by B. E. Baker
I want to strangle Rob freaking Graham. Because Geo just threw the closest thing I’ve seen from her to a temper tantrum at the thought of missing their date. Oldest friend? I don’t think so. And now I’m on the hook to hand deliver her to him in time for their weekly whatever it is. Or isn’t. Hopefully isn’t.
I don’t swear, and I don’t stomp. I calmly call my pilot and let him know I’ll be headed back to Atlanta within the hour. Then I walk upstairs as slowly as I can to throw some clothes in a bag. I’m proud of myself, because I don’t even hit or smash anything.
9
Geo
Brekka insists I keep her clothes and a pair of boots that were way too big for her when they arrived, but fit me perfectly.
“You could return them for a refund, surely,” I say.
She shakes her head. “But I won’t. I never mess with that stuff.”
The label inside says Prada.
“I can’t keep these,” I say. “They cost more than two months’ rent.”
Brekka laughs and the sound lightens my heart. I wish I could bottle it up for the hard days.
“You’re delightful,” she says. “And now there’s no way you aren’t keeping those boots.” She drops her voice until it’s barely more than a whisper. “I never had many friends you know, not girl friends, and not even that many boys.”
I frown. “I don’t believe you.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t. And now.” She gestures at her wheelchair. “It’s harder than ever to make friends. I hope I’ve made one this weekend.”
“I am your friend Brekka, even without boots so beautiful I want to run back up to my room and look at them until it’s time for bed.”
“But this way, even when my brother turns out to be more obnoxious than you can handle, I hope you’ll stay in touch with me.” She looks down at her lap. “Was that too ‘high school yearbook’ to say out loud? See? I don’t do great with new people.”
I lean over and pull her tightly against me into a hug and I’m surprised when my eyes water a little bit. “I don’t make friends easily either. For some reason, girls almost never like me.”
Brekka lifts one eyebrow and looks me up and down purposefully. “You don’t say. I have no idea why that might be the case.”
I shake my head. “I honestly have no clue. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I’m not someone most girls feel they can trust.”
When Brekka’s laugh rings out, even louder this time, I want to hug her again. But that would be weird, so I don’t.
“I’ll keep in touch,” I promise her. “I’m pretty good with texts. And if you ever get boots that are too big again, I’ll gladly send you a prepaid shipping label.” I wink.
She crosses her heart with her finger. “It’s a deal.”
Trig grabs my backpack before I can and swings it up and onto his shoulder. “Ready?”
I nod and follow him outside, only hobbling a little. My knee already feels worlds better. Which is good, since I’d really prefer Trig not need to carry me onto his jet. Talk about embarrassing. Not to mention, he can’t carry me home, obviously.
I don’t know what to say on the drive, and he doesn’t offer anything either. When his phone rings, it’s almost a relief. Now I can stare at the mounds of glistening white snow, piled up like unbelievable caches of diamonds on the side of the road, without having to cast about for something clever to say. Why should I care whether he thinks I’m witty in any case?
It’s better not to pull on some loose threads.
“Hello?” He’s quiet for a moment. “Uh huh. Oh, that’s great news. Don’t tell her though. I’ll do it.” He pauses again. “No, because it took me years to get her to even submit to that test and you idiots talk to her like she’s broken, that’s why. And no, I don’t care about HIPAA.” He shakes his head. “I said it’s good news, didn’t I?” Pause. “No, it is great news, I agree. But the reason I gave you my number instead of hers is that she won’t necessarily see it that way unless it’s presented properly.” Another pause. “I know you’re the experts. I don’t mean presented in a medically accurate way.” He huffs. “I didn’t bankroll your entire study so that you could bungle this. Just wait for me to contact you.”
He hangs up.
I don’t ask who called, no matter how much I want to know.
His hands tighten and then relax on the steering wheel. He exhales heavily. “That was Brekka’s neurosurgeon.”
“You seemed annoyed with him.”
“How the man graduated first in his class from Harvard Medical School is beyond me. He doesn’t understand the tiniest thing about Brekka’s feelings.”
I can’t quite keep myself from asking. “Was the news really good?”
He nods. “She’s a candidate for a new surgical procedure, one that could, possibly restore complete use of her legs.”
I gasp. “That’s not good news, that’s practically miraculous news. I heard that if a patient doesn’t regain function in the first two weeks or so, they probably never will.”
He cocks one eyebrow. “It’s more like six months, but that’s true. You know a surprising amount about spinal injury.”
I shrug. “Fiancé was a Marine, remember? They’re injured a lot.”
“It’s a little experimental.” His lips compress into a flat line.
“A little?”
“Okay, a lot experimental.”
“How long has it been since Brekka’s injury?”
“Four and a half years,” he says. “Which means it’s way too long for anything that isn’t experimental. The docs keep telling her she’s lucky. Some people don’t keep bowel control. Some people have zero mobility. She can’t walk more than a few steps, and she needs either arm braces or hand holds, but even without equipped bathrooms, she can maneuver from the chair to the toilet alone.”
“It doesn’t feel lucky.”
He shakes his head. “No. Being able to wiggle your toes and do very limited exercises with her legs doesn’t feel lucky at all. Brekka was six months from winning a gold medal before her accident. There was no question, Geo. She would have won at least one of her events, and she excelled at all of them. Such different sports, slalom and downhill, and she mastered both. She was the best skier I’d ever seen, and at the top of her game too.”
I think about Natalie sliding down the slopes like a seal and wonder what tiny little Brekka, delicate, fragile Brekka looked like carving up the snow.
“I know she’s small, but my sister was extraordinary.” He gulps. “She still is extraordinary of course, but I meant physically speaking, she had control of her body in a way most people will never understand. She knew exactly what each muscle twitch would do. She was graceful and always in complete control.”
I think about how she told me she’d crashed into the same tree as me. “She never ran into my tree, did she?”
He laughs. “No, that was a blatant lie. But the rest of us did at one time or another. She’s not kidding about that icy spot being irritating. She wasn’t laughing at you, I swear.”
I knew she wasn’t. It wasn’t something Brekka would do.
“So will she do the surgery?” I ask, already imagining Brekka walking around, dancing from one room to the next. My heart lightens at the thought. I’d love to see her in Prada boots just like these, scuffing the soles on cobblestones.
He shakes his head in frustration. “I doubt it.”
My jaw drops. “Why not?”
“Because you’re right. All the research says if she hasn’t regained function within a few weeks, odds are low. Or non-existent. Once you reach a year, most surgeons won’t even discuss surgical options without there being a change in status. Once the spinal cord is damaged, there’s not much they can do. But Geo, she can move her feet. Not much, and not for long, but there’s some function. It gave me hope. Enough hope that I can’t give up.”
Can’t give up? Or won’t accept who Brekka is now?
“I�
��ve found dozens of surgical options over the years. She always declines emphatically, insisting they’re more science fiction than reality. She claims the risks outweigh the benefits. She’s fine, she tells me. She doesn’t miss skiing. She likes her life.”
I think about it. I consider the little bit I know about his sister. “Maybe she does.”
I knew Trig wouldn’t want to hear it, and I’m right.
His head whips toward me. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Experimental surgery sounds risky. How would you feel if she never woke up?” My voice drops to a whisper. “If she not only didn’t walk again, but if she didn’t breathe again? If you never heard her laugh again? Could you live with yourself, knowing you pushed her?”
He swallows slowly, eyes trained on the road. “I don’t know. I like to think that God wouldn’t do that to me, to us. Not now, not after all we’ve been through.”
“I don’t think God works like that. Ever read the book of Job?” I ask. “That poor guy. Things just got worse and worse.”
“I’m not talking about the Bible, or like the Christian God or whatever. I’m just saying, if there’s anyone, or anything out there watching over us, and I like to think there is, I can’t imagine that he or she would let Brekka not wake up. Not after what she’s already overcome.” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “I have to fix it, Geo, because it’s all my fault.”
I reach across the console and place my hand on his. His knuckles relax slightly.
“I was driving that night. I’m the reason she’s paralyzed.”
“Were you drunk?” I ask. “Or impaired in any way?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Were you being reckless?”
He denies that too. “No, heck no.”
“Well then, it’s not your fault. When Mark was deployed, he had a chance to come home two weeks early if he took an especially dangerous mission. He called me and asked my opinion. Every single day he faced danger you and I don’t even understand. Libya’s still a mess, but it was beyond unstable then. He thought it was worth the risk to be home with me two weeks before the wedding. I told him he could do it.”
I stare out the window at the piles of clean snow. “That ate me up for years,” I whispered. “But you can’t let it. Brekka doesn’t blame you, and I finally decided that Mark wouldn’t want me to blame myself. We shouldn’t have taken that risk, but I can’t change a decision we made now that I’m faced with the consequences. All I can do is make better decisions in the future, safer ones, more informed ones. And Brekka has to make her own decisions too. She can’t live her life to help you feel better about yours.”
When I look back toward him, he’s scowling at the road.
“You have to let her decide, Trig. If she’s happy with her life, celebrate that and let go of your desire to fix things.”
“You can’t let one bad thing that happens scare you into quitting,” he says. “You and Brekka are both hiding.”
“You don’t even know me,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t argue, because it’s true. After that, we don’t talk the rest of the way to the airport.
I’m able to walk up to his shiny white jet on my own, but I don’t decline Trig’s hand when he extends it to help me up the stairs. His plane looks every bit as posh as I imagined it would inside. Huge tan leather chairs with little tables in between. Two sofas that look like they’d convert to beds near the back. A stewardess with an ear-to-ear grin who offers us drinks when we board.
I shake my head.
“No thanks Ivy, I’m good,” Trig says.
She disappears into the cockpit, maybe to keep the pilot company.
“Sometimes I forget you’re totally Richie Rich for like a second,” I say. “And then I look around at the lavish, private jet I’m sitting in and I’m like, whoa.”
Before he can reply, my phone rings. It’s Rob and I know he’s worried since I still haven’t even taken the time to text him back. I hit the green button. “Rob, I’m fine.”
“Thank goodness,” he says. “What’s going on? I saw that a blizzard hit Colorado and then I didn’t hear from you. I was about two hours from taking the next plane out there to assemble a search and rescue team. You know, with one of those fluffy St. Bernard dogs that carries hot chocolate in a little cask under its neck.”
With anyone else, I’d assume they were kidding. Rob probably had his bag packed and a friend or two on call.
“I’m sitting on a plane now,” I say.
“The lady I talked to said the first flights don’t leave for twenty minutes yet.”
“That’s right,” I tell him. “But I’m on one of the first ones out.”
“How’d you manage that?” he asks. “I figured peons like you and me would be the last ones to get through. Your new clients pull some strings for you?”
I glance over at Trig, who’s smiling at me. “Something like that.”
“We still on for tomorrow, then?”
I bob my head before I realize he can’t see me. “No, yeah, we are. I’ll be there. Same bat time, same bat station.”
“Great. See you then. I’ve missed your voice.”
“Me too,” I say, and it’s true.
Rob shores me up at my foundation. He always has, ever since we played that first game of kickball on Racine Street. He body checked a kid who slammed me in the face with a ball, and then helped me stand up. He’s been doing the metaphorical equivalent ever since. When I fell in love with his best friend Mark, he cheered us on. And when Mark died, well. Rob kept my head up until I could tread water myself again, all while dealing with his own grief and his recovery. I missed Rob anytime I went without talking to him for more than a day or two.
“Was that Rob?” Trig asks.
I giggle. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he says. “Just curious.”
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
“It’s going to be a pretty long flight,” Trig says. “You going to take a nap?”
I crack one eye open. “Should I not?”
He taps his fingers on his armrest. “You can, absolutely. But then you might have trouble sleeping at home tonight.”
I sit up. “True. What did you have in mind instead? I figured you’d be counting your money, or painting something in quick drying molten gold.”
“Quick drying gold?” he asks. “Actually, I should look into that. I bet Natalie could promote it for me. The newest line of designer nail polish. Only $5,000 per ounce.”
I roll my eyes. “We all know she would welcome your call.”
“Which is one of the many reasons she’ll never hear from me,” he says.
“What were you planning, then?”
“How about a game to pass the time?”
“Please tell me you aren’t thinking truth or dare,” I say.
“I wasn’t, but now that you mention it.” He shifts closer. “Which would you pick?”
“I don’t play that kind of game.”
“What kind do you play?” he asks.
“Do you like chess?”
His eyes light up. “I do, even more than Monopoly, in fact. I actually have a chess set on the plane.”
Why am I not surprised the math whiz likes chess? He stands up and walks across to a cabinet. He comes back with a wood carved chess board. When he sets it in front of me, I see it’s actually quite cleverly made, with carved pegs in the bottom of each piece that fit into spaces on the board so they won’t fall over or slide in turbulence.
He sets the board up on the table in between our seats. “White or black?” he asks, his eyes gleaming.
I don’t mention that I won the Kids Chess Federation National tournament three years in a row. It doesn’t seem relevant. But when he suggests we make the game more interesting, I don’t turn him down, either.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Winner gets a
boon?”
“A boon?” I ask. “Did we get sucked into a medieval portal? Do you mean a favor?”
He grins at me. “Yes, a small favor from the loser. Anything within the power of that person to grant.”
“Done,” I say. “I wonder what I’ll ask for. Maybe a new car. Or I know, a month at your chateau outside of Paris.”
He smirks. “I don’t have a chateau anywhere. That’s like a castle owned by nobility, which I know because I’ve met some of those snobs.”
“Cottage, log cabin, apartment, I’m not picky. I just want to eat my weight in crepes.”
“Well, unfortunately I don’t have a chalet or a cottage or anything of the kind near Paris. The people are too rude, and I get sick of food made with too much butter after a few days. But I do have an amazing villa in Florence. I’m not sure one chess game merits a month, but a long weekend, sure. And if you win and you get lonely over there, I can eat my weight in gelato, for the record.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet you can.”
I make the opening move, relishing the thought of making him squirm. Time slows as we both focus on the board, one move at a time, our brains whizzing many more ahead.
By the time I figure out his plan, it’s too late. I’m glad I didn’t mention my past success when he beats me.
“You’re kidding me,” I grumble. “I’m clearly rusty.”
He stretches, his hands clasped and reaching far out in front of him. The way his lean frame arches up and out sends a little zing down my spine. I want to reach out and run one hand from his shoulder down to his forearm and interlace our fingers.
I sit back abruptly.
“I guess that weekend in Italy is out,” he says. “And now the question is, what does Trig want from Geo?”
His eyes meet mine and shift downward, slightly, until he’s staring at my mouth. I lick my lips compulsively, remembering the slopes in Vail.
“What do you want?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry. “What could the man who already has everything possibly want from a poor little event planner?” I bat my eyes at him. “Isn’t my pride enough?”
