July 23rd
(He stands outside the medical center, and looks through the doors at the people inside. He can see Wirth, Singh, the nurses, everyone he works with during the week, but Sarah's in there too with Gunney, and he caught a glimpse of Roz as well. They're oblivious to his presence as they talk, laugh, go about their business. He's already tried to join them, but he's locked out. No matter how hard he pounds on the glass or shouts, no one pays any attention to him. Now he simply watches, alone as always, an invisible barrier between him and everyone else.
As he stands there the day darkens, bright sun fades to night shadows. When he looks up, high above him is a silvery pale disc, barren and remote against a sprinkle of stars. Its icy light shines down, chills the breeze that's sprung up. Gooseflesh rises on his limbs; it's then he realizes he is naked—even the TENS unit is gone. He glances around and finds he's in a yard he knows all too well. Before him is a house. One window spills warm golden light high up, well out of reach.
"No," he whispers. Fear makes him tremble. "No . . . don't . . . don't leave me here . . . don't make me . . .")
"Shhhh . . . it's all right, amante."
He comes to with a jolt, startled out of his nightmare. A small hand rubs his back with a light touch, slow and tender. Roz, he thinks. There's wetness around his eyes; he rolls away from her, ashamed of his weakness. She says nothing, just moves over a bit and rests her hand on his hip, her body close to his. Her touch is sweet and eases his fear, and the old pain of loneliness.
When he wakes again it's to Roz's hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes with reluctance. She sits next to him on the bed. In her other hand is a mug. "Time to wake up," she says softly, and offers him his first dose of caffeine for the day. He struggles to sit up, still muzzy with broken sleep, takes the mug and sips the coffee. It's hot, sweet and perfectly brewed—a little strong, dark and rich and delicious.
"Breakfast is almost ready." Roz leans in and kisses him before she leaves in that quiet way of hers. She gives him a smile before she slips through the door.
He manages to get some toast and an egg into his empty stomach so he can take his meds, but anxiety has destroyed his appetite. While he eats Roz brings out the old duffle he uses as an overnight bag. It's packed and ready to go.
"You're too damn efficient," he complains, but his heart isn't in it. Roz puts the duffle at his feet and takes his plate and silverware to the sink. He watches her wash up. Something about the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head tells him she holds back her feelings. She had accepted his request to go to Albany with just Sarah, but she hadn't liked it much. Now he senses . . . not resentment or anger, but some other equally strong emotion. Curious, he pokes at her to see how she'll respond.
"You'll enjoy having the weekend to yourself for once."
Roz puts the plate in the dish rack and stands there for a moment. When she turns and walks back to him Greg braces for whatever will happen next. She moves behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders.
"I'll miss you," she says, and kisses his bald spot. "Call me when you get there, please."
"Impressive," he can't help but say. "No tantrum, no silent treatment."
"I'd still rather go," she says quietly, "but I think I understand why you want it to be just you and Sarah."
It occurs to him then that she has chosen to accept his decision with good grace rather than give him a hard time. He brings her around to sit on his good leg and exchange a few kisses. She tastes faintly of coffee and cinnamon sugar, a pleasant combination.
"Thanks," he says after a while. Roz bumps his nose gently with hers.
"Welcome," she says. "Better get going, Sarah's waiting."
An hour later he sits shotgun next to Sarah in the beige minivan. "You should just buy this thing instead of renting it," he says as they head down the drive to the lane.
"We've thought about it," Sarah says. "Jay says if we want it he'll get us a good deal with the rental guy. He'll tune it up for us too."
"Nothing like a back-door deal," Greg snipes.
"Did you get any rest last night?" Sarah asks softly. He doesn't answer. "Bad dreams?"
He doesn't want to talk about it so he looks out the window instead, and watches the village pass by. After a moment Sarah's hand touches his arm. She understands; she'll let him tell her when he's ready.
When they get to the highway Sarah puts a CD in the player. It turns out to be a mix list mostly of blues. Greg relaxes at the familiar sound of Lightnin' Hopkins and 'Goin' Down Slow'. "Got some questions," he says.
"Fire away," Sarah says.
"Confidentiality," Greg says. "You know the VA's a real hardass about that kind of thing."
"It's okay." Sarah glances at him. "I spoke with Will and he talked to the guys running the trial. They ran interference for us and let Eric know you'd like to talk to him. He's okay with it, in fact they said he's looking forward to meeting you."
"Usually the doctors running the trial don't like to have the patients talk with potential prospects."
"Will knows you, they know Will. They won't do anything to jeopardize the trial, believe me." Sarah stretches a little. "Were you able to eat breakfast?"
They stop for doughnuts, coffee and tea at the bakery before they head to the highway that will take them to the main artery down to Albany.
"Did you take your meds?" Sarah polishes off a maple-pecan cake doughnut with a sip of tea.
"Did you change your underwear? Shave your pits? Cut off your split ends?" he snaps.
"I see. Here." She hands him an Ativan. "It's okay, Gene cleared it."
"Yeah, because I want to show up stoned when I meet this guy." Greg takes the pill anyway. His hands shake, and not just because he's already had a double dose of caffeine this morning. "I . . . I did have a bad dream last night."
Sarah pulls out into what traffic there is. "Okay, I'm listening."
He takes a chocolate doughnut from the box and bites into it. "I was outside the medical center. You—everyone was inside. I was outside. Couldn't get in."
"More?" she says when he falls silent. He washes down the mouthful of doughnut with coffee, and hesitates.
"I . . . I was in the yard." He hates the words, but now they're said and he can't take them back.
"Classic anxiety dream," Sarah says quietly. "I'd be surprised if you didn't feel as if you were on the outside looking in right now. That's been your default position for some time."
"Great," he mutters.
"That doesn't mean you have to stay there," she says, and gives him a smile that's as warm as the sun when it rises over the mountains around them.
They get to the freeway and head southeast, silent as music fills the van. Greg feels the anxiety fade a little. He settles back, eyes closed.
"Do you think this is a good idea?" he asks after a while.
"Define 'this'."
"Roadtrip."
"Yeah, I do. Wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise." Sarah says it without hesitation.
"How'd Gunney take the news he wasn't invited?"
"We talked and got it settled," Sarah said. "He didn't really have a problem with it. He was more concerned that you might need some adjustments to your meds, but we have things set up so he can help you out if need be." She pauses. "How did Roz take it?"
"I'm still alive," Greg says, but that really isn't fair. "She, uh . . . she's not happy but she's dealing."
"She's worried you'll be disappointed," Sarah says. That takes him by surprise; he hadn't considered that viewpoint for some reason. "What are your expectations of this meeting? I know you've thought about it."
"You mean obsessed over it." He sips his coffee and picks out another doughnut, this one plain cake with vanilla-butternut icing. "Should have just handed me a questionnaire when I got in, then you'd have all the answers you want." It's a lame riposte but he's not up to anything really good this morning, his mind is preoccupied with other thoughts.
"So tell me a few of the answers," Sarah says.
"What if this is complete bullshit?" He thinks of Foreman's clinical trial, how easily it was manipulated and then shut down. "It's simple to make statistics look good, or bring in a ringer to lie to potential participants."
"That's partly why I'm here." Sarah passes a black Expedition and a semi. "If you and Eric are agreeable, I can observe your meeting and give you my thoughts afterwards."
"And the other part of why you're here is to keep me under control."
"No," Sarah says. "Not control. Just to remind you of priorities. You tend to get tunnel vision when you're on a quest."
That honest reply throws him for a moment. "'Quest'."
"Well, that's what this is, isn't it?" She sounds reasonable, not accusatory. "For someone with such a rational mind you have an impressive set of superstitions about your leg."
"Superstitions?" He doesn't know whether to be insulted or amused. "What the hell does that mean?"
"What it sounds like," Sarah says with a slight smile. "I'm not trying to offend you. Just sayin'."
"Explain," he demands, intrigued and not at all sure he agrees with her.
"Okay, let's take the ketamine treatment as an example." He groans. About the last thing he wants to be reminded of now is that disaster. "No, hear me out. You were correct in asking for it, both Gene and I agree it was the right course at the time. But you've got some idea in your head that you screwed it up by missing a diagnosis—something you later discovered was not your fault, but the damage was already done and couldn't be undone." She's silent a moment. "The truth is, ketamine's success rate is somewhere around sixty per cent. So your odds of having the treatment work were a bit above fifty-fifty—the flip of a coin. You happen to be in the percentage for whom ketamine is an ineffective treatment."
"Not strictly true," he says. "It worked for a couple of weeks."
"Until you made a mistake, right?" Sarah shakes her head. "I don't buy that for a second. There may have been a psychological-emotional component involved, but it wasn't the most important aspect."
He thinks about that for a while and listens to Leadbelly sing 'Midnight Special'.
"You're worried if you're accepted and have the surgery that it won't take because there's something wrong with you," Sarah says quietly.
"The track record to date hasn't been a good one."
"Gene would tell you it takes several tries to find the right protocol. That's been my experience also in psychoanalysis."
"What if this isn't it? What if this is my best shot, and it's not going to work?" It's his worst fear.
"We'll deal with that when we get to it," Sarah says.
"More like I'll deal with it and you'll get to pick up the pieces." He hears the bitterness under the petulance and winces away from it.
"I don't think so," Sarah says. "I think this is going to work. And when it does, you and I will have plenty to talk about."
"I'll be done with getting my head shrunk," he protests, just to poke at her. Sarah laughs.
"Superstitions, remember? Just because the hole in your leg is healed doesn't mean the wound in your soul does the same. It's not a magic fix."
"Shit," he grumbles, and she laughs again.
"Come on, it won't be that bad. At least once your thigh muscle's back you can run if you don't like the conversation."
"Change of subject," he says.
"Okay," Sarah says cheerfully, and they don't talk about the reason for their journey until they end up in the hospital parking lot.
"You ready for this?" she asks. He unbuckles his seat belt.
"Let's go," he says, and clambers from the van. He gathers up his cane and sticks out the crook of his elbow. When Sarah reaches his side, she eases her arm in place and gives him a gentle pat. Together they set out for the entrance. The sun is warm on his face and shows fiery glints in Sarah's curls. Please let this work, he says within his mind, please let this work. And then they are through the doors and headed for the elevator, on their way to Eric's room.