Worth the Fall

by Mara Jacobs

  As always when they scrapped—which was pretty much whenever they were together—one of them went just a step too far and the other one quit. It was pretty much a running tie on who quit first.

  Not that he kept score or anything.

  She looked like she wanted to defuse the situation, to put the pin back in the grenade. He silently willed her to—to distract him, to stay with him. And it looked like she was going to. Her hand slid down his arm and, took his huge hand in her tiny one. He turned his over so her palm fit in his, gave hers a small squeeze and looked into her eyes.

  And for a moment—just one, tiny moment—all their bullshit fell away and she smiled at him. Really smiled at him. And for just that moment, there was no pain.

  And then she looked at their surroundings. A hospital bed. Holding hands. Fear. Pain. He saw the moment her mind went back there. Then something old, and familiar, flashed in her eyes and she stepped away from him. Slipped her hand from his. Removed the soft look from her eyes.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” she said. Then she gathered her things and walked away from him.

  Four

  Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.

  ~ Sigmund Freud

  “And you know how much I hate it when my mother calls.”

  Alison nodded agreement with her patient, prompting her to go on.

  Denise Casparich looked at Alison for only a moment then dove in to her weekly tirade about her mother. “Well, it’s just that she never listens….”

  She went on, but Alison’s mind wandered. That never happened with a patient—something in which she took great pride. Because lord knew, sometimes it wasn’t easy.

  But today, her mind was elsewhere. About two miles elsewhere. Across the bridge and at the hospital where Petey was probably just coming out of surgery.

  Alison could easily be there soon—be there when he woke up. She’d be leaving for the hospital as soon as her session with Denise was over. She’d taken this semester off from teaching Intro to Psych at Tech to be able to deal more with her parents’ situations. She only saw patients in the morning three days a week. It was the lightest schedule she’d ever had, but she was grateful to have the time now that she was shuttling from the hospital, to her mother’s home, to her own, back to the hospital, and now to her mother’s for the night.

  Although she wouldn’t need to be doing that much longer. Her sister Sherry had called just this morning and said she was able to come and stay with their mother for a few weeks. The absolute relief Alison felt also made her feel like crap.

  And even though she may shortly be in the same building as a recovering Petey, she knew she wouldn’t go to his room. Wouldn’t be amongst the ones wishing him well, arranging his pillows, or making sure he had some ice chips nearby.

  No. That was for his parents and Lizzie to do. Friends and family.

  To the outside world, she and Petey were great friends. They’d been part of the same circle for years, always part of the crowd every summer.

  Only they knew about the strain—or should that be stain?—on their relationship, which would never allow her the closeness he had with Lizzie, Zeke and Katie. Geez, Petey was even on speaking terms with Katie’s ex, Ron, again.

  “And I just can’t help but think I should be a better friend, you know?”

  Alison nodded agreement with her patient, then pulled herself out of her own thoughts. Oops. Denise was off the mother phone call. “Wait. What did you mean by that?”

  Denise looked at her like it was a trick question. “That I should be a better friend?”

  “Go on with that,” she said, motioning with her hand for Denise to go a little deeper.

  “Well, I mean, you know, being single and all.”

  “Mmm-hmm….” Alison mentally kicked herself for letting her mind wander. This may be something much more pertinent to Denise than her love-hate relationship with her mother. Not that the mother issue wasn’t fodder for many of their sessions—warranted or not.

  “When you’re single, your friends become your family.”

  “In many cases, yes. Go on.”

  “But it seems like all my friends have either just gotten married or are about to. I’m feeling…very….”

  “Left out,” Alison finished for Denise. Which she absolutely never did. And honestly, was she finishing Denise’s thought or her own? The situation might be babies instead of husbands, but there was no denying her tight circle of friends—yes, her family in many ways—was moving in a different direction. And Alison was feeling…what exactly was she feeling? Is that why she’d slept with Petey the night of Katie’s wedding?

  In the months since that night, she hadn’t allowed herself to even try to put the drunken pieces of the puzzle together let alone analyze why she’d done it in the first place.

  Enough. It wasn’t the time or place to be thinking about…Petey barely letting the heavy hotel door close behind them as he pushed her up against the wall of her room and started kissing her.

  “But why do you feel you need to be a better friend?” she asked Denise, trying to shake the flash of memory.

  “Because…maybe then….” She couldn’t finish, and this time Alison kept quiet. Denise was in her late twenties, and not originally from the U.P. She’d gone to Tech, fallen in love with the Copper Country, and decided to stay. Not entirely uncommon. Though most Tech grads with degrees in engineering found their way to larger cities.

  Not being a native, and with most of her classmates gone, Denise had a smaller group of friends in the area, who were now apparently marrying off.

  “How’s your sleep lately?” Alison asked, glancing at the small wooden clock on the end table. Time to wrap it up.

  Denise had a guilty look on her face as she said, “Fine.” Alison gave her a questioning glance, which made Denise turn her attention to the window.

  Alison paid more than she probably should for her office space, but it was high on a hill on the Houghton side of the bridge and had the most spectacular view of the Portage canal and lift bridge. In the fall, the colors of the Hancock trees were incredible. Even now, with the immense white blanket of snow and ice covering everything, it was breathtaking.

  Unless you were suffering from seasonal affective disorder, as Denise was. Then the frozen tableau could be seen as one incredibly long emotional jail cell.

  “Well, maybe not fine. But not as bad as last year.”

  “Did you try the special lamp I told you about? For light therapy?”

  “Not yet.”

  Alison nodded. She could lead the horse to water…. She continued to go through the things that she and Denise had identified in earlier sessions as behavioral goals. Each week she gave Denise a new strategy or tool for dealing with the issues they’d targeted.

  Denise had indeed used some of the tips Alison had given her during the previous week and seemed to feel they’d been beneficial.

  They talked for a few minutes more about what things Denise could try in the upcoming week. Alison rounded out the session by asking, “And have you seen your doctor lately? Talked with him about medication?”

  “Dr. Thompson? Yeah, he’s great, but, you know….”

  “There’s no shame in antidepressants, Denise. I know you know that.”

  “I do. I know. But, you know, my mother says I just need more exercise.”

  “Of course regular activity can help with SAD, but—”

  “Oh, wow, look at the time. I’ve got to get going. Thanks very much. I’ll see you next week?”

  “Of course,” Alison replied, rising to walk Denise to the “out” door. She waited quietly while Denise donned her boots, parka, hat and mittens. It would have been easier for her patients to leave their outerwear in the reception area, but then they’d have to go out that way. Alison had made sure when she’d rented the office space that there were separate doors so patients didn’t run into each other.

  A good practice for any therapist, b
ut particularly so in a small town where you were liable to see someone you knew. Whenever Alison took on a new patient, she always let them know that if she saw them out of the office it was up to the patient if they wished to acknowledge Alison or not. Almost always within the first few weeks she saw them in the aisle at Pat’s IGA or at a hockey game.

  Finally dressed for the freezing temperatures, Denise turned to Alison, seeming to want to say something, but eventually just pulled her knit cap further down on her head. Alison reached out and settled her hand on Denise’s arm. “Hang in there. Spring will come.”

  Denise only nodded her head, turned, and opened the outside door. The blast of arctic wind nearly felled the slight girl and Alison heard her whisper, “When?” to herself as she braved the cold and left the office.

  Alison shut the door on the wind and tidied up her office from the morning of patients. She washed out the used coffee mugs in the little kitchen off the reception area and dumped out what remained of the large pot of coffee she’d made this morning. She checked in the fridge to make sure she had plenty of cream, and looked in the cupboard for sugar. She eyed the different cookies and crackers she kept on hand, but the idea of food didn’t appeal to her.

  She returned to the office and fluffed up the pillows on the couch, then took her tablet, digital recorder, and files from the table next to her chair to her desk. It was on the opposite side of the large room from the sitting area of couch, two large comfy chairs, and end tables. No coffee table between her and her patients. No impediment to communicating, subliminal though it may be.

  She took her time entering her notes into each patient’s file. Often replaying parts of their conversations to make sure her interpretations at the time still held true.

  Stalling. That’s what she was doing. Plain and simple. Not wanting to leave her office for the hospital. Because even though she had absolutely zero intention of stopping by Petey’s room, she’d know he was there. And she just didn’t want to be tempted to swing by his room to see how he was doing.

  Finally, she had every note transferred to their electronic file. Then she pulled out the folders of each patient that was scheduled for her next morning. After that, she made her way to the door, put on her heavy coat, boots and gloves, and wrapped her long scarf around her neck several times.

  She told herself she was bracing for the cold like Denise had done. But as she walked out into the blustery afternoon, she knew she was bracing herself for much more.

  ***

  The blue of her bridesmaid’s dress shouldn’t have done for her skin what it did. Her dark Finn skin always looked hottest in yellows and reds. But Christ, the deep blue silk against her olive skin, made even deeper from her tan. He had to touch her. Had to touch that soft skin. Had to slide that blue strap off her shoulder…taste her…all of her….

  “Mr. Ryan? Can you hear me?”

  Of course I can hear you, baby. Say my name. Don’t call me Mr. Ryan. Why so polite now? Call me Petey when my hands are on you like this. Scream my name.

  “Mr. Ryan? It’s Dr. Thompson. Can you open your eyes?”

  Awww, fuck.

  Petey slowly opened his eyes, coming out of his drug-induced fog. He hoped like hell he wasn’t sporting wood and if so that his mom wasn’t in the room with him and the doc.

  He did a quick look around, and was grateful that it was just him, Doc, and Barb, the nurse who’d been with him in pre-op. He did a quick look down at Mr. Happy and was relieved to find that his dream, or haze, or whatever the hell it was, hadn’t yet made its way south.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Very well. Dr. Wright had to do more repairs than originally thought, so it took longer than expected, but I think you’ll be happy with the results.”

  Petey shot the doc a “yeah, right” look.

  “Eventually.”

  Petey raised a brow.

  “When you’re eighty and able to walk without a cane.”

  He chuckled at that, but it came out rough and raspy and hurt his throat. Which made him cough, which made him hurt.

  “Let’s get you some water. How’s the pain. Do you—”

  “Fine. The pain’s fine.”

  “Well, what we gave you will probably be wearing off shortly, maybe pretty soon with your size. We could—”

  Petey grabbed the doctor’s arm as he began to write something in his chart. “Doc. No pain meds. Do you understand? I am refusing all pain meds and I’d like you to put that in my chart.”

  The doctor stopped writing and looked at Petey. Really looked at him. It was all Petey could do to meet his gaze, but he did, not even mentally flinching. The doc was no dummy and he got it soon enough. Nodding, he wrote in the chart. “How about some Tylenol, if needed?”

  “Without codeine?”

  “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I’ll make a notation.” He finished writing and handed the chart to Barb, who did something with it near the end of the bed. He then looked at Petey again. “Dr. Wright will be in shortly to talk with you. He’s in another surgery, and then needs to head back to Marquette. He’ll want to give you some specific information about the surgery. The dos and don’ts, that sort of thing.”

  Petey nodded along. A knee brace for at least a week, maybe two. Shit, maybe a lot longer if it was as bad as the doc let on. Keeping it elevated whenever he sat. He knew the drill. Knew it a little too well, which is why he didn’t want to go anywhere near painkillers. After his last surgery a few years ago, he’d returned to the ice sooner than he probably should have and had gobbled the little bastards like candy just to get through the season.

  It hadn’t really gotten to problem proportions—thanks to Lizzie ransacking his house and flushing them all down the toilet then not leaving him alone for pretty much the next two weeks—but it’d had the potential to get out of hand. He wasn’t about to take any chances now, when he had the rest of his life gaping before him. He’d need all his faculties to make some decisions that he thought he’d had months for which to prepare.

  “Your parents and your friend are out in the family waiting area. It’s okay with me if you’d like to see them.”

  He sighed, looked around the room, and sighed again. “Yeah, it’s probably best to get it over with.”

  In seconds, his mom and Lizzie were flitting around him, fluffing pillows, checking on his ice-chip level. His father was at the foot of the bed, grilling Dr. Thompson and Dr. Wright, who’d arrived at the same time.

  “There’s over three months left in the season. He’ll be ready to go before then, right?”

  “Dad….”

  “I don’t think so, no,” Doctor Wright said.

  “But he’s had knee surgery before. Sure, the first one he had the entire off-season to rehab, but the second one, he was back on the ice in two months.”

  “Dad, will ya—” Petey halted as his father raised his hand in a “stop” motion. Ignoring Petey, he continued to stare down the doctor who had just ensured that his son would walk normally for the rest of his life.

  But that wasn’t quite as important to Dan Ryan as his son ending his NHL career in a blaze of glory—not finishing it in a heap at the bottom of the front steps.

  “It’s because of those earlier surgeries and all the damage done to his knee that he won’t be playing hockey again,” the doctor said to Petey’s dad. He then moved to the head of the bed and addressed Petey. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Ryan, but your professional hockey days are over.”

  “That’s okay, Doc,” he said with way more nonchalance than he felt. “I was going to hang ‘em up at the end of this season, anyway.”

  “What?” Lizzie said. That’s right. He hadn’t made it to her house last night to let her in on the news.

  “I told them this week. I’m done at the end of the season.” The room, which had already been quiet, fell absolutely silent. “Well. Yeah. I guess I’m done n
ow.” He tried to conjure up a grin, but it wouldn’t come.

  Lizzie reached out and took his hand, stroking it. His mother smoothed back his hair. The doctors nodded and conferred with each other.

  His father looked like his head would explode.

  “That wasn’t a final decision. We hadn’t finished discussing it. When you came back from Lizzie’s, we were going to talk about it some more.”

  “No, we weren’t.”

  “Yes, son, we most certainly were.”

  For the early part of his hockey life, Petey would have capitulated at this point. He might not have eventually gone along with his father, but he would have placated him for a while. Then there were the rebel years, his early and mid-twenties, when he would have just told his father to fuck off. But they’d turned a corner somewhere in there, and even though his father was still an emotional guy where his son’s hockey career was concerned, Petey was better able to understand and deal with him.

  “Dad,” he said softly, but firmly, and waited until his father was really looking at him. Really listening. “It was going to happen. But it doesn’t really matter now, anyway.” He waited, but his father just stared at him. Petey felt his father fighting it—hell, he had too when he realized he’d had enough of the bruising punishment. “Dad. I’m done.”

  His father looked at him for another few seconds and then nodded his head, but it was like he didn’t really see Petey. Nobody else said anything. Petey was about to try to break the mood when his father turned back to him, laid a hand softly on Petey’s foot, and said in a small voice, “How are you feeling, son? Are you in much pain?”

  That. Right there. That’s why even through their stage-father history, their screaming matches about Petey’s play in a particular game and their months of pouting after a fight like little kids…that was why Petey loved his father.

  Because his father loved him.

  “It’s not bad,” he lied to his father. His body felt like a log, except for his knee, which burned like a mother.

  Dr. Wright, who hadn’t been there when Petey’d briefed Dr. Thompson, said, “You’re bound to be in pain for quite some time. We’ll make sure you have—”