Quantum Leap:
The Unrightable Wrong by Rebecca R. Baker

Chapter 6

The Present

         Verbeena was in her office when Al returned from the past. The door was open, so he knocked to signify his presence and then walked in, shutting the door behind him.
         "How's Tommy?" he asked, knowing Verbeena had spent a great deal of time with him, much more time than she usually spent with their guests.
         "Scared," she replied, shaking her head. He was afraid of his present situation and more afraid of returning home. Of course, Verbeena could not discuss any specifics with Al. "But, we are making progress. He's responding well to counseling." She was sure it would take only a little more time with him to convince him that he should tell a trusted adult back home what was happening to him once Sam Leaped out and he returned.
         "That's good," he paused, unsure of the best way to tell Verbeena that she needed to talk with Sam professionally. "Are you up for another client?" he asked.
         "Sam?" she guessed. She had been expecting this since Al first came to her with his concerns about Sam's behavior.
         Al nodded. Part of him wanted to protect Sam's secret. A conflicting part wanted her to help Sam see there was no reason he should guard his secret so closely. There was no reason for him to be ashamed, but he was and Al knew that.
         "I saw Sam as an eight year old," he began. "He saw me too and thought I was an angel--don't laugh--sent to help him with a secret problem he had. But, he wouldn't tell me what it was, so it was confusing to get any information from him and I may have made things worse. But, I saw Sam now and he, well, he was dealing with the same problem." Al scratched the top of his hat, trying to find the right words.
         "So, Sam is picking up on something from his childhood?" Verbeena asked, pleased that her theory was correct.
         "We talked--actually, I yelled at him for being self absorbed. Anyway, the truth came out and this slimeball Whitfield molested Sam when he was a little kid. Being Tommy has brought back that memory." His words came more rapidly as he tried to finish the story.
         "Shit," Verbeena sighed. Any pride she felt for being right about what was happening vanished instantaneously.
         Al cocked one eyebrow in surprise. He could not remember hearing her swear before. It was not the reaction he expected.
         "Excuse me, Admiral," she apologized. "Sometimes it's hard to keep my own feelings uninvolved."
         "Believe me, I understand." Al sat down in the chair. Now that the hard part was over, he could talk without pacing. He really wanted his cigar, his lit cigar, but he settled for chewing on the unlit stogie instead. "I suggested he talk with you. He's not crazy about the idea, but he trusts my judgement."
         "How is he?" She held back her instictive slag at Sam's trusting Al's judgment. Now was not the time to continue her ongoing friendly insults with Al.
         "Not himself yet, but after we talked, he started to realize he was there for more than an unpleasant stroll down memory lane. He's trying to figure out what happened to Tommy and what he can do to help. It's just hard for him to concentrate on Tommy's world without thinking of what happened to him. I don't think I've ever seen Sam have to struggle so much to help another person. It would help if there was something to be found to give us a clue as to what happened."
         "I wish I had something to tell you to figure out what needs to be done for Tommy." Tommy had not said anything to lead her to believe he was going to run away, but he had not said anything that would rule out that possibility either.
         "Ziggy's working on some scenarios, but with no knowledge of what exactly happened in the original history, it's next to impossible to make a prediction with any reasonable level of certainty. There are so many reasons a kid could disappear. On top of that, Gushie's loading a program that should--he hopes--allow Sam to hear you without draining the power supplies. He's been working on it since that asylum incident. He's a very excited little man," Al laughed, picturing the curly-haired scientist at the controls. His excitement even overshadowed his curiosity. Al's no question rule was torture for a man whose life was information.
         "I certainly hope it does work. I don't like counseling with an interpretor."
         Al scowled. Did she expect him to misquote her? "Don't mention why you're going to talk to Sam to anyone, and I mean no one," he warned. "This is between you, me, and Sam."
         "You can trust me, Admiral."
         "No slips, Beeks. Sam has never told this to anyone before he told me--not even Donna."
         "You can trust me," she repeated, annoyed with his reminder but aware that he was only trying to protect Sam's best interest.

February, 1962

         To Sam's relief, Charles Whitfield had not yet returned from town when he came in from the barn. He remembered that his own father could spend a whole day in town taking care of business and even longer when he took his wife with him, longer still when the kids tagged along.          He thought about getting something to eat simply because he had not eaten anything since leaping in the night before, but he had no appetite. For now, Sam's best plan of action was to return to bed. Where else would a sick little boy be? He hoped that being "sick" would make Charles leave him alone.
         Sam was fluffing a pillow when he heard the Imaging Chamber door whoosh open. Standing with Al, holding his hand, was a lovely woman in a cheery yellow pants suit.
         Seeing her ingnited a rush of panic. "I changed my mind, Al. I don't want to talk to her." He turned away before either of them could even say hello, avoiding their concerned expressions.
         "Sam, she only wants to help you deal with any things that might be troubling you... sort out any issues."
         "I have no issues to sort out," he responded defiantly. "Really, I don't."
         "Carrying around a secret like that for more than 30 years indicates issues." Al let go of Verbeena's hand as he spoke. Even though she was still there, her image vanished.
         With Verbeena gone, or at least appearing to have gone, Sam would look at Al when he spoke to him. "I didn't carry it around with me," he argued. "I shoved it to the back crevices of my mind, locked it away, and never thought of it again, until now, anyway." He stood by the bed, still holding the pillow. "So, I have no issues."
         "You've had plenty of issues in the past twenty-four hours. And if they get in the way of helping Tommy--"
         "So your primary concern here is Tommy!" Sam threw the pillow against the bed, cutting him off angrily. "It's not about me or what I'm going through, it's about my damn job, a job I never volunteered for to begin with, I might add. God forbid I have any kind of feelings of my own that interfere with the task at hand. Then I have issues."
         Al resisted the urge to say, "There's one now."
         Verbeena remained quiet. They were not sure whether Sam would be able to hear her with Gushie's new program, and she did not want to interrupt his outburst.
         "Don't you think I feel bad enough without your reminding me what a selfish jerk I'm being? I'm doing the best I can. I'm trying to find out what happened, but there's nothing to find. I searched this stupid house and the farm, and guess what--there's no, "I plan to kill my son" diary. Tommy doesn't have a bag packed like he's planning a trip."
         Al and Verbeena listened as he continued.
         "And I keep seeing his face, his hands. I'm trying to make it go away, but it won't. It's always there, always in vivid technicolor, every detail, every image, every feeling. It's one of the advantages of my magnafluxed photographic memory!"
         "Sam, let me help you." Verbeena's voice came through the colorful handlink. It was more pleasant than the usual shreiks, but unnerving to Sam. She was wearing a tiny wireless microphone that transmitted through the handlink.
         "Where is she?" he snapped. "You tricked me," he accused Al. "I thought she was gone. I thought I could trust you and talk to you alone. I was talking to you, Admiral Calavicci, not you and whomever you brought along for the ride."
         "I didn't trick you," Al disagreed. "I let go of her hand. I thought you knew she was still here." His excuse sounded weak, partly because it was. He took Verbeena's hand to bring in her image again.
         "Go away," Sam told them both as he started to leave the bedroom. "I don't want her to know." It was as if he thought if he did not tell her, she somehow would not really know.
         "I already know. Let me help you," she smiled warmly.
         "Leave me alone!" He reached for the doorknob, but it swung open before he could touch it.
         "Are you talking to me?" Charles asked, opening the door.
         Sam held his breath for a moment. Merely seeing the man's face and hearing his voice induced fear. "No, sir," he answered. "A fly." He had not seen any house pets, so a bug seemed a logical excuse, despite the fact that it was mid-winter and there were few, if any, bugs around.
         "They are annoying, aren't they?" Charles laughed, not realizing it was the wrong time of year for inscects. "Where are you going?"
         "Bathroom," he answered, trying very hard to not shake as he spoke. The shaking was the first sign of a panic attack. He knew that if he had to face Whitfield much longer he would not be able to breathe.
         "You got chills?"
         Sam nodded and coughed again. You're sick. He won't touch you if your sick. The voice in his mind was that of a child's and he was not sure if it was his own.
         "You leave him alone, you nozzle." Al spoke in a low, threatening voice, standing face to face with Charles who did not have a clue that he was there. The important thing was that Sam knew he was there.
         Sam looked to Al, grateful that he had not left. "I don't feel so good," he said, rushing from the room. Faking being sick was easy around that horrible man.
         Al followed Sam to the bathroom and found him sitting on the countertop, next to the sink.
         "I'm sorry I yelled at you," Sam massaged his forehead with one hand. The tension was building up behind his eyes. The fact that he had not eaten only made his headache worse.
         "It's okay," Al shrugged. "It's good for you." He figured it was only fair of him to listen. Sam had been on the recieving end of his unjustified tirades many times.
         "I'm not mad at you, not really."
         "I know. You've got to yell at someone. It can't be Charles Whitfield yet, so it might as well be me." He knew better than to take anything Sam said or did at the moment personally. There was bound to be anger, even if it was misdirected.
         "Please make her go away. I don't want to look at her."
         "Or you don't want her to see you?" Al asked. He could easily have made a remark about how looking at Verbeena could be a pleasant experience, but Sam did not need to hear his sexually-oriented comments now.
         "Maybe it's that," Sam admitted, painfully aware of the shame he felt. Sharing it with his best friend was one thing, but it was quite another to share it with a collegue with whom he thought he was friends, but could not remember. Al was safe. Verbeena was a risk.
         "Al? Sam? May I come in?" the handlink seemed to ask. The holographic counselor was waiting outside the bathroom.
         Al looked to Sam for an answer. "I guess so," he said, not sure how strongly he meant it.
         Verbeena stepped through the closed door. Walking through walls was a new experience for her and it felt strange. She took Al's hand. "Hi, Sam."
         "Welcome to my office," Sam smiled, but didn't meet her gaze.
         "How are you feeling?" Verbeena asked.
         Sam thought a moment, serching for an an appropriate descriptor. "Bad" was the best he could find even in his extensive vocabulary.
         "In what way?"
         He ventured to make brief eye contact. It was a fitting question and one with many answers. Maybe Verbeena can understand.
         "Well, to start with, I feel sick to my stomach because I know he's out there. I feel like I'm being selfish because I can't make the memory go away," he winced at the image in his mind. "I feel like I did something very wrong. I feel like it happened too long ago for me to allow it to worry me now and, then again, I feel like it happened last week. I know I'm here to help Tommy and I want to help him, but I don't know what to do, so I feel like I'm doing something wrong now. And when I try to find a way to help him, it's like I can't do anything. This memory is all-consuming. It's like I'm walking through a thick swamp, in up to my neck. I can barely move, much less do anything productive."
         "Tell me more about the swamp. Describe it." There were many routes of questions she could have taken, but she had learned long ago in her first counseling class that it was best to stick with the last item presented in a list. That way she could follow Sam's thoughts.
         "I'm in the middle of it. Thick, muddy water pulling me down and I'm trying to get through, but I can't see where to go. There's no end on any side. The trees are so tall, I can't even see the sky." He looked to Al, surprised by his own description. Even feeling like he was in a swamp, he had not visualized it.
         Al remained quite, but gave a supportive expression. He was trying his best to let Verbeena control the conversation. By his best approximation she had warned him to stay out of it and let her do the counseling at least a dozen times before they went into the chamber. He had promised to be good, or to at least try.
         "What's the best way out?
         Sam thought and frowned. In his mind's eye there was no way out... no way but, "Up?" he answered, though it sounded more like a question.
         Verbeena nodded, mentally noting his answer, but she turned away from the swamp. "Tommy aside, what does this memory mean to you, to who you are?"
         He shrugged, contemplating the question. It means I'm stupid, dirty, and used. He did not express his thoughts.
         "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she suggested.
         He shrugged again, feeling very much like a scared child in the presence of a strange adult. No, he did not want to tell her anything.
         "Have you ever told anyone what he did to you?"
         Sam tensed. It sounded like he was a victim and he did not like it at all. "Not really, just Al, a little."
         "Sam, sometimes it's hard to say things aloud because saying them makes them more real. Are you afraid if you say it, you'll have to believe it?"
         He was taken aback by how closely she nailed his feelings. "No wonder we hired you," he marvelled.
         She tried to not smile. "Sometimes accepting things as truth changes your perspective, your feelings... helps stop the pain. If you can say it, maybe you can accept it; if you can accept it, maybe you can get past it. So, do you want to try to tell me, or us, what happened?"
         "Not really," he answered. "But, if it will help..." he looked away from them, staring at the cream-colored tile on the wall. "Mom wanted me to take them a pie she baked. She did that sometimes because Tommy's mom died a few years ago. He was at our house once and loved her apple pie. So, I brought it and left it with Tommy in the house. On my way home, I saw him and stopped to say hello. He asked me if I liked kittens." The first part of the story came easily for him, but his speech slowed.
         "Of couse I like kittens. He told me they were in the barn and asked if I wanted to see them and I did."
         Al realized why the idea of kittens bothered him so much. This man had used babies as bait to steal another baby's innocence. He could easily picture young Sam bursting with the excitement of seeing the kittens. No matter how smart Sam was at eight, he was still an innocent child. Anger surged through him again.
         "I went into the barn, into the... stall," he stopped, looking to Al for support.
         Verbeena observed that Sam would not look to her for comfort, just to Al. Perhaps having Al as a catalyst was for the best. Sam would not respond to her as well if they were alone. Even as she paid attention to his story, another part of her mind wondered what kind of affect having contact with only one person knew your true identity would have. Al was the only constant and the only source of sanity in Sam's life.
         "It's okay," Al told him, not caring if it were all right with Verbeena if he spoke. "You can tell me--us," he corrected himself. The underlying desire to be the only counselor was there for both the best friend and the psychiatrist.
         "He locked it, the door, I mean," Sam continued. "I was looking in the corner for them, but they weren't there." He was avoiding eye contact with either of them again.
         "I turned around to tell him they were gone and--he had undone his pants. He said he had--" Sam closed his eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to make the image go away. "He said he had something for me to play with," his voice cracked on play.
         Al clenched his hand around Verbeena's, unwittingly hurting her as he wished it were Charles Whitfield's neck in his grip.
         Verbeena endured the pain, not wanting to distract Sam or loose contact by freeing herself. She told herself to be grateful it was her hand and not the handlink the Admiral was crushing. "What did you do?" she asked, seeing that Sam had reached a difficult point in his tale.
         "I just stood there at first. I'd never seen--I was scared. Then I tried to run away, but I couldn't unlock it fast enough. He grabbed me, picked me up, and pushed me against the back wall." He felt his stomach turning with nausea as the wooden walls flashed in his peripherial vision.
         "He sort of pinned me there, with his body and started--" his voice and breath caught in his throat. He could clearly see the man's chest and neck. "He reached under my coat and was rubbing my back, then he took my coat away from me.. and then my shirt. He just held me there against the wall, undressing me." He could feel the rough wall against his bare back. He reexperienced the feeling of being small and weak in the clutches of a giant.
         "I begged him to please stop." Tears welled in his eyes. "I tried to get away, but he was so strong. He hit me. Then he held his hand over my mouth and told me to be quite or he'd kill me, and I believed him." He could see the dark and vicious glare in the man's eyes. "He kept rubbing me all over." Sam shifted uncomfortably as the tears began to slip down his cheeks. His heart was pounding in his chest, much the same way as it had when he was eight.
         At this point Al's grip was so tight his short fingernails were leaving indentions in Verbeena's flesh. She thought to herself that Al might need some counseling himself to deal with his anger. But it was more than anger eating at Al... there was also sorrow because he had not been there to protect the child.
         "He put my hand there, on him, and made me..." Sam buried his face against his knees and sobbed. "When it got hard, he pushed me down on the floor and... my mouth," he whispered, choking on the memory. He was trembling from the horror of reliving it and seeing it all so clearly.
         "Oh, Sam!" Al cried. He let go of Verbeena and tried to hug his best friend, instead his arms passed right through him.
         Verbeena reached out to touch Al, partly because her image was gone without contact and partly because he needed comfort too. He was almost as upset as Sam. She had never really witnessed how deeply the two of them cared for one another. Al was very much a paternal figure for Sam and Sam was the closest Al had to a son of his own.
         "What happened then?" she prodded.
         "Stop pushing him!" Al growled. Her questioning seemed heartless. He felt even more helpless than he did when he had demanded Sam to ask for the torturous electroshock therapy. There was nothing he could do to stop the pain. He could only witness it.
         Shut up! Verbeena mouthed silently. I'm helping him. "Sam, what happened next?"
         "He got up, told me if I ever told anyone what I did that they would send me away and never I'd never get to see my family again. Then he left me there."
         "What you did?" Verbeena asked. "Sam, what did you do?"
         "I just told you." He continued to look down, focused on Al's shoes. They were a bright red to match his shirt. His mind began to wonder, pondering where Al shopped. It did not hurt as much as remembering himself lying cold and naked on a bed of hay and dirt, afraid to move, afraid that whatever it was that had just happened to him was not really over.
         "No, Sam you told me what Charles Whitfield did to you. I want to know what you did."
         Sam looked to Al, frantically searching for the answer, for what she wanted. He wanted her to leave so he would not have to talk about this anymore. He wanted to concentrate on those bright red shoes.
         "Sam, just tell me what you did while he was undressing you, touching you."
         "Do you have to remind him?" Al interrupted sharply. Do you have to remind me?
          Verbeena shot daggers at him with her dark brown eyes. Al had behaved considerably well up to this point, but this was a crucial moment and he could seriously hamper her work. "Sam what did you do?" she repeated quickly, deciding the best way to deal with Al was to ignore his remark altogether.
         "I... cried?" he asked. Was that the right answer to her simple, but perplexing question? "All I did was cry."
         "So what did you do wrong?" she asked, hoping to force him to see things from a rational, adult perspective.
         "I..." he thought for a moment. "I let him."
         "You let him?" she repeated. "You gave him permission? You consented?"
         "No, I didn't consent," Sam said in a small voice. The idea of it made him feel filthy.
         "Of course not!" Al exclaimed, infuriated by her suggestion. Now she was going too far, blaming Sam.
         "Be quiet!" she ordered, turning to the Admiral. She moved over to stand between Al and Sam. Her voice turned non-threatening again. "Sam, if you didn't consent, then how did you let, or allow, him to do what he did to you?"
         "I didn't fight enough. I barely fought at all. I should have done more."
         "Didn't he hit you and threaten to kill you?" she reminded him.
         He nodded.
         "And you believed him. Can an eight year old child successfully fight a grown man, a very strong grown man, at that?"
         He shrugged again. "I guess not."
         Al no longer glared at Verbeena in anger. He could see where she was going with this and it made him realize she knew what she was doing.
         "What did you do wrong, Sam?"
         Sam's mind raced with scenes of the awful day, but they were somehow different, like he was above them watching, rather than in them, experiencing. "I went in the barn."
         "Because you believed there were kittens inside. What did you do that was wrong?"
         He looked to Al, then to Verbeena. "Nothing?" he asked in a whisper.
         Verbeena sighed. "Nothing," she confirmed with more certainty than Sam. "You did nothing wrong."
         "That's right, Kid," Al chimed in. "You didn't do anything wrong, or stupid." He added the stupid, remembering their conversation in the barn. "So, stop feeling like you did, okay?" If only it were so simple to turn off feelings.
         "Tommy, you still in there?" Charles Whitfield asked. He had an annoying habit of leaving the verbs out of his sentences.
         The brief peace Sam had felt was shattered. "Yes, sir." He turned on the cold water and wet a cloth to wash his tear-streaked face.
         "You need help?"
         "No, sir. I'll be out soon. I'm just resting, washing my face."
         "I've got something to make you feel better," he offered. "Come on out."
         Sam hesitantly opened the door. Charles was holding a shot glass. "Here. Drink this." He handed the glass to Sam.
         Sam took the shot and smelled it, "Whiskey?" he asked. "I'm only eight."
         "It's whiskey, lemon juice, peppermint, other stuff. It'll help with your cough and nausea, help you sleep too."
         Sam doubted the mixture would help nausea, but was too intimidated to argue. He remembered his grandmother used to make a similar substance and it had always amused him that his prohibitionist grandparents would drink it. Of course, he had never dared to point out the contradiction.
         "Thanks," he said, and gulped the concocotion. His face contorted as he swallowed the sour brew. He coughed and reached into the bathroom for a cup of water to wash down the liquid fire. It burned as it hit his empty stomach and he quickly deduced that it definitely did not help nausea.
         "Go lay down. I'll be in later to check on you," he took the shot glass and walked away.
         "That's what we're afraid of," Al told him. "You did real good, Sam. Go try to rest. We've still got time to figure out what happens to Tommy. Take some time for you, okay."
         Sam stumbled on the way back to Tommy's bedroom.His head was spinning from all that he had gone through that day. He crawled into bed, feeling very sleepy.
         "Are you okay, Buddy?" Al asked.
         "Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired, emotionally spent, scared he's coming back, and kind of hungry."
         "That sounds okay to me." Al laughed. "I'm going to have to leave for a little while. Dr. Beeks needs to get back. I'll be back really soon though. I'm not going to leave you alone with that monster for long."
         Sam looked up to the holograms by the bed. "Dr. Beeks, thanks. You're a good woman and a wonderful therapist."
         "You're a great client," she smiled. She had always considered herself lucky to be able to work with the greatest mind of this generation, of many generations. "I'll be back to talk again. You've done enough for one night. Take care, Sam."
         "Al, you'll be back soon, right?" he asked, seeking additional assurrance.
         "Just a few minutes." With that, the door whooshed open and Al and Verbeena vanished.

Chapter 7

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