NOTE #1:
I would like to thank TheGodmother2 for generously lending me her awesome character Dr. Bob Chandler for this and a few future chapters. To the best of my ability, I have maintained Bob's original characterization and have not added or modified any background or characterizing information about him.
Thank you, Godmother!
NOTE #2:
I know I was slow this time. With turkey-cooking and tree-decorating and family birthdays, as well as general creative malaise and excessive laziness, I got behind.
The next four weeks promise to be totally hellish, so I can't guarantee a chapter a week, though I will certainly try. This is one of my busiest times of year at work. So thanks for hanging in there and for putting some friendly pressure on. The chapters might be delayed, but rest assured, they are coming.
Chapter 38
Not ten minutes after Walt leaves, I'm upstairs in the bathroom giving myself a left-handed wet-wipe bath when there's a knock at the door.
I roll my eyes in part because I'm only in my underwear, the clavicle contraptions, and a dirty tank top, and I am physically incapable of just throwing something else on.
In other part, the way he left didn't exactly endear me to him.
Opening the front door, I say, "What the fuck, Wa . . . ," only to startle at the sight of Ruby with her brow crinkled in confusion and the pale morning sunlight glowing behind her.
A scorching pain sizzles through my shoulder and chest, and shoves all the air out of me.
"Ruby," I say, all wheezy. "Sorry. I thought . . . ."
"It's okay, Vic," she says, noticing then promptly ignoring my state of undress. She dismisses the apology with a sympathetic smile and a wave of her hand. "May I come in?"
"Of course," I say.
She puts her purse down on the chair Walt was sitting in fifteen minutes ago.
"I hope I'm not intruding."
Beads of perspiration form on my upper lip. Apparently my physiology thinks I'm hiding a dismembered body beneath the floorboards.
"No intrusion," I say, though it comes out sounding suspicious.
"How are you, hon?" Ruby asks, genuinely concerned, her warm hand on my good arm.
"It hurts a little."
"Looks like it," she says in a way that tells me that's not what she was asking.
I direct her towards the coffee then go upstairs to put my sweats on, fixating the entire time on why she's here and how much she knows. When I get back, she's sitting at the table.
I sit down across from her, and she reaches over and takes my left hand.
"I want you to hear me, Vic, and afterwards I want you to take some time to consider what I'm telling you."
"Okay," I say, bracing myself.
She's here to defend Walt's honor.
"What happened out at Van der Horn's yesterday," she says, squeezing my hand and maintaining eye contact, "is nothing to sneeze at."
I agree, but without confirmation that she really does know what it is that doesn't warrant sneezing, I'm holding out.
"Ferg was still distressed last night," she says, "and he wasn't the one to pull the trigger."
She knows, and she must sense my desire to get up, to run, because she releases my hand. My heart palpitates against the stiff canvas of the sling.
"You're not Walter, Vic, and you're not Branch."
"Thank God for that, right?"
She shakes her head, rejecting my lame attempt at levity.
"I don't want to see you self-destruct the way they have."
"Walt's doing okay now," I say, deflecting.
"He is," she says, and she pauses, editing, deleting critical material. "He's doing much better."
I nod and look down at my lonely left hand in my lap.
"I love the man dearly," she says, "but there was a time I didn't expect he'd get through it."
"Branch still hasn't," I say.
"That's right. Something to ponder."
"So after pondering, then what?"
"Then you concentrate on getting well before you concern yourself with anything down at the station." She watches me, waiting for that to sink in. "You care for yourself before you try to care for anyone else."
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"I do plan to get the surgery. If the insurance covers it," I say.
"Well, if you'll let me help you, we can get that figured out this morning."
"I'd like that, Ruby," I say, and for some reason, I start to tear up.
I wipe my eyes, and when I put my hand back down on the table, she takes it between both of hers.
"The collarbone's the easy part," she says, and she pats my hand before letting go again.
After we determine that Blue Cross will in fact cover the surgery, I make an appointment with Dr. Storkan for early afternoon. Then Ruby checks the fridge and the cupboards and makes a list while I read through the Employee Assistance Program pamphlet she brought.
"You know how to use it?" she asks, writing something down.
"Yeah. Sean and I went to marriage counseling once. All the way over in Gillette."
She looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. "Couldn't find a counselor in Durant?"
"He wanted to be discreet."
"Is that right?" she says. Sean wasn't her favorite person.
On her way out, Ruby tells me Ferg will be by in the evening with some groceries.
"He doesn't need to do that," I say.
She stops and turns to me.
"All four of you were there yesterday, Vic. This is everyone's problem."
I think about Branch and how we all acted like David Ridges was just his own weird obsession, his personal problem, like his descent into insanity had nothing to do with us.
Funny how we call it a shame as if the shame doesn't belong to anyone in particular.
It's a one mile walk to the med center, mostly on the gravel road that runs behind the housing complex. My shoes are untied, the laces tucked into the uppers, and I'm wearing Sean's old faded and frayed Steelers sweatshirt with only the left sleeve inhabited.
I look like a homeless, barrel-chested amputee with oily hair.
My appointment with Dr. Storkan is quick and to-the-point. The surgery is scheduled for Monday morning with one night in the hospital afterwards. Someone needs to drop me off and pick me up. In other words, I can't arrive and leave on foot. Depending on how I respond, I should be out of the sling within a week or two, and finished with the PT in four to six.
I'm almost half way home when I get this sharp pang of guilt.
I fish the EAP pamphlet out of my back pocket and look at the maps on the back. There are psych services clinics in Sheridan, Gillette, Douglas, and Rapid City, South Dakota.
The one in Durant is in the south wing of the medical building I just left.
I turn around and walk back.
To work up my nerve, I sit down on a cement bench in the courtyard outside the clinic, playing Flappy Bird left handed. I actually manage to get through seven pipes before my phone rings, freezing my progress.
It's the Sheriff's Department, and this time I feel justified in not answering. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that no one's safety depends upon me answering the phone right now, and without question, I am not on duty.
The waiting room is totally empty yet somehow still claustrophobic. Even the receptionist's area is vacant. I stand there tapping my fingers on the counter for a few seconds, checking out the three framed prints of beach scenes they must have picked up from a garage sale at Motel 6.
I make a deal with myself: If nobody shows up by the time I count to sixty, I can leave, and I almost make it. Just as my shoulder hits the door to push it open, from behind me, I hear, "Can I help you with something?"
"Crap," I say, turning back towards the counter.
He's like 6'3" and kind of puffy, and he's wearing one of those cowboy shirts with the pearl snaps that Walt wears. This guy, however, clearly has a relationship with the iron.
"Wendy's out at lunch," he says, coming around the counter.
"It's like 3:30," I say, backing up against the partially open door.
He smiles, and I have to admit, it's one of the more believable ones I've seen.
"Late lunch," he says.
"No problem. I can come back."
"Do I know you?" he says, his voice like a backseat sub-woofer rumbling through the tiny room.
"No."
"You're the deputy, right?"
I just stare up at him.
"Sarah Palin has those glasses," I say. Seriously, don't ask.
He grins a little, like he's played this game before.
"Rimless?" he says. "I prefer the Stephen Colbert association."
Well played.
"I'm Dr. Chandler," he says, holding out his big-ass hand.
"You're kidding, right?" I say.
He nods towards my left arm. "That one works, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, but I haven't washed it in days."
He laughs and drops his arm. "Fair enough."
"My next session's at five," he says.
"Cool."
"We could sit down, let Wendy get your information afterwards."
"You on commission or something?"
This time he doesn't respond, just looks at me like he understands exactly what I'm doing and like I can go right ahead and keep doing it.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay," he says as though that's what he was expecting me to say the whole time.
I follow him through the door at the rear of the waiting room.
His office furnishings make me feel mentally ill. There's a couch, but the way couches have figured into my life recently, I opt for one of the overstuffed chairs. Chandler sits across from me.
He presses the tips of his fingers together, sideways surface tension, then he raises his eyebrows, waiting.
I finally say, "I need help."
He nods.
"That's not something that comes out of your mouth too often," he says.
"How do you know?"
He points down at my shoes. "Untied."
"And?"
"And there's no car in the parking lot."
"What does that tell you? Maybe someone dropped me off."
"Did someone drop you off?" he asks.
I hate him.
"No," I say.