“Wade said he hurt you.”
“Wade said what?” I spluttered, nearly choking on my yogurt. I don’t know what I’d been expecting Dima to say next, but it sure as hell hadn’t been anything like that.
“He said he hurt you. You used to date him?”
“A long time ago, yeah.”
“Think he still loves you.”
“Not like that, he doesn’t. We’re friends now. We’re much better as friends.”
“What about us?” Dima asked. “Are we friends?”
“To be honest, I don’t know what we are.” And I knew even less about what I wanted us to be. “What do you think we are?”
“Fucked up.”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Tell me about your job.”
“What do you want to know about my job?” I asked, taking another bite and letting the burst of flavor explode on my tongue. Maybe I was starting to calm down, after all.
“Anything. Everything.”
“I coordinate programming at the Brookside Community Center,” I said. “I’ve got a degree in social work, and this is how I decided to put it to use. I schedule events for seniors, kids, support groups, and all sorts of other things. That’s where I met Evan, actually. He came in for some support group meetings for teens with disabilities. I told him about the Para-Pythons when I found out he was into hockey.”
“You go to lots of support groups?” he asked.
“I coordinate them. There are some I attend, but I’ve got a group of counselors who run the meetings for me, and some of them offer private counseling sessions from our facility.”
“What kind of meetings?”
“Everything you can think of. We’ve got groups for addicts, for families of addicts, for people with HIV, people with disabilities, people dealing with loss and grief… You name it, we probably have a support group for it.”
“Have any support groups for grumpy hockey players?”
“Hmm,” I said, tapping my finger on my chin even though he couldn’t see me. “I don’t know if I’ve got any support groups specifically for that, but I do have a couple you might think about.”
“What’s that?” he drawled, clearly not as amused by my sarcasm as I was.
“There’s one monthly for people dealing with grief. But I also have a meeting a couple of times a week for people to talk about their guilt and survivor’s remorse.”
He fell silent for so long I thought he might have hung up on me, once again running away. But then he said, “You go to the meetings?”
“Not those,” I replied, carefully weighing my words. “I leave it to my counselors to run the groups that don’t have any relevance for me. I usually go to the ones that have other people who’ve suffered traumatic injuries or who’re dealing with different sorts of disabilities, though.”
“Does it help?” he asked.
“It can, if you let it. Or it can be a complete waste of your time if all you want to do is push people away so you can run off alone to hide. You can do that on your own time without bothering with a support group.”
“When does group meet?” he asked, and I almost fell out of my chair. “The one for guilt.”
“Wednesday afternoons at two,” I said once I’d pulled myself back together. “Or Saturday evenings, if that would work better for you.”
“Team comes home on Tuesday. I’ll come Wednesday.”
“ONE LAST THING before everyone heads home,” our head coach, Doug Spurrier, said. Earlier this morning, we’d flown back from our abysmally bad road trip, but we’d had a film session and team meeting before they let us leave.
Spurs waited until everyone settled and looked at least halfway interested in whatever he had to say before going on. “Mr. and Mrs. Jernigan want to do something special for you boys this year, so we’re planning a moms’ trip in February when we play the California teams. So do whatever you need to in order to get your mother here for it. Talk to Denise Whitlock in travel if you’ve got any questions or problems. Even if your mother can’t make it, you can bring along another woman who’s been like a mother figure for you, but we really want each of you to have someone along on this trip if at all possible.”
Most of the guys sat up a bit straighter and started talking with some excitement in their voices. That was what always happened whenever a team planned a road trip where everyone could bring along one of their parents.
But I didn’t have any parents, so I never got so excited about the prospect.
Spurs dismissed us after that, and several of the guys headed straight up to see Denise so they could start planning for their mothers’ arrivals. I went the opposite direction, making my way to the locker room to gather my suitcase so I could get the hell out of there before someone caught on to the fact that I would rather not face this shit.
Zee caught me before I could escape, though, grabbing my arm and dragging me to a stop when I ignored him calling my name. “Who you bringing on the moms’ trip?” he asked conversationally. Yeah. Right. Like he just wanted to gab.
I shrugged and shook my head. “No one.”
“You heard Spurs, though,” Zee said. “The Jernigans want all the boys to have someone with them. That means you, too.”
“Don’t have a mom.”
“I know. Which is why I stopped you to talk about it.” He gave me a look that clearly said I was an idiot.
“Don’t have anyone to bring. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. What about Sergei’s mother?” he suggested.
I was halfway through shooting down that idea when I slowed down enough to allow myself to think about it. It actually it made sense. After all, Sergei would never be able to take his mother on a trip like that, now that he couldn’t play stand-up hockey anymore, and she was the closest thing I’d ever known to a mother. She’d always treated me like I might as well be Sergei’s brother, even after the wreck. I didn’t know if she’d agree to it, though. Maybe I shouldn’t even bother asking her.
“Think about it,” Zee said, but then he let me leave.
I added that to my list of other things I’d been thinking about almost nonstop the entire time we’d been on the road. Most of those things racing through my head revolved around London, though, so the thought of asking Sergei’s mother to come on a road trip would make for a nice change of pace.
I grabbed my things and headed out to my car. We didn’t have a game tonight, so I had the rest of the day to myself. Tomorrow, we only had practice and a film session—again, no game—so I should be able to make it to that support group meeting London had told me about. But right now, I wanted to find the community center and take a peek around. It wouldn’t hurt if I ran into her while I was there, too, because I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head since the moment she’d left my house. Seeing her wouldn’t remove her from my mind, but it might help me relax if I could tell that she was all right. That we were all right. If we were.
After pulling up the address on my GPS, I followed the directions, parked in front of the building, and made my way inside.
A curvy blonde with fire-engine-red glasses was manning the front desk. She smiled at me when I came through the door. “Can I help you?”
“I…” I didn’t have the first clue what to say. “Looking for London,” I finally said, since she’d been staring at me the whole time with an expectant expression.
“Oh, well, that’s easy. She’s in the Disabled-But-Able meeting right now. You’re a bit late, but that won’t matter to anyone. It just matters that you’re here.” She smiled, clearly thinking I must also belong in that group. With all the scars visible on my chin now that my beard was gone, who could blame her for that line of thinking? “Just go down that hall, and it’s the first door on the left,” she said, pointing me on my way.
“But I’m not—”
An elderly man came in behind me, and she turned her attention to helping him, leaving me on my own to w
restle with whether or not I should go into the meeting or go home and come back tomorrow for the group session I actually intended to attend. Once. I definitely wouldn’t be coming to it more than once.
The blonde gave me another smile and waved her hand in a shooing motion. I ended up going where she’d directed me.
As soon as I stepped into the room, I saw a familiar sight. London, eyes flashing, leaning forward in her wheelchair in a posture meant to intimidate, letting some other woman in a wheelchair have a piece of her mind. The only thing missing was her jerking the woman around by a nonexistent beard. I ran my hand over the scruff on my face and made a mental note to shave it again. It wasn’t long enough for her to get a grip on, but as fast as it grew, it wouldn’t take much longer.
“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” London said. “That’s all you ever say, Joyce. How about all the things you can do, hmm? Or aren’t there any?”
The woman named Joyce sniffled. “But I ca—”
“You can’t,” London cut in. “We already know that. Trust me, you’ve been telling us all the things you can’t do for weeks. I think everyone in this room has already gotten the message, loud and clear, a dozen times over.”
“Why are you picking on me?” Joyce sobbed.
“You think I’m picking on you? I’m trying to help you, but you’re determined not to be helped. By anyone. Especially not by yourself. You’ve got doctors who’ve crafted a new leg for you, but you won’t bother trying to learn how to walk on it. You’ve got a husband trying to support you through every step of this process, but you keep pushing him away. You’ve got two kids at home who want their mommy back, but right now they’re the ones taking care of you instead of the way it should be. When are you going to accept that the one thing you actually, honestly, really can’t do is turn back time so you can undo your accident? You’ve got to move forward, whether you like it or not.”
The things she was saying sounded, to my ears, like she was speaking directly to me, even though I knew she wasn’t. Which made me want to leave even more than before. In fact, I started to back out of the room, hoping I’d done so before anyone noticed me.
Too late.
Wade Miller caught my eye and crossed the room to stand beside me. Glaring. The man always glared at me. Granted, I probably always glared at him, too.
“Seeing London in her element is something else, isn’t it?” he said.
“Her element?”
He shrugged and turned so we were next to each other facing London, then crossed his arms. “Confronting people. Pushing just enough that they finally start to fight back. She always knows where the line is, somehow…she understands when to stop without going too far. I mean, you’ve seen it yourself, haven’t you? She’s done it with you. Has to have done it with you at least a few times.”
I didn’t say anything because it was too uncanny to be watching her doing the same things with this woman that she’d done to me during those days we were snowed in at my house. I wasn’t sure how to process that.
“She did it to me, too,” Miller said. “Or she tried to. Still does sometimes, but I don’t let her get away with that shit. She’s really just getting started with Joyce, though. You should stick around and watch it for yourself if you want to learn what she’s all about. The counselors here all love London because she doesn’t hold back.”
So I stood there, feet planted in place, completely riveted as I watched London tear into this strange woman.
First, Joyce tried to run away, but London followed in her wheelchair and cornered her on the other side of the room.
Then Joyce yelled and screamed, flailing her fists like she wanted to hit London. To London’s credit, she never flinched and never backed away.
But when Joyce started crying—sobbing uncontrollably, actually—I couldn’t bear to watch. I wanted to cross over there, pick London up, carry her away from that woman, and give her a piece of my mind for the way she was torturing this woman she was supposed to be helping.
“Don’t,” Miller said, his voice low. Warning me. Or maybe it was a threat. “I know you want to help Joyce, but the best thing you can do for her right now is let her fight through the tears. She’s got to get through this part or she’ll never come out on the other side.”
So I stayed put, even though every muscle in my body wanted to run to her defense. Which was ridiculous. I didn’t know her. I didn’t know anything about her except that she was crying, and it was London’s fault.
Minutes passed with those two still in the corner. I couldn’t hear anything they were saying, only that they were both still talking and Joyce was still crying. But gradually, her voice got stronger. Louder. More defiant.
“Get out of my damn way,” she shouted at London.
And this time, London backed up her chair and allowed Joyce to pass.
Joyce wheeled over to a pair of parallel bars set up alongside a wall of windows, with the afternoon sunlight streaming in.
Miller turned and gave me a grizzled grin. “Come on. You’re helping.”
“Helping?”
But my question fell on deaf ears. Miller crossed over to Joyce’s chair, and I blindly followed him. He stood on one side of Joyce and directed me to stand on her other side. We each put a hand on her back and another under her arm, helping her to stand and gain her balance. I looked down and realized her left leg was prosthetic.
Memories of the early months with Sergei flooded me. I couldn’t catch my breath. Wanted to let the waves take me under because I remembered Sergei’s pain, his frustration, his anger and sadness and loss, but I couldn’t give in to the tidal wave of my past because this woman was holding on to me as part of her support. I couldn’t let her go any more than I could have walked away from him when he’d needed me.
“There you go,” Miller said to her. “Nice and steady. We’ve got you. Just get your balance while Ben and Nick adjust the height of the bars for you.”
A couple of the other men had already come forward and were lowering the bars into place so they were a little taller than waist-height for Joyce. She leaned on us some, wobbling only slightly, as she settled herself into position.
They locked the bars into place and stepped back.
Tears still streaming down her cheeks, Joyce took a look at Miller, then at me, and she gave us a resolute nod. Gently, and ever so slowly, we guided her forward until she stood between the two bars. Miller eased her hand onto the bar nearest him, leaving me as her only human support, and backed away. I waited until she caught her balance and moved her weight to the other side before following his example. Finally, she stood on her own with only the two bars as guides.
“That’s it, Joyce,” Miller said, all his attention on her and none on me. I might as well not be there, if not for the fact that he’d dragged me along to help. But why? Why me? What was his aim in all of this? “You’ve got this,” he said. “And we’re all right here if you need us, but you’re not going to. Okay?”
She stared straight ahead, jaw set in place as she lifted her left leg—the prosthetic and the one closest to me—and angled it forward. It came down and touched the ground in front of her, a huge step even though it only spanned a few inches, at most.
“Slow and steady,” Miller said. “Get your balance before you take the next step.”
Her hands hovered over the bars, lightly touching, but she wasn’t holding herself up with her upper body. She paused a few moments as her weight shifted gradually from the back foot to the front, the right to the left. As soon as she tried to release her right foot, she wobbled and had to grab the bars to support herself. But she didn’t fall. As fast as she could, Joyce moved her right foot forward and replaced it on the floor to recover her balance, and the whole room broke out in applause. Even I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
“I told you,” London said, coming up behind me. “You can do it. And it’s not easy, and you’re going to have to practice, and it’s going to hurt, and you’l
l fall down and cry and hate the world some days. But you can do it.”
“I can,” Joyce said, sniffling and looking over her shoulder in my direction.
“Now do it again,” London said. “Because that’s the only way this is going to work. You’ve got to keep going even when you don’t want to.”
Joyce nodded, but she faced forward again and squared her shoulders to the task at hand. First the left foot. Then the right. This time, she stepped maybe an inch farther than she had the first time, still holding on to the rails with a death grip, but the point was that she was doing it.
London put her hand on the back of my arm, and my entire body jolted into awareness. Of her. Of us.
“Didn’t recognize you without the beard,” she said quietly, not that anyone would hear her over the cheering and encouragement being sent in Joyce’s direction.
“Got sick of you jerking me around by it,” I replied.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lips quirk up in a grin.
“You promise you’re not going to be at meeting tomorrow?”
“Why?” she said, smothering a laugh. “You scared?”
“Not scared. Just picturing you stomping on my balls since beard is gone.”
“Ouch. That’d hurt.” She made it sound like an appealing thought somehow, dirty and kinky and hot. Not a good sign. “Good thing I can’t stomp on you, huh?”
“It would hurt,” I replied. But not as much as dealing with all the shit in my head that I hadn’t touched in years. That was bound to hurt worse, if watching what Joyce had just gone through was any indication.
She was walking. Unsteadily, slowly, and with a lot of assistance.
But she was doing it.
So maybe now it was time for me to put the past to rest.
TERRI, THE RECEPTIONIST who worked at the front desk, was supposed to be my ride home after work, but when I wheeled over to her at quitting time with my coat and purse on my lap, she gave me a funny look and shook her head.
Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) Page 14
