October 3rd
Saturday dawns chill and blustery. Greg lies in bed and watches grey light creep into his room. It should be depressing. Instead he feels lazy and content, snuggled under his warm comforter. Everyone else seems to have the same idea; only the hot-air vents make noise as the furnace kicks on. He listens for footsteps and ends up half-asleep, though the ever-present pain in his thigh wakes him occasionally when he changes position.
It is well after eleven by the time he gets up, mainly because his empty belly drives him to the kitchen in search of food. There's plenty of leftover pizza in the fridge, along with an enormous vat of applesauce; that would explain why the house smelled like pie when they came home from the game last night. Sarah must have spent the evening cooking. Cheap therapy, he thinks, and pushes away the guilt his thought engenders. He puts two slices of extra pepperoni and cheese in the microwave while he sets up the coffeemaker.
He is almost done with his makeshift breakfast when someone knocks at the front door. He pauses with a remnant of crust halfway to his mouth. The knock sounds again—firm but not loud, insistent. He abandons the crust and limps to the door, unhurried. When he opens it a young guy stands there, briefcase in hand, sleek overnight bag at his feet. He is dressed in charcoal grey silk suit and white linen shirt, everything a bit wrinkled, tie going limp; behind him in the driveway is a rental car. Greg gives him the once-over. The kid does the same, as a confused expression steals across his face. It makes him seem even younger, if that's possible.
"Um—I'm looking for Gene and Sarah Goldman," he says, his words hesitant.
Greg wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and belches. "We're all socialist Satanic baby-eaters here," he growls. "Stop leaving those goddamn pamphlets on the doorstep and hit the road." He closes the door in the kid's face and turns around to almost run down Sarah, who stands right behind him. She watches him with arms folded, one brow raised.
"He's not a missionary," she says, her tone dry.
"I know," Greg says. "He's the consultant your hubby's bringing in." He rolls his eyes as a knock sounds at the door once more. "Persistent. I like that." He heads into the kitchen to finish his breakfast.
A short time later they are all gathered in the main room. The kid has changed out of the suit and now wears a ripped up black hoodie, jeans and threadbare socks, one of which has a large hole in the heel. He gobbles pizza, alternates huge bites with gulps of cold Coke. Sarah shakes her head at him.
"You'll get a bellyache," she says. "Don't you ever eat when they let you out of your cage?"
"Puddle hoppers don't have food," the kid says, and dumps half a bottle of soda down his gullet. "Came straight up from DC, the commuter flights out of Dulles suck but nothing else was available." He looks at Greg. "You must be Doctor House," he says.
"I must be," Greg says. The kid nods.
"Dude," he says equably. "Missionaries don't wear Armani, y'know."
"Everyone's a critic," Greg says. He glances at Gene. "No one introduced us. I guess rednecks expect everyone else to be related by intermarriage too." Gene snorts and folds his hands across his middle, unfazed by the insult.
"We thought you'd have more fun getting that information yourself," he says. Greg turns his stare from Gene to the kid, impatient now.
"Will Reynard," the kid says, and wipes his hands down the front of his hoodie. Sarah looks away.
"My eyes," she groans, and Will grins at her.
"Sorry." He strips off the jacket to reveal a faded Fugazi tee shirt, and gets up to take the soiled clothing to the mudroom, where the washer and dryer live. When he returns he has another Coke and a paper towel. "Okay," he says once he is ensconced on the couch again, "what's the straight dope?"
Sarah rises from her chair. "Before you go any further, Greg should decide if he wants me to stay. This is pain management, not—"
"Oh, siddown," Greg says. He glares at her. "You and the pirate would just consult behind my back if I told you to leave, so stop making a big deal out of it."
She doesn't sit. "I won't go behind your back, and neither will Gene. Now, do you really want me to stay?"
He considers her words. He doesn't really care if she stays or goes, but he feels a need to test her. "No."
Sarah nods. "See you later." She takes a jacket from the coat rack and leaves the room. Once the door closes behind her Gene glances at Greg. His dark eyes glint with amused annoyance.
"She means it, you know," he says.
"Yeah, 'cause you both do that for all your widdle patients," Greg says.
"For the ones that are compos mentis, yes," Gene says. He tilts his head. "You're tellin' me you're not? I don't think it works that way."
Greg can't help it, he has to smile. "Right," he says. "So let's hear what you and Junior have in mind."
Two hours later they have a basic plan worked out. It's a direction he wouldn't have thought viable but that's what specialist consultants are for, even if they're hired straight out of preschool nowadays. Still, the kid has chops.
("We'll need a new MRI and triple phase bone scan as well as a full lab panel and EMG, for starters. That should confirm my initial diagnosis of reflex sympathetic dystrophy."
"Cytokine damage and substantial muscle loss doesn't equal RSD," Greg says. The kid shrugs.
"No, but the surgery could have triggered it, or it was exacerbated by later trauma. In a small number of cases there is no apparent cause, it just happens. You've got plenty of cause, though." He looks at Greg. "You appear to be in the atrophic stage accompanied by acute unrelenting pain, muscle spasms and some signs of motor dysfunction, as well as possible bone and non-surgical muscle loss in the affected area. Gene and I concur that until the test results come in, your best bet is to continue treating symptoms with pregabalin and clonazepam." The kid leans forward. "But once we've got new data, we can pull out the big guns. Several of my patients have a TENS unit, a spinal cord stimulator. It's used in combination with antidepressants. The results typically range from mild to moderate pain reduction. Another option would be a nerve block."
"Temporary solution," Greg says.
"Yeah, but if you respond well you'd be a good candidate for a sympathectomy. I've performed over thirty surgeries to date." It's not a brag, just a statement of fact. "Typical results are moderate to full permanent reduction of pain." He sits back. "There is a risk."
"It could make things worse," Greg says. The thought terrifies him. He will not survive 'worse'.
"So we'll keep it as a last option." The kid props his feet on the coffee table. "Tests first. Gene and I will get things scheduled. All you have to do is show up."
Greg thinks of the hours of discomfort and tedium ahead. "Since the guy I hired to take my tests is writing an article for Guinea Pig's latest issue, I'll be there," he says.)
The meeting has adjourned to the kitchen, where the last of the pizza is dispatched by the kid. Greg glances out a window and sees Sarah. She sits astride an enormous black horse. As he watches she moves her knee, presses it lightly into the animal's side. They turn and head off across the field at a leisurely pace. She rides with an ease he envies, back straight but relaxed, heels down.
"That's Blackie," Gene says. He stands next to Greg.
"Weird nickname for your wife," Greg says. "Bet there's a story behind that one, if you care to share. Inquiring minds want to know."
"Horses have names," Gene says. "Even if it is a temporary one, like 'you bastard'."
Greg snorts. "Don't tell me she's safe on that thing."
"Sarah's been riding since before she was able to walk," Gene says. "Comes with being a hick from the sticks." He turns away. "Hope she gets back before it rains."
"How do you know it's going to rain?" Greg peers at the dark clouds overhead. "It's been like this all summer."
"I just know," Gene says, and walks away. Ten minutes later he is proven right; the first fat drops hit the windowpane, followed by many more. Greg sits down to watch as the storm grows. Colored leaves race across the lawn and into the weeds at the fence line; gusty winds push sheets of rain along and drench everything in sight—and that includes Sarah. She runs across the field like a wild rabbit, a small figure half-veiled by the downpour and bunches of leaves. After a few moments the back door bangs open and she comes into the mud room, her auburn hair plastered to her head.
"Wooo!" she says, and shakes like a dog. Greg can't help but smile. "It's comin' down in buckets out there!" She peels off her muddy boots and leaves them on a mat by the door.
"You look like a drowned rat," he says. She grins at him as water drips from the end of her nose.
"Flattery will get you everywhere with some other girl," she says as she takes off her sodden jacket, hangs it up and comes into the kitchen. She tears a paper towel from the holder on the counter and wanders over next to him, as she wipes her face and hair. She smells of rain and horse and saddle leather. "Everything go okay?"
Her concern is genuine, he can sense it; normally that would be enough to make him put up the usual barriers, but for some strange reason he can't. Truth be told, he doesn't want to. Just for this moment, he's tired of the need to keep everyone at arm's length. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it went okay."
"I'm glad." She hesitates. "May I touch you?" she asks. He considers it, gives a reluctant nod and looks away. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, the same butterfly lightness he remembers from their meeting in the exercise yard. He flinches, but she doesn't grip or squeeze him. Slowly his tension dissipates under her gentle touch. Her fingers are small and cold, fragile. Still, they offer human presence, an anchor in the maelstrom of terror and exhilaration possibility has created in his mind. Even more astonishing, after all his cruel jabs at her she still offers him comfort. He won't ever admit it, but he is humbled by and grateful for her compassion.
"It doesn't seem so now, but things will get better." Her soft voice holds just a hint of a smile. "I could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. Come help me get dinner ready."
They sit at the dining room table and enjoy a good supper, surrounded by soft golden light as the storm rages and mutters outside. It is very late when Greg goes to bed; he lies in his comfortable nest and listens to the rain fall and the wind as it groans in the eaves of the old house. For the first time since his arrival, he feels a modicum of peace, and hope. Maybe things will turn out after all. Maybe.
"Don't be a fool," Amber says softly. "Don't let yourself believe."
He drifts into a light doze on the memory of the evenings events.
(It is an hour or two after dinner. He sits in a comfortable easy chair in a corner of the big room, a cold bottle of Yuengling lager in his hand. Now and then he takes a swallow of beer, enjoys the rich, clean bite of hops and barley malt. It's been over four months since he's had a brew; it might be another year before he tastes one again.
The others are gathered around the fireplace, chairs drawn into a loose, open semi-circle. Gene has a dobro guitar, a beautiful instrument made in the Thirties by the National Resonator company; Sarah plays the Martin, and the kid has a Gibson dreadnought. It's a back-porch style pickup session, relaxed and easy. They're decent musicians with good voices, able to sing harmony and keep time. Sarah has a soft clear alto, nothing spectacular, but pleasant all the same. She says something to the kid that evokes laughter. She laughs too, cradles the guitar against her with gentle hands. Greg remembers the feel of her slight fingers on his shoulder. He pushes the memory away and settles deeper into the chair.
He has chosen not to participate, though both Gene and Sarah asked him to join in. They came to him separately and in private—very thoughtful, he doesn't feel pressured to comply. He is fairly sure they believe he's afraid to play in front of them, though nothing could be further from the truth. He's participated in plenty of sessions over the years, both casual and formal. He's even hosted a few himself, before the blood clot wreaked its havoc. Part of him longs to pick up an instrument and take a seat in their circle. He hasn't made music at all, not since Amber—he winces away from the knowledge and brings his thoughts back to the matter at hand.
What keeps him in the shadows is a sense of apprehension. For months he's stagnated at Mayfield, his life put on hold. Now in a single weekend he's rushed forward into something for which he's not sure he's ready. It feels as if he has no more control over what happens than he does when he's in lockdown. For once his intellect and emotions are in agreement. Both tell him to back away. Change inevitably means pain. He cannot trust these well-meaning people, though he knows they truly want to help him. Other people have tried to help . . . He rubs his thigh and takes another swallow of beer.
So he decides on a plan of sabotage. Because that's what he has to do to save himself, he knows it now; his course of action is clear. Better to trash proceedings before his armor is stripped away and he's left naked and defenseless, without even a pile of dead leaves to cover his inadequacy. Oh, he'll keep the surgery options; it's the therapy he wants to ditch.
A part of him feels shame at this decision. Wilson will never forgive him, and it will make the restoration of his medical license that much more difficult. Still, with some careful edits of the truth and a different psychiatrist, he can fake his way through and return to work—the one thing he knows he can do, the one thing they all demand from him.
"Very wise," Amber's soft voice whispers at the back of his mind. "Everyone hurts you, in the end. I should know, don't you think?"
He finishes off his beer and watches the life he'll never have, played out in light and darkness, just beyond reach.)