Chapter Text
It happened like this: one moment Carmy was frantically screaming at everyone in the kitchen and the next he simply wasn’t. Wasn’t yelling. Talking. Murmuring. Whispering. He just wasn’t.
It happened like this: Carmy’s energy was sapped and no one noticed or no one could notice or no one wanted to notice and like a marionette doll whose strings got cut off, he collapsed in a heap and did not, would not, could not, get up.
It happened like this: Carmy wound himself up tighter and tighter and tighter, the coils of him scrambling his insides, compressing his skull until his mind was surrounded, turned to mush and ceased to function.
But none of this would do. Not for the doctor who sat across from them, asking questions. Waiting for answers that no one had.
Richie wanted to say: Mikey died and left Carmy to die on me now because that’s the Berzzatto M.O. and I swear to God if you say that jagoff is dying I will make sure you, doctor, specifically, follow him.
Sydney wanted to say: Carmy was never right in the head and I’ve known and not known about it since I first met him but I didn’t think—but no one thought—but we all thought—but he never did—but he—He just stopped. One moment he was going and then he just stopped.
Nat wanted to say: I don’t care how it happened, I just want you to fix him. Please fix him. I can’t lose another brother. Please, please fix him.
Here’s how it happened: Months or years or decades running on empty finally snapped.
Nothing in particular happened to cause it. Or everything happened in small increments that neither Carmy nor anyone around him noticed them. The family, New York, Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, the Beef, the Bear, Claire, Chef, the Bear, the Bear, the Bear. And then. Then nothing.
If she really thought about it, Sydney thought that he was sluggish the night before. No, the week before. Or the month before. The while before. But she couldn’t be sure. It was only after that her mind conjured up the images of him standing for too long in front of the cutting board, staring at it. Or of him taking a moment too long to respond, only to give a half answer anyway. She didn’t think much of it, no one did. Carmy was the master of half-responses and non-answers, of getting stuck in his own head. Speaking to him had only grown more and more difficult since Friends and Family night, and she thought nothing more of it beyond typical Carmy behavior.
But there was a moment. One that lodged itself in her mind that night. One that led her and Richie to go banging at his door the next morning at the earliest signs of trouble. Sydney knew that she wasn’t simply revising her memories with that moment. Recalling it at the hospital made the hairs on the back of her neck stand, twisting her stomach in knots, imitating the trembling she felt at witnessing it as it happened.
It was the end of dinner service, and the cleaning of the kitchen commenced. But Carmy disappeared. He wasn’t around to diligently clean and re-clean and obsess over every possible spot in the kitchen. He wasn’t hovering to watch the crew clean either. Sydney went looking for him, found him in Nat’s office. He sat perched there, facing the door, hunched in his seat, expression impassive, eyes empty, completely quiet. A static kind of quiet. He wasn’t there with her. His physical existence seemed hollow. He had gone somewhere far, far away, and what she was seeing was nothing but flickers of the person who once occupied space. She feared that if she blinked, he would disappear altogether. And Sydney’s words lodged in her throat, unable to make a sound.
It was Richie who broke the silence of the moment. Sydney’s eyes were trained completely on Carmy, she didn’t see Richie come to stand in the doorway next to her until he spoke with his loud boisterous voice.
“Carmy,” he said, and Sydney startled. Richie hadn’t addressed him in any way that had not been an insult since the infamous night. “We’re just finishing up cleaning here.”
But he didn’t answer. A moment later, Richie spoke again
“Cousin!” Richie said, louder this time, with an edge to it. A nickname that he hadn’t used since their fight. The nickname seemed to do something close to startling Carmy, though all he did was blink, then move his eyes slowly to look at Richie. And Sydney saw in Richie the same perplexion she felt in her stomach.
“Yeah,” Carmy said, “that’s good.”
A beat. Sydney caught Richie’s eyes for a second.
“I’m gonna take off early,” Carmy said eventually, monotone. Not a question. Not an assertion either. Just a croak of voice. “Tired.” He mumbled after a minute.
“Yeah, of course,” Sydney said, “we’re about done anyway.”
They watched him leave. Movements slow. He nodded at them as he left, assuaging some of her nerves. Then Richie turned to her and said, “stubborn asshole never takes a break till he’s about to drop dead.”
And the venom in Richie’s tone, put on as it was, eased the knot in her stomach. This was okay. He was just tired. They all have off days. Even if his off days have been frequent recently. She put the incident out of her mind that night. Kept on cleaning. Went to bed and slept through the night, a rare occurrence, after the long hectic day.
But it was his face, distant and hollow, that flashed before her eyes when she walked into The Bear the next morning and didn’t find him already there. She shook off the twinge of worry, chalking up her propensity to catastrophize to being around Carmy for too long. He was tired the night before. And had already set up the menu for the day, with absolutely no consultation from anyone except his own head. He didn’t need to arrive early. He would be there soon. Never mind that he hadn’t been late a single day since friends and family night. Never mind that she doubted he ever went home more than a handful of hours. He would be there any minute, bringing all his chaotic energy back into the kitchen and Sydney would wish for a moment of peace and quiet like the one that was just bestowed upon her.
Then the hours ticked by. Marcus came in. Then Tina and Ebra. Then Richie. And the more the kitchen filled, the more Sydney pretended that she wasn’t looking at the clock. That she hadn’t dialed his number multiple times throughout the day and received no answer. It didn’t help matters that everyone commented on his absence. Or that there was a growing pit in her stomach. Or that her mind kept supplying the image of him slumped in the office chair, quiet enough to pass for a mannequin.
“So where is the jagoff?” Richie said, barely a minute after entering the kitchen, “in the office cooking up some more non-negotiables to scream about?”
“He’s not in yet, actually,” Sydney said, trying to keep her focus on chopping the onion in front of her, trying to maintain an even tone.
“Ha, now he’s slacking off?” But there was no real bite in Richie’s tone, and Sydney pointedly did not look at him, just kept chopping.
“Jeff’s been looking kinda off the past few days,” Tina piped in, “it’s a good thing he’s taking some time to rest.”
In response, all Sydney did was excuse herself and step outside in the back alley behind the restaurant, feeling claustrophobic and suffocated in spite of the relative quiet in the kitchen. She took a steadying breath, before reaching for her phone and dialing his number. It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Then went to voicemail.
She planned to leave a message this time, then got flustered and hung up, not knowing what to say. Instead, she took another deep breath, typed a quick text asking him when he was planning on coming in, then decidedly shoved her phone in her back pocket.
He was just being an uncommunicative asshole. With that thought, she started back towards the kitchen, swinging the backdoors open only to run right into Richie, standing there with his arms outstretched. If this was before, she would think he was there for a smoke. But not today. Not now. She could tell.
“No answer, huh?” He said, unprompted.
“Nope.”
“No surprise there. Can’t even let us know when he’s taking a day off.”
So they continued on with the day. Sydney’s eyes oscillating between the clock ticking down minutes, and meeting Richie’s increasingly worried eyes. When it was finally time for family, Sydney had called him about a dozen more times, left three voicemails, sent two more texts, received no response and just about had enough. She changed out of her clothes and grabbed her jacket, determined to chase away her needless anxiety and simply be proven wrong. She was more willing to be called paranoid than to sit in her worry a moment longer.
“I’m gonna go check on Carmy,” she muttered to the crew on her way out the kitchen. She didn’t stop, not wanting to absorb the crew’s concern over her announcement. Halfway to her car, Richie caught up to her.
“I’m coming with you,” Richie said, tone firm, face deceptively blank.
Sydney raised her eyebrows at the tone.
“I mean,” he cleared his throat, “I’d like to come with you, if you don’t mind. Please.”
They remained quiet on the way to Carmy’s apartment. Quiet as Sydney parked. As they climbed up the stairs. Quiet as they arrived at his place and knocked. Once. No answer. Twice. Richie took a deep breath. Sydney shifted her weight. No answer. Thrice. Richie scratched his beard. Sydney tapped her foot. No answer.
Richie knocked the fourth time, “cousin.”
But there was no answer still.
“Maybe he’s out?” Sydney said, “maybe at an AA meeting.”
“Maybe,” Richie said, scratching the back of his neck this time. “Or maybe he headed to the Bear while we were on our way here?”
“Maybe,” Sydney shifted her weight again. But she reached to knock at the door all the same, “Carmy, we’re just here to check on you.”
“Also the Bear is on fire,” Richie chimed in.
“Dude,” Sydney hissed, “what the fuck?”
“Most guaranteed way to get his fucking attention!” Richie hissed back, then said loudly to the door, “so if you’re ignoring us, just know that your dream restaurant is going up in flames as we speak.”
Sydney rubbed her forehead, “very convincing.”
They waited a beat longer. Then—
“Fuck this shit,” Richie muttered. Then crouched down and peeled back the welcome mat, revealing an extra key.
“That’s uh, unsafe,” Sydney muttered, “but maybe we shouldn’t break in?”
“We’re not, we have keys,” Richie shrugged, “Carmy can have his right to privacy back when he learns to answer his fucking phone.” He turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and motioned for her to enter.
As soon as she stepped inside, she had the dreaded feeling that something was wrong. At first glance, nothing was physically out of place, but something felt eerie. She let her eyes scan through the small space, searching for the evidence of wrongness, flitting through the furniture. Nothing was wrong, nothing was out of place, nothing was—
Then she saw him.
He was on the floor, halfway into the living room, curled into a ball, his back to her. And he was completely and utterly still. So still that her eyes skipped over him twice without registering that she wasn’t looking at an inanimate object. Her legs moved faster than her mind could fully catch up, a choked “Carmy” leaving her lips as she crossed the steps between them and knelt in front of him. Vaguely, she was aware of Richie replicating her movements, but her attention remained squarely on Carmy. Her heart pounded as she took in the scene before her. He looked as if he was simply asleep. Arms stretched in front of him, head hanging loosely, jaw slack. In any other scenario, in any other moment, this would be a moment of jubilation, where she and Richie would curse their paranoia and laugh about it with Carmy. This would be a moment where their anger at his lack of communication was renewed. Richie would provoke another fight and Sydney would look at him, both judging his behavior and imploring, pleading for him to give her a sign, a real sign, that he was going to change.
But there would be no celebration today.
Carmy was not asleep. He was still in his dark jeans and white shirt that he always wore to the restaurant, still in his shoes, his jacket discarded on the floor next to him. As if he had walked through the door of his apartment and collapsed. His expression was empty, lines smoothed over, owlish eyes wide open, staring off into nothing, unblinking, unmoving, unseeing. With trembling fingers, Sydney reached for his wrist. Finding his steady pulse somehow both soothed and spiked her anxiety.
She ran her fingers through his hair, prodded at his skull, searching for an injury, “Is he hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Richie was right there with her, snatching Carmy’s wrist as if wanting to confirm the pulse for himself. Upon finding it, he joined Sydney’s prodding, turning Carmy’s arm in his, searching for anything.
“Carmy,” she said urgently, her hand in his hair now moving to soothe rather than search.
Nothing.
“Carmy can you hear me?” She shook his shoulder. Richie moved Carmy’s shirt up his abdomen, still searching.
Nothing.
Her focus zeroed in on his eyes, waiting.
“Carmy are you hurt?” Maybe if she kept saying his name he would respond.
Nothing.
He blinked.
Sydney held her breath. Then—
Then nothing.
Richie grew frantic, crowding her out of the way. He shook Carmy’s shoulder again, more forcefully.
Nothing.
“Cousin,” he said and rolled Carmy out of the curled position he was into and onto his back.
Nothing. No response, no sign, no flicker. Just a blink.
Richie started patting him down, turning him in different directions, searching, “what hurts, Carmy?”
He received no response, his poking and prodding and turning and shaking being met with no resistance, simply falling in line to Richie’s instructions and the laws of gravity. And Sydney couldn’t look away from his eyes. Blinking, staring, unseeing.
Sydney knew fear. Knew its texture and taste. Knew the way it clung to her stomach lining and crawled its way up her throat, acidic in its climb, burning through her insides, forcing itself into the outer world. She knew the fear that left sizzling decay in its wake, the depths of inadequacy, the constant waiting for the storm beyond the horizon. The knowing that she would have to weather it alone. But she never knew fear could be so cold. Ice gripping her veins, freezing her blood, shocking her body into rigidity. Not just frozen in inaction, frozen beyond action. A fear that flung her into the pits of despair, its claws clutching her insides, whispering, there is no helping him now.
Carmy was not asleep. Carmy was not awake. Carmy was not there. Where there was static the night before, there was nothing now. Nothing but a heaping pile of flesh and bones cosplaying as someone she used to know. He was warm to the touch. He was breathing. He had a pulse. And yet.
Nothing.
“Richie,” she gasped, surprised by her own voice, let alone what it was about to say, “we need to call an ambulance.”
“What?” Richie turned away from his incessant shaking and nudging, from his inspection of Carmy’s body, “no need for an ambulance. He’s not hurt, he’s just—he’s just--”
“He’s just what, Richie?” She pleaded, wanting him to offer the solution. “Something is wrong, we have to get help.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Richie insisted, rose to his feet abruptly, started walking to the kitchen, “he’s just a little out of it. Just need to snap him out of it.”
Sydney heard him shuffling around in the kitchen but didn’t bother following his logic. Instead, she fished her phone out of her pocket, willing her shaking fingers to dial 911, willing the ice in her veins to soften. Her eyes caught his again. He was looking in her direction. Or rather, he was angled in her direction.
There is no helping him now. He’s going to die.
She blinked, and looked away from his eyes, grabbed his hand instead, dug two fingers into his wrist, finding his pulse point.
He is warm. He has a pulse. He is warm. He has a pulse. He is warm. He has a pulse.
“911 what’s your emergency?”
As Sydney scrounged up what she hoped were coherent sentences to explain Carmy’s situation, Richie stepped back with a glass of water, and before Sydney could tell him off, he splashed it over Carmy’s face. Sydney knew, she knew nothing was going to be fixed by Richie’s desperate attempt. But looking up to see the devastation in Richie’s eyes, as the slow dawning realization that this situation was well and truly fucked replaced the frantic fury dislodged something in Sydney’s chest, constricting her lungs.
For a moment that lasted an eternity, Richie stood unmoving, an empty cup in his hand. Then all at once, he dropped the cup. It shattered. Richie took two steps forward only to fall on his knees. He dragged Carmy onto his lap, hugged him to his chest.
“Cousin,” Richie’s voice cracked. He held Carmy’s jaw, turning him to face Richie. Sydney could hardly bear the thought that Richie was so tenderly looking at someone who could not see him. “Come on Carmy, don’t do this please. Just say something please.”
Richie was met with nothing but a blink. A desperate sob wrenched its way out of his throat. He pulled Carmy closer in his arms, trying, failing to endow him with any life force through warmth alone.
Sydney looked away before she could see him rocking back and forth. Her next words to the operator were a plea, hurry up I don’t know what’s wrong.
In life, there were before and after moments. Before the death of her mother. And after. Before Culinary school. And after. Before The Beef. And after. Before the Bear. And after. Before witnessing Carmy’s pliant body and expressionless. And, inevitably, now she was in the after.
A mere two hours later, and the after already looked like a nightmare,
The ambulance ride was a blur. The paramedics asked her and Richie questions that they somehow stumbled through answers to. They talked amongst each other. Exchanged bewildered glances. Sydney tuned it all out. She wanted to hear nothing from them except reassurance. She waited for it with bated breath. The ice in her veins taking root more and more with each passing second that they she received none. The paramedics had nothing to offer. They handed him over to the hospital. The doctors questioned, and prodded, and poked, and scanned, and talked, and paged each other, And there was still no reassurance. Richie stepped outside to call Nat. He came back, face somehow looking even more exhausted, and there was still no reassurance. The clock kept ticking. Nat arrived, her eyes already puffy from crying, hair disheveled, frantic and panicked, asking a million questions with her eyes but only “where is he?” with her voice, and there was still no reassurance.
Her phone rang. She talked to Tina. She explained in halted sentences what happened, received a million questions that she had no real answers to. I don’t know if he’s okay (something is very, very wrong). I’m fine (I’m not). Richie is okay (he definitely is not). Nat just got here (I can’t bring myself to lie and tell you she’s alright). Yes, keep prepping for service (I don’t know what else to do). No, I don’t know if we’ll be open for service (he should make that call and he can’t and I can’t think). Prep anyway Tina (please, Tina, don’t question it). I don’t know what’s happening (stop asking me questions). She hung up the phone, drenched in the miserable knowledge that she just made everyone’s day much more miserable. And there was still no reassurance.
When a young doctor approached them, gave a tight-lipped smile, declared that they needed to run some tests, Sydney had given up on reassurance. She wanted answers, any answers, any news. She wanted to scream. If you’re about to destroy my world just do it already.
“What kinds of tests?” Nat’s voice was clear and stern, it almost knocked Sydney off-balance hearing Nat so composed.
“Some blood work. Head scans. CT scans. X-rays of the spine.” the doctor said. Sydney could tell that she was uncomfortable from the way that she avoided their eyes.
“Okay,” Nat said slowly, frowning, “do you suspect anything in specific?”
“My attending will be here shortly to explain. Right now, I need to know if he’s on any meds or has any allergies that we should look out for?”
“No, no meds. No allergies either.” Nat said, tone now deflated.
The doctor nodded, started to leave, then paused, “listen, Dr. Ahmad is an excellent doctor. He’s doing everything he can to help Mr. Berzatto.”
Sydney didn’t know if Nat or Richie answered the doctor’s tight-lipped smile. Just knew that she couldn’t.
Dr. Ahmad had kind brown eyes, greying hairs at his temples, and a gentle voice. He guided them to his office in a soothing tone, led them to sit on a comfortable couch instead of the chairs by his desk, asked about their names and relation to the patient, offered them tea (they all declined), but gave them no choice when he poured water into plastic cups for each of them.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” he said when he finally sat down in the armchair across from them. Hysterically, Sydney thought this must look like a session of family therapy. “But I have a few questions to help us find answers. Has Mr. Berzatto been complaining of any headache recently?”
Sydney’s mouth suddenly ran dry. She took a gulp of the water.
“Carmy,” Nat corrected, “and no, he hasn’t. But he never complains.”
“I see. Has Carmy been sick more than usual lately or seemed in pain or struggling with performing physical tasks?”
“No, nothing comes to mind,” Nat said.
“Was there any recent incident where Carmy sustained a serious physical injury or blunt force to the head?”
Nat shook her head no again.
“Nothing at all? Even one that might have seemed minor or ordinary. Maybe something happened at his workplace that he shrugged off?”
“No,” Sydney was startled by her own ability to speak. “We work together in a restaurant, he’s a chef. And there is a lot of chaos. But no physical injuries. Nothing more than knife cuts and oven burns.”
“I see,” he leaned forward in his seat a little. “Would it be accurate to say that your work environment is stressful?”
Richie scoffed, “yeah, no shit.” Sydney nearly jumped out of her seat at hearing his voice, having almost forgotten that he was in the room with them. He cleared his throat, “I mean, yes. It is stressful. Sorry doc."
“I understand the anxiety of the moment, Richie.” Dr. Ahmad gave a gentle smile. “Has there been any major event in Carmy’s life recently? Anything distressing? A death in the family, a change of lifestyle?”
A beat.
“We—recen—” Nat started, stopped. She took a deep breath in, exhaled, “our brother passed away recently. Suicide. And Carmy moved back home to take over his restaurant. Which was in huge financial trouble. He re-did the whole thing. It’s still in huge financial trouble.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother,” Dr. Ahmad said. “How would you describe Carmy’s ability to cope with the situation?”
Not well, Sydney’s mind supplied unhelpfully.
“I don’t know,” Nat sighed, for the first time her voice betraying her agitation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Has there been a marked shift in his attitude and behavior? Does he seem distressed or anxious?”
Sydney’s shoulders went rigid. Richie started to pump his legs.
When is he not?
“I don’t know, yes, maybe? I mean his brother shot himself, I don’t know if there is any way to really cope.”
“And he has not been previously diagnosed with Schizophrenia or Bipolar disorder or any other mood disorders?”
“Mood disorders?”
“Major Depressive Disorder specifically.”
“No, none of that—” Nat suddenly sounded close to tears.
“Hey, doc, is any of this really necessary?” Richie snapped.
“I’m afraid that it might be, Richie.” Dr. Ahmad sighed, and leaned back in his seat. “Carmy is suffering from Catatonia. It’s a condition where the nervous system shuts down, and the body ceases much of its normal function. A lot of time it’s marked by lack of responsiveness to one’s surroundings, inability to speak, immobility, and a trance-like state. Think of it as the brain forgetting how to function normally.”
A long moment of silence stretched over the room, then all three of them spoke at once.
“What causes it?” Nat asked.
“How long do episodes last?” Richie asked.
“Is it treatable?” Sydney asked.
Dr. Ahmad took a deep inhale, “we’re not sure why catatonia happens. It’s been linked to many physical and psychological conditions, but the reasons for why the brain may react this way remain a mystery to us. We know that if we find the underlying condition, then we can at least address that, which would treat the symptoms of catatonia. But the length of the episode and its treatability is dependent on the underlying condition that may have caused the catatonia. In Carmy’s case, we ran initial tests to check his vitals and see if anything is amiss, but other than low blood sugar and dehydration, we did not find anything alarming. We have an extensive list of other tests that we’re moving through. We’d like to be as thorough as possible in checking for any physical ailments or injuries before we move on to the most likely diagnosis based on what we know of Carmy’s history, a psychological condition.”
Silence returned, overwhelming the room. If she couldn’t feel the plush leather of the couch underneath her fingers, Sydney would have thought that they had all somehow died for the lack of breathing sound in the room.
“If—” Richie’s voice arrived hoars, an hour or a decade later. He paused to take a sip of water. Sydney couldn’t look at anything except Dr. Ahmad’s face. “If it’s a uh psychological condition, what’s the plan?”
“I cannot offer you much beyond that we would transfer him to the psychiatric ward. What happens after is beyond my expertise.” A pause. Dr. Ahmad shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. After another agonizing beat, he said, “I don’t mean to alarm you, but you should understand the full breadth of the situation we are facing. Time is of the essence, as the longer it takes to treat catatonia, the more complicated the treatment path can be. If you remember anything that could aid the diagnosis, it’s important that you inform us. There is the risk that remaining stagnant poses to the human body. Carmy is at risk of suffering from clots, muscle atrophy, malnutrition. I must also inform you that catatonia can turn malignant. The lack of a properly functioning nervous system can lead to the body shutting down some of its vital functions, which can be fatal. So even though Carmy is stable and is not in immediate danger, he is in a critical condition, and he must remain in the hospital until his symptoms of catatonia have eased.”
Sydney’s breath hitched.
“How long do you think that’ll take?” Richie asked.
“I can’t be sure right now,” Dr. Ahmad said, the gentle look in his eyes prickled Sydney’s heart.
“Is he aware or in pain?” It was only after Sydney asked those questions that she realized she didn’t want to know.
“I don’t know,” Impossibly, Dr. Ahmad’s eyes softened further.
Sydney wanted to scream. She could handle the not knowing. But she couldn’t stand his gentility right now. She refused for the moment to be as delicate and precarious as his compassionate tone suggested.
“Can we see him?” Nat asked through choked tears.
Dr. Ahmad led them back to Carmy’s room. He lay there as motionless as he was in his apartment, only now in a hospital gown, hooked to machines and IVs, looking washed out and pale under the fluorescent lights. Somehow, with the unforgiving beeping, with the suffocating atmosphere of the hospital hanging around him, he seemed even less believable as the infuriating Carmen Berzatto, and more as a wax figure with glass eyes, sent to mock her and replace the mentor, or dare she say the friend, she’d grown to care for more than she was willing to admit. Nat rushed to his side, her hand going to his hair immediately, stroking it soothingly. She murmured something to him that was lost to the static of Sydney’s hearing. Sydney watched, as two of Nat’s tears landed on Carmy’s unmoving face, watched as Nat wiped them, her tears turning to full blown sobs, watched as Richie stepped in to envelope Nat in a hug. Her eyes wandered to catch Carmy’s vacant stare, once again his face angled in her direction, his eyes staring right through her.
Come on, Carmy, say something. Anything please. Say something. Look at me. See me. Twitch. Whisper. Yell. Come on, Chef, you can do this. You can do this, Carm, please. Please, please don’t do this, please, Carmy, say something say something say something Carmy COME ON say something anything say anything move anything you can’t just lay there Carmy come back to the land of the living speak move LOOK AT ME Carmy SAY SOMETHING.
Sydney had the urge to fling herself over his body and wail. She fled the room and ran out of the hospital.