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Even as he recovered from his ordeal, Doc was painfully aware that his physician’s warning that he would never return to his previous strength and mobility was turning out to be true. It was evident every morning as he struggled to do the things that had been so simple before—even now, standing in front of the bathroom sink trying to shave, he was still having to grab the side of the sink with one hand to steady himself, both on account of his weakened heart and his bad knee, as he clumsily attempted to remove the several weeks’ worth of stubble on his face that he just hadn't had the energy to deal with all this time.
He muttered and cursed under his breath at how much of a struggle this one, minor task was, even with an electric razor. Just trying to stay upright for this long was causing him to break a sweat as he tried to suppress the tremors shuddering through his body.
The shave was pathetic—he’d have five-o’-clock shadow when it was barely past 9:00 in the morning. Anger and frustration continued to fester in him as he glanced at his pitiful reflection—disheveled and weak, with the top of his bypass scar visible with the top button of his Hawaiian shirt undone.
He shut his eyes, both to keep from looking at the wretched sight for any longer, and to hold back the forming tears. And it was suddenly, in the midst of this moment of self-revulsion, that he was brutally snapped out of it by a terrified screech from the next room.
“Marty…!” he gasped.
He grabbed his cane and hurried out to the main part of the room, expecting to find Marty in the throes of another night terror. But the four-year-old was wide-awake in his little bed, tears streaming down his tiny face as he gazed upon the empty, larger bed beside his own.
It was then that Doc realized that this was the first time since his surgery that he had woken up and started his day before Marty had awakened—and the boy had clearly assumed the worst upon waking up himself and seeing the empty bed.
“Marty!” Doc exclaimed again, throwing his cane aside to hug the child once he had made it to his side. In an instant, Marty had wrapped his arms around him with surprising strength for a child, sobbing as he buried his face in Doc’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Marty—everything is okay. I’m here, I promise. I’m right here.”
Marty’s sobs turned to sniffles eventually as Doc continued to repeat and reaffirm his presence, but his grip did not loosen.
Gently, Doc tried to hold Marty by the shoulders to get him to back up enough for him to look him in the eyes, but Marty still held on for dear life; Doc could feel the child grab two fistfuls of Hawaiian shirt, refusing to budge.
“Marty…” Doc sighed.
The boy responded with a whimper, still trembling, and still refusing to move.
I’m all he has left, Doc silently reminded himself. And he’s already lost me once. There’s no realistic way for him to come from that unscathed.
Doc tightened his hug, and Marty’s trembling lessened as his sobs eased and his breathing was more even-paced.
“I’m here,” he repeated; those were the words that kept them both grounded.
The only thing he could do, he realized, was to continue trying to be the calming presence that Marty needed; getting lost in the pit of self-loathing would not help Marty at all—not when, for better or worse, he was the child’s entire world.
That thought alone would be enough to keep him going, regardless of how pathetic he felt.
He sighed, quietly steeling his resolve once more, and then turned his attention back to his ward. An unknown melody escaped him now, softly but firmly reassuring his presence to Marty.
“So this one’s for the dreamers…”
It was a wish and a lament for what could have been, and the many dreams he’d had and, perhaps, could have pursued if things had turned out differently—but it was also now a lullaby for the shaken child.
Marty’s breathing eased further and he calmed down, but still clung to Doc’s shirt, and Doc still continued to softly sing. Marty needed him more than ever, and, regardless of what he felt about himself, Doc would be there for him—and reassure him of it.