The food was good and Greg was enjoying himself. I couldn't ask for anything else. We talked about patients, movies, music, keeping the mood light since we both knew what was waiting for us. He was smiling and laughing at my corny jokes. Smiling and laughing–two things he doesn't do nearly enough. Then the last french fry was eaten, the last bite of greasy burger was gone, the last dregs of the milkshakes were drained. The meal was finished. No second helpings tonight. As I gathered up the dishes he made a show of tipping a Vicodin into this mouth and dry-swallowing it.
I took the dishes to the sink and began rinsing them off. "You want a drink?" I asked, figuring a little alcohol might keep him relaxed and prevent a screaming match.
He shook his head. "I'm already stuffed to the gills," he said. "A drink would make me explode."
"And I would have to clean up the mess."
"That's hardly on your to-list for this evening." He sighed heavily and muttered, "Let's just get this over with. Please."
Fair enough. I left the rinsed but still dirty pile of plates and glasses in the sink for later and resumed my place at the table.
"Dinner was good," Greg said, and it was more than a bit unexpected. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Trying to keep me off-balance. Like blindsiding me with a random compliment was going to throw the whole off course. Nope, not tonight. We were going to talk this out even if it took all damn night and half the morning. "You said you were going into rehab."
He looked at the floor but he wasn't going to find any answers down there. "Yes, I did."
"When are you going?"
"When I'm ready."
"And when will that be?" I asked warily.
"I'll know it when the time comes," he said, as if that statement should be enough for me to say, 'Oh, you're right. How silly of me to ask to begin with. Let's go watch The L Word.'
I wasn't buying it. "Greg, that's not an answer."
"It is for me."
"You should check in before you go to trial," I said blithely. That got his attention. "You might win some brownie points from the jury."
His icy glare fell on me. The room was suddenly freezing. He began in a low, calm voice, "I may not have a choice as to whether I go or not–"
"You're right. You don't."
"–but don't mistake that for me wanting to actually go."
"I'm not."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that," he lied. "Are we finished here?"
He moved as if to pull himself out of the chair.
"Not by a long shot," I said sharply.
He leaned back into the chair, giving me another chilly glare. "What now?"
My turn to blindside him. "You're still afraid of losing the things that make you special, at least in your own mind."
"What things?" A trace of anxiety underneath his otherwise disinterested tone of voice.
"Your addiction, pain, limp, cane," I replied. "Without them you're just like everyone else, and you can't stand the thought."
His frosty gaze melted, now he was out-and-out stupefied at what he was hearing. "You think that I enjoy being in pain?"
"To some extent, yes." I was going to tell him like it is. He wasn't going to like what he heard, but then again, I wasn't going to hold his hand and tell him that everything was going to be just fine and dandy. I didn't believe that anymore than he did; plus he'd probably murder me in my sleep if any words of the sort came tumbling from my mouth. "You have this crazy notion that your whole identity is tied up with what happened to your leg."
"I hardly chose to be crippled," he seethed. "Then or now."
"I know you didn't choose," I said patiently. "But you choose to be miserable, you choose avoid rehab, and you choose to push people away who want nothing more than to help you. There is so much more to you than the pills and the cane. You're a brilliant doctor, an excellent musician, you're smart, funny, interesting, handsome–"
"You can cut the bullshit, Jimmy."
"It's not bullshit. I mean every word of it."
"I'm sure you do but don't think for a second that I believe any of it."
"You should."
"I don't."
"Why? It's the truth."
"Jimmy, I'm not a funny, interesting person."
"Yes, you are," I said.
"You're crazy," he said, shaking his head. "You need to get your eyes examined. I'm not that...that person you see."
"Greg," I said, reaching across the table and taking his hand. "I believe what I can see. Now why can't you see it?"