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Jackie remembers learning about Dr. John Carter - even before he’d officially earned the title of Doctor - in stages. His name had begun popping up in hurried lunch conversations with Peter and in the slow stories Peter had whispered to their mother when she’d remember to ask about his day. Through them, Jackie had begun to craft an image of John Carter. He was weedy but bright-eyed, overly enthusiastic in a way that could sometimes out-pace his coordination. Despite his uncanny ability to topple medical trays, Jackie imagined John Carter with a deep determination to learn and the potential to rise to the high standards of her brother.
She’d been proven right, during his time as a third year, when he’d accompanied Peter home for Thanksgiving. John Carter was relatively similar to the image she had created; like a drawing coming to life from the page. Through their Thanksgiving meal, John Carter had been courteous, nearly polite to a fault, and very obviously grateful to be spending time with (a) family rather than spending the holiday alone. He’d enthusiastically entertained her children, answered the repetitive questions of her mother without getting frustrated, and been unfailingly polite to both Jackie and Peter. Based on some of the snider comments her little brother had made, Jackie had pictured somewhat of an entitled kid, somewhat underfoot in a county hospital that didn’t care about the reputation of his family. John was the opposite; like his presence was a burden at their table rather than an invited guest. He’d offered to wash dishes, dry, or even keep Jesse and Joanie occupied while the other adults dealt with their responsibilities.
John had appeared a few more times in person, just two or three times for dinner, even more often in Peter’s stories - even once he’d dropped from surgery and was technically no longer her brother's mentee. Still, Jackie was relatively surprised when Peter arrived with a bandaged John in tow. Peter had swept into the home, as though it was routine for him to appear and leave bruised doctors standing in their entryway. He’d continued to busy himself, leaving John to stand there, awkwardly hunched, like his body weight was unfamiliar and causing him to sag.
“Peter!” Maybe her tone was unnecessarily sharp, because her younger brother whirled like she was shouting danger, danger. He assessed her, scanning her up and down with a doctor's eye, and simply raised his eyebrows with an unspoken why are you yelling?
“Ahem–” She gestured at John, who looked to be swaying on his feet.
“C’mon in, Carter. Go sit.”
John followed her brother's instructions without complaint. He carefully leveraged his body to sit stiffly on the edge of the couch, like him fully sinking into the soft cushioning was forbidden. Jackie, well aware Peter was mid-process of wrangling a sleepy Reese into pajamas and completing the rest of his bedtime routine, steps in.
Feeling very much settled back in her “elder sister” shoes, Jackie fussed the moment John sat on the couch. “You look chilly,.” She gathered a quilted blanket, hung sloppily from the back of the couch, and pressed it forward towards the young doctor. As she did, her minute pressure forced him to slide back until he was nearly horizontal on the couch.
Each time he opened his mouth, likely to protest, Jackie didn’t let him. “Relax honey,” and oh wow, the terms of endearment were falling from her lips with ease. “You wouldn’t have me acting as a bad host, huh?” She smoothed one hand over the blanket, ironing out wrinkles from being folded, and picked at an invisible piece of lint.
John looked vaguely stupefied, mouth hung open ever-so slightly so that she could see his teeth. “Uh, no, no Jackie.” He swallowed, voice tight, like he’d never imagined he could possibly be insulting her with his uptight politeness.
Jackie beamed at him, her smile wide. “Well good. I’m gonna go make some tea.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing back to the kitchen. “And I don’t want any complaints, Dr. Carter.” She patted at him with one hand, fingers caressing the embellishments of the quilt. “I make tea every night, it’s no bother at all.”
His quiet hum of agreement and slow nodding was enough. Jackie stood, wiping her hands on her thighs as she did, the gesture signifying a job well done.
—
John slowly did become more comfortable in the Benton house. He was still quiet, ever polite, and he moved like his bones ached constantly. But Jackie could see the familiarity of the home seep into his everyday actions. He was comfortable enough to shuffle into the kitchen and work the kettle independently, digging through the cabinet to find the cinnamon-ginger tea he preferred. John no longer knocked or stood awkwardly in the doorway to rooms of the house, like he had to announce his presence or gain permission for entry.
It didn’t mean there weren’t moments though, where the doctor was caught off-guard or suddenly developed a deer in the headlights look. Jackie brushed them off easily; the capability and assuredness of raising two children (and her brother) made her confident in each action. And Peter, he handled them with the ease and precision of a surgeon.
—
It was nearing three days after John was shepherded across their doorstep, when Peter first discusses looking at his hand. “I need to see how your hand is healing.” And although the tone is soft, Jackie knows it’s a factual statement rather than a suggestion. John, his face suddenly pallid, doesn’t manage to even finish his sentence - a bitten off “I’ve been taking care of it myself.” - before Peter corrects him.
He gestures at John’s right hand and the yellowing bandage that covers his wound. “That bandage is filthy.”
John swallows and his voice is tight when he finally does manage to gather the words to speak. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s not h-hot. It’s - it’s not infected.”
Peter looks prepared to argue, to scold, so Jackie swoops in. “We’re really glad to hear that, honey.” She gently rubs one hand on his shoulder, willing them to relax and drop from where they’ve migrated up towards his ears. “All of those are great things.”
She watches John relax, slowly, his brain thinking that Jackie’s affirmation of his successes mean that Peter will be cowed. It’s best to rip off the band-aid. “But we both think a change of dressing will help keep it that way.”
As she speaks, Peter pulls the necessary items from a nearby cupboard, stacking them so that John can clearly read each label. “I’ll be quick.” Peter promises.
And quick Peter is. He’s also gentle; carefully peeling back the tacky medical tape and lifting the used gauze with his steady hands. He’s delicate when he washes John’s hand - John’s eyes slammed shut - in the kitchen sink with antibacterial soap and dries it with a piece of paper towel. His touch is nearly feather light when he applies a prescription strength Neosporin to the brand that marrs John’s hand. When he finally tapes down the new covering of gauze, he’s respectful and protective. His fingers are light press down the new strips of medical tape.
Throughout it all, John stands. His free hand - the undamaged one - is clenched at his side; fingers curled inwards and likely leaving nail indents in his palm. His face is tight, scrunched up like he’s closing himself off to this reality, one where he’ll be faced with the scar - some kind of emblem, as Jackie understands it, only established through a thin veneer of details she’d managed to pull from her brother - each time he looks down at his dominant hand. Tears trickle down his face, silent and soft.
Jackie pretends she doesn’t notice when her brother tenderly takes another piece of soft gauze and uses it to wipe away the salty tracks.
“All done Carter.” Peter announces.
It takes a moment, but John eventually does unfurl from his clenched posture. His shoulders drop and the wrinkles smooth from his face. His eyes, still wet with unshed tears, are wide and uncertain like a fawns. His voice comes back, the words slightly sticky, he manages a muted “thank you.”
—
John hated the breathing exercises. As a doctor he knew their relevance; they were part of the process to fully expand his lungs and improve his oxygen levels, prevent infections from settling in - pneumonia could be the cherry on top of a shit sundae, and even act as a salve to his nervous system. Still, they were embarrassing.
He could hide in the guest room and complete most of them; he took time to do the diaphragmatic breathing before bed and he practiced his pursed-lip breathing when the Benton children filled the house with noise. But the others - the controlled coughing and using the incentive spirometer - were done under the careful watch of Peter Benton.
He’d tried to argue that he could do them independently, but Dr. Benton had delivered a monologue regarding accountability and assuming responsibility and having to ensure to John’s grandmother that he was being taken care of.
And so, John sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen twice a day, the times varied due to Peter’s work schedule, and did both. During the controlled coughing exercise, Peter’s hand rested lightly on the space between his shoulder blades. Occasionally, so softly that John could swear he was imagining it, there would be the movement of small soothing circles. The incentive spirometer breathing was different. Peter coached as John completed the simple steps. He’d place his lips around the mouthpiece, breathing in deeply to raise the marker, manage to hold his breath for a few moments before it overwhelmed him and the air sputtered from his lips. Each time, Peter’s words only varied in placement. He said the same praise each time: “C’mon Carter, you got this.” or “Hold it for just a second longer buddy,” or “Keep that marker steady man.”
Jackie didn’t watch them purposefully; but often she was in the kitchen doing dishes or chopping vegetables or unpacking groceries. She witnessed these moments in her peripheral vision.
Her brother, normally so stiff and formal around others, had a clear fondness for John (which, her brain helpfully reminded her, is why John was in their home rather than being monitored at the hospital by staff). Peter’s voice was even-keeled but open and honest. His eyes were bright when he delivered praise to the young doctor. He smiled at the frustrated faces John made; even letting out a bark of laughter when John wheezily declared that the spirometer was his nemesis.
John wasn’t immune either. He brightened with each word of praise, like they made him lighter. He flushed, his face and neck turning a blotchy pink-red, clearly uncomfortable with compliments but welcoming them anyways.
—
It’s nearing a week when Jackie broaches the subject with Peter. He’s looking for something in the garage - some box of childhood memorabilia that Jackie isn’t quite certain exists - and her brother nearly brains himself on a nearby shelf when she speaks. “He hasn’t showered.” The words are soft and the tone isn’t accusatory, but she puts her hands on her hips and purses her lips, feeling slightly like a villain when she tacks on the next part of the sentence. “He’s starting to smell.”
She watches as her brother bites at his bottom lip, a sign of uncertainty that looks foreign on his face, and shakes his head slowly and sadly. “He…” The sentence dies, and Peter has to restart with a deep breath. “Water isn’t really his friend at the moment. He’d been getting sponge baths from nurses in the hospital.”
“He needs to bathe Peter.” As she says the words, the image of John from this morning, sitting at the kitchen table and doing his coughing exercises, appears in her mind. His hair is lanky, heavy with grease and natural oils. His skin looks pallid, tacky with dried sweat. A few spots of acne have sprouted, only highlighting his youth and making him look more vulnerable. The image tugs at her.
Peter’s words are carried by his sigh. “I know.”
—
Carter’s eyes are wide with fear when Peter practically frog-marches him towards the bathroom. “It’s okay - it’s okay. We’re… we’re going to take this slow.” The words are practically gummy; they’re foreign and previously unused when speaking to his mentee. “Just like surgery,” he offers, trying to get them back to a more solid and familiar foundation. “I’ll walk you through it.”
Carters’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “O-okay. Slow.”
They work in tandem to establish a set up that feels safe. At the suggestion of a bath, the young doctor balks. “Th-the water. I don’t want my head underwater.” His voice is high and breathy. Thankfully, Peter has a child and Jackie has raised two. There are a myriad of buckets and cups stacked next to a carefully curated collection of bath toys hiding in the sinks cabinet. Peter takes the vessels - leaving the toys behind - and carefully fills them with water; ensuring the temperature is tepid.
Carter sits in the tub, stripped to his boxers. He’s armed with a washcloth, a bar of soap, and a two-in-one combination shampoo and conditioner.
“You’re in charge.” Peter reminds him. He lowers himself to the floor and sits so he’s resting along the side of the tub. The thin shower curtain stands between them. “I’m going to give you directions, you let me know when you’re okay to move on.” There’s silence. “I need some verbal confirmation Carter.”
“Yu-yes. Yes.” Carter stutters.
“Alright,” Peter takes a deep breath. “You got this man.”