Note #1:
So I had big plans for wrapping this sucker up during my time off over the holidays. Though I have had joyful and adventurous bonding opportunities with my loved ones, I only ended up with about four seconds of *me* time over the past two weeks. This was going to be the week devoted to writing, but alas, I am now Juror #6 on a $%&# !* criminal case that promises to be long and drawn out. There is a possibility that when I share with the prosecution my views on the central subject of the case, I will be booted, but I'm not counting on it.
Therefore, since I return to work next Monday, this story will probably never end.
Note #2: A huge thank you to TheGodmother2 for the use of Dr. Chandler, who still belongs entirely to her. ; ) This may be his final act.
Note #3: Thank you to all of you for sticking with me!
Chapter 43
Depending on how you look at it, Dr. Shroeder either has awesome or terrible timing.
Walt exhales audibly, then stands up and shakes Shroeder's hand. "Doc."
"Sheriff. Haven't seen you in a while."
"How's Harv?"
"Still plugging along. Turns eighty-five next month."
"Give him my regards, would you?"
"Will do," Shroeder says, turning to me. "Remember me, Victoria?"
"We talked on the phone," I say. He looks familiar, too, but it might be because he's every guy the unsolicited singles website ads believe I should want.
"And we met in the operating room."
"Yeah," I say, but I can't imagine I'd be expected to remember that.
"So how's the shoulder feeling?" he says.
"I don't know."
"That's a good sign. We'll just remove the sling and look under the dressings, okay?"
"Okay," I say.
He starts loosening the shoulder strap while Walt watches from the end of the bed.
Once the sling is off, Shroeder backs up and says, "There. How's that?"
My shoulder is stiff, but it seems to be back in the right place and properly attached.
"It's not floating anymore," I say.
"That'll be the most noticeable improvement at this point. You're fortunate it was a clean break, right in the middle of the shaft. Straightforward surgery."
"Wasn't she supposed to spend a night?" Walt asks, kind of off topic if you ask me.
I'm formulating a response, but with the anesthesia-induced cognitive delays, I don't get it out before Shroeder says, "For something like this it's usually not necessary. Since the risk of infection is much greater here than at home, we like to send patients home as soon as possible."
As he removes the bandages, I can feel the tugging of the tape and the pressure of his fingers on my chest, but there's no sensation in the skin.
He holds a mirror up so I can see the incision, which is painted sloppily in brownish-yellow iodine, but aside from that, is a lot less Frankenstein than I expected. It's maybe four inches long and not much wider than a strip of dental floss.
"Will it leave a scar?" I ask.
"Not much of one," he says. "Should be numb for another five or six hours, but when the procaine wears off, the area will be sore. We'll give you something for pain and swelling."
"No Vicodin," I say. "It makes me crazy."
"Crazy how?"
"Dreams."
"It can do that. We don't generally prescribe a narcotic at this point anyway, just an anti-inflammatory with pain management properties. You'll have some discomfort, but nothing like the bone-on-bone pain you've been experiencing for the past few days."
"When does the plate come out?" Walt asks.
"Maybe never. If it doesn't present a problem, we leave it in. If there's ongoing tenderness, we consider removing it twelve or so months post-surgery."
He hands Walt a piece of paper. "This outlines the postoperative management. Most important is to keep the incision clean and protect the fracture repair. Always wash hands thoroughly before dealing with the wound. Follow the instructions for removing the tape and the dressing. Using either saline or soap and water . . ."
I start to zone out and miss most of the information about cleaning the incision and all of the guidelines for taking a shower.
When Walt notices I've drifted off, he squeezes my foot and winks at me. I give him this drugged-out grin that would probably embarrass me if I wasn't feeling all glowy and love-drunk.
Shroeder looks up from the paper at me and then at Walt.
"She'll need help at home then," Walt says.
"She'll be able to manage. At this point, she needs time more than she needs help. Though again, care should be taken to protect the injured shoulder. And no driving until you're cleared."
"I don't have a car," I say. "When can I go running again?"
"Running won't have a negative impact on your healing, but falling will, so for now stick to walking. You can do that as soon as you feel up to it. Keep in mind, a fall will set you back months and almost definitely worsen the original injury."
Shroeder pulls a pad out of the pocket of his white coat and starts scribbling on it, then hands Walt the prescription.
"The Sheriff can fill you in on whatever you missed. I'll see you in about ten days for suture removal. In the meantime, if there are any problems, especially signs of infection, call me right away."
"Got it," I say.
"Fiona will help you get dressed," he says to me. To Walt, he says, "She can walk, but you'll need to keep her steady."
Walt nods, and gives me the half-smile.
"I'll take good care of her," he says.
Saturday, 1:15 PM
"Walt Longmire?"
"You know him?" I asked, wary.
"In a small town, everyone knows the sheriff, don't they?"
"So you know him?"
"Yes, I know him."
For the first time in the ninety minutes of our acquaintance, I wasn't sure I trusted Chandler.
"How?"
"Not as well as I know you," he said, conveniently misunderstanding.
"So he came to you like I'm coming to you?"
"You know even if he had, Vic, I couldn't disclose that to you. But keep in mind if I know you better and you're only on your second session, then—"
"Well, good luck not judging me now."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, searching my face for who knows what.
"Do I sound as though I'm judging you?"
He didn't. In truth, he sounded just as neutral and chill as he did about everything else.
"If I were," he said, "what do you suspect my judgment would be?"
"That it's unprofessional to sleep with the boss. That it makes me some kind of skank."
"Skank? That's a bit harsh don't you think?"
"I'm a harsh critic."
"Does Absaroka County have policies against interoffice relationships?"
"No. Don't you work for the County?"
"Not directly. Nothing about interoffice relationships with an imbalance of power?"
"He told me there wasn't. I haven't checked myself, but I believe him."
"He's a powerful man," he said as if he was just throwing it out there, as if it were just some random idea among many equally significant random ideas.
"He is," I said, that bite in my voice. "What's your point?"
"Maybe that's the source of some of your insecurity? Some of the preaching from the dreams?"
"I'm sure it is. But he's been helping me out with that by acting like an ass."
"When he acts like an ass, as you say, it doesn't feel so much like he's out of your league?"
"I guess, yeah. He doesn't seem so perfect."
"So it was Walt that got so upset with you yesterday morning."
"Yup."
"Because of what you said."
"I said it to a prisoner. But he was already mad at me."
"Mad?"
"Acting mad. I think he was hurt more than mad, though. I've seen him do this before."
"You think he was being unreasonable."
"I do. It wasn't fair. It's like suddenly because we're sleeping together, the rules have changed. Like he expects me to not act like me just because we've had sex."
"Is it possible you're expecting him to not act like him?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've seen him do this before. Maybe it's what he does when he feels especially vulnerable emotionally."
The rumbling, pop-popping of a mufflerless Harley out on the road entered the conversation, shaking the windows as it passed, buying me time. A few seconds later came another, and another, and another two or three at once, and finally one more, the runt of the pack.
Once they were entirely out of earshot, I said, "I saw him be a total dick to his daughter a couple of years ago. She was hurting, and he couldn't see it. Kicked her out of his office. It was ugly, but it didn't make me hate him. I felt bad for him. I knew he felt betrayed even though it wasn't really about him."
It occurred to me that now maybe I was betraying him by revealing this weakness that really is a weakness as opposed to his other "weaknesses" that can just as easily pass as strengths.
"He's definitely unreasonable at times. Not that often, but sometimes. But it never seems to me like he thinks he's doing the right thing. He knows he's being a jerk."
"Do you think he knows he's being a jerk now?"
"He probably does. I think he's really hurt."
"How so?"
"I think he's afraid of loss, and it makes sense considering his past. But I can't tip-toe around that fear. I've always been more sensitive to Walt's feelings than almost anyone else's, including my own. I swear to God I'll treat him with care, but if I cater to that fear, this'll just end up being some pseudo-relationship based on protecting one person's heart as opposed to building a life together that's about both of us."
"Do you want to build a life with him?"
"Yes. I mean, if he wants that yes. We haven't talked about any of that."
"What are your limits?"
"He can be mad at me, and he can be hurt, but I'm not going to kiss his ass if he shuts me out. I'll talk to him about anything, and I'll listen to him, and I'll do my best to see things from his point of view. I'll change what needs changing as long as it doesn't require me to be someone fundamentally different."
"So you'd be willing to modify some of what you say."
"I can talk less of the shit that is likely to hurt him, but I won't go chasing after him."
"That's a boundary."
"Is it an unreasonable boundary?"
"Doesn't sound unreasonable to me, but what it sounds like to me doesn't mean much."
He holds my hand as we drive through the gloom of the overcast afternoon. I'm disoriented by the cloud cover, by the absence of the Bighorns backdrop, by the immediacy of what's right in front of us. He glances at me, his expression tender, but unsure.
Neither of us speaks.
At home, he takes off his jacket and his hat. I stand at the kitchen counter, drink a glass of water, and watch Rufus run his laps, stirring up dust into the dust-colored air.
Walt comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, gently pressing the front of his warm body into the back of mine.
"Did you trash your desk?" I ask.
"No," he says, resting his chin on my good shoulder. "I trashed yours."
I try not to smile, but I can't help it.
"I'm still super sleepy," I say, turning around in his arms. "All I do is sleep."
His eyes, almost gray in the low light, are intense, gathering data, processing.
"I can go, Vic," he says. "I can come back later. Or tomorrow. If you want."
"No." I take his hand, entwine our fingers. "Stay. Just keep it in your pants, okay?"
"Okay," he says, following me into the living room, clearly trying to suppress the teenager grin he reserves for these moments. "But now it knows you're thinking about it."
Resisting the urge to engage, I ask, "You all right with the floor?"
"Sure."
We lie down together, on top of one sherpa blanket and under another. Shoulder to shoulder, on our backs, we both gaze up at the darkening ceiling.
When we've been like that for a while and I'm just sinking into the upper inches of sleep, he says, "Do you remember what you told me?"
"Yeah," I say. "I remember."
In the silence that follows, I hear Maggie's faint, calm voice. She laughs, and Rufus barks once, then Duke yells something, then Maggie laughs and Rufus barks.
"Are you sorry you said it?"
"No. It's the truth. It's been the truth." I turn to look at him, at the silhouette of his long nose and his strong jaw. "You knew it anyway, didn't you?"
"I don't know what I knew," he says like he's back there in his mind, observing. "It felt like it sometimes, but I didn't allow myself to think about it. Until recently."
I close my eyes and listen to his voice, so soft and so deep.
"At the hospital, after Chance, I figured maybe," he says. "The way you kiss me, though, and the way you look at me after. Then I think I knew."
"So why get all panicky?"
"Because I know. Because it seems so valuable, and I get hung up on the idea of losing it."
"We will lose it, Walt. We lose everything eventually. It might be next week or it might be forty years from now, but this will end."
He turns on his side and moves closer, long arm across my hips. "I know, Vic."
"I don't want to waste it while we have it. I want us to be healthy and do it right, as equals. I want to create something that works for both of us."
He lifts his head, props it on his hand and looks down at me, half of his face in shadow. "Did you feel pressured by me?" His tone says it's a hard question for him to ask. "Did I come on too strong?"
"God no, Walt." I touch his cheek, feel the sandpaper texture that will will turn into stubble by tomorrow morning. "I wanted it. It was painful how much I wanted it. You handled it perfectly. I just didn't expect it to happen yet. I was working on stuff, trying to be better just in case, but I was thinking the just in case scenario was like a year down the road. You caught me off guard, that's all."
"You don't have to be better."
"For me I do."
"Maybe Van der Horn saved us from crashing and burning."
"That's a revolting idea, but it might have some truth to it. We were pretty consumed."
"The sex is distracting," he says. "Incredible, but distracting."
"It was distracting long before it ever happened."
"You thought about it?"
"In so much graphic detail I should be ashamed."
He scoots in a little closer. Our bodies are touching shoulder-to-toe, and his nose grazes my cheek.
"You'll tell me about it at some point?" he asks, his breath hot on my neck.
"I'll act it out for you. All of it."
He runs his thumb over my bottom lip.
"I can wait," he says.
I feel him against my thigh.
"Thank you," I say. "It won't be long. I promise."
Night has fallen now—no moon or stars, just barren, wild darkness outside the sliding glass door.
He puts his head down and runs his hand lightly over my good arm.
"I love you, too, Vic. I've been in love with you."
He yawns, and then I yawn.
"But you knew that," he says.
"I think I did."