displayed such a matter-of-fact attitude that he found himself put at relative ease.
She hooked him up to the monitoring equipment which he guessed would track his heart rate and blood pressure and…whatever. He tried to relax, glad that at least his head was raised so he could watch what was going on around him.
Someone else entered the room, a young woman in slacks and a blouse, who asked him questions like what was his address and did he have insurance. She were still working on it, and had finally grasped the need to ask yes or no questions if possible, when an orderly pushed the hated wheelchair through the door.
“Where?” Harvey managed to get out.
“Jeremy is taking you to the Radiology Department for a CT scan. Once we get the results, we’ll know better how to proceed.”
He wanted to ask what they were looking for, and how they would proceed if they found it, but didn’t trust his speaking ability, so he finally surrendered to the inevitable and let Debra and Jeremy help him into the wheelchair.
Jeremy steered him down a hallway crowded with equipment and busy hospital personnel, and lined with exam rooms, some occupied with patients who looked as lost and nervous as Harvey felt. They rode an elevator down, and arrived in Radiology, greeted by a bearded bear of a man, who chatted easily with Jeremy and asked Harvey a few questions, like whether he was claustrophobic, and was he wearing any jewelry.
Jeremy and the tech helped him to stand and led him to the narrow table that would slide him into the scanner, instructing him to lie down. And that’s when Harvey got it. CT scan equals CAT scan.
He grabbed the tech’s arm. “Wha’ for?” he asked.
The tech grinned down at him. “We like to do spot checks. To see if the hamsters are healthy, and the wheels are all in working order.”
Was Harvey supposed to laugh at that? He face felt tight and frozen, like he might never laugh again.
A squeeze to his shoulder, and the tech’s smile turned gentler. “Sorry. That usually at least gets a smile. What we’re actually looking for are any clots or bleeds.” He put something in Harvey’s right hand. “I need you to stay completely still. If you are having any problems, squeeze that, and we’ll pull you back out. Understand?”
Harvey gave a short nod and watched the tech move to a separate room, probably protected from the x-rays, or whatever it was a CT scan put out. Harvey wondered distantly if he should be worried about the x-rays, or raise an objection, but a clot or bleed sounded serious, more serious than some invisible rays, so he remained where he was and kept silent. The tech said something to him over an intercom, and then the table began to move, sliding him into an impossibly small, constricted space.
Harvey had seen a test such as this on television, and in the movies, but nothing prepared him for the impotent panic that surged through him, the feeling of being trapped, buried alive. His breathing seemed abnormally loud in the confined space, and his pounding heart had to be shaking the entire contraption.
“Doing okay?”
He jumped as the question blared right into his ear. “Yeah,” he answered.
“Great. You’re going to hear a series of noises, some rather loud, I’m afraid. Please remain as still as possible.”
“'kay.”
He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. He imagined wide, blue skies, a sandy beach, and limitless ocean. He jumped a little at the loud clicking, which was followed by a low hum and a whirring sound. Stay still and this will be over soon. It seemed to go on forever, though. He tried to breathe slowly, but could feel the panic rising again inside himself, and could hear his loud, agitated breaths. He only hoped he wasn’t screwing up the pictures too badly, because he needed this to be over now.
His hand tightened minutely around the panic button, or whatever it was the tech had given him to hold onto.
“Harvey? Are you doing all right?”
No. He was not doing fucking all right. He was freaking the fuck out. “Sure,” he lied, and tried not to wince at the next series of jarring noises.
“Couple more and we’re done. You’re doing great.”
Good to know. The next time he was buried alive, he’d know just what to do.
“Okay. We’re going to get you out now. Keep your arms close to your sides.”
The table began to move, backing him out of the machine. He tried to compose his face, but suspected, as Jeremy and the nameless tech helped him up and back into the wheelchair, that he looked like a shell-shocked lunatic.
He gave the tech a questioning look. “Weah?” Which was supposed to be “well,” but what the fuck ever.
“The doctor will discuss the results with you.”
It was the expected answer, but still infuriating. Harvey slumped down in the wheelchair and allowed himself to be transported back to his room in the ER.
Apparently, whatever was happening to Harvey, whatever “deficit” was taking place inside his head, was serious enough to merit high priority. Dr. Carney appeared almost as soon as Jeremy had him back up on the gurney and hooked up to the monitoring equipment.
“So, Mr. Specter, I’ve got the results from the CT scan.”
“Call me Harvey,” he said, and was pleased and relieved to hear the words emerge clear and precise. He lifted his left hand and opened and closed it a few times. It still had a weird, dreamlike, delayed reaction quality, but at least it was better than it had been.
“All right. Harvey. Since we’re still close to the onset of the event, what I’d like to recommend is tPA or a clot buster to – ”
“What? Wait. So you’re telling me I have a clot in my brain?”
“Didn’t I say that? Sorry. Sometimes I get ahead of myself. Yes, your CT scan confirmed it.”
“And this…clot buster? Are there risks?”
“Unfortunately, yes. They're minimal, but include hemorrhage to the brain or elsewhere, and a possibility of permanent disability. I know that sounds scary, but those things are rare, and with the deficits I’ve observed, I think – ”
“I’m better,” Harvey blurted. “I mean, I can talk fine now. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. And maybe my left side is still weird.” He moved his arm up and down. “Sort of like a mild acid trip. But not like it was an hour ago. It’s definitely better.”
Dr. Carney noted something in Harvey’s chart, his expression serious. Then he set the chart aside and sat on a rolling stool, moving to Harvey’s side. “Give me your hands. Now squeeze. Hard as you can.” He let go of Harvey's hands and tilted his head to the side, giving him a considering look. “Do you think you could walk across the room for me?”
Harvey nodded, and waited while the doctor freed him from the monitoring equipment. He stood and took a careful step, and then another, and then walked as normally as he could. He could feel the hitch in his step, but at least he was stable, and not in imminent danger of face planting.
“That’s good. Go ahead and lie back down.” More scribbling ensued while Harvey waited for the verdict. “I believe you’re right. I do see marked improvement from earlier. Here’s what I’d like to do. I want to admit you into our step down care unit, so we can monitor you closely tonight. I’m going to order a number of tests for you.”
Harvey tried to pay attention, to understand everything the doctor was telling him, but it all seemed like such a tidal wave of unfamiliar terms that he only caught part of it, something about a transesophogeal echocardiogram, and color flow Doppler and saline contrast, and a CBC and ultrasound to check for other clots in his legs and…he blew out a breath.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, Harvey. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow. And you should expect a visit from the on call cardiologist, Dr. Feldston. She’ll be doing the echocardiogram.”
Harvey frowned. A cardiologist? “Is there something wrong with my heart?”
Dr. Carney smiled and shut the chart decisively. “That’s what we’re going to find out. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. The improvement you’ve already shown suggests this was a fairly mild event. So don’t lose any sleep over it. Do you have any questions for me?”
Harvey hesitated. “If I’m better, why do I need all those tests?”
“Because until we know what caused it, I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again.”
It. Whatever it was. Harvey knew he should ask for clarification, but was oddly reticent. Once they put a name to it, there would be no more denying, no more chance that this was a mild case of indigestion, or maybe even a panic attack.
So, when Dr. Carney told him he’d see him tomorrow, Harvey nodded and thanked him, as if he’d actually done anything other than hover nearby and ask questions and take notes.
Dr. Carney laughed lightly. "Don't thank me. Sometimes the tincture of time is the best remedy."
It was on the tip of Harvey's tongue to ask how much he would be charged for that particular remedy, but only nodded and watched the doctor leave.
While Harvey endured the check-in process, which seemed to consist of forms and more forms, someone, probably Debra, asked if he’d like to call anyone. He thought about calling Donna, but didn’t see a good reason to bother her until he knew anything concrete. He also briefly considered calling Mike, but pushed that impulse away as inappropriate and way outside the boundaries of their working relationship.
If it turned out he’d be here longer than Sunday, which he couldn’t see happening, then he’d have to let Donna and Jessica know. Until then, he decided to leave them out of it.
Sleep while in the hospital being “monitored” turned out to be an elusive goal. Whenever Harvey began to feel sleepy enough to drop off, one of the nurses would enter his room to take his vitals and ask him questions. By three in the morning, he felt so keyed up he could only stare at the ceiling and brood. A nurse had placed inflatable leg cuffs on his calves, meant to prevent any clots from forming in his legs. They filled periodically, putting pressure on his legs, and further insuring that he didn't get any rest.
An unfamiliar sense of loneliness descended on him. He knew plenty of people, many that he called his friends, so why was he alone, facing…whatever this was? He supposed he was reaping the rewards of a solitary lifestyle.
If things had worked out with Scottie, would she be here now, dozing in the chair by the window, offering him support? He tried to imagine that, to picture her here, rumpled and worried and cracking inappropriate jokes to keep his spirits up. As hard as he tried, though, he couldn’t bring the image into focus.
For some reason, he thought of Mike again. If something like this happened to Mike, who would he call? Since his grandmother died, he had no family. Harvey wondered if Mike had any friends who were close enough to call in the middle of the night to tell them that he was afraid, and too much of a coward to ask anyone what was actually wrong with him.
Who was he kidding? Harvey knew exactly who Mike would call: him.
With that realization, his hands were moving almost before he realized he’d made the decision, reaching for the room phone on the bedside table, dialing the number from memory, listening to it connect and begin to ring at the other end.
“H’lo,” came the sleep-rough voice through the receiver.
Harvey opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. What could he say? Knowing Mike, he would probably only freak him out, and he’d overreact and Harvey would end up feeling foolish because this was all nothing, really, just a false alarm. He hung up the phone and turned on his side, determined to fall asleep.
It was the cardiologist, Dr. Feldston, who first spoke the word. She visited him in the morning to explain about the echocardiogram, and why he wasn’t allowed any breakfast, and how they suspected a heart defect that he couldn’t pronounce (but would later learn quite well) that did something to the pressure inside his heart and allowed unfiltered blood clots and blah blah stroke blah blah ischemic blah blah blah.
Wait. Back up.
Even though he’d slept very little the night before, and hadn’t been offered any coffee, he felt remarkably wide awake. And his brain had evidently made great cognitive improvements overnight, because he finally began to put two and two together regarding what had happened to him. What he thought he had just heard in between the blah blahs confirmed it. It was difficult to believe, outlandish and surreal, but now that it had been said out loud, he had to know for sure.
So when Dr. Feldston paused to take a breath, he interjected hesitantly, “Is…are you telling me…am I understanding correctly? This was a stroke?”
Her eyes widened and she tilted her head to the side. “Why, yes. You mean, nobody told you?”
Had they? He didn't recall anything blatant and forthright, no actual mention of the word, but only an idiot could have missed all of the symptom and signs and code words.
Harvey didn't often feel like an idiot, but right then he felt like the last person in the room to understand the punchline to the most obvious joke in the world.
"Although," the doctor was saying, "I suspect it was more of what we term a TIA or transient ischemic attack. A minor stroke."
Little of what she'd just said penetrated, aside from the word, "stroke."
"Dr. Feldston," he said, keeping his voice measured and polite, "would you mind very much starting over from the beginning? And if you could find me some pen and paper so I can take notes..."
By that afternoon Harvey's cardiologist, Dr. Feldston, and Dr. Carney, who it turned out was a neurologist, had both confirmed what they had believed to be true. Harvey's heart was defective. There was a hole between the left and right chambers of his heart, which should have grown closed after birth, but hadn't.
He experienced a certain degree of dark humor at the diagnosis. How often had he been accused of lacking a functioning heart? All suspicions were now confirmed.
"It's actually more common than you might think," Dr. Feldston reassured him. "We believe that around twenty to twenty-five percent of the population possess this defect, but most will never know, because it doesn't cause them any problems. You seem to be one of the unlucky ones."
"And a hole in my heart caused a clot in my brain?"
"We aren't sure what caused the clot. But at least one of them formed, most likely in your leg, and as it traveled past your heart, something caused a change of pressure."
"Like what?"
"Like a sneeze. Vigorous exercise. Energetic crying. I had a patient once who suffered a TIA in the middle of an exceptionally difficult bowel movement."
"Okay. Wow. I'm still not clear...."
"With the pressure change, the blood flow is diverted from the right atria, or chamber, into the left, through the hole, rather than following its normal path through the lungs, where a clot would be filtered before reaching the brain."
He thought back to the previous night, and Scottie's scarf, and the bout of sneezing it had produced. "So I just happened to have a clot, and it just happened to be moving past my heart when I sneezed? That seems like a really shitty lottery to win."
Dr. Feldston nodded noncommittally and took half a step back, as if giving the floor to Dr. Carney.
"If it's any consolation, Harvey, you don't seem to have suffered any permanent deficits."
There it was again, that word. A polite and clinical way of describing his slurred words and stickily frozen left side. "I'm...." He didn't want to say it, didn't want to admit to his lingering deficits, but his job had taught that when you hired a professional, the best thing to do was to be completely honest. "I'm still having some trouble. My fine motor skills don't seem quite back to normal. Things keep slipping from my hand.".
Dr. Carney heard him out, nodding soberly. "I'm not making any guarantees, but I expect that you'll be back to one hundred percent, or close to it, in the next few days. Part of your brain was damaged by the clot. It cut off blood flow for a brief but significant amount of time. The good news is, the brain is a fairly remarkable thing. It has a way of creating new pathways to replace the old damaged ones. You've already experienced that with the return of lucid speech. If you like, however, I can arrange for a physical therapist to stop by tomorrow to give you a complete evaluation and course of treatment."
Harvey was already shaking his head no -- decisively, definitively no. "I won't be here tomorrow. I'm going back to work." When both doctors shifted uncomfortably, his heart -- his defective, traitorous, death-dealing heart -- sank. "Is there some reason I need to stay another day?"
Dr. Feldston answered him. "There are several more tests we need to perform. One will determine the extent of seriousness of the PFO -- "
He held up his hand to make her stop. "PFO?"
"Patent foramen ovale. The hole in your heart. It's Latin, meaning -- "
He'd already reached for his pen and paper. "Could you spell that for me, please?"
She did as requested and he wrote it down, adding it to the list of things he intended to research as soon as he got access to his laptop again.
"And," Dr. Carney was saying, "we want to make sure you don't have any more clots forming."
"Once we have all the test results," said Dr. Feldston, "we can talk about possible treatments."
"Treatments?" asked Harvey, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know. What he did want was to go home and act as if none of this had ever happened.
"Basically, it comes down to surgery or medication."
"Of course it does." Harvey tossed the paper and pen onto the bedside table and sank down a little in his pillows, closing his eyes briefly. "Tell me, when can I expect to get out of here?"
The two doctors exchanged glances. Dr. Feldston said, "Probably Tuesday afternoon."
He nodded, and answered with all of the polite, correct phrases until they said goodbye and left him alone.
Harvey spent the hour until his dinner was delivered debating who to call. He'd just as soon not tell anyone where he was and what was happening, but an unexplained absence by Harvey Specter on both Monday and Tuesday would likely result in some type of DEFCON one meltdown at the firm.
Jessica. Donna. Mike. Spin the wheel. Make a choice.
He heaved a deep sigh, lifted the receiver on the room phone and dialed Jessica's cell phone.
"Jessica Pearson."
"It's Harvey."
A pause. "Where are you calling from?"
Vegas? Mars? Hell? "I'm...at the hospital."
"Oh, God. Not Louis again?"
He grimaced, not liking the reminder that he now shared a weakness comparable to the one that had sent Louis to the hospital not that long ago. "No. Not Louis." He might have let Jessica keep guessing. After all, he'd said he was "at" the hospital, not "in." He could sense her on the other end of the line, waiting for the other shoe to drop, to find out which member of her work family had been sidelined this time. Harvey shut his eyes. "It's me, actually."
She was quiet for a couple more beats. "My first impulse is to ask what you injured, but something tells me that's not it."
She knew him too well. "No. It's....the doctors assure me I'm fine. Just a dumb scare."
"Uh huh. And when will you be back at work?"
He might have been offended by that question from anybody else, but Jessica infused it with such skepticism and compassion that he was both touched and tempted to hang up on her and pull the covers over his head. "Wednesday," he said, striving to keep any emotion out of his voice.
"So. More than just a scare." She waited for him to say something, and when he didn't, she prodded him. "Tell me."
"It's just going to sound bad, when really, it's not."
"Harvey, as your friend, I'd like you to tell me the truth. If you can't do that, then, I'll ask you as the managing partner of Pearson Specter, and remind you that you have a fiduciary duty to keep me informed of your ability to perform your job as a named partner. So which is it going to be?"
"I had a stroke."
There was a small space of silence on the other end of the line, during which Harvey thought he could hear all of the air leave Jessica's lungs. "Shit," she whispered.
"Yeah, that was kind of my reaction, too."
"But, you're...."
"I'm fine. Talking. Tap dancing. Ready to play the violin, just as soon as I take a few hundred lessons. Oh, and, 'the sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side.' See? Top form."
"You do realize that the Scarecrow got that formula wrong?"
"And look how far he got in spite of that. Took Dorothy to the Wizard and got a medal and everything."
Her sharp laugh turned into a sigh. "Does Donna know?"
"Not yet. I was hoping...."
"You really want her to hear it from me? From anybody other than you? Is that what you would expect from her, if she were in your place?"
He twisted his lips. "No."
"Good. Now, what do you need from me?"
Most of the rest of their conversation consisted of Harvey giving her the names of the clients he couldn't put off until Wednesday, and Jessica agreeing to meet with them or phone them. Then she wheedled the name of the hospital and his room number out of him and asked for the names of his doctors.
"Jessica, I've got this. I don't need you poking around and doing background checks on my doctors."
"Humor me."
So he humored her, and then humored her some more by reading off some of the medical terms he'd jotted down earlier. He knew she would be spending some quality time at her computer this evening, researching everything the doctors had already told him, and it should have irritated him, but instead it made him feel warm and cared for, and a little bit less alone than he had since that first bolt had hit him in his kitchen.
He tried a different strategy with Donna, telling her he'd gotten dizzy, had gone to the hospital, and the doctors were running tests on him, downplaying the whole thing as much as possible. He didn’t mention the "S" word, not on the phone, knowing full well that she would arrive in his room as soon as she could slip on some shoes, grab her purse, and go outside to hail a cab.
She didn't disappoint him, and somehow even managed to squeeze in a couple of minutes to buy him a bouquet of purple tulips and a small teddy bear wearing a suit, with a band-aid on its forehead and a heart-shaped briefcase in one hand.
"God, Harvey," she breathed, looking over every inch of him, "they've got you in the ugly gown and everything. What the hell is going on?"
He told her, straight out, and her face grew pale with shock, and she shed a few completely non-theatrical tears before punching him in the shoulder with very un-Florence Nightingale-like violence. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"
Rubbing his shoulder and scowling, he replied, "I did. I called you last night, but it went to voicemail."
"You should have left a message. I saw the missed call, but I figured you butt-dialed me or something."
"That's not that easy to do on a smart phone. Okay, not relevant. The truth? When I called you...the moment was somewhat...fraught."
"Fraught?"
"Yeah, you know, like with tension. Fraught with tension. Because that's a thing....what?"
Her eyes had filled with tears again. "You called me while it was happening? And it went to voicemail? Oh holy shit, Harvey, I am the worst person in the world. I am so sorry."
"Donna. Donna. Stop crying, for Christ's sake. You couldn't have known. You're allowed to have a Saturday night."
"I know, but...wait. You were supposed to be having a Saturday night, too. With...."
"Yeah. She didn't show. Had a flight to catch back to London."
Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "She dumped you? Is that why...did that cause it?"
Scottie didn't dump me, he wanted to protest. But she had. She'd actually, unequivocally dumped him, and he had been so busy having an insane medical crisis that he'd managed to forget that it fucking hurt, that he felt completely gutted by her decision. "No," he said, suddenly exhausted as everything seemed to hit him at once -- the lack of sleep, the anxiety, the dumping. "She didn't cause it. It was a fluke. Just a random confluence of circumstances."
He didn't mention Scottie's scarf, and the sneezing it set off that must have rocked his heart so hard that it changed the course of....He couldn't finish that sentence, because he didn't yet know what might have changed.
He smiled grimly at Donna. "Shit happens." Which reminded him of something, and he launched into a highly embellished story about the patient Dr. Feldston had mentioned, who had been involved in a bowel movement of apparently mammoth proportions when their bolt of lightning hit, and that got Donna laughing, and after that, things seemed almost normal between them.
Harvey's dinner finally arrived, and he choked down the edible portions and filled Donna in on his cases and clients and who Jessica had agreed to handle. He was preparing to send her home, because he really was unbelievably tired. Someone knocked on the closed door, which couldn’t have been one of the nurses, because they never knocked.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened to reveal a disheveled and out of breath Mike Ross.
Harvey shot Donna an accusing glare, which she pretended not to see.
"Harvey," Mike said, rushing into the room and then stopping short. Like Donna, he'd gone pale, and his eyes were a wide and limitless blue.
Which...what?
"What the hell happened?" Mike demanded. He looked so shaken, and he didn't even know the half of it yet.
Maybe it was because he was so tired, but all at once, the whole thing just seemed funny to Harvey, and he wondered how many times he would have to replay this trite little drama.
"It's okay, Mike," he soothed. "I'm okay. I just had -- "
His inflatable leg cuffs chose that moment to turn on and begin to fill. Harvey was lying on top of the covers, because earlier he'd grown too warm. Both Donna and Mike turned their concerned gazes to his legs, and some tiny demon took temporary control of Harvey's better nature. He arched his back and straightened his legs, uttered a strangled, "Argh," and retained his stiff, frozen pose for a full second, before relaxing and grinning up at his two visitors. "Gotcha," he said.
Mike was rolling his eyes, having gotten the joke, but Donna...uh oh. Donna appeared livid.
"God damn it Harvey," she wailed. "That was not funny. You're such an asshole. You took at least a decade off my life."
"Come on, Donna. I was just trying to ease some of the tension. You're acting like I'm on my deathbed, which I assure you I am not."
Her mouth worked, and her eyes shone with tears. "My father died from a stroke. You know that. He was only a few years older than you are."
He did know that. Shit. How could it have slipped his mind? He softened his voice. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't think you'd react like that."
She sniffed and dropped heavily into the chair in the corner, fumbling in her purse for a tissue.
When Harvey returned his attention to Mike, he now appeared every bit as upset as Donna. Harvey realized that Donna had let the cat out of the bag, and Harvey hadn't been given the chance to soften the news.
"Are you...." Mike moved closer to the bed. "Are you guys fucking with me right now? You had a stroke?"
"A minor one, yes."
He didn't try to stop Mike when he grabbed up Harvey's notes from the bedside table, and scanned through them, undoubtedly committing every single barely legible word to memory. Harvey kept his eyes on Mike as he read, watching the play of emotions across his face, the way his brow scrunched up, and his mouth moved just slightly over certain words, and his eyes widened and narrowed and shone with some emotion Harvey couldn't interpret.
Finally, Mike set the notes back down and looked straight at Harvey. "Are you really going to be okay?" His voice shook as he asked the question.
"Yes. I promise you -- both of you -- I'm going to be fine." He wasn't one hundred percent positive that this was true, but they both seemed in need of reassurance.
And what was wrong with this picture? Shouldn't they be reassuring him? Who was the patient in this scenario, anyway? He felt a tiny prick of resentment, which he immediately quashed. Of course he was happy they were here, grateful to see some familiar faces, so why was he already formulating strategies to get them to leave?
He was tired. That must be it. Tomorrow he would be able to handle this with more grace. Tomorrow, after he'd regrouped and gotten some sleep, he would play the plucky survivor, the resilient defier of death.
"You guys," he began, "I don't want to be rude, but I'm ridiculously tired right now, and I'm going to have to ask you to clear out."
Donna sighed and nodded, her expression making it clear that she held a grudge against Harvey for his earlier stunt. Still, on her way out the door she stopped and kissed Harvey gently on the forehead. "I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, and then was gone.
"Visiting hours aren't over yet," Mike said, not meeting Harvey's eyes, face set in stubborn lines.
"Mike...."
"That was you that called last night, wasn't it?"
What could Harvey say? He gave a helpless, embarrassed shrug.
"You were here alone, and you called me. You should have said something. I would have been here in a heartbeat."
"It was a moment of weakness. I'm sorry I woke you."
"Why? You shouldn't be sorry for something like that. You're allowed to be weak sometimes. And you shouldn't be alone. No one should have to be alone when they're in the hospital." Harvey opened his mouth to protest, but Mike cut him off. "I promise I won't bother you. I won't say a word." He pointed at the chair Donna had just vacated. "I'm going to sit down and wait here with you until you fall asleep, because...."
"Because?" Harvey prompted, trying to sound chilly, but in truth Mike's insistence warmed him all the way through.
"Because," Mike said, blue gaze lifting, "even Harvey Specter needs a friend on occasion." His look dared Harvey to contradict him.
Harvey grunted, held Mike's gaze for long moments, and then closed his eyes. Almost immediately, he felt the sweet pull of sleep dragging him down, but he spared a few grains of his rapidly waning energy to murmur, "Thank you."
Harvey woke around two in the morning when the nurse came in to take his vitals and do yet another blood draw. Mike was still in the chair, his head tipped back as he snored softly.
"I thought visiting hours ended a while ago," Harvey whispered to the nurse -- Melanie, he remembered.
"You're allowed a plus one on this floor," she whispered back. "But if you want him to leave...."
"No, no, he's fine. He might need a pillow, though." He watched, amused and a little charmed as Melanie tucked a pillow between Mike's head and the wall, and he turned halfway onto his side, trying to burrow his face into the pillow.
His plus one. Sounded like they were attending a wedding together.
Melanie left with his precious bodily fluids, and Harvey watched Mike sleep, intrigued by the way the light from the parking garage highlighted the planes on his face, making him appear both younger and harder at the same time.
Mike's eyes opened and he caught Harvey staring.
"What?" Mike asked groggily, and it could have meant any number of things. Like, what am I doing here, or, what are you looking at, or, what does this mean, that I'm here in your hospital room at two in the morning?
Harvey considered him for several seconds, and then rolled over and closed his eyes, waiting for sounds of Mike getting up and leaving. When those sounds never came, he smiled to himself and slid back into sleep.
Harvey was rousted out of bed a few hours later for his next test, and Mike left for work, with the promise that he would return later.
"Do you need anything?" he asked Harvey.
Harvey thought that over. "I think my car needs to be moved to another spot, if it hasn't been towed yet." He directed Mike to where to find his keys. "And if it's not too much trouble, I could really use my phone and laptop."
Mike's eyebrows shot up. "I'm being allowed into the inner sanctum unsupervised?"
"Sure. But beware of nanny cams."
Mike gave an uncertain laugh. "Right. Well...stay frosty." He held his fist out to Harvey, who after only a slight hesitation bumped his against it.
It was oddly disconcerting to watch Mike leave, but at the same time Harvey was grateful that he wasn't still there minutes later to see Harvey's undignified, ass-flashing transfer to the gurney which would take him to the Doppler-whatever-thingie his doctors had cooked up for him today.
Harvey was released from the hospital Tuesday afternoon as promised. Mike and Donna had kept him company Monday evening. Jessica even put in an appearance, sweeping in like a queen visiting the little people, and keeping them entertained with stories of Harvey's clients.
Mike spent the night by Harvey's side once again, and Harvey was reluctantly impressed by the stamina of youth. He himself probably would have required a neck brace after one night in that chair.
No one was around the next day when Harvey had signed all the necessary forms, received instructions from his doctors, and accepted the prescription for the anti-coagulant Coumadin which they wanted him to take for the next six months. He would have to make regular visits to a clinic to have his blood checked, and track the amount of vitamin K in his diet, and try not to cut himself, and give up sparring in the ring for a while.
He tried not to feel overwhelmed by it all, reminding himself that it was only temporary, and much less daunting than the thought of heart surgery to repair the defect.
Maybe he would consider the surgery in the future. Right now, he just wanted to get back to his regular life, to settle in enough to convince himself that this little setback hadn't changed him beyond recognition.
He had his first doubts on that score when he unlocked the door of the Evora and sat himself behind the wheel. He'd already been taken to task by both Donna and Mike for driving himself to the hospital in the midst of a stroke. Now, nearly back to normal physically, he felt weirdly ill-at-ease and fragile, as if all of his instincts and learned habits had been scoured away, and now he had to start from scratch.
He turned the key in the ignition before he remembered to fasten his seatbelt. He recalled his annoyance when he picked up the car and discovered that they'd only had the automatic transmission version on hand. Now, even that seemed unfamiliar and awkward.
He checked and re-checked behind himself before inching out slowly, lurching and stopping like a student driver behind the wheel for the first time. By the time he made it to the exit and had paid the attendant, he was dripping with sweat. Waiting for an opening in the heavy afternoon traffic nearly broke him. Panic overtook him, and for a few seconds he wanted nothing more than to leave the car right there and flag down a cab.
Some internal streak of stubbornness asserted itself. He stiffened his jaw, took a calming breath, and merged into traffic. The noises seemed especially loud, the honking horns and cussing cab drivers and squealing brakes. He was irrationally convinced that all of the verbal cues would elude him, that the turn of a stoplight from green to yellow to red would go unnoticed and after a messy collision he’d find himself right back in the hospital.
For some reason, he thought about Mike just then, about how he'd lost his parents in a car accident. He knew with unshakeable certainty that Mike would be devastated to lose him in a similar manner. So he ordered himself to pull it together, and drove himself home.
Wednesday started out fine. Harvey arrived early and went straight to his office. Donna showed up soon after, and graced him with a welcome back bouquet and a thick stack of phone messages. He began the tedious process of getting himself caught up, barely glancing at Mike when he popped in to let him know where he was on the Gentry briefs.
Donna ordered him a salad for lunch, and he dutifully picked out all of the spinach, because vitamin K.
After lunch, he began to grow tired, but settled in to power through, just as he had always done. At four o'clock, his head felt suddenly light. Panic robbed him of breath. He shoved his left hand up to his face, clenching and unclenching his fist several times until he was convinced that all systems were still go.
Mike chose that moment to stroll through his door.
"Harvey? What is it? Are you all right?"
Harvey looked up to find Mike crouching beside him, eyes wide and worried...and so fucking blue.
"Yeah. I just felt a little weird there for a second. I'm okay, though."
"You felt weird?" Mike's voice rose in incredulity. "Fuck that. I'm taking you to the ER."
"No." He meant to say it forcefully, but even to his own ears he sounded weak and uncertain. "It's nothing. See?" He showed Mike his fist, as if its convulsive movements would mean anything to the other man.
Donna appeared at the door. "Ray's downstairs."
"Shit." Harvey rested his head in his hands. "This is...no one's going to listen to me, are they?"
Mike stood up and grabbed Harvey under his arm. "Not today. Weird means you get checked out. No excuses and no arguments."
Harvey gave Donna a pleading look, but she said, "Go," in that implacable way she had that he'd learned to obey. So he let Mike hoist him to his feet, but shook off his supporting hand because he was fine and he needed everyone they passed on the way to the elevators to see that.
Harvey had been correct. It had been nothing. Dr. Carney was in the ER and checked him over thoroughly, declaring him fit as a fiddle, all things considered.
"It's just," said Harvey, "this feeling came over me. Before, I wouldn't have even noticed. Between you and me, it was...pretty god damn alarming. And now I'm confused. How do I separate what to pay attention to, and what to ignore?"
"Harvey, this is a common reaction. It's going to take you a while to get back to feeling normal. You're going to experience a certain degree of hyper-vigilance for a while."
"Great. So I should just ignore it?"
The doctor sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't give you a definitive answer to that. I'd say trust your instincts, like you did Saturday night, but right now your instincts may be affected by your very understandable fears. I can give you some information on dealing with anxiety, which might help. And if you feel the need to be checked out by a doctor, feel free to come see me, or go to your regular doctor. In time, the hyper-vigilance should fade. Before you know it, you'll feel like your old self again."
His old self. Is that what he wanted to feel like? He wasn't so sure.
After the false alarm at the ER, Harvey decided to call it a day. Ray drove him home, and it only seemed polite to ask Mike up to his place.
"Why don't you order us some dinner?" Harvey suggested, and then left the room to change his clothes. When he returned, Mike was poring over his collection of takeout menus.
"What are you in the mood for?" Mike asked.
"Whatever you want. Just...no spinach, or kale or -- "
"Or broccoli, or collard greens or turnip greens or mustard greens or dandelion greens or basically anything greens or Brussel sprouts or -- "
"Okay, showoff. You read the Coumadin pamphlet."
"You know you can actually have all that stuff, right? You just have to keep the amount consistent."
"Exactly. Consistently zero."
Mike shrugged, apparently not in the mood to argue. "So, no spinach and feta pizza. Got it. Have you started yet?"
"What?"
"The prescription."
"I haven't had time to fill it yet."
"Bullshit."
"I'll take care of it tomorrow. Besides, it's only a precaution." And he'd read up on it. Basically, they wanted him to take rat poison for the next six months. He was still debating himself on whether or not to go along with it.
He watched the side of Mike's face as he placed an order at Harvey's favorite pizza place. He'd taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. After Mike hung up and turned to face him, Harvey couldn't seem to stop staring. Had Mike always been so...mouth-wateringly attractive?
Harvey gave his head a tiny shake and forced himself to look away. "You want a beer?" he asked.
By way of reply, Mike opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. "Are you allowed to drink?"
"In moderation. I'll skip it tonight, though."
Mike twisted the cap off the bottle and lifted it to take a long drink. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Harvey fought off the urge to step closer and drag his finger down that throat, over the Adam's apple, to feel the subtle roughness of stubble, the soft vulnerability of skin underneath.
"I think the game's on," Harvey said, pivoting away too quickly. He went into the living room and lifted the remote, switching on the television and flipping over to a Yankees game that was just getting underway.
"Sweet," said Mike, and settled in on Harvey's couch.
After a few seconds of uncharacteristic dithering, Harvey sat next to him, filled with sudden gratitude that he didn't have to spend the evening alone, conjuring phantom sensations and filling himself with worry.
The pizza arrived, and the Yankees dug themselves into a hole. They hadn't even made it to the seventh inning stretch when Mike asked suddenly, "Did you even consider the surgery?"
Harvey sagged in his seat. Couldn't they make through one evening without dwelling on his condition? "Sure," he said. Apparently he wasn't convincing enough.
"It sounds intimidating," said Mike. He made air quotes. "Heart surgery. But it's a pretty routine procedure. And you wouldn't have to worry afterwards about allergies and, you know, eating too much fiber." Donna must have shared the bowel movement story with him.
"Gee, Mike. I must not be keeping the fake lawyer busy enough if he had time to go out and get himself a fake license to practice medicine."
"Ha. Ha. And did I mention? Ha." Mike finished off his latest bottle of beer, and Harvey wondered how many he'd had. He hadn't been keeping track, but it had to be at least four or five.
"But seriously, Harvey, I wouldn't want to have that ticking time bomb inside of me."
"I'm not discussing this with you."
"Fine." Mike started peeling the label from the empty bottle, noticed what he was doing, and set the bottle on the coffee table with a sharp thunk. "So....you wanna make out?"
Harvey felt something wash through him, warm and electric and every bit as disconcerting as the bolt of lightning on Saturday night. He turned his head slowly to stare at Mike. "What did you just say to me?" His voice sounded thick in his own ears.
Mike had blushed a deep red. He jumped to his feet as if too nervous to sit still, or perhaps too nervous to remain near Harvey. "Sorry. Sorry. I have no idea where that came from." He backed away, appearing ready to flee.
"Don't you?" Harvey stood and advanced on him. His head felt floaty and strange, but this time he wasn't afraid. "I think you know exactly where that came from. We both do."
Mike had stopped, and was staring back at Harvey with fear and surprise and hope all animating his face. "There's been...the tension's been there...and maybe it's been a little bit about...you know, sexual? Sexualness? Sexuali -- "
Harvey stopped Mike's babbling with his mouth, capturing Mike by the back of his head and tasting him slowly and thoroughly, getting his fill. His tongue met no resistance when he slipped it through Mike's parted lips. He heard his own soft groan deep in his throat as their tongues twined together and Mike grabbed him around the waist, pulling their bodies flush against one another.
Finally, Harvey broke away and buried his face against Mike's shoulder, breathing him in, both arms locked around him.
After a few minutes, he heard Mike's careful voice above him, and vibrating through him at the same time. "What's the situation, ah, medically, vis-à-vis the whole sex thing?"
Harvey laughed and mouthed Mike's neck. "I have no idea." He squeezed Mike once more before letting go and moving away. "Not tonight, though. You've been drinking, and I am fucking exhausted." He gave Mike another quick kiss to show that he wasn't retreating completely. "Let's take it slow for now. We'll get there. I want to get there," he assured Mike. "We've got time."
Mike pursed his lips. "Promise?" And Harvey understood everything he meant with that one word.
"Yes," he said, "I promise." And he believed it. Deep in his bones and his heart and his brain he believed that he would be all right. He saw a new pathway opening up in front of him and he wasn't afraid.