August 13th
Dana looked at her watch and resisted the urge to pace. Fifty-three minutes past the start of the session, and still no Gregory. Even worse, it came on top of three days without any communication from him at all—not so much as a text message. She'd called his cell, his apartment, his office, sent emails and texts, but everything had disappeared into the void with no answer. For the first time since they started work together he'd simply vanished, and she had a bad feeling about it. Over the last couple of weeks he hadn't acted right. His responses were off, his willingness to open to her and the work shut down somewhat, and he'd been withdrawn and irritable—not unusual for him, but still . . . All patients went through cycles where they were resistant to the healing process. After he'd confronted the memory of his father and the closet, she'd expected some resistance and even a step back, but this-this was something else. Foreboding sent a chill down her spine.
I need to go to his place, she decided after another five minutes. If he's not there, then I'll try the hospital, his team, Wilson, anyone who can point me in the right direction.
She was in the back to change into her street clothes when the doorbell rang. Dana hurried to answer it as she tugged her shirt into place. When she opened the door she stopped dead, as her words of greeting died on her lips.
Greg stood on her step. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and he clearly hadn't been anywhere near a shower or clean clothes for that same length of time either, if the smell of stale alcohol, sweat and old urine was anything to go by. His glassy blue eyes were focused on her, which made it easy to see the pinpoint pupils. Dana saw shame, guilty defiance and helplessness there too, along with a wordless plea. He didn't move toward her, just waited. Plainly he expected her to get angry, send him away. A lump rose in her throat—fear and worry transmuted to profound relief that he was alive and relatively whole. It was all that mattered for now.
"Greg," she said softly, "oh, my beautiful man," and came forward without hesitation to embrace him. He tensed as her arms went around him; he didn't reciprocate, but after a few moments he gave a sort of quiet, shuddering sigh. He was still for a long time while she held him. At last he nuzzled his face into her hair in an uncertain way that made her heart ache. He shook, a fine little tremor that ran through him like a low-grade electric current.
"Come on," she said finally. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me what's happened." She moved to his side and slipped her arm about his waist, guided him into the house.
After he'd taken a lengthy shower and changed into a clean tee and flannel sleep pants, she helped him into their bed and lay down next to him, close but not touching. She knew he wasn't ready for more intimacy, not yet. "You're exhausted," she said. "You need to rest."
"I'm back on Vicodin," he muttered. "Don't act like you don't know."
"Yes, I know," Dana said. "How long have you been using?"
"Five days," he said. She took his hand in hers.
"Are you bingeing or just topping up every few hours?"
"Topping up." Greg looked at her. "You . . . you know," he said, more a statement than a question.
"My father was dependent on painkillers toward the end. Tell me what happened."
"So . . . so that's it? No lectures, no yelling at me to go to rehab, no moral superiority." The bitterness in his words was palpable, but his grip on her hand didn't lessen.
"You're recovering from dependence caused by inadequate pain management," Dana said quietly. "Relapses are common. Please tell me what happened."
Greg thought about it for a few moments. "Cuddy . . . she and I . . ." He fell silent.
"You were lovers," Dana said. He looked at her.
"That doesn't bother you."
"No," she said, and meant it. "We've both had other people in our lives, Greg. The fact that you work with a former lover is not a big deal. It happens sometimes."
"'Lovers' is a stretch." He hesitated. "Back in college, we had a night together after a lot of mutual flirting and come-ons. There could have been more, maybe. But I got kicked out of school and that ended anything we might have started." His gaze darted away from hers. "When she hired me after the surgery . . . some of those old feelings were still there."
Dana nodded her head. She'd suspected as much. "Okay. Please tell me the rest."
Greg licked his lips. "She came to me a couple of weeks ago. Blood in her urine, upper back pain, a few other things . . . She had an ultrasound done. Wilson found a mass in her kidney, about one and a half centimeters, close to the center of the organ."
Dana felt a jolt of shock. She might not think highly of Cuddy for various reasons, but she certainly wouldn't wish cancer on her. "Bloodwork?"
"Everything was inconclusive. They had to biopsy. She asked me . . . asked me to stay with her." Greg hesitated. "It wasn't sexual, she-she needed someone to be with her, when she had the surgery, the results—she needed . . . someone . . ." He drew in a breath sharply. "I couldn't do it. Not without-"
"You got overwhelmed." Dana touched his cheek, felt him lean into her hand. "Too much pain." It was a mistake for her to ask, and for him to agree. There was no way either one of them could handle the tremendous stress her illness created.
"What's wrong with me?" he said, more to himself than to her. "Why can't I . . . it's so simple, just sit with her—"
"It's not simple," Dana said. Unbidden came a memory her place next to her father's bed, as she watched and waited. "You have to be strong for someone else when they're ill and frightened. It can be one of the most difficult things anyone's ever called on to do, Gregory."
"I should have said no," he said. "She thought she'd be able to depend on me . . . and then when she found out about the Vicodin, she—she made me leave, she said—she'd forgotten I was an addict, that she couldn't trust me . . . she said it was a mistake—" He swallowed. Dana felt a swell of mingled anger and sadness fill her heart.
"It was too much, for you and her too," she said again quietly. "It happens." She stroked his cheek gently. "Did you answer her honestly about the drugs?"
"Yeah." He hesitated. "I have them with me."
"Okay. Thanks for being honest with me too." Dana kissed his temple. "Do you want help?"
"What's it going to cost me?" he said, sharp and hard. "What do you want in return?"
"Do you want help?" she asked again, and ignored the provocation.
"I don't—don't know," he said. Now he sounded frightened—terrified. "Dana . . . no rehab. No-no Mayfield. Please. Can't—won't do that again."
"Okay." She knew what it had cost this proud man to admit his weakness, to beg. "Let me call Doctor Nolan. If you want to detox—" He flinched. Dana pressed her cheek to his. "Shhh . . . I'll see if we can set things up so you can do it here, but even if we can't, I'll stay with you for all of it."
"You're an idiot," he growled at her, but his arms stole around her. Dana eased him a bit closer.
"I care about you," she said simply. "Do you want to do this?"
"Why are you giving me a choice? I have to do it, goddammit!"
"If you don't choose it for yourself, there's no point in doing anything. I want you to take your time and think about it. The only thing I'll ask is that you stay here while you're using. You can't drive, and you shouldn't be diagnosing anyone."
Greg gave a weak snort of derision. "I've done both under the influence for years."
"That doesn't make it right." She put a hand on his chest and rubbed gently. "Take your time, love."
"If I decide not to, what the hell will you do then? Probably . . . you'll give me a hot meal and send me back to Princeton, wash your hands of me." He pushed back so he could look in her eyes. Dana offered him a slight smile.
"I'll do my best to persuade you to choose to continue your recovery," she said. "But no matter what you decide, I want you here with me. The apartment just isn't a good place for you right now." And neither is your workplace, she thought. I'll have to see about getting you a medical leave of absence.
He stared at her for a few moments; then he nodded. The fear was back, she could tell by the hitch in his breath, the trembling all through his body. She trailed her fingers over his left breast in a slow, gentle circle and felt him relax. "Rest now," she whispered. "I know you've been up for days worrying about this. You need to sleep."
"I need another dose," he said. When she didn't answer he sighed. "I haven't had any since early this morning. If I don't take some, I'll start withdrawal and I'm—I'm not ready—"
Dana put her hand to his cheek. She watched as he fished the bottle out of his pocket, popped the top and shook out two pills, dry-swallowed them. "After this you eat first, even if it's just some dry toast."
He held the bottle gripped tight in his hand. "So you're putting conditions on things already. All that talk about support was just to get me to agree to detox."
"No," Dana said, and kept her voice steady. "I'm not pushing you to choose that. But you have to take care of yourself in any way you can while this is going on, and that includes saving your stomach lining." She paused. "I won't enable you either though, Gregory. Don't ask that of me. I know—" She stopped when she heard the quiver in her voice. "I know where that path leads," she went on when she was able. "I won't be a part of keeping you on it. That's my choice."
Greg lay there for a time. Then he nodded. "Fair enough."
"I know we've talked about this several times in the past, but you could use a good pain management specialist," she said softly. "There's a difference between addiction and dependence. I think you cross over into the latter, to be honest."
He glared at her. "And you'll get the same answer from me every time you bring this up. I don't want my damn pain managed. I want it gone."
"I know you do. With a good specialist we can find a regimen that will bring you a significant amount of relief without destroying your health or your ability to work, and help you avoid relapses in the future." She reached out, took his hand in hers once more. "I know someone, he took good care of my father's pain. I trust him. He's the best at what he does. Keep that tucked away in the back of your mind while you're thinking about this." She squeezed his fingers gently. "You need to rest. While you do that I'll call Nolan and let him know what's going on."
"Shit." Greg exhaled, slow and long. "Yeah, okay."
She waited until he was asleep; then she went into her study and made the call. "Damn," Darryl said when she gave him the news. "I had a feeling." He sighed. "Sending him back to his old workplace was a mistake on my part. No one there seems to understand how fragile he is emotionally, because he's so good at convincing people he's an unredeemable jerk."
"I'd like to have him detox here-I mean, at the hospital down the road—Holy Redeemer." She held her breath.
"Absolutely not." Nolan spoke sharply. "He's under my care, I have to supervise any medical treatment he receives."
"He says he won't do rehab or go back to Mayfield," Dana said. "Having him get sober here might be the only way we'll get him off the Vicodin."
Nolan did a slow exhale. "I see. That complicates things." He was silent a moment. "He'll need a doctor's supervision."
"I know a physician who's had extensive experience with this kind of thing. He'd be willing to help out and he has privileges at Redeemer. If I could set it up, would you consider it then? I'll have him give you a call."
"That's acceptable," Nolan said finally. "You sure you can handle this?"
"Yes," Dana said. "I can reschedule my appointments without too much trouble. I know this won't be easy, but I'm willing to do it if Greg is."
"All right," Nolan said abruptly after another brief silence. "But I want constant progress reports if he decides to do this, otherwise the deal's off."
"Not a problem," Dana said. "When he wakes up I'll tell him and if he's ready, he'll call you."
"How is he?" Nolan asked quietly.
"Scared. Exhausted. In pain."
"Not surprising. All right. Let me know what he decides."
[H]
Greg rises to consciousness slowly and finds he's clean and in a warm bed, and someone sleeps next to him. He knows it's Dana. She took him in; he still can't get over the shock of it. She took him in and she's given him a choice. Of course he knows there's really no choice. If he wants his life back again he has to detox. The thought fills him with a terror so profound he chokes on it and coughs, as he tries to get his constricted chest to loosen up.
"Shhh . . ." Gentle hands bring him back against a warm body. "It's all right, love. You're all right."
"No I'm not," he groans, "dammit, I'm not," and he burrows into her embrace. For a long time he struggles against the fear. It looms over everything, the knowledge that he'll fight so much they'll have to restrain him; his damn thigh will send ice-pick stabs of agony up into his head as his muscles spasm, he'll vomit until there's nothing left, not even bile, and then he'll dry heave and his ribs will ache for days and days; the fever will come and go, to make him sweat and freeze by turns. But far worse is the need, the driving, relentless and desperate urge for the drug that goes beyond the pain-relief function and is nothing but physical addiction. And the pain, with nothing to relieve the pitted, rusty edge of the blade. That is what he fears the most.
"Darryl says we can set up a room for you at the hospital down the road," Dana says after Greg tells her what he fears; she coaxed the truth out of him as only she can do. "I know a physician with privileges there, he's helped quite a few people with detox. He'd be willing to supervise. You'd be in a safe environment, and I'll be there with you every step of the way."
"I can't do this," he says against her thick hair. The soft strands flutter under his breath. "I can't do this."
"You won't be alone. I'll be with you," she says again.
"You don't want that," he says. "I'll say things—do things—"
"I know." She rubs his arm gently. "It doesn't matter. I'll stay anyway."
"Why?" he says, bewildered at her behavior. "Why bother?"
"Because you are dear to me," she says. "And you're worth it."
He lies there silent, not knowing what to say. She's wrong, he knows she is.
"I'm not wrong," she says with that uncanny ability she has at times, to read his mind. "You're worth it, Gregory." She kisses his chest. "Tell me what you're afraid of."
"Cold turkey," he says, his face hidden in her hair. Her hand strokes his arm, a slow, tender gesture.
"Maybe we can put you in a medical coma," she says. "I'll talk with Darryl. There's no reason why you have to go through this awake and in pain."
Just for that suggestion alone he loves her more than life itself, though he knows the chances are slim to none that it'll happen. "'m hungry," he mumbles. She continues to caress him.
"What would you like?"
His belly is empty but nothing sounds good, so he chooses a food he knows will stay down and not give him indigestion. "Cereal."
"Okay. I think there's something in the cupboard, cornflakes or wheaties, that all right?" When he nods she sits up and holds out her hand. "Vicodin please."
He stares at her. There's a knot in his gut now, dread and anger tied together. "No."
"When I'm out of the room, it goes with me." She looks at him with those luminous eyes; worry and affection shines out of them. "You can have it back when I come in, I give you my word."
"You don't trust me," he accuses.
"Once—just once—I left the room when there were medications within my father's reach. When I came back he had taken them all. Later on he said that one moment he was fine, the next he just took them." Her soft voice quivers the way it did earlier, and he knows then she's frightened—not of him, but for him. "Please, Greg."
It is difficult to give her the bottle, but he manages it because he knows she's right. When he does she leans in and kisses him. "Back with cereal," she says.
Five minutes later she comes in with a tray, two bowls, a jug of milk and two boxes of cereal. She sets the tray on the bed and puts the bottle next to it. He pushes it toward her with a hand that shakes enough to make the pills rattle. "You hang onto it," he says. "I'll . . . I'll ask for it when I need it. You're not enabling me, you're keeping me safe." Every cell of his body is screaming at him not to do this, but what's left of his rational mind begs him to take away that last temptation to end the torment once and for all. Dana lowers her gaze; then she slowly puts the bottle in her pocket.
"All right," she says. "We have corn flakes and Coco-Puffs, your choice." He looks at the cereal and it hits him. He begins to chuckle weakly, he can't help it. Dana doesn't get it at first. Then she glances at the cereal and the joke registers. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "Oh, stop it. You're not a flake and you're not cuckoo," she says. He takes the Coco-Puffs box and dumps a bunch into the bowl, pours some milk on it, grabs a spoon and digs in.
He feels better with some food in his belly. It's even nicer when Dana snuggles with him afterward. He winds a strand of her honey-gold hair around his finger, delights in the silken feel of it against his skin. "I have to do this, don't I?" he says after a long, peaceful silence. Dana kisses the join of his neck and shoulder.
"Yes," she says. "But you still have to choose it for yourself, love." Her arms hold him as if he's something to treasure. "If you need incentive, think about it this way . . . we have so many adventures waiting for us, and I can't wait to explore them with you."
He can't believe what he's just heard. "Why would you want to be with . . . with someone like me?"
"I don't want to be with someone like you, I want to be with you," she says.
He groans. "Come on, you know what I mean."
"Because you're dear to me," she says, and rests her cheek on his chest, above his heart. It's a phrase she uses with him frequently, and it offers reassurance as well as puzzlement and a hope in which he cannot allow himself any faith.
"Therapy ends sooner or later," he has to point out.
"That's true. But being together can last as long as we want it to."
That sounds inviting, far better than platitudes about responsibility or his health or how he's disappointed everyone around him. To imagine a future where he isn't alone and in pain, where someone actually seeks out the opportunity to be with him . . . Maybe it's a total fantasy, but it's better than killing himself by inches.
"Okay," he murmurs at last, and surrenders to the inevitable, scared but determined. "Okay."