Quantum Leap:
The Unrightable Wrong by Rebecca R. Baker

Chapter 8

February 1962

         John and Thelma arrived at the Whitfields' farm a few minutes later. The two farms were within easy walking distance and driving made them seem even closer.
         "We're just concerned neighbors," John reminded his wife as they stood on the porch waiting for their knock to be answered. It was early evening and not an unusual time for visitors. So at least there would be no suspicion about their arrival.
         "Sam's never been like this before," she clutched the thermos of soup to her chest. "He's different. We know that he's different. He's never been like the other children. He could read when he was two. What if Tom's right?" she rambled. "What if something snapped in his mind. Maybe he's too smart and it just overloaded everything and he's snapped?"
         John placed a supportive arm around her shoulders. "Maybe Sam is tuned into things the rest of us can't understand," he offered, hoping to comfort his wife and defend his son. Sam presented a challenge to them, for sure. It was not easy having a child so bright that they could not comprehend, much less answer some of his questions. He seemed to finish books faster than they could bring them home and then could recall them in detail. He had been helping Tom with his homework since he was four and one day they discovered Sam could do Tom's math work in his head. They were always thankful that he did not have the ego to match his genius.
         "John and Thelma Beckett!" Charles exclaimed merrily as he opened the door. "To what do I owe this surprise? Come on in," he motioned with his arm, welcoming them into his home. "Forgive the mess. It's hard to keep things straight since Mary Ann passed on."
         Behind his cheerful exterior was panic. His memory flashed to the week before and the pleasure he had found in having their son as his latest target. But he had warned the kid not to talk and the kid seemed just scared enough to keep his mouth shut. Even if he had not kept quiet, Charles was sure he could talk his way out of any accusation by accusing the child of lying. Everyone knew the Beckett kid was weird anyway.
         John extended his hand in a friendly greeting, relieving Charles' fears. "We heard Tommy has been sick."
         "Sam's been feeling terribly the past few days too," Thelma added. "I made this soup today and we had plenty, so I wanted to bring some to your Tommy." She held the thermos out for him to see. "There's enough for you too."
         "You are too kind," Charles gushed. "And I'm sorry about little Sam. There must be something going around."
         "It's probably you," Al spat. "You're going around making little kids sick, you pervert." He had checked on Sam again and found him in the bed, but unresponsive.
         "Tommy's in bed now. I'm sure he'd appreciate the soup, Thelma. Almost as much as he appreciated that pie."
         "Damn pie." Al crinkled his nose in disgust. Thelma's gesture of friendship had not been repaid in kind.
         Thelma smiled, "May I take it to him? You and John can talk farm things like you men do so well," she offered.
         "You're a sweet woman, Thelma." He pointed toward the hallway. "Tommy's room is just there to the left. Oh, and he has a bruise on his face. He was dizzy this morning and when he got out of bed; he fell. I made him stay home today because of it, being dizzy I mean. He fell again not too long ago. I heard a crash and found him on the floor by his bed."
         "You lying son of a bitch!" Al spoke around the cigar in his mouth. He wondered how many times Tommy had "fallen" before resulting in similar bruises.
         "Sam's been dizzy too. They must have the same thing." John commented, watching his wife walk down the hallway and into Tommy's room.
         "Hurry," Al urged her, recentering on Sam.
         John and Charles ambled toward the sofa. "Won't be long until it's time to plant." John started. Planting was always a safe subject to keep a fellow farmer occupied for a while.
         "Tommy?" Thelma called, setting the thermos down on the dresser.
         Tommy appeared to be asleep in the bed, lying on his back. He was very still and his breathing was shallow.
         "C'mon, Sam, be okay," Al plead.
         Thelma felt his forehead. He was cool to the touch and pale. He felt nothing like Sam did with his burning fever and flushed face. "Tommy," she shook him lightly. "Wake up, dear."
         Al hoverd close by. "Please, Sam, don't let it be too late. I got your Mom. Now, doesn't that make me a good hologram?"
         "Tommy," she called more loudly, shaking him vigorously. His body seemed malleable. "Tommy!" she nearly yelled, but could not rouse him.
         She ran to the doorway, "John! John!" she called, "help me!"
         Charles and John ran to her, "What's wrong?" Charles asked. "Did he fall again?"
         "I can't wake him up!" she cried. "He's so limp."
         John rushed to the boy's side, as did Charles. John reasoned that if Sam had been right about Tommy's condition, he was right about the cause. "Did you give him something, anything that could have this kind of effect?" he asked Charles without sounding accusatory. "Maybe he's allergic to something," he offered, hoping to get the truth without a conflict or placing any blame directly on Charles. The last thing he needed right now was a denial.
         "Some medicine," Charles answered. "I mixed the nausea and fever pills with the whiskey cough syrup we've always used. Tommy's never liked to take pills and I didn't have any of the liquid stuff."
         "You can't mix pills and alcohol!" John explained calmly. He tried to not sound condescending.
         John pulled Sam to an upright position. "Thelma, get the waste basket," he ordered, noticing one on the floor by the dresser.
         "What are you doing to my son?" Charles asked angrily. He reached out to take "Tommy" from John.
         "He has to throw up. He has to get what's left of that mixture out of his system or it could cause permanent brain damage or even death, depending on how much you gave him." He took the wastebasket from Thelma's hand, placing it on the bed.
         "That's it! That's it!" Al practically cheered.
         "You hold him up," John directed Charles. "Thelma, get some cool washcloths."
         With Charles helping to support him, John forced Sam into a gag reaction. Al turned away until the disturbing sounds were over. He now knew where Sam had gotten the fortitude to do what had to be done, even in unpleasant situations.
         John laid Sam back down on his pillow and took one of the cloths to wipe them both clean.
         He pushed open Sam's eye. "He'll be okay once this is out of his system. But he could have died if no one had realized there was a problem. He'll probably sleep for hours longer than usual tomorrow."
         Thelma stepped in with a cool wet cloth and began to wash Sam's forehead and face. As she did, she could not stop thinking of her own son.
         Charles slipped to the side of the room, keeping his back to the Becketts. He stood by the dresser in the corner, ashamed of what he had done, unable to face his friends or his son.
         Several minutes passed with the Becketts watching Sam. Al was watching too, nervously checking his luminous watch to keep up with how long it took Sam to awaken.
         Sam began to notice the gentle touch bringing him back from the darkness. He peeked out one eye and saw a blurred but familiar figure. "Mom," he whispered.
         "Thank you!" Al looked upward. He was standing "in" the bed, next to Sam, but across from Thelma.
         "Mom," Sam whispered again, comforted by her presence.
         Thelma smiled, believing Tommy was mistaking her for his own mother. She said nothing because she knew he was just confused and did not want to hurt him by telling him the truth.
         "Al?" Sam called softly, his gaze drifting to his best friend who was standing very close by. "I'm so sleepy."
         John and Thelma exchanged nervous glances. Tommy was talking to Al too. They both felt chills run through them, realizing the angel named Al was real and what could have happened had they not listened to their son.
         "I'm here, Sam," Al told him. "I thought I'd lost you for a while. Thank God you're all right."
         "You saved my life," he said weakly to all of them. "I was dying..." his voice was soft. "I think I was. Maybe I was dreaming." His speech was slurred from the sedative.
         In the corner of the room, Charles stood, crying quietly.
         "Charles," John called. "Tommy's going to be okay now." He put a hand on the man's shoulder.
         "I can't believe I did this," Charles mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "I'm the worst father in the world."
         "I'll second that motion," Al agreed.
         "I don't deserve Tommy."
         "No, you don't."
         "I wish Mary Ann were here. At least she wouldn't practically kill him trying to treat a cold. Mary Ann new better. She always kept the liquid medicine for him. I should have died, not her."
         "Still no argument from me," Al walked closer to Charles. "I wish I could tear your head off. Those tears earn you no sympathy points. Nozzle!"
         "I can't excuse what you did," John started. "But, we all make mistakes and hurt our children." He thought about his own actions that night and how not believing Sam could have hurt him.
         "I'm sorry, Tommy." Charles came to his son's bedside.
         "Go away!" Sam wanted to cover his face with his arms to shield himself, but was unable to do so. "Mom, don't let him hurt me."
         "He's not going to hurt you, Tommy." Thelma assurred him.
         "He did!" Sam agured weakly. "Don't let him hurt me again. Mom, please, make him go away. Take me with you, just don't let him hurt me." Sam's eyelids were heavy, and he felt sleep pulling him back.
         Charles saw the look of terror on his child's face. "I didn't know it would hurt you," he started. "I thought it would make you feel better. You don't like pills, but you needed the medicine. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
         "It was an accident," Thelma told him. "Charles loves you very much."
         "But he doesn't."
         "Yes, I do." Charles argued. "You're all I've got in this world. If I lost you, I'd have nothing to live for." Despite the abuse to which he subjected Tommy, his words sounded sincere, as if he really did love the child even if he did not know how to show it.
         "He does not." Sam's voice wavered since he was still somewhat groggy.
         "Sam, they don't know it's you they're helping," Al reminded him.
         Sam looked to Al, then to his parents, then to Charles. If he told them what Charles had done to him, they would think he was Tommy. And while Charles may have done something similar to Tommy, Sam could not truthfully speak as Tommy. Right now he could hardly speak at all.
         But there was another dilema: now that Tommy's life was saved, Sam still had to get him away fromt he abuse. How could he do that without telling an adult? And how could he tell an adult, when he did not know the truth. If he said something that Tommy could not repeat because it had never happened to him, then Leaped, Tommy would be in more danger because Sam's story would not be backed or could conflict with anything Tommy had to say.
         "I'm sorry," Charles repeated.
         "Go away," Sam told him coldly. He was not well yet and he knew he needed more time to figure out what to do. If he could not go to safety with his parents, he at least needed to insure that Charles would leave him alone until his mind was clear and his body was cooperative and he could at least defend himself should the need arise.
         Charles nodded and left the room, unable to take the fear and hatred in Tommy's eyes and the looks on the Beckett's faces that he interpreted to be condensending. John followed him, to try to help him feel better.
         "Mom, thank you for being here."
         She leaned down to hug him.
         "Mrs. Beckett, I mean," he corrected himself when Al reminded him she thought he was Tommy.
         "I'm glad we were here," Thelma told him. "Losing you would be horrible. I'm sure your father will be more careful from now on."
         Sam said nothing. He could not afford to go to the hospital or be questioned. He had to save Tommy. He could not tell his parents who he really was, and on this Leap, he did not want to do so. The idea of his parents knowing what had happened to him was unbearable. It made him feel dirty. He knew that he should not rationally feel that way, but he did.
         "You get to sleep, honey." Thelma stroked his hair and straightened his covers. "You're going to be just fine tomorrow. You'll feel much better then."
         "Thanks." Sam closed his eyes. For the first time on this Leap, he felt safe. He desperately wanted his mother to stay with him.
         "John and I have to get home. Sam has been sick for several days too. We need to check on him. You take care." She leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Bye, now."
         "Goodbye," he whispered as she left. I love you, Mom.
         "If I had a mother like that--" Al started, pointing his cigar at Thelma as she walked away.
         "Al!" Sam exclaimed, fully expecting some lecherous remark about his mother.
         "I would've turned out to be a good boy like you," he finished with a deceptively innocent smirk. "What did you think I was going to say?"
         "Thanks, Al."
         "What? You are a good kid. I can see where you get it from. But, frankly, you're too good."
         "I mean, thanks for saving my life. How did you get my parents here anyway?" His words were not coming out exactly as they should, but he was talking and it was a wonderful sound to Al's ears.
         "I saw you--when you were eight. Apparantly, your brain waves as an adult are close to those you had as a child. Katie saw me too. So, your parents thought they had two hallucinating children for a while, but once Katie chimed in, they couldn't reason away what you were telling them. I probably should not have seen you as a child, but the point is, you're alive and that's what matters."
         "What--did you tell me you were an angel or something?" There had been several times that children had believed Al was an angel.
         "You just naturally assumed..." Al tilted on balls of his feet smugly. "Do you have any idea how drunk you sound right now?" Sam drunk was not a sight often beheld.
         Sam shook his head laughing. "You are an angel, Al. You are."
         "Oh, don't get all mushy," He punched the door code on the handlink. "I'm sure Whitfield is gone for the night. Get some sleep. I'll check on you soon." He disappeared.
         "What about Tommy?" Sam asked, but there was no answer.
         He turned to his side, which he found far more comfortable than sleeping on his back. Al was right. He should sleep. His head was pounding, his body was tired. Even his mind was weary. Sleep would be welcome. Charles would leave him alone and he could rest and be safe for a little while.

Chapter 9

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