January 22nd
Greg puts the Eames chair behind his new desk and steps back to take a look at the result. It's a good match; the sleek, smooth lines of the chair compliment the simple Art Deco style rolltop he's chosen. His lamp is placed so the light shines on all the right spots, and his turntable and vinyl collection are both within easy reach. His side of the bookshelves is filled with medical journals, reference texts and some of his favorite mementos. Underfoot the thick oriental carpet glows in muted colors, soft scarlets and yellows and oranges, the stylized forms rolling across the broad floorboards in orderly fashion. The franklin stove radiates heat and crackles in a comfortable sort of way; a sizeable stack of firewood and a basket of waxed pine cones wait beside it on the brick hearth, ready to be used. Outside the small window on the back wall, snow falls in lazy swirls. The room has come alive with all these disparate bits and pieces. It's a great office, and it'll be even better when Sarah puts her things in place also. A few days ago, before Douglas's phone call, he would have been more than satisfied with the results. Now he feels an emptiness he knows all too well. None of it matters.
"Looks great!" Sarah stands in the doorway, looks around the room, her face bright with pleasure. "I'll get my stuff in tonight after dinner." She glances at the turntable. "Everything came up from storage okay?"
He sits down in his chair, tips it back a bit, hoists his legs to the top of the desk and crosses them. All he needs is a ball to toss. And patients-not to toss, to diagnose. Same difference most of the time. "Yeah."
"Greg." Sarah watches him now, her expression troubled. "What is it?"
For one insane moment he considers the option to tell her all of it—the deep wounds Douglas inflicted, the numbness in his heart, the Vicodin. He feels like he's slowly bleeding out. If he doesn't say something soon, he'll die.
What's the point? his rational mind sneers. She can't do anything. Nothing anyone does will help. You're on your own, you always have been. "Nothing," he says. "Tired. Leg's a little stiff today." He'd shoveled part of the front step before a spasm forced him to stop.
She comes into the room. "Is it your thigh?"
"My groin," he says as she ends up beside him. "It's . . . it's just so painful. Is there anything you could do—you know, a little massage, maybe a hand job . . . anything?"
"You are such a horndog," she says dryly, but there's a smile in her eyes. "How about I work on your quadriceps, since that's where it hurts?"
"Wet blanket," he mutters, but only because she would expect him to. His heart isn't in it.
"May I touch you?" He nods and looks away, hears her rub her palms together hard and fast. When she covers his scar he jumps. Heat pulses from her hands, soaks into what's left of the muscle. Without conscious choice he sighs, relaxes as the deep ache recedes.
"Better?" The contact is light, comforting. It feels wonderful.
"Mmmm . . ." He knows a dangerous sense of peace and tries to push it away, but it won't budge.
"Gene wants to talk with you about your pain management before he leaves."
His relaxation evaporates. He struggles to pull free but her small hands hold him in place gently. "It's all right," she says. "He wants to set up things through his assistant so if you need changes or a consult you won't have to wait. You'll like Thomas, he's good at his job and he'll be a real help."
I'll be the judge of that. "Okay."
"Greg, what's wrong?" Her concern is genuine, and it scrapes at him. "Don't worry about your meds, Gene will make sure you're taken care of."
He yanks his legs down and winces as his ruined thigh sends a loud protest to his brain. "I'm fine."
"Please talk to me." Her soft voice is persuasive, but he won't listen, he can't. He limps out of the room to get his laptop and leaves her there. When he comes back she is gone.
After dinner, while Sarah sets up her side of the office, Gene goes over the plan. "If you need to speak with me directly you can leave a message at this addy or ask my assistant to contact me. I won't always be able to get back to you immediately, but Thomas can make some decisions in my absence." He gives the paper with contact information to Greg. "How's the pain? Still having breakthrough when you're standing or walking? We can increase the pregabalin a little if need be. There are several other options we haven't tried yet as well."
"'m good." He feels like a total shit for lying to this man, who is the first physician to actually help him find some dependable relief and who seems to care that he stays that way. Gene also hasn't treated him like a drug-seeker. The irony of that fact hangs over him.
"Okay." Gene doesn't look up. "I sent a progress report to Will. We're making headway on the surgery approval front. He'll be contacting you in a couple of weeks about getting the nerve block done."
Greg's heart sinks. "Great."
"That jerk really did a number on you, didn't he?" Gene says quietly. "Is she worth fighting for?"
"Don't know what the fuck you're talking about." He can't do this conversation. "Cuddy made her choice. It wasn't me."
"Okay. Didn't mean to pry." Gene gets to his feet. "Any questions, ask."
After a while Greg goes to the office. Sarah puts books on a shelf. Music fills the room. It's Bessie Smith—one of her favorites, he often hears that distinctive voice when Sarah's in the kitchen or intent on housework. Bessie sings 'nobody knows you/when you down an' out . . .' Truer words, he thinks.
"You're using a kitchen chair at your desk," he says, for lack of anything better to say.
"I've got an office chair on order, it'll come in next week." Sarah fits a reference book in place. "May I ask if Gene said anything about the surgery?"
"He's already talked to you," he snaps. "Stop pretending you're not discussing me behind my back. It's getting old."
"He hasn't said anything except in general terms," Sarah says. She holds another book in her small hands, watches him with a resignation he cannot bear. "I learned my lesson about betraying a trust, Greg. I won't do that to you or anyone else ever again."
He believes her, but it doesn't matter. Without another word he turns away and goes to his room, where the Vicodin waits and he can try to sleep without dreams.