(A/N: the fork-hurling incident really happened. It is related in this chapter as an in memoriam for my mother, who passed away September 14th 2009, and who in her youth lost her temper, a rare event, but always memorable when it did happen.)
When Greg wakes, sunlight fills the room. He squints and looks around for the blind pull, only to realize there are no blinds, only curtains. They are not traverse drapes; he'll have to close them by hand, which means he has to get out of bed. With a muttered curse he sits up, rubs his eyes. Gradually he hears the sound of life outside his room—voices, a clatter of pots and pans, the creak of floorboards. Someone passes by the door and he freezes, waits for it to open and whoever it is (his father) to barge in with a demand that he attend breakfast. Nothing happens. The footsteps fade, and leave him alone in the silent sunshine.
After a time he gets up and changes into clean clothes—jeans, sweatshirt, thick socks, trainers. He takes up his cane, passes by the guitar, looks down at it. He picks it up, removes the makeshift tee shirt mute, opens the door and goes into the living room, replaces the instrument in its case.
"Good morning." Sarah stands in the kitchen doorway. She has a clean white cook's apron tied over her tee shirt and sweats, and clutches a pot holder. "How did you like the Martin? She's a great guitar."
"You heard me playing last night."
She looks anxious. "A little," she says. "I hope you don't mind. It was—you're an excellent musician." She pauses. The pot holder twists a bit in her hands. "We had the door open to get the room warmed up—otherwise I wouldn't—I didn't mean to intrude."
"Don't worry about it," he says, amused by her embarrassment. It's of interest that she was awake, but Goldman apparently wasn't. "What's for breakfast?"
"Sausage, eggs, toast, coffee. There's homemade peach jam too."
It's the best morning meal he's had in ages. The woman can cook—she's nearly as good as Wilson, a high compliment. She looks completely at home as she fries sausage patties, eggs over easy and makes toast. Gene is nowhere to be found.
"He's gone off to town for some supplies," Sarah says when questioned. "He'll be back shortly. It's a ten-minute drive one-way."
"Let me guess—blinking yellow light at the crossroads, post office, beauty parlor, feed store and gas station grocery," Greg says. Sarah laughs, a warm sweet sound he's come to enjoy, though he would never admit it.
"Almost right. There's no beauty parlor, but you can get your dog flea-dipped at the feed store."
"Same thing," he says, just to make her laugh again. "So, tell me the agenda for the day. Interrogation from ten to twelve, followed by rubber hose beatings through the afternoon, no doubt."
"That requires way too much energy," Sarah says, as she scrapes the skillet clean. "I don't have anything planned. Gene wants to go to the game tonight, but if you don't—"
"Game . . ." He puts down his coffee cup.
"It's Friday," she says as if it's self-evident. "You know, football. The local high school's playing tonight."
Greg tilts his head a bit. "Don't tell me you have a vested interest of some kind."
"No, but we know some people in town with kids on the team," she says. "Should be pretty good, it's a grudge match with another local school. If you don't—"
"If there's pizza and beer after I'll go for that, not to see a bunch of lame-ass spoiled brats run up and down a field."
Sarah puts a hand on her hip and gives him what can only be described as a mom look. "You just stuffed yourself full of breakfast and you're already asking about dinner," she says. She sniffs in mock disdain. Her sea-green eyes sparkle with silent laughter. "Men. You're nothing but walking stomachs."
"Oh, we've got other parts too," he says blandly, and can't help but smile a little when she turns away on a blush.
Gene comes in a few minutes later, his arms full of groceries. "Annie's got Winesaps and Northern Spys in," he tells Sarah after he kisses her. "Good morning," he says to Greg, as he sets bags on the counter. "Sleep well?"
"Like a rock," Greg says. He finishes off his coffee and gets up, leaves his dirty plate on the counter just to see what Sarah will do.
"Anyone who doesn't wash up pays for dinner tonight," she says. "Your choice."
"That's no choice at all!" he says in protest. Gene laughs.
"Don't let her snow you," he says. "She's got a dishwasher."
"It's all about doing the right thing," Sarah says. She tries hard not to laugh, Greg can tell.
"You must do ze vashink opp," Gene intones, in a really horrible German accent loaded with fake menace. "Ve haf vays of making you do ze correkt t'ing . . ."
"Aha! I knew it!" Greg says, his tone one of triumph. "I knew your wife's real name is Ilsa!" He gives Sarah the Nazi salute. "I hear and disobey, She-Wolf of the SS!"
"Fine!" Sarah says, and snatches up the plate as he and Gene snicker. She marches to the other end of the kitchen, opens the door to what is unmistakably a dishwasher, jams the plate in, and shuts the door. "I just did the dishes. You two are paying for dinner." She folds her arms and glares at them. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Feisty little minx when you get her riled, isn't she?" Greg says to Gene.
"You have no idea," Gene says. "She threw a fork at one of her brothers once during a fight. It went through his hair and stuck in the wall behind him. She had to hide out in a treehouse for the rest of the day."
"You—" Sarah splutters. "I—OOOHH!"
"It's only the truth," Gene says, all innocence, and snitches a sausage link from her plate. "Got you some Atomic Fireballs," he says.
Sarah pushes him away from her breakfast, then pulls a grocery sack toward her and peers inside. "How much?" she demands.
"A whole bag. All yours."
"What are you, five years old?" Greg says. He's amused by the way she pulls the candy from the sack with such eagerness. Deprivation issues, he thinks, and is a little surprised by the sadness the thought causes.
"There's no problem that can't be solved by a big enough sugar rush," she says, and opens the bag. She dumps the candy into a bowl.
"I always heard it was a suitable application of high explosives," Greg says as Sarah sets the bowl on the table. She and Gene both laugh, and again Greg is surprised by their willingness to include him in their teasing. It isn't as if he hasn't had moments like this with Wilson, or Stacy—but that's all they were, moments. He's never met any couple who sustained this kind of openness with each other or anyone else for so long. It's weird. It can't be real. It should be corny and unbearably sentimental to the nth degree . . . but somehow, it isn't. To his dismay, he's envious of what they have. And that makes everything far worse, because he'll never have what they have. Never.
"At least you know that much," Amber whispers in his ear. "Don't forget it."
"I'm going to the orchard," Sarah says. She looks at Greg. "Wanna go with? It's just a short ride down the road."
"I'm not really up for a jaunt in a bucket of bolts," he says. She smiles.
"We'll take the van," she says. "Minnie's over at Jay's garage getting her oil changed and new spark plugs put in."
"A farm girl like you should be able to do that stuff herself," he says, just to pick on her.
"I can, but Jay needs the work. He'll check the engine for me while he's fixing things," she says. "Got a gasket that's leaking."
"You should see a doctor for that," he says, unable to pass up the cheap shot. Sarah rolls her eyes.
"There you stand, the original laugh riot. Anyway, if you just want to hang out here that's okay."
He ends up along for the ride because it's something to do, and he's not ready to be at loose ends in the house just yet. As they start out he looks around. It's really gorgeous here. The trees are just past prime but still bright. The mountains look like a Persian carpet, with knots of color amid the deep green pines. A cascade of lambent yellow leaves falls over them as they drive through a wooded section of road. It's quiet, with only the sound of the engine and occasional birdsong to break the silence. Strangely, he doesn't feel a need to fill the emptiness with small talk. He watches the scenery go by. Part of him enjoys the beauty of it.
The orchard has a roadside stand, worn and shabby but crammed full of produce. There are apples of every color and size, as well as pumpkins, squash, and Indian corn.
"Nice t'meetcha," Annie says when she is introduced to Greg. Her faded blue eyes take him in head to toe. It's a countrywoman's evaluation, not unfriendly but she doesn't miss a single flaw, as if he's some animal on the auction block. He feels himself bristle, ready to battle. To his surprise she hands him an apple.
"Do I look like a roast pig to you?" he snaps. Annie's eyes widen—and then she laughs. It's a full-on belly laugh full of genuine amusement.
"Too skinny," she says after a few moments. "You could use a little sweetnin'." She nods at the apple. "Enjoy," she says, and goes over to Sarah, who seems to be oblivious to their exchange. He polishes the apple on his jeans and bites into the fruit. Tart-sweet flavor bursts out of crisp flesh. The juice drips down his chin; he wipes it with his hand and licks it off his skin, reluctant to let any of it go to waste. Annie catches his eye and gives him a wink. He swallows the bite of apple and makes a face at her. She laughs again and turns to the next customer.
"There must be something in the water around here," he says on the way home. The back of the van is laden with enough apples to feed a small army. Sarah glances at him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean your neighbors are unnatural," he says. "They don't react like normal people."
"You're basing this observation on the one person you've met? Interesting." Sarah slows down to ease the van over a washboard rut. "What's your definition of normal?"
"That woman. She . . ." He doesn't want to say this, but he brought it up. "She was nice."
"Why wouldn't she be?" Sarah's reasonable tone annoys him.
"People aren't nice," he says. "They're evil bitches who lie the same way they breathe. If they're nice it's because they want something." He expects her to offer platitudes or the standard "Why would you say that?" or "Are you crazy?" or even "Tell me how that makes you feel." Instead she says nothing.
"Go ahead," he says after a few moments.
"With what?"
"You're supposed to contradict me. Ask me how I came to that conclusion. Tell me I'm full of shit. That the world is a great place and I'm an asshole for saying it isn't."
"The world isn't a great place," she says. "It has its moments, but it's mostly dangerous, antagonistic and needlessly cruel."
Her answer shocks him into silence. She looks at him again. "It surprises you I would say that."
"You don't act like you believe what you just said," he says.
"Oh, I believe it all right." She sounds matter-of-fact. "I just choose not to let that knowledge dictate my actions."
"Choice," he mutters under his breath. "Your favorite word."
"Yeah, it is," she says. "Finding out I have choices set me free."
"And that's what this is all about," he sneers. "Telling me I just have to choose life and everything will be all wuvvy-duvvy. Yeah, right."
"You think it's that way for me?" she asks. He stares at her in astonishment.
"You're happily married, you've got a great career, you've got this—" He waves a hand at the peaceful scene around them. "You're trying to tell me this isn't the perfect life."
She pulls the van to the side of the road, even though there's no traffic for miles around, and turns to face him. Her expression is dead serious. "Nothing and no one is perfect," she says in a fierce tone he has never heard from her before. "Not me, Gene, you, or anyone else. We don't have to be. Life is not all or nothing, Greg. It's not about perfection or lack thereof. It's about finding joy in the moment and learning to endure the inevitable shit that comes your way with whatever grace you can muster. Some days you do a great job. Other days you suck. And it's okay." She takes a deep breath. "Someone told you otherwise. They were wrong."
"No they weren't," he says. The rage flares within, brittle and bitter and icy cold. "If you read my file—"
"I know what your file says," she says. "I want you to tell me what's going on. Not the tests, not the consultants, not someone else. You. And it doesn't matter to me if your actions haven't been perfect or you think you're fatally flawed and not worth a plugged nickel as a consequence. I still want to hear what you have to say, and always will."
He is silent, unsure what his reply should be. She glances in the rear view mirror, pulls into the road once more. "Look, it's simple. If you want to talk, I'll listen," she says. "It doesn't have to be right now, or this weekend, or even this year. And if you decide never to say another word, that's okay. But if you want to take back your work and your life, this is the best option. I know from personal experience."
"What you really mean is if I don't cooperate, I'll be stuck in the nut house for the rest of my life," he says.
"What I mean is exactly what I said. I don't play games with the truth."
He snorts. "That's bullshit. You're telling me you and your hubby didn't have this little getaway escapade planned weeks ago? Turning a downstairs study into a bedroom for someone who has trouble climbing stairs? We won't even get into wrangling permission from Admin to spring me from the joint, that didn't happen overnight. All to get me to talk so you have another exemplary case file in your spotless little career. You must really be desperate."
She brings the van to a sudden stop. Apples roll everywhere.
"'Exemplary case file'? 'Spotless career?'" She stares at him as if he's grown two heads. "Where the fuck did you ever get that idea? And no, we didn't plan this trip weeks in advance. We came up last week to get things ready."
He ignores what she says, it's got to be a lie mixed with some truth to get him to believe her. "You don't think patients talk about their doctors? You've got quite a reputation on the ward. Miracle Worker, I think that one's most popular." He hurls the words at her to wound, to blast her wide open. "That's how you got me. You only take the hopeless causes, the ones no one wants because they're too broken. Little Miss Perfect steps in and fixes them all nice and shiny-happy and earns another brownie point with her peers."
"None of that is true." Her face is pale enough to make her freckles stand out. "I'll tell you what a damn miracle worker I am." Her voice shakes, just a tiny little tremor, but he can hear it. "A few years ago there was a young guy, suicidal, bipolar, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was gay and his family thought he was possessed by demons." She stops; with a visible effort she makes herself continue. "He was assigned to me in rehab. We were making good progress when he . . . he came on to me. I had to say no, but I was . . . harsh, way too hard on him because I thought it would help." She pauses. "Anyway, they found him that night, hiding in the janitor's closet. He'd managed to get his hands on a set of keys. He drank a bottle of drain cleaner. It took him three days to die in agony from peritonitis. His death is on my head because I am not a miracle worker or perfect, not anywhere close. I make plenty of mistakes, and I made a really stupid one with him." She looks at him. Her eyes glitter with tears, but they don't fall. "I didn't take you on as a lost cause because you are not hopeless, far from it. I'd like to help you because I can see the potential for you to live a good life, to find some peace of mind. I want that for you. But it's what you want that matters. I will work with you to find what you want, if you choose to do so. That's it. That's my agenda."
He has to say it, even though he knows it's way past mean, even for him. "Now I really don't want you crawling around inside my head."
She looks away. Her hands tighten on the wheel and he braces for retaliation. Instead she simply says "Okay. When we go back to Mayfield I'll find you another doctor, if that's your decision."
"But until then I'm stuck with you," he says. She nods.
"Afraid so."
He has nothing to say to that; all his ammunition is spent, for now at least. Sarah takes the van out of park and continues down the road. Her hands tremble, and she won't look at him. Part of him celebrates his victory in the destruction of her unnatural good nature; another part is ashamed of the pain he's caused.
"You did what you had to do," Amber says. He catches a glimpse of her in the side view mirror. She holds up an apple, bites into it and vanishes. Her laughter echoes in his mind, faint and derisive.
When they get to the house Sarah goes to the wayback to gather up the scattered apples. He doesn't offer to help, only limps inside and into his room, closes the door behind him. It stays closed for the rest of the afternoon.