Chapter 10
Sam was in TJ's car, wondering where she was taking him. She hadn't told him where they were going, only that she had a surprise for him.
He studied her profile as she drove. Her hair was in a ponytail—no shock there—but it seemed sort of dull and thin. It wasn't that it wasn't clean; he had smelled the faint scent of her shampoo, something flowery and sort of minty, just like always, when she had helped him transfer into her car, but it lacked its usual healthy shine. Everything about her was painfully thin—her hair, her fingers, her wrists, her neck. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Gretchen had acted so concerned and had called TJ out on how skinny she was.
He knew it hadn't happened overnight, but now that it had come to his attention, it was glaringly obvious that TJ wasn't well. He could see that her cheekbones and jawline were too defined, and the part of her collarbone that he could see through the neck of her oversized sweatshirt was much too prominent. When had this happened? He'd spent almost twenty-four/seven with her for the last month, and he hadn't really noticed until a few days ago.
He was worried that there was something wrong with her, something serious that was affecting her appetite, and imagined all kinds of horrible things, like cancer. He wanted her to see a doctor, but she was touchy about the subject and would never really talk to him about it. He wasn't going to let that stop him, though, and decided to broach the subject again. "TJ, I know you don't like to talk about this, but I really think you need to see a doctor."
She stared straight ahead at the road in front of her, jaw tensing.
He knew she was instantly annoyed with him for bringing it up, but he pressed on. "I'm only bugging you about this because I care about you. You're my best friend, and I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I'm your best friend?"
It had sort of just come out, and he thought for a beat and realized it was true. "Yeah. You are."
She looked up at the ceiling of the car for a split second and gave an almost inaudible huff, almost like she was scoffing at his words. "What is this, third grade?"
Sam frowned, wondering why she'd had such a terse reaction.
She glanced at him, and there was a flash of some unidentifiable emotion in her eyes before she turned her attention back to the road. "What about Dean?"
"He's my brother."
"He misses you."
"He sees me every day."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Y'all used to be close. I can tell by the way he talks about you."
"Nice try," Sam said wryly, "but I'm not gonna let you change the subject. We were talking about you seeing a doctor."
She kept talking as if he hadn't spoken. "I think Dean won't ask Heather out because of you."
That stopped him cold. "What?"
"He flirts with her relentlessly, but he won't act on it. How many dates has he gone on since your injury?"
Sam snorted. "Dean has never really been the type to go on dates."
"You know what I mean. Dean doesn't strike me as the celibate type. How many one-night stands has he had, then?"
Sam was getting irritated. "How should I know? It's not something I keep up with."
"Has he brought anyone to the apartment?"
He shrugged, although he knew without a shred of doubt that Dean hadn't. "He could be going to Heather's every night of the week, and I wouldn't know."
TJ shot him a skeptical look. "Sure you wouldn't."
Sometimes it irked him that she knew him so well. Dean came home every day after work exhausted and had done so since they'd moved to San Diego, and Sam knew it. He didn't like where this conversation was going and rubbed the back of his neck, which suddenly felt tense. "Why would I be the reason Dean wouldn't hook up with Heather?"
Her tone was reproachful. "Come on, Sam. Why do you think?"
He frowned. "What are you talking about, TJ?"
"Survivor's guilt. I think that's why Dean won't do anything with Heather. As long as you continue to live like Oscar the Grouch and deny yourself any fun, so will he."
Sam leaned his head back on the headrest of the seat, knowing as soon as she said it that it was true, unable to believe he hadn't seen it himself. Jesus, Dean. It was beginning to sink in just how much his injury had affected his big brother, too. With a sense of regret for both himself and Dean, he said, "I'm not denying myself, TJ. I can't, and you know that."
She shook her head. "No, I don't."
"Whatever," he said, not wanting to rehash that particular point. "If that's what Dean's doing, though, it's crazy."
"Maybe you should talk to him."
"Maybe you should see a doctor," he countered.
She let out a dramatic sigh. "I'm fine, Sam." She'd said it so many times in the last few days that she was starting to sound like a broken record. She tried to change the subject again and asked, "Aren't you curious about where I'm taking you?"
He was a little curious, but he wasn't going to admit that right now. "No. And stop going off on tangents. I'm going to make you a doctor's appointment if you won't do it yourself."
"You know, I have a mama already."
Her accent was getting more pronounced, and he knew she was getting testy. He raised his brows. "That's a good idea, TJ. I bet Gretchen knows how to get in touch with your mom."
"Ooh, scary. Now you're threatenin' me with nosy German girls and my mama who lives a billion miles away in Kentucky."
"I'm serious, TJ."
She huffed. "Sam, I'm not a fool. If I thought there was something wrong with me, I'd go to the damn doctor."
Sam's attention was distracted when she pulled into a newly-built, strip shopping center.
"We're here," she announced.
He looked around for a second, unimpressed at the half-empty shopping center made of pink stucco and more concerned about TJ. He pulled out his cell phone from his jeans pocket and dialed Information. When the operator came on and asked what city, he said, "Yes. San Diego, please. I need the number for the student health services at San Diego State."
TJ's eyes widened. "Sam, what are you doin'?"
He ignored her and asked the operator to connect him to the number. When a receptionist answered, he said, "Yeah, hi. I have a friend who isn't feeling well—"
"I feel fine," she hissed.
"—and I'd like to make her a doctor's appointment. She's a student and should be in your system. Her name is TJ Nelek, N-e-l-e-k," he spelled out. "Sorry. She won't tell me what the initials actually stand for."
TJ crossed her arms and pouted angrily.
After the receptionist located TJ in the system—interestingly, even in the university's health system computer, they only had her initials—he made her an appointment, since he knew her class and work schedules well. When he was done, he hung up the phone and gave her a stern look. "It's done. You have an appointment tomorrow morning at 9:00."
She exhaled harshly through her nose, mouth in a tight line, and looked out her side window, obviously ticked. Then, after a minute, she seemed to switch gears, and there was a crafty gleam in her eye when she looked at Sam. "Okay. Fine." She pronounced it 'fahn.' "Then I don't want to hear any complaints when I tell you what we're about to do."
Sam was wary. "What?"
"I bought you eight private sessions with that yoga instructor Amber that Karen recommended. That's her studio right there," she said, pointing to the storefront they had parked in front of. "She just moved here and doesn't have her sign up, yet."
She had to be joking. Sam stared dumbly at the plate glass of the building in front of him.
"Happy early birthday."
"My birthday isn't for another two months."
"I know, hence the adjective 'early.'"
He held in a smile. "How do you know when my birthday is?"
"How do you think?"
"Dean," they both said at the same time.
"You didn't really get me yoga lessons, did you?"
"I did. Private ones," she stressed, "and they weren't cheap, so humor me."
He couldn't believe it, but he knew by her expression that she was totally serious. He felt a surge of irritation similar to what he always felt with Dean. "Sorry," he said without much sincerity. "No fucking way."
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"Well, fine, then," TJ retorted. "There's no fucking way I'm going to that doctor, either." TJ was so pissed at him for making her an appointment. Why did everyone want to treat her like a child? She could take care of herself. It was just that everyone was used to the stout, burly TJ, and now that she was thinner, it freaked everyone out, and they all wanted to meddle in her business.
He gave her the serious Sam look, brows furrowed. "It's for your own good, TJ."
She literally wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. "Yeah? Well, this," she said, indicating the studio with her hand, "is for your own good."
He rolled his eyes. "It's yoga. How is that gonna help me?"
"You heard Karen. It's a gentle, less stressful way to build strength."
"I have my therapy exercises. They build strength."
She waved her hand in dismissal. "Yeah, but they're brainless. Yoga is good for your mind as well as your body."
He clenched his jaw stubbornly. "There's nothing wrong with my mind."
"Of course there's not. That's not what I mean." She had run through this conversation a dozen times in her head, trying out different ways to convince him, knowing he would be resistant. No words of wisdom that would magically help sway him had popped into her head, however, and she knew she had her work cut out for her.
She tried to keep the pique from earlier out of her voice and turned more toward him in her seat so she could clarify. "Yoga goes deeper than that, into your psyche, your spirit. It helps you to get in touch with your feelings, helps you feel a connection to your body—all of it."
His expression turned coldly impassive. "I can't connect with my body. I lost that connection when my spinal cord was severed, and nothing can change that."
"That's not what Amber and the many students with and without disabilities she's taught say."
"It's bullshit, TJ. This woman has probably duped thousands of poor saps in wheelchairs, people hoping desperately for some kind of relief from their sucky lives."
"Wow, and that wasn't insensitive at all," she said sarcastically.
He looked away and crossed his arms, getting broody.
TJ noticed how his bicep bulged a little under his shirt and the way his dark-brown hair kind of curled a bit at his ears. Mercy, but he was so good-looking. He made her hot and bothered, and it was all she could do not to blatantly fan herself.
Focus, TJ, she admonished herself, coming back to her senses. She cleared her throat and said, "Sam, Karen's too practical and serious to send you to some New Age snake oil peddler. Just come meet Amber. Her injury is higher than yours, and it's amazing what she can do."
"How do you know her injury is higher? You don't even know the level of my injury."
"It doesn't take a genius. Yours is from the belly button down. She explained it to me and guessed you're probably in the T10 to T12 range. She's a T3-4. She has no ab control but still has full use of her arms. She can't feel or move anything from her chest down, yet she does yoga, and she's awesome. Please, Sam. Just come meet her. That's all I ask. She's really cool, and I know you'll like her."
He stared out the windshield, jaw wound tighter than a cheap Timex watch. "No."
She sighed. "I'll do it with you."
"No. Yoga is for douches."
"Wow. How very three-year-old caveman of you. I thought you were more open-minded, Sam."
"I guess you thought wrong."
"You should see some of the guys that do yoga—straight guys. Their bodies are amazing and totally badass. There's nothing douchey about them."
"No."
"Please? I bought some cool yoga pants for me and some cool, very masculine shorts for you. They're gonna go to waste if you won't take a session with me at least once."
"I guess you wasted your money, then. Hope you can get a refund."
"Please?"
"No."
"Okay. I hate you for this, but I'll go to that damn doctor's appointment if you'll do this for me."
"You'll go to the doctor anyway, even if I have to get Bobby and Dean to drag you there."
It took all her internal strength and integrity as a person not to say something really nasty to that, but she still remembered how speaking without thinking had really hurt him a few days ago, and she didn't want a repeat. Instead, she chose to take the high road and ignore his boarish threat completely, sighing the sigh of the long-suffering, and tried to explain. "Sam, you have a hostility toward part of your body that's holding you back, filling you with bitterness. It's poisoning you and keeping you from being happy, from accepting things. I think Amber can help you with that."
"How?" he threw out, clearly unconvinced.
She tried to keep the eagerness from her voice, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic, given his cynical mood. It was hard, though, because she just knew if she could convince him to do this, it would make a difference. "Well, for instance," she began, "Amber has her students shake hands with their feet as part of their yoga practice. She has them sit on the floor and spread their legs out, stretching, and lace their fingers through their toes. It's a nice way to say hi to your toes and feet, especially if you can't feel them."
He gave her a massive eye roll. "Oh, come on, TJ! That's friggin' ridiculous."
She stared at him for a second, waiting for his derision to pass, and then said, "Is it ridiculous? When's the last time you touched your toes, Sam, other than maybe in the shower to clean them? When's the last time you acknowledged they're still a part of your body?"
"They're not," he replied, jaw set.
"Yes, they are," she said emphatically, "and you just made my case for me."
"It's not gonna matter soon, anyway."
She wasn't expecting that. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," he said, hastily dismissing the comment. "Take me home. I'm not gonna do this." His tone was hard, and there was no room for any more argument.
She exhaled with frustration and disappointment. She'd thought she would eventually get him to come around.
"Look," he said, his tone softer, "I appreciate that you're trying to help, TJ, but I don't need you to meddle in my life."
"Hello, Kettle. I'm The Pot, and you're black."
He gave her a small, lopsided grin, and then grew serious. "Trying to get you to see a doctor is not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same," she stated, and then started the car in a huff, no longer in the mood for conversation.
She drove in silence on the way to Sam's apartment, and he didn't say anything, either. She sensed that he felt kind of bad for refusing her, and she loved him for that, but she also knew she wasn't going to get him to budge on the yoga thing anytime soon. It was a setback, but it didn't mean she was going to give up.
When they reached his apartment, she parked and got out the frame, seat cushion, and back wheels of his manual chair from the backseat. It was a rigid-frame wheelchair, meaning it didn't fold, so it had to be taken apart to fit it in the car. It amazed her that such a lightweight frame could support a big guy like Sam, but he had explained that it was made out of titanium, a metal which, although light, was extremely strong.
She watched as he popped on one back wheel and then turned the frame around and popped on the other. Then, he put his special seat cushion in, and the chair was ready to go. It took him all of thirty seconds, and she admired the deftness of his fingers and hands and the confidence with which he moved, even though she always worried that he might be doing something that wasn't good for his shoulder. He seemed none the worse for wear, though, and she figured that Sam, probably more than anyone else, didn't want to reinjure his shoulder and go through what he'd been through the last month and a half.
He had put one of his long legs out of the car so he would have more leverage to reassemble the chair, but when he was ready to transfer, he put it back in the car and waited for her to help him with the transfer board. She noticed the old-man shoes he always wore and made a note to herself to try to get him to buy different shoes, something more stylish and less grandpa; that is, when she was in the mood to talk to him again, and he wasn't being so stubborn.
Once he was in his chair, it fit him so well that it was more like an accessory to his personality than something he had to have. The black backrest was low and part of the main frame, and there were no armrests. His posture was almost perfect, and she loved the way his hands gripped the tires and rims, promising unleashed power and speed. His legs were compact and symmetrical, his feet fitting neatly on the footrest thing, and they were tucked closer in, rather than sticking out like an old-style wheelchair.
It definitely wasn't what she thought of when she thought of wheelchairs. It was kind of sporty and cool. Of course, what else should she expect from Sam? It certainly seemed to fit his personality more than the power chair, and he seemed more at ease in it.
He swiveled himself away from the car but then waited for TJ to push him, since the sidewalk leading to his door was at a steep incline.
She attached his wheelchair backpack that she'd been holding to the back of his chair. Since the backrest of his chair was so low, she had to bend down a little to reach the push handles. She started pushing him, trying not to notice how close she was to him or how broad his shoulders were or how his hair smelled nice, like Suave or some other inexpensive shampoo. She always thought the cheap shampoos smelled just as good or better than the ones from the salon. She spent a fortune on fancy shampoo and products, while he probably spent next to nothing, and his hair still looked good. Of course, he would probably look hot with a mullet like Joe Dirt's.
When they reached the door, he spun his chair around and faced her.
He had to look up at her, and TJ almost blushed at how she towered over him. She hated it that she was so freakishly tall.
He cleared his throat and said, "So, uh, should Bobby and I pick you up tomorrow for your appointment, or do you want to come get me? Either way, I'm going with you to make sure you don't miss it."
She couldn't believe his audacity and felt a surge of anger. "I'm not going."
He sighed, as if he had expected as much. "Oh, you're going."
Her eyes widened. Who did he think he was? "When hell freezes over," she said with attitude.
His jaw tensed, and he had an earnest look on his face. "Look, TJ, you need to see a doctor. You're not eating, and, honestly, you look like shit."
She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her, at first hurt by his words, but then fury and an overwhelming sense of betrayal spread through her. "Thanks, Sam," she said with bitter sarcasm. "You really know how to charm a girl."
"TJ, I just mean you look unhealthy," he said, giving her the puppy-dog eyes. "I'm afraid there's something wrong."
This time, the eyes didn't work on her. They just made her madder, and she turned on her heel and walked away, ignoring the fact that he was yelling her name, calling for her to come back.
XXXXXXXX
TJ unlocked the door to her apartment, shaking with anticipation, a plastic grocery sack full of food hanging off each arm. It was all the things she'd denied herself for so long, her favorite comfort foods—Oreos, Ben & Jerry's, Ruffles potato chips, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and pizza.
She hastily placed the bags on the counter and started to prepare the mac and cheese using the microwave method. As she waited for the pasta to cook, she heard another text alert on her phone. It was probably another one from Sam, but she couldn't think about that right now.
They all wanted her to eat—Sam, Dean, Heather, Gretchen—even a few strangers who had made comments about how thin she was in classes and at Shorty's. Some people had nerve, she'd give them that. So she would show them. They didn't know what eating was.
When the pasta was done, she quickly stirred in the powdered cheese sauce and could hardly wait to dip her spoon in it and lift it to her mouth. She was shaking harder now and her heart was racing, the smell of the cheese causing her mouth to water in anticipation of the delicious ecstasy she knew was coming.
She was so hungry it was painful, like her stomach was trying to eat itself, but that was all about to change. She wouldn't think about the consequences, wouldn't think about the guilt that was sure to follow. She took the first bite, and there was no turning back.
She made her way through each food item one at a time. At first, she got a high from each bite, savoring the flavor and the thrill, the texture of it in her mouth, but when her stomach got full, her brain urged her to keep going, fortifying itself for the next period of starvation that was sure to come once she came to her senses. She could feel her belly stretching painfully, but she kept going, consuming a bag of Ruffles potato chips with Ranch dip, all of the frozen pizza that she'd cooked, a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and an entire package of Oreo's. She was like a robot, an eating machine.
When she was done, she sat on her couch, looking at the devastation in front of her. Her coffee table looked like a mini garbage dump, empty food packaging strewn everywhere, used paper napkins, crumbs—all damning her. For a moment she took it all in, feeling nothing, emotionally spent. There was only silence, no one to judge her; but then the guilt began to set in, and there was no harsher judge than herself.
What was wrong with her? She was sick—sick in the head—and she hated herself for it, for her loss of control. This was one of the worst binges she'd had in a long time, if ever. She knew it was wrong, knew she needed help, but she was so ashamed and didn't want anyone to know.
She'd been upset by Sam's words, had told herself she needed the comfort of food, but it wasn't his fault. Deep down, she knew what he'd meant, knew that he hadn't been implying she was ugly, but, nevertheless, it stung. Even with all the weight she'd lost, she still wasn't pretty. All the starving, the constant, gnawing hunger, what good had it done? She was still the same person, only now she was plain Jane and unhealthy-looking, instead of just plain Jane.
She had been so hungry, and she just couldn't take it anymore. Her argument with Sam had given her what she was looking for—justification, an excuse to eat, an excuse to let herself go.
Almost as if in a trance, she slowly got up from the couch and went into her bathroom. She bent over in front of the toilet, raised the lid and the seat, braced her elbows on her knees, and then stuck her fingers down her throat.
It didn't take much gagging to start the flow, probably because her stomach was so full, filled way beyond its capacity. She could sort of tell, to her disgust, which food was coming up. The chunks of food made her nauseous for real, and she almost didn't need to stick her fingers down her throat anymore to make herself vomit.
When it started coming out her nose, she stopped. That was round one. She got a damp cloth, wiped the filth from her face, and blew her nose, sickened by the mucus mixed with pieces of food that came out of it.
She could see in the mirror that her face looked a little swollen, and she was getting the tiny, telltale red dots of damaged blood vessels around her eyes from the straining. They shone like a beacon to TJ, but, hopefully, when she went to work later, Dean and Heather wouldn't notice or would think they were freckles. They'd never said anything before, so why would they start tonight?
She figured that she'd only thrown up around half to two-thirds of the food, so she braced herself for round two. She had to get it all out, wanted to be free of the self-loathing and smothering guilt. She kept at it this time, not stopping, no matter how painful and hard on her body she knew it was. She just wanted it all out and to be done with it.
When she felt the first sharp pain and saw the bright-red blood, at first, she was in denial. She'd never seen blood before when she'd done it, and there was only a little bit. Maybe it was some of the tomato sauce from the pizza, she told herself. But it got darker in color, looked more like real blood, and there was more of it. When the pain started getting worse, she knew without a doubt that something was wrong, so she stopped.
She usually didn't feel any pain, except for the usual discomfort of a sore throat and sore stomach muscles that had been used the wrong way. It was the way she always felt after doing such a vicious thing to her body, but this pain was different. It was heavier, stronger, and it really fucking hurt.
She wiped her face again, gargled with water, then Listerine, then thoroughly brushed her teeth. When she was done with that, she got a Clorox disinfectant wipe from under the vanity sink and wiped down the toilet, making sure nothing had splashed onto the floor. Finally, she took a quick shower, knowing that this particular bout of purging had been more violent than usual, and she felt dirty, felt like she would never be rid of the smell. She forced herself to ignore the increasing pain in her abdomen and chest.
After she was dried off and dressed, she set to cleaning the mess in the living room, no longer feeling the guilt of the binge—just the overwhelming self-loathing and shame that always came after she purged. She turned on the TV, trying to get her mind off of everything, vowing, as always, that this was the last time, that she would never cheat again, that she would never lose control again, that there would never be another need to make herself throw up, but knowing deep down that she was lying to herself.
When she was done cleaning, she turned off the mindless noise of the TV, unable to concentrate on anything, feeling more of the sharp ache in her upper abdomen just under the breastbone and in her chest, feeling short of breath and lightheaded.
She heard her phone beep, retrieved it from her purse, and then lay down on the sofa, feeling like crap. There were four texts and three voice mails from Sam. She stared at the phone as if she'd never seen it before and didn't know what to do with it, feeling hollow inside.
Finally, barely registering that her vision was blurred and there were tears running down her cheeks, she deleted all the messages he'd left without reading them or listening to them. She didn't want to hear his voice or read what he'd texted, knowing he was probably trying to make amends because he was sensitive like that, because he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, because he was a good guy and a good friend. She didn't deserve him, and she knew that he would be horrified and repulsed if he knew what she'd just done.
She certainly was.
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Sam was in his room, sitting in his manual chair and staring at his phone, willing it to ring. He was really worried about TJ. He'd been leaving voice mails and text messages for hours, now, and she hadn't answered a single one. It wasn't like her, even if she was mad at him, and he thought of the look on her face when he'd told her she looked like shit. A light had seemed to go out in her eyes, and the memory of it left a tight knot in his chest.
She had taken it the wrong way, and he'd been an idiot to say it, knowing how sensitive she was about things like that. He had immediately wanted to explain what he'd meant, that he was just really concerned about her, but she wouldn't listen and had gone to her car without ever looking back at him, no matter how many times he yelled her name.
He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes past when her shift had started at Shorty's, and he was about to ask Bobby to take him there so he could see her in person, when his cell rang. His heartbeat picked up, but he was disappointed when he saw on the screen that it was Dean. "Yeah?" he answered.
"Sam, have you heard from TJ? She didn't show up for work."
"What?" Sam could barely hear Dean for the noise of the restaurant and bar in the background and hoped he had heard wrong.
Dean yelled louder. "TJ didn't show up for work. She's never missed a day since I've worked with her, and it's not like her not to call in and let me know. She wouldn't leave Heather and me shorthanded." There was a slight pause, and then he said, "She didn't answer her phone. I'm thinking about calling 911."
Sam felt fear begin to gnaw at his belly.
"I'd go check on her, but it's just me and Heather, and we're covered up."
"No," said Sam decisively, his adrenaline beginning to pump. "It's okay. Bobby and I will go."
"All right. Call and let us know how she is once you know something."
"Yeah. I will. I need her address," said Sam.
"Shit. I'll have to go in the back office to the employee files."
"Okay. Call me back when you get it. I know the apartment complex because she's talked about it, but I don't have the apartment number."
"Give me five minutes," said Dean, and he was gone.
Sam wheeled into the living room where Bobby was sitting on the couch watching TV. Without preamble, he said, "Bobby, I need you to take me to TJ's apartment. She didn't show up for work."
Bobby stood, already heading for the front door, putting on his trucker cap, which he was rarely ever seen without. He grabbed the keys to his clunker pickup off the glass-top dining table. "All right, kid. Let's go."
On the way there, Bobby said, "Have you tried to call her?"
"Yeah. She's not answering. I've got a bad feeling, Bobby."
Bobby looked at the road ahead of him, a grim expression on his face.
"Have you noticed that she's lost a lot of weight?" asked Sam.
"Well, she's always seemed a little too thin to me, but it's kinda hard to tell with the clothes she wears."
"She's been sapped of energy, lately, too. I tried to get her to go see a doctor, and it pissed her off." Sam drew in a deep breath and then exhaled, still feeling the tightness in his chest. "I told her she looked like shit."
Bobby sighed. "I take it she wasn't exactly thrilled by the compliment?"
Sam gritted his teeth for a second. "No. She took it the wrong way. I know I shouldn't have said it, but I tried everything I could think of to convince her, and nothing was working. I guess I thought brutal honesty might get through to her."
"Well, if she didn't show up for work, that don't sound like TJ. It sounds to me like your concern is justified. Something obviously ain't right, so don't beat yourself up. Trust me, she won't stay mad at you."
Sam snorted. "I don't know. You didn't see her face earlier."
"She'll come around," Bobby said sagely.
Dean called back with TJ's apartment number, and shortly after, they were in her complex and found her building. It was a typical nineties-style apartment complex, and her brown stucco building was divided by a large breezeway with two flights of concrete and metal stairs in the middle. Her teal Honda was parked nearby.
Once Sam was in his chair, he was chagrined to find that TJ's apartment was on the second story, and the stairs were impeding his way to her door. "Fuck," he said to no one in particular.
"You want me to go up and knock?" asked Bobby.
Sam hated being left out, but he had no choice. "Yeah. See if she answers."
Bobby nodded and went up the stairs. Sam couldn't see him once he reached the top, but he could hear Bobby knock on the door.
"TJ?" Bobby called, his voice echoing in the breezeway. There was no answer, and after a moment, Bobby knocked again, louder. "TJ? It's Bobby and Sam. You in there?"
Still no answer.
Sam was getting more frustrated and anxious by the moment. He knew she was in there—he could feel it—so why wasn't she coming to the door? Dammit! He wanted up those fucking stairs.
Just then, one of the doors of the ground level apartments opened, and two fraternity-type guys walked out. Both were big, muscular guys, one with dark hair and one blond, both dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and running shoes. The dark-haired guy carried a football.
Not even hesitating, Sam said, "Hey, could you guys maybe give me a lift up the stairs?"
They looked at each other for a second and then the blond said, "Sure, man. What do we do?"
From above, Bobby yelled, "She ain't answering, Sam."
"I'm coming up, Bobby. I need you to come down and carry my chair back up."
Bobby's footsteps neared the top of the stairs. "How in the hell—oh." He looked shocked when he peered down and saw the two burly guys and obviously figured out what Sam was planning to do. He quickly schooled his features, though, as if it were every day Sam asked for help like this.
Sam would have found it a little humorous under different circumstances, but, right now, he just wanted up the damn stairs so he could get to TJ.
The dark-haired guy set his football down next to the wall, and then they both approached Sam.
"Okay. You," said Sam, looking at the dark-haired guy.
"Zach."
"Ralph," the blond offered.
Sam raised his brows, a little surprised by the name. It didn't seem to fit the jockish frat boy.
Ralph rolled his eyes. "It's a family name."
"Right. Okay," said Sam. "Zach, you need to grab me under my armpits and wrap your arms around my chest. Watch my right shoulder. I just had surgery on it not too long ago."
Zach looked a little wary at that, but didn't argue with Sam's authoritative tone.
"Okay. Ralph, I need you to grab my legs."
By that time, Bobby had made it back down the stairs and was ready to carry Sam's chair up so it would be waiting when Sam made it to the top.
The two guys did as Sam instructed and carried him up both flights of stairs, where Bobby had Sam's chair ready to go. After Sam was situated back in it, he wasted no time and pushed himself over to TJ's door and knocked forcefully. "TJ? It's Sam. If you don't open the door, I'm gonna pick the lock."
They were met with more silence from inside the apartment.
Sam reached behind him, unzipped his wheelchair backpack, and felt around until he found the case with his lock-picking tools.
Bobby raised his brows.
Sam almost smiled. "Old habits die hard."
Bobby smirked, and Sam began to pick the locks. It had been over a year since he'd done it, but it was still like second nature to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the two frat boys look at each other with unease.
Zach cleared his throat and said, "Hey, man. Maybe she's just not there."
"She's there," said Sam, trying to focus on the lock and not think about why she wasn't coming to the door.
"You do actually know TJ, right? I mean, you're not, like, breaking into her apartment to steal something."
Sam didn't even look at the guy, having just gotten the doorknob unlocked and starting on the deadbolt. "Do I look like a burglar to you?"
The guys still seemed dubious.
Bobby shot them a look. "You morons. It ain't like he can make a fast getaway, now, is it?"
Zach colored a bit. "Sorry. Just making sure. TJ's a cool girl," he said defensively.
Sam got the deadbolt unlocked and took a deep breath before twisting the knob and opening the door. He wheeled himself into her apartment, noticing she had carpet, which made it a little more difficult to push. He didn't give it another thought, though, when he saw TJ lying curled up on the sofa.
Bobby and the two guys had followed him into the apartment, and Sam quickly put Zach and Ralph to work. "I need you two to move that coffee table so I can get to her," said Sam, feeling his heart start to hammer in his chest.
TJ hadn't stirred, even with all the commotion of them entering, and that fact alone scared the shit out of Sam.
Once the coffee table was out of the way, Sam made it to TJ's side, pushing his chair up next to the sofa.
She was lying on her side, facing him, curled in on herself. Her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones were stark contrasts to the paleness of her skin. She was breathing too fast, like she was having a hard time drawing in a full breath of air.
Her hair was down instead of in its usual ponytail, and Sam reached over and brushed a few soft strands out of the way, feeling for the pulse on her neck. It was much too rapid. "TJ? It's Sam. Can you hear me?"
Her only response was a slight crease in her brow.
"Wake up, Teej. Open your eyes for me." Please, God, let her wake up. Let her be okay.
She swallowed thickly and then groaned, grimacing in pain, but she never opened her eyes.
He could see that her lips were kind of blue, and he gently felt her forehead and cheeks with his hand. Her skin was hot to the touch, obviously feverish, yet she was ghostly pale—so pale that he could see tiny freckles around her eyes that he'd never noticed before.
Sam tried to keep panic at bay and looked at Bobby. "Call 911 now. I think she's going into shock."
TBC