Stacy pulled the car into an open spot and put it in park, then sat there for a moment. All the doubts and fear she'd stuffed down inside on the drive from Short Hills came back full force. This could be a huge mistake . . . but Wilson wouldn't have called her if the situation wasn't serious. She exhaled, turned off the engine, and got out.
The apartment house looked much the same as she remembered it from her single visit after she and Greg had split up: a little shabby but in good repair. She entered the hallway, faced the door for apartment B, and lifted the knocker. It was mid-morning, so Greg was most likely still asleep. She gave several loud knocks and waited.
"Wrong apartment, idiot!"
Just the sound of that familiar voice, rough and angry, awoke memories she'd tried to bury for years now with little success. Stacy marshaled her courage and banged the knocker again. There was a growl of impatience, and then the deadbolts unlocked before the door swung open wide. "I said—"
He was in a wheelchair—far too thin and pale, red scar on his forehead, his cheek and right arm marked with what looked like new bruises . . . but worst of all, the leg was gone. Just—just gone. He stared at her, his eyes wide. They were as blue as she remembered, a bit bloodshot but clear and full of shock and a profound pain that shook her, a pain that changed to fury.
"Hello Greg." She tried to smile.
"Wilson sent you." His voice was harsh.
"He-he said you needed someone to talk to." Even to her it sounded ridiculous.
"Yeah, you're exactly who I need to have around right now." The deep bitterness made her wince.
"Maybe I am." She held his gaze. "Tell me to leave and I will. But I think Wilson's right."
He continued to stare at her. Then he backed away and went into the living room. Stacy took that as assent. She entered the apartment and closed the door behind her, dared a quick glance around. At least it was clean and neat. It was clear Wilson had kept things in shape. A lingering smell of coffee tantalized her; she'd left early to avoid rush hour, and anxiety had knotted her stomach so she'd skipped breakfast. Now she'd kill for a decent cuppa. She knew better than to expect Greg would offer anything though. With a sense of mingled apprehension and resignation she took a seat in the easy chair by the fireplace and set her purse on the floor with care. Her hands shook a little as she did so. She couldn't help but remember the one and only time she'd come here, to make a final plea for forgiveness. She'd ended up alone, with a terse instruction to leave her keys on the coffee table and take anything she wanted except the piano and guitars. Today's visit promised to be similar in tone, if not content.
"So . . . the master manipulator's been playing on your guilt." Greg faced her from across the room.
"He might have mentioned you haven't seen Doctor Gardener since you left the hospital and it's eating you alive."
Greg laughed, a sharp bark she knew all too well. "So much for what's derisively known as my private life. Fuck off."
"Wilson says you accused her of . . . of making the decision to amputate your leg." Stacy hated the hesitation in her words; Greg would seize on that weakness and rip her to shreds.
"Aw, feeling just a widdle guilty, are we?" His mocking tone had a keen edge, one that had cut her in the past, and left deep scars. Stacy felt the old anger and pain rise up. She used her training to set them aside for the moment, saved for use later if needed.
"What happened with you and me—this is different. From what I've heard, Doctor Gardener had nothing to do with the decision to amputate your leg. When you came in, the surgeon had no choice." She leaned forward a bit. "Greg, don't do this. Don't push her away because you're afraid."
"That's an interesting assumption on your part," Greg said after a brief silence.
"Which statement?"
Just for a moment his expression softened. Stacy caught her breath at the ravages revealed in that simple change. He was a proud man, and yet so vulnerable; the accident had stripped away a good portion of the layers and armor he relied on, she could see that now. "Always a lawyer at heart."
"It pays the bills." She didn't say anything else.
"Your hubby's still sponging off you, unless you finally dumped him."
Stacy tilted her head a bit. "What difference does it make to you?"
"Gives me something to work with. Tell me how you feel about your cutie pie, and I'll tell you how I feel about people making executive decisions behind my back."
Even after so many years, that familiar stab of pain made itself known. "Try substituting the word 'impossible' for 'executive'."
"I'd already decided—"
"Greg, I wasn't going to let you die. I couldn't . . ." She paused, astonished at how fast the emotions still crowded in after so many years. "No. We're not going over this again. You want to know how I feel about Mark. I love him. Not the way I-I loved you, but it's enough for both of us." She lifted her chin. "Your turn."
That earned her a glare. "You already know my opinion, I don't need to rehash it."
"Then let's move to the relevant subject. Do you really believe Doctor Gardener ordered the amputation? Or is it just easier for you to blame her so you don't have to face the fact that random chance made that decision?" It was clear she'd hit home, so she stopped there. If she continued to press him, he'd either kick her out or run.
"Oh, aren't you clever." She could barely hear him. "You think you know what happened."
"No I don't. But you do." Stacy paused. "Tell me, Greg. Please."
He didn't answer her right away. "There's . . . there's fresh coffee, if you want some."
It was a delaying tactic, of course she knew that, but it worked in her favor for the moment. They ended up in the kitchen. Stacy filled both mugs and put some bread in the toaster. When it was ready she brought everything to the butcher-block island and pulled up the stool she'd liberated from beneath a stack of books in the hallway. Greg sat on the other side in his chair, a bit too low to be comfortable, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He drank his coffee and ignored the toast—the first time he'd ever foregone food, in her experience at least. Up close she could see he'd run from lean to thin, and his hands trembled a bit as he held his mug. She knew better than to say anything though.
"Wilson talked to you about the accident," Greg said after a silence that lasted too long. "Must have been early on, then he called you back out of desperation."
"He gave me basics. And yes, he did ask me to help." She took another slice of toast.
"Caring is sharing. I'm just dying to hear about how everything's going in lovers paradise."
"We're doing all right. I figured you'd be out running on one of those blade model prosthetics by now. Why aren't you?"
Greg flinched—just a tiny flutter of his eyelids, but she knew him well enough to interpret it. "Quid pro quo, Clarice. I'd just love to know what your SO's up to these days."
"He's working on a novel." She saw Greg's brows rise and fended him off. "You owe me an answer. Two, actually."
"You get one. Not interested in a fake leg." The flat tone warned her not to probe. She did it anyway.
"Come on, you've been dreaming of this for years! Now you've got the chance to run and you're passing it up?" She added more coffee to her mug. "Chickenshit."
Greg sat back. He looked offended, but at least there was a slight edge of real amusement along with it. Stacy crossed her fingers. "Am not."
"Are too. You've given up because you're scared. Things might not work out, so you've decided to lose before you even place your bets."
He set his mug on the island with a thump. "As if you know what the fuck you're talking about! You gave up on me and here you are, dispensing advice—"
Now she unleashed her anger a little; he could handle it at this point, and it would clear the playing field, so to speak. "I didn't give up and you know it. We broke up because I—" She hesitated; might as well say it now, she'd lost almost everything she loved long ago. "I destroyed your trust in me, though I didn't mean to. Greg, I don't regret my decision. But I'm sorry I hurt you so deeply." She spoke past the lump in her throat. "You didn't deserve it. Any of it."
Silence fell once more. When he spoke again, the harshness had returned. "It's been months. She won't take me back."
"That isn't how it works and you know it. She can speak for herself. Go to her. Talk about what happened."
"You mean allow her to officially kick me out of her life." He passed a hand over his face. "Don't think I can . . . I can deal with that."
Stacy almost rolled her eyes at Greg's inevitable stubbornness. She knew it was borne of fear. "Look, I don't know Doctor Gardener all that well, but from what Wilson says she's far more patient and willing to listen than I ever was. She's not me, Greg. Give her a chance."
Greg didn't answer her, but she hadn't expected him to. She knew the signs of emotional shutdown with him, that much hadn't changed. So she finished her toast and her coffee, took everything to the sink and washed up, then returned to the living room. Greg waited by the door. He didn't look at her when he spoke.
"Guess you'll get word from Wilson on how I'm doing."
On impulse she knelt by his chair. "I'd like to visit now and then, if—if you're okay with that. I don't want to make things worse."
He turned his head to study her, his vivid gaze intense, searching. "Why do you care?"
The genuine bewilderment in the question floored her for a few moments. "Oh, don't be an idiot," she whispered at last, and hated the easy tears that rose up. "Of course I care." She put her hand over his for a moment, felt his lean fingers tremble just a little. Then she got to her feet and left before she said anything more.