June 29th
She wasn't sure exactly what woke her—some soft noise. Roz sat up and listened. Greg's side of the bed was empty but the sheets were rumpled and still warm, so he'd just left. After a moment she saw the bathroom door was closed but light shone out at the bottom. She padded over, hesitated, gave a soft knock.
"What?" Greg sounded strange.
"Can I come in?" she asked softly. There was no answer. She took a breath and opened the door.
He sat on the edge of the bathtub in his tee shirt and briefs. His right leg was stretched in front of him; the toilet seat cover was down with a towel spread over it, and medical supplies laid out ready to use. But what she saw was the great scar, and around it reddened areas shaped like the pads he used with the TENS unit. There were blisters here and there too, small and angry-looking.
"Oh my god," she whispered, and knelt down beside him, horrified. "Greg, what happened?"
"Go back to bed," he snapped. She shook her head and dared to put a gentle hand on his left knee.
"What can I do to help?" she asked.
"You can leave me alone." He pulled his knee away from her touch and hissed as the movement jarred his bad leg.
"No, I won't do that," Roz said. She took his hand in hers and held on when he tried to yank free. After a moment he gripped her so tightly she felt the blood leave her fingers. He trembled, and she could see his pulse was fast. "What happened?"
"Turned the unit up too high for too long," he said. He wouldn't look at her.
"Do you need to go to the ER?" she asked, and put her other hand over his, worried out of her mind for him. "Please tell me how I can help."
He stared at her, his gaze piercing. Finally he nodded at the supplies. "Give me the antibiotic ointment," he said. "I'll put it on while you make eight lengths of paper tape, about—about four inches long each."
Step by step she helped him dress the burns. When it was done she said "Where would you be most comfortable? Couch or bed?"
"Bed." When she helped him up he gave an involuntary groan. Roz slipped her arm around his waist, slung his arm over her shoulder and helped him stabilize his balance before they moved slowly to the bed. She made him as comfortable as possible, then sat next to him.
"No lecture. I'm impressed." He said it in mockery, but his hand still held hers in a firm grip.
"No," she said. "How long have you been hurting like this?"
"Ah, here it comes after all," he said, and stopped when she brought his hand to her lips to brush a kiss over the knuckles.
"How long?" she asked quietly.
"Couple of weeks," he said with some reluctance. Roz closed her eyes. She'd first noticed him getting up at night about two weeks ago.
"I'm calling Gene," she said after a brief silence.
"It's three a.m."
"I don't care what time it is," she said with some impatience. "You're not waiting till morning." She took the cordless phone from its cradle on the nightstand and speed-dialed Sarah's number, while she still held Greg's hand.
"Mmm . . . Roz?" Sarah woke up fast. "What's wrong?"
"I need to speak to Gene," Roz said quietly. Greg rolled his eyes, but she caught a flash of relief in them and knew she'd done the right thing.
"Okay. Hang on," Sarah said. There was a soft murmur, and a faint rustle of sheets.
"Roz?" Gene sounded puzzled but more or less awake.
"Greg needs your help," she said simply. "Can you come over?"
"I'll be right there. Does he need to go to the ER?"
"He says no."
"Okay. I'm on the way."
Sarah came with Gene; they arrived ten minutes after the call, which meant they must have gotten dressed and driven across the village at record speed. Together they examined Greg, spoke quietly with him. Roz saw him relax a bit as they talked, and wished she didn't feel so inadequate. But at least she'd helped to some small degree.
"You did the right thing," Gene said before he and Sarah left, his dark eyes kind. "We'll get things taken care of later this morning when the office opens up. For now I've doubled his meds. If anything else happens don't hesitate to call, okay?"
Sarah hugged her. "That goes for me too," she said. "I'm here to help both of you."
When they'd left Roz went into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed. Greg looked a little better, the lines of pain in his face less evident. "This is where I'm supposed to express my undying gratitude for you sticking your nose in, no doubt." He spoke in a rough, sardonic tone that stung. Roz hesitated, doing her best to keep her expression neutral.
"I'll sleep on the couch," she said, and began to rise. Greg grabbed her hand.
"No," he said, and the sarcasm was gone. "No . . . stay." He swallowed. "Please."
Roz stared down at their hands. "Okay," she said. "Do you—do you need anything? Some water or—or—" She took a sudden breath as tears filled her eyes. "Are you really all right?"
"Hey." When she didn't look up he sighed. "It's not life or death."
"You scared me," she said simply.
He made a noise of derision. "I'll be fine."
She let out a shuddering breath. "I'm taking two days off. You're taking the rest of the week."
"I just said—"
"I'll call us both in later on," she said, let go of his hand and moved the sheet to get underneath it.
"So I have no say in this," he said, clearly incredulous.
"No. Go to sleep." She turned her back on him and wiped the tears out of her eyes with little secret movements.
"For god's sake," Greg said. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."
"It's not nothing."
"You're crying." He gripped her shoulder and rolled her on her back, peered into her face. "Jesus."
Roz put her arm over her eyes. "I'm worried about you. Sue me."
"Come on, you're a rational-minded electrician chick. You don't do cheap emotions."
"I love you, you idiot. That's not a cheap emotion," she shot back. "God knows why, you're a goddamn pain in the ass and you drive me fucking insane. I guess I have a thing for crazy asshat morons."
There was a little silence, followed by a reluctant chuckle. "I guess you do." His hand came to rest on her shoulder. "You're too far away." She moved nearer a cautious inch or two in an attempt not to jar his bad leg. "Get over here," he growled, and hauled her close with a grunt of pain.
"Don't," she said, alarmed.
"Oh, stop it. I won't fall apart." She snuggled in against him and he allowed it. His hand slid down in a tentative sort of way to cradle her hip. Silence fell, and Roz thought he was asleep when he said "I . . . I didn't mean to scare you."
She put a hand on his chest, felt the steady bump of his heart under her palm. "I'm glad you let me in," she said softly, and knew he understood the double meaning.
"Shut up and get some sleep," he said, but his hand caressed her hip, slow and gentle.
[H]
"How long has the pain been this bad?" Sarah asks.
Greg leans back and fights not to rub his thigh. Without the TENS the ache has returned to the nightmare he's lived with for years, though it's muted by the extra meds he takes now, courtesy of his pain management specialist. "Eternity springs to mind," he says. Sarah raises an eyebrow and gives him the mom look. "Uh . . . a few weeks."
"And you never thought to tell the people who care about you that you were having trouble?" She says it gently, but he still bristles.
"It's my trouble to deal with," he snaps.
"That's old programming showing up," Sarah says, and somehow there is no judgment in her voice. "No one here will dismiss your pain. Roz called us at three in the morning to get you some help and we came out to do just that, glad to do so too. Do you think any of us believe the chronic pain you suffer is trivial or non-existent?"
"You think it's in my head," he accuses.
"There's definitely an emotional component, yes. But you have a big chunk of your thigh muscle missing. There's no way it's all in your head or your heart. In fact I'd say most of what you feel is physical." Sarah leans back. "Either you trust us or you don't."
"It's not that simple."
"Yes it is." She is inexorable. "There's enough pain in life without adding more just for the hell of it. You also gave your wife a bad scare. She's had personal experience with burns, if you remember."
He squirms at that reminder and sees Roz's face in his memory, pale with fear for him. It's not a look he's seen often on her, and it stabs at him like a knife to the heart. "She wouldn't have known if you hadn't filled her head with a bunch of crap about communication and all that other junk you psycho-babblers just love to push on people," he snaps.
"And you think that would have been a good thing?" Sarah comes right back at him. "It's better to hide your pain?" She shakes her head. "Bullshit." There's that familiar twang, the word drawn out in her soft drawl: shih-yit. He finds it an odd but substantial source of reassurance. "You know better than that by now. Roz loves you. She wants you to be as pain-free as possible, so of course she wanted to help you. You're bein' pig-headed about this." She raises both brows now. "So why haven't you two been talking?"
"She already told you I'm a jerk," he mutters.
"No she didn't. Stop fishing for information and tell me what's going on."
"Nothing," he growls. "Stay out of it, it's none of your business."
"Son, it's very much my business when I see you miserable and afraid." Sarah's soft voice drives the knife of guilt deeper. "Talk to me please."
"Nothing to say." He contradicts himself in the next breath. "I—I should never have married anyone, shouldn't even have thought about it."
"Why?"
"Don't be an idiot." He wants to get up, walk away, hit something, someone—any or all of the above.
"Tell me anyway," Sarah says.
"I'm damaged," he says at last. The words stick in his throat. Shouldn't say this, he thinks, and hears his father's words echo in his mind. Shouldn't show weakness. "I can't—can't face pain. Mine, anyone else's." His hands shake. "Never have, never will. I saw my wife's face last night, when she looked at my damn leg. I don't want someone scared for me that way. It's pointless."
"That's a part of loving someone. It comes with the territory." Sarah leans forward, puts out her hand and touches the gold band on his ring finger. "In sickness and health, for richer or poorer, good, bad and indifferent, all of it, not just what you pick and choose."
"Then I choose none."
"You've already chosen. It's up to you to find the strength to stick with that decision."
"I can't," he says. He feels helpless, he hates himself for his cowardice. "I can't."
Sarah puts her hand over his, turns his palm up and clasps it. He wants to tug free, but it feels too good, that simple human contact. "Why?"
"I've already failed her once. I'll just keep doing it."
"How have you failed her?"
"She loves me and she thinks I—" He stops. "I can't love her the way she wants me to."
"How do you think she wants you to love her?" Sarah's hand squeezes his gently.
"I can't be strong for her," he says in anguish. "It's just not there! How many times do I have to say it? The thought of hurting her terrifies me and yet I do it to her all the time! I push her away, I make her cry-I—I can't—"
"Listen to me," and she puts her other hand over his, that light as air touch he's come to treasure and find comfort in, despite his best efforts. "Roz has already shown you her own weaknesses, and you still love her. She'll do the same with you. That's what friendship is, you know."
"We're not friends," he says. Sarah shakes her head, though her touch doesn't lessen.
"Well, there's your trouble," she says with a slight smile. "Roz considers you her best friend. Can't really love someone without being friends with them."
"Millions would disagree," he points out.
"And millions would be wrong. Sure, you can have great sex and that's fun while it lasts, I'm not knockin' it. I had my share of that years ago and enjoyed it. But sooner or later if you have half a brain in your head, you want more. You want something that lasts beyond one night together, or a string of nights. Sex without any commitment gets lonely." She looks at him. "Doesn't it?"
"Has a lot less baggage," he mutters in defiance.
True, but baggage can hold all sorts of interesting things, and not just bad stuff." Her small hands clasp his gently. They offer a sense of reassurance and steadiness he clings to in craven desperation. "Roz is a good friend. She's loyal to a fault, she's generous and kind and pretty damn smart, she has a fantastic sense of humor, and if you need it she'll give you tea and sympathy and then kick your ass off a cliff." That startles a weak chuckle out of him because it's true. "There, see? You know I'm right." Sarah smiles at him. "Give her a chance to be your friend. You won't be sorry."
After the session is over, Roz comes over to him as he relaxes in the easy chair he claimed as his long ago. "Hey," she says softly. "I was thinking, maybe you'd like to stay here for a few days. It would be easier for Gene to keep an eye on things, you know?" She speaks with her head bowed a little but he can see her expression, full of worry and what he knows is love, her eyes a deep moss green, the color they turn when she's got strong feelings inside her.
"Good idea," he says, and waits for her to say she'll join him. But she doesn't say anything. "You stay too," he says at last, but he's not reluctant when he hesitates; he's afraid she'll say no.
Surprise brightens Roz's angular features, which makes him feel both guilty and angry that she'd assume he wouldn't want her here—still, after the last few weeks it's a valid belief. She nods her head. "Oh . . . okay. I'll bring some clothes from home for us."
"And the damn cat. Otherwise he'll think we've abandoned him."
That makes her smile a little. "All right. He'll have fun stalking bunnies in the back meadow and getting spoiled by Sarah." Her hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "How do you feel?" she asks softly.
"Stupid. But all right," he says. "You?"
"Better now." She hesitates and he knows she was going to say something more and decided against it. "We can do lunch out here." She gets up and leaves the room; her slender body moves with quiet grace. He watches her go, and wonders yet again how he ended up with someone he doesn't deserve in the least. It's not a new thought, and he knows it won't be the last time he thinks it.
After they eat he crashes on the couch for a nap. The oscillating fan keeps the room cool, while the tv murmurs in the background. His leg is bearable; the meds have him a little spaced but mostly sleepy. It's a warm, still day outside, bathed in sunshine, though the curtains and blinds are drawn to keep the interior of the house cool.
Now and then he wakes up and hears Sarah and Roz in the kitchen as they talk and laugh. It's a homely sound, comforting. Eventually Hellboy curls up on the top of the couch cushion next to Greg's head, a convenient spot for being petted and scritched under the chin. It's a peaceful afternoon. Both Greg and the cat rest in the knowledge they're safe and watched over.
Before supper Gene sits down with him for a consult. "I called Will," he says. "He's coming here over the weekend with a new unit for you to try."
"He's a surgeon," Greg says. "He'll want to cut."
"Only if you agree to it," Gene says calmly. "In the meantime we'll keep you on doubled meds. How's the pain?"
"Okay," Greg says. "Can't move around much or the blisters will break open."
"That's just as well anyway for the next few days." Gene studies him with a steady look. There's compassion and a glint of humor in his gaze. "Tell me if you get stir-crazy, though. We can arrange for some time out of the house."
Later, after the supper dishes have been washed up and everyone's congregated in the living room, Gene comes in with the six-string Martin in hand and sits in the easy chair next to the couch.
"Hey babe," he says to Sarah, "go get your new ax."
To Greg's delight his shrink starts to blush. "No."
"Come on," Gene wheedles. "You've been practicing for a month now. You're good enough, I heard you last night and you're just fine."
"What new ax?" Greg asks, glad for any distraction that takes attention away from his own problems.
"I bought her something when I did a consult in Texas," Gene says. "But she's too shy to play in front of anyone. She won't even play for me."
"Michael Eugene," Sarah says. She's red up to her hairline now.
"Hey, you're the one who always encourages us to try new things," Greg says.
"Don't you start too!"
"Come on," Gene says. Sarah gets to her feet and stalks out of the room. She returns a few moments later with something in her hands. Greg cranes his head.
"A mandolin?" he says, diverted. Sarah stops dead.
"The first person who makes a crack, I'm tellin' y'all I'm outta here," she warns, and sits down. She glares at Gene, who just laughs.
"Aw shut up, you know you wanna show off," he says. "You choose the first song."
Sarah bows her head and tunes the instrument. Then she starts to strum, looking right at Gene with a defiant stare. "He's in the jailhouse now, he's in the jailhouse now/I told him over again, to quit drinkin' whiskey lay offa that gin/He's in the jailhouse now . . ."
Roz laughs as Gene obediently follows Sarah's lead and sings harmony. His dark eyes gleam with mischief. He can do a decent yodel too, something Greg already knew from a few pickup sessions after the Flatliners rehearsals. Gene played 'Muleskinner Blues' and did it full justice.
When the song is done Roz applauds. "More!" she says. Sarah rolls her eyes.
"Don't encourage him," she says, but she smiles when she says it.
Gene ends up playing 'Salty Dog'. He flashes his pirate's grin at Sarah when he sings the chorus, to make her miss her pitch on the harmony. But she manages a creditable break on the mandolin between the last verse and chorus. It's clear she's worked hard, and her technique is pretty good for a beginner. The instrument is a beauty, a little battered with age but possessed of a warm sweet sound, and a good strong voice with plenty of chop. When they're done she hands it over for Greg to look at.
"I found it in Austin," Gene says. "Fiddlers Green had it out in the showroom the whole time I was lookin' for a guitar, and it just called my wife's name."
The evening progresses as the sun goes down and the shadows lengthen. Soon Sarah gets up to make the rounds. She turns on a lamp here and there to add pools of golden light to the room, detours to the kitchen and brings back a jug of iced tea and glasses with ice, along with a plateful of cookies. It's pleasant to lie there on the couch as the others talk and laugh, drink cold tea and munch cookies. Roz's head rests against his good leg, a reassuring slight weight. Though he's not a participant he's still in the circle, known and accepted, and it feels good.
Eventually the group drifts apart to get ready for bed. Gene supervises the change of dressings on Greg's leg; it's already begun to heal, the burns reduced in color and size. Roz goes into the downstairs bathroom and emerges in one of his tee shirts and her silk bathrobe. Quietly she comes over and crouches down beside him.
"Do you want me to sleep with you?" she asks softly.
He's tempted to say yes, but he doesn't want to treat her as if she's a favorite teddy bear, or nothing more than a warm body for his comfort. In some obscure way he knows it would demean both of them, even if she's not aware of it. He shakes his head finally.
"Okay. Do you need anything?"
"Just go to bed," he mutters. Roz puts a gentle hand on his undamaged leg.
"Sleep well," she says, and gets to her feet. He envies her the ability to do so without the need of assistance or a prop; he knows it's a mean thought, but he can't help it. After a long day full of pain he'd hoped was gone for good, he can't think any other way. He doesn't watch her go to the stairs.
It feels good to be back in what was once his room, and pretty much still is. He turns on the box fan to get air moving and climbs in, careful and slow. The window's been opened and brings in a soft night breeze and the sound of crickets. He shifts the pillows around till he's comfortable, arm behind his head. But his mind won't settle down. He struggles against the need for sleep and the insistent voice of his anxieties. They've chased him around all day long, pestered him for attention, and now with no distractions they push out everything else, fill his mind . . . until he hears music from the living room. Sarah has the six-string now. She's strums it softly. Greg glances at his door; it's open an inch or two, his old signal that he'd like to have her play him to sleep. He hadn't meant to do it, but all the same the familiar ritual eases his heart like nothing else could.
After a time her soft, clear voice reaches him over the notes of a gentle melody. He listens carefully, because he knows this song is her comment on what's happened.
love is certain, love is kind
love is yours and love is mine
but it isn't something that we find
it's something that we do
it's holdin' tight and lettin' go
it's flyin' high and layin' low
let your strongest feelings show
and your weakness too
it's a little and a lot to ask,
an endless and a welcome task
love isn't something that we have
it's something that we do
He lies in the darkness, aware of tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat. It feels as if he's struggled with fear forever, terrified deep inside of what failure will mean, and equally frightened of success. He's never ventured this far away from the safety net of someone else to deal with his everyday routine, and the consequences of his actions—insane though they might be at times, they're necessary, yet without an intercessory authority it's suicidal to pursue his profession in the manner he does. Cuddy gave him what he needed, and so did Wilson.
At a cost, that small voice deep within whispers. Now you have people who truly support you and yet you push them away, especially the one who committed herself to you without hesitation. You can't complain about failure when you planted the seeds yourself.
we help to make each other all that we can be
though we can find our strength and inspiration independently
the way we work together is what sets our love apart
so closely that we can't tell where I end and where you start
There is a part of him, the part that feels far too deeply, sees much too clearly, that's longed for what can only be termed a soulmate. It's mawkish and imbecilic and a far worse delusion than almost anything else he can think of; he's kept it locked up deep within for many years, never to see the light of day, but it's still true. Stacy came the closest to that hidden desire, but even she was only a pale flicker of light compared to the blaze he's conjured in his imagination, in the early hours when pain and despair drive him to examine the contents of his heart's lockbox. He wants what Sarah sings about, and yet he won't ever have it. He's destroyed every relationship he's ever been in, and this one will be no exception.
we're on a road that has no end
and each day we begin again
love's not just something that we're in
it's something that we do
The words are simple and true, and he wants with every atom of his being to believe in them, but it's not possible.
there's no request too big or small
we give ourselves, we give our all
love isn't someplace that we fall
it's something that we do
Hot tears gather on his lashes. He wipes them away and realizes the music's stopped about the time a soft knock sounds at his door.
"Yeah," he says. Sarah comes in. Quietly she perches on the edge of the easy chair by his bed. She looks at him, and even in the semi-gloom he can see understanding and compassion in her features.
The next thing he knows she sits on the bed and his head is in her lap on a pillow, his face pressed into her belly, her arm about his shoulders. There are no crashing waves of wild emotion this time, no terrible storm; instead he lets the tears fall as his body shakes. He soaks up the comfort and reassurance Sarah offers him; her hand rubs his back in a slow, gentle circle. She knew he'd need this because she always knows. It mystifies him, but he's also grateful beyond words.
"This . . . this is stupid," he says eventually. His breath hitches a little.
"Shhhh . . ." Sarah lifts her hand, strokes his temple. "Go to sleep. It'll be better in the morning."
The last thing he hears is her soft breath and the rustle of the slight breeze, mingled together.
'In the Jailhouse Now', Jimmie Rodgers
'Salty Dog Blues', Flatt & Scruggs
'Something That We Do', Skip Ewing & Clint Black