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Chapter Three: Knowledge is Power

The news wasn't good.

Rory had read somewhere that doctors were trained to keep their countenances entirely neutral when delivering news to the patient's family. Either the doctor walking towards them had failed that section miserably or the diagnosis was severe enough to temporarily circumvent years of discipline. Her long angular features were creased in a frown and her pace bordered on frantic. Considering this woman had a trail of medical students halting her progress, clearly wanting her advice, the answer was likely to be the latter.

"The Ophthalmologist," Jamie identified softy as he returned to sit across from the Gilmores.

Francesca murmured a soft catholic prayer as the automatic doors opened and admitted a trio of purposeful doctors, who looked quintessential in while lab coats and green scrubs.

In all the TV shows the family rushed forward and begged for news tearfully and Rory moved to follow this classic example, but a forestalling hand from the doctor stopped her.

"The information I have to deliver is complicated and technical; please allow me to do so in systematic fashion before answering your questions," the lightly accented voice was unmistakably unrelenting and firm.

"My name is Lisa Sinclair. I have been called to consult on Ms. Gellar's case. Firstly let me reassure you she is stable...spinal and internal bleeding has been ruled out, her concussion, while severe, does not appear to have caused any long term damage as concluded from the FMRI."

Here the doctor paused to survey the group quickly, "However her injury was sufficiently traumatic to create some concerning symptoms around the ocular region, which is my specialty."

"Does she have a rupture?" Jamie's voice was thick with worry and impatience.

Dr. Sinclair didn't miss a beat, "Her scores on the basic eye exams are extremely poor of particular concern is the lack of responsiveness to direct stimuli. However, it is far too early to conclusively state anything," then she began to describe Paris condition in a carefully modulated sermon type format, littering it with painstakingly explained jargon.

"So basically Doctor, you're saying that Paris's eyes have been badly damage but you have no real idea of the consequences are and won't until she is a, fully conscious and b, less externally bruised," Lorelai summarized after the sixteenth nine syllable word.

"But if her stats do not improve, Paris is looking at near total and almost certainly permanent blindness," Jamie clarified sharply. Francesca gasped softy and pulled her eldest grandson to her as he began to cry. The sounds resonated sharply with everybody in the group. Rory clenched her mother's hand tighter and blinked back tears.

"There is a high possibility of that, yes," Dr. Sinclair replied evenly and without perceivable hesitation. "However I did not wish to speculate at this time, a number of symptoms have not yet presented, which would solidify the condition along a very broad spectrum. Her parents have faxed emergency consent; Ms. Gellar will begin several procedures to assess and hopefully treat whatever the prognosis may be shortly."

Lisa Sinclair tried very hard not to feel a certain measure of guilt. Her words were textbook perfection, a subtle blended mix of neutrality and severity without raising hysteria. However, they were also very close to a lie, the determining factors would simply confirm what ever fiber of her body not to mention 25 years of practicing already screamed.

The girl was blind. However, because it couldn't be clinically proven for at least five hours, the elderly doctor couldn't say anything. As her colleagues so helpfully pointed out, the all powerful Philip Gellar could raise all sorts of legislative hell is there was even a hint of misdiagnosis.

It was with this in mind that she offered her next statement gently, "What you like to take turns sitting with her?"

Francesca spoke up quietly, "I need to take the children home; I will come back in an hour."

Rory waited for Jamie to leap up to follow the doctor, she slightly willed him to show himself to be more than the as-long as-your perfect type boyfriend. From the way he way was wringing his hands and glancing round uncertainly, that was exactly what he believed himself to be.

"I can't... stay... .can't see her like this," Jamie gasped, beginning to breath sharply and irregularly.

"I'll go," Rory said firmly without glancing at the older teenager.

"Do you need me to be there baby?" Lorelai asked reluctantly releasing her from their embrace.

"I'll be fine, Mom," Rory said stoically, speaking through the painful constriction in her throat.

She had to be okay for Paris.

* * * * *

Her jealousy was completely unjustified.

Regina Katherine Gellar considered this point while sipping an exceptionally dry martini aboard the Gellar's rented private plane. Next to her, her husband was frantically making calls, doubtlessly disturbing every notable medical specialist within the greater tri- state area, through various methods of exhortation and bribery forcing them to decent on Hartford General.

All for the sake of his beloved little girl.

The immaculately dressed woman fiddled with imaginary lint on her freshly pressed suit. She kept waiting for the gut wrenching fear that seemed to have gripped her husband. The tears had yet to mar perfectly applied makeup nor sobs interrupt her sedate posture.

She should feel like her world was ending, instead the familiar feelings of annoyance privately entered her head. Of course she felt concern for her daughter, Regina wasn't a monster, but it never matched the soul-wrenching depth that TV shows liked to play up on a semi-regular basis.

Jealousy was a poor substitute.

Philip had never shed tears over her.

Philip had never screamed on behalf of her.

Philip had never prayed and begged to God in her name.

Regina doubted that he felt anything for her anymore.

All the love he had was directed solely at the child she had never wanted in first place.

The child that been conceived despite of three highly expensive forms of birth-control.

The irony was truly spectacular.

Chapter Four: Thursday's Child

Britney Spears did not belong in Hell.

Paris supposed that anyone with discernable musical taste could successfully dispute that assumption. As general rule, however, she doubted that her bible-wielding aunt's vision of the wayward younger Gellar's guaranteed damnation included the lyrics to Lucky. Feeling extremely disoriented, Paris attempted to perform a mental inventory of the sensory-limited information she was receiving.

The Britney Spears rendition appeared to originating from a William Hung wannabe within a disturbingly close proximity. Overriding the crime against humanity were periodic sounds of a machine beeping and paper rustling. Something soft, yet unyielding, was pressed against her eyes. A series of bands that felt like plastic were encircling her arms. The temperature was frigid and Paris thought she heard the whirr of the air conditioning. The air smelt of alcohol and various scents she couldn't identify.

She was going to vomit.

With a struggled gasp, Paris tried to launch herself over or upwards only to find many painfully attached points of her body protesting this action in the form of searing pain.

"Settle Ms. Gellar, don't pull the IVs," a soothing and gentle male voice instructed.

"Hurling," Paris managed to gasp out turning her head in the direction of the voice.

Paris felt strong arms lifting her expertly and before guiding her forward "Most likely a residual effect of the morphine and the concussion," the voice murmured, steadying Paris's position as the force of the retches caused the young woman to spasm.

Once she had become successfully reacquainted with everything she had ever consumed since the onset of puberty, Paris queried the voice as she was painstakingly repositioned and the IVs were checked

"Where am I? What's going on? Why does everything hurt?" she couldn't stop her voice from trembling fearfully.

"You're at Hartford General. Specifically the post-op recovery room. You are here because you had a nasty accident that required surgery. The pain is a result of the many impacts your body has incurred," the voice methodically replied while grasping her wrist lightly.

"What medicinal properties does Britney Spears have? Drug free coma induction?" Paris quipped.

The voice chuckled, "The boy next door is feeling anxious, apparently singing relaxes him."

Paris suddenly remembered the odd sensation on resting against her eyes, "What's wrong with my eyes? Why are they bandaged?"

"The surgeons needed to remove several foreign objects," the reply was noticeably guarded. Paris waited for the reassuring "It'll be off in a few days", but it never came. Instead the sound of monitors being adjusted filled the room.

His words stirred memories. Of screaming voices and sharp agony within intermittent periods of nausea and bright red lights. Before Paris could articulate any further questions, a sharp knocking sound interrupted the uneasy silence.

"Nicholas, Ms. Gellar's contact wants to see her," a tightly professional voice murmured quietly, evidently not bothering to assess her state of consciousness.

The newly christened Nicholas ushered a second pair of footsteps into the room and Paris absentmindedly wondered who this person was. She had many people on her list, but the majority of them lived beyond limits of convenience in terms of traveling time to Hartford; a fact that would prevent the majority of her family from swooping to her rescue.

"Francesca?" Paris asked.

"No Paris, it's me," the lyrical voice of Rory Gilmore whispered.

Paris felt a bizarre sense of comfort as Rory reached to grasp her hand and subconsciously began to trace patterns that Paris didn't bother to decipher. The other girl's breathing sounded funny and Paris felt the wet splash of tears on her suddenly oversensitive skin.

Nobody had shed tears for her before.

Francesca was too stoic and her family didn't believe in tears of sentimentality.

"I'm ok, Ror," Paris claimed weakly, oddly touched by the thought of somebody caring enough to be vulnerable and cry.

Rory clasped her hand harder. Attempting to stem her tears. The hours of waiting had taken their toll on her ability to remain calm as the doctor had instructed. She was simultaneously relieved to see Paris awake, but equally terrified of the dark bruises ringing her face and the many whirring monitors she was attached to.

"I'm just so relieved," Rory exclaimed haltingly before taking several steadying breaths.

"Not looking forward to assuming control of The Franklin?" Paris asked dryly with an underlying air of insecurity.

"Hey, low self-esteem girl, you're my friend, I've being praying to non-existent deities for several hours now and it hasn't been over a stupid graduation issue!" Rory chastised mildly while lending down to gingerly embrace her. Trying not to voice the distress she felt.

She smells really good! Rory was slightly disturbed be the inappropriateness of that sudden thought.

"It hurts really bad," Paris chocked out softly, finally allowing the tears to soak the bandages. "I'm scared Ror, they don't have books for this. Macaroni and Cheese does not taste good on reflux."

"I know sweetheart, you're parents will be here soon," Rory whispered instinctively. Whenever she had succumbed to childhood aliments the only thing the adult needed to say was Lorelai was coming and everything seemed okay. Her knee jerk reaction was to believe that the rest of the world followed her example.

"The presence of Mother Dearest, brings me little comfort, Rory. I'm sure Daddy is going to raise hell between Twig One and Twig Two," Paris's voice was hollow with bitterness, "Just one big nuclear family."

Rory winced and continued to stroke Paris's arms, gently unsure of what to say in comfort.

"Will you stay?" Paris sounded vaguely childlike in its vulnerability.

"As long as you need me," Rory assured slowly lowering herself onto the narrow hospital bed, allowing Paris's head to rest against her shoulder and murmuring sweet nonsense into the blond girl's hair.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Paris was the embodiment of everything he'd been taught to value. She was intelligent and witty with a perfect air of social sophistication. Jamie had envisioned the white picket fences and 2.5 kids complete with the beloved family dog. His parents were "simply delighted" with her and their fathers had already started playing golf together.

 She wasn't supposed to be anything less then perfect.

Disability was something you saw on cardboard donation checks and on big charity banners, not in the real world.

Jamie fought the urge to wince as he felt Lorelai's steely gaze boring into his skull. He knew he had been cowardly, but the prospect of seeing medical horrors outside textbooks made him feel ill, and Jamie had very little faith in his ability to hide his reaction from Paris. He fantasized about being the sweeping, perfect A Walk to Remember boyfriend... he really did.

It just hurt too much to try.

Chapter Five: Awake

Hollywood lied.

In Hollywood the timeframe between consciousness and devastating, life altering diagnosis was approximately five minutes. Against a backdrop of melodramatic music the doctor would sweep in and deliver the news to the woefully ill-prepared patient. Then the grueling rehab was compressed into a carefully dramatic sequence.

In real life, hospital habitation was dominated by waiting.

Paris felt a wave of frustration as she heard the persistent murmur of voices floating towards her. While the voices had been drifting in and out for at least twenty minutes, they never materialized into actual words. Every single movement seemed to be a Herculean effort. Paris felt as if she was experiencing the world from inside a capsule made of cotton wool; every sensation was insinuated from actually affecting her. Whatever Nicholas had injected into the IV was certainly performing its sedative duties.

"What's going on?" she asked drowsily, disgusted by the high panicky tone her voice involuntarily assumed.

"Stay calm, Ms Gellar, I was just reviewing your charts with Nicholas. Do you require anything?" the strong and controlled voice of her most regular doctor inquired.

At some point the same voice had bombarded her with questions soon after she had experienced the strangely comforting intimacy with Rory. Her mind was so fuzzy that Paris couldn't articulate the questions that danced just beyond her consciousness.

"Your friend will be returning shortly, she wished to inform your guardian via cell phone, which we can't allow in the ICU," the feminine voice continued calmly, as if sensing Paris's innate need for clarification.

"I'm really sore," Paris moaned quietly, feeling a burning pain in her shoulders and chest, a sickening agony throbbed in her head. The awful taste of bile mixed with partially digested macaroni and cheese was coating her taste buds every time she swallowed.

Dr. Sinclair pressed a cup to the young woman's lips while supporting her head gently.

"The pain will ease once the latest doses of morphine take effect. You will feel sleepy for a while," the soothing voice continued once Paris had managed a few sips of water. "The nausea should recede within the same timeframe."

Paris winced as she attempted to open her eyes. Even the mundane activity of brushing her eyelids against the soft bandages sent a dull and persistent ache resonating throughout her eye sockets and cheekbones. It wasn't a particularly impressive solo in the symphony of pain, but it could hardly escape Paris's attention that Lisa Sinclair was an eye specialist when her other doctors had offered no such fields of expertise.

"My eyes were hurt badly, weren't they?" Paris questioned quietly, turning her head in what she assumed was the general diction of the other woman.

"Yes, the trauma was significant," Lisa sunk down gracefully into the chair beside the hospital bed, "I operated to remove several foreign objects and to sterilize your wounds. We will perform more tests once the swelling and bruising have settled down."

"When will you know the extent of the damage?" Paris pressed, ignoring the terrifying images of the black haired girl standing ominously over her.

Before the doctor was obligated to formulate a reply, which would mostly be close to a lie, Paris lost her battle with consciousness and fell into a restless slept. Lisa released a soft sigh and rose painfully, absently noting the slight changes in the whirring monitors. The girl was stable. None of the post operation complications had manifested, but it was very early still. The risk of infection was her highest priority now that the ocular structures were relatively stabilized. Inflammation within those already compromised regions would eliminate any chance of sight recovery and, worse, could potentially lead to systemic toxin spread.

"Dr. Sinclair?" a rough voice called uncertainly.

The elderly African woman looked up expectedly and her bespectacled gaze met with the weary features of Rory Gilmore. The brown haired teenager was leaning against the doorway tiredly, her red rimed eyes fixated on Paris's prone form.

"Her parents have been delayed, incandescent thunderstorms at their stop over point, will this affect Paris's treatment?" the tone was soft but firm.

"Dr. Gellar has authorized full medical intervention, several of my collogues will be examining Ms. Gellar in the morning, contingent on her wellbeing."

"Apparently he has power," Rory murmured distractedly.

He has power. That was an understatement. The completed applications for two of the most exclusive rehabilitation clinics in country that were on her desk waiting for her signature had bypassed at least 4 month waiting lists and at least 5 weeks of legislation.

"Their delayed presence will not influence her treatment," Dr. Sinclair assured, "Although I would request that either you or her caregiver be here tomorrow morning. Several medical conclusions will most likely be reached; regardless of the contents Ms. Gellar will need support."

Rory nodded understandingly, "I need to go home for the night. Will she be okay until Francesca comes back in about an hour?" Rory drew a shuddering breath and returned her gaze to the approaching optometrist.

"The nurses will watch over her. They are acutely aware of her unaccompanied status. I will be entirely contactable throughout the night. If her status changes, we will contact you immediately."

Rory trailed the doctor out of Paris's painstaking technologically intensive cocoon and out into the large hospital corridors. The pallor of Paris's face lodged firmly in the younger Gilmore's mind. The thing that "ER" doesn't convey was the smell and the feel, two of the most powerful senses. Antiseptic hung heavily in the air and it mixed sickeningly with alcohol and bile. The rough and wet feel of gauze still made Rory's hands twitch uncomfortably

"I will see you in the morning Ms. Gilmore, try to get at least a little sleep. The hospital is doing everything to maintain Ms. Gellar's stability ad comfort," Dr. Sinclair squeezed her shoulders briefly before allowing her attention to be directed towards a youngish male nurse who was hanging back respectfully.

As Rory continued along the heavily illuminated hallway, she fought the urge to frown as she saw the haggard from of Jamie walking uncertainly towards her. Behind him the immaculate figure of his mother was standing just in front of the doors to the ICU waiting room.

"Is she okay?" Jamie asked naively, scuffing his shoe uncertainly.

"No," Rory replied more sharply than she intended.

"Mother is pulling some strings to ensure she gets the best treatment. Dr. Sinclair is the highest NHA recommends."

Rory fought the urge to say that bad news wasn't going to sound any better when delivered from qualified lips than a McDonald's employee. She supposed she couldn't blame him. Paris and Jamie were perfectly matched in the old money qualifiers. They had practically made their respective mothers weep with joy and the prospect of Gellar-Campbell grandchildren. They could walk among their prestigious family gathering without incurring their mothers' scrutiny; a relief for both.

That didn't mean he was ready to become the next Landon Carter.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Absolutely, I will bring several copies of "Politics Today". I will read the latest stats to her, she'll want to now them before the local body debate," he smiled optimistically.

Rory felt a soft smile grace her face briefly. The local body debates were in two weeks. It was warming to think of Paris offering her thoroughly researched opinions on whatever subjects were offered.

For a moment Jamie and Rory shared a moment of hope.

Paris would bet this.

The world was destined to surrender to her verbose authority.

Why would she let a jealous misfit take that away from her?

To be continued...