That Time with Sugar

by Tess Oliver

  I reached for Kirkendall’s door, and it swung open. I leaned back to avoid getting hit. “Jules, whoa, buddy. You almost nailed—” I stopped. His face looked like clean white granite, hard and expressionless. He didn’t even acknowledge me as he pushed past and headed toward his room.

  I watched him turn the corner before stepping inside the office. There was a cramped waiting room in front of Kirkendall’s office. It had two blue chairs and always smelled like air freshener. Kirkendall’s door opened. She looked a little stiff herself. Nothing compared to the zombie expression Julian was wearing, but it had obviously been a tough session for both doctor and patient.

  “Tommy.” She cleared her throat as if it had been tight. “I’m just going to go get a glass of orange juice. Can I get you anything?”

  “No thanks. Is Julian all right?” At first I’d told myself it wasn’t my business, but it was Julian, for fucksake.

  I was sure she’d ignore my question. “You’re a good friend to Julian, Tommy. Thank you for that. He needs that friendship, but, of course, I can’t talk about anything that goes on in here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She stepped out. I slumped back against the chair. She had one of those couches, the psych couch you see in all the movies, but I never used it. Her desk was a scramble of papers and folders. I always found it sort of funny. A disorganized desk didn’t go with her neat little suits. But then she did have that ear, that hint of non-conformity. There was a picture on her desk, but it was always facing her. I picked it up. It was a picture of a girl, about ten. The familiar smile assured me it was Kirkendall. She was standing with a woman in front of a giant redwood tree. The woman had a hippie-like look, with wavy hair, faded jeans and sandals. Not your typical mom type.

  Kirkendall walked back in, and I quickly put down the picture. “Sorry, I was just curious. I’m always looking at the back of that frame wondering what’s on the other side.”

  “It’s fine, Tommy. I don’t mind, really. That was a picture of a vacation I took with my mom. She died three months after that picture was taken, hit by a car as she was walking across the street to a bus stop.”

  “Shit. Sorry to hear.” We sat in there, all of us addicts and dysfunctional people, trying to sort out our troubles, never giving much thought to the people who were trying to help us.

  “It was instant, according to the doctor. I’m thankful for that, but I can tell you, I was lost without her. I had to move in with my dad. They’d been divorced since I was two. Hardly knew the man. I had to pack up all my belongings and say good-bye to the small house my mom and I had lived in.”

  “That’s brutal. Shit. Your mom looks cool. Like the type of person you could sit down and—”

  “Take a bong hit with?” she finished for me. “She was fun, and definitely not like other moms. She was a modern day midwife. She helped women who wanted to have their babies at home instead of in the harsh environment of a hospital. She was good at it too. She loved helping babies into the world.” She sipped her juice, and for a second, she seemed to coast off into a deep thought. She set the glass down. “Thanks for playing in that baseball game, by the way. I’m being told to make sure the residents go outdoors more, but between the heat and the fact that there’s just not that much to do out there, it’s a chore. When people like you and Sugar participate, it helps get others moving.”

  “People like Sugar and me?”

  “Leaders. Other residents watch you two to see what you are going to do next.”

  I laughed at her strange theory. “They definitely pay attention to what Sugar is doing, but I think you stuck me in the wrong category. I’m no leader.”

  “Yes, you are. You just don’t realize it. I know it’s not something you do consciously.”

  “Pete was pissed when he heard I was playing.”

  “That’s because you don’t give him the time of day.”

  I sat back. “Yeah, but I still say you’re wrong.”

  “You’re twenty-five, right Tommy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you see yourself when you’re, say, my age?”

  “Your age? You’re not exactly ready for adult diapers and guzzling Ensure yet yourself, Doc.”

  “I’m thirty-eight,” she smiled. “And thank you for noticing. Ten years from now, Tommy, where do you see yourself?”

  I leaned back. “Hope to hell I’m not sitting in here talking to a forty-eight-year-old Dr. Kirkendall, that’s for damn sure.”

  Another glimmer of a smile. “No, let’s get serious, now. I know you like to put up that wall, Tommy, but look over it for awhile. Take the shield down. You’re safe in here. I won’t tell anyone that Tommy Jameson isn’t always a hard ass, that he’s got a heart and soul beneath that tough exterior.”

  “Yeah? I don’t know about that. There might be a heart and soul, but they’re probably not much better than the exterior.”

  “Bullshit,” she said.

  My eyes widened. “Did you just say bullshit?”

  “I did.” She leaned forward and reached for her flowery clipboard. “I don’t have to pretend or put up airs around you, Tommy. I like that about you.” She flipped up a page on her clipboard and turned it to me. She’d scribbled the words ‘Tommy’ and ‘empathy’ on it.

  “I saw you write something yesterday.” Just the thought of Sugar and that story made my throat thicken.

  “See, there it is again,” she said. “I watched you. I watched everyone’s expressions while Sugar was telling her story. I saw horror, shock, even some anger, but your face was different. You were showing empathy, Tommy. It looked as if you were feeling every ounce of Sugar’s despair, as if you would have done anything at that moment to absorb her pain, to protect her from it even though it was too late.”

  I dropped my gaze and stared down at the tan carpet below my feet.

  She pulled the clipboard back to her side of the desk. While I hadn’t looked at her yet, I knew she was watching me.

  “Not everyone has that level of moral reasoning, Tommy. Empathy isn’t intrinsic in everyone. But I saw it in you yesterday. That exterior doesn’t match what’s on the inside at all.”

  “That’s because it was Sugar.”

  “I know how you feel about Sugar. But it doesn’t make it any less significant. Give yourself some credit for being human, all right?” She sipped some of her orange juice and lowered the glass down. “Some people end up in rehab for one simple reason, they are unhappy. Their lives are a disappointment, or they suffer from clinical depression. For other people, there is something, some event in their life that triggers a need to find comfort in drugs and alcohol.”

  “So, you’re looking for my trigger?”

  She shrugged. She was wearing a right and proper blouse to go with her long row of earrings. “I don’t know. Do you have one?”

  “Think my whole life has been a long series of triggers.”

  She opened up the manila folder that apparently had my whole life spelled out on green-lined paper. “You played football in school, right?”

  I stared at her. She was digging again. Yeah, she was paid to do it, but it still didn’t make it any easier for me to accept. “I did.”

  “From what your dad said, you were really good too. A quarterback with big potential.”

  “I guess. Hurt my knee, and it took me out of the game for awhile.”

  “You decided not to go back?”

  I glanced around her office. She had her diplomas hanging on the wall in thin gold frames and there was a painting of a farmhouse. My mind drifted back to the dining room and sitting with Sugar.

  “Tommy?” Kirkendall said.

  “I went back for awhile. I just wasn’t that into it. My dad was the one who wanted me to stay, but I didn’t really like the coach. Then I broke my leg. That put an end to football for good.”

  She took another sip of juice and rested a forearm on her desk. “I’ll bet t
he coach was disappointed he’d lost his star quarterback.”

  I got up and walked over to the painting. A rooster was strutting around the yard. “Do you think it would be a lot of work to run a farm?”

  “I imagine it is, but, Tommy, please focus. How did your coach feel about you leaving the team?”

  In the reflection on the glass, I could see her sitting in her chair, watching me. “Pissed, I guess. He liked to call me his sophomore prize, his gift from the football gods. I was the first sophomore to make varsity in ten years.”

  “Wow, that’s high praise from a football coach. They aren’t usually that poetic.”

  I sat back down. “Yeah, Coach Higgins was a fucking poet. This football topic is boring the hell out of me.”

  “If you don’t mind me mentioning it, you seem more irritated than bored.” She smiled. “Like someone is rubbing sandpaper along your skin as you’re talking about it.”

  “Interesting analogy.” I leaned back in the chair. “I guess that’s what it feels like.”

  She flipped through the folder. “Let’s switch topics. Tell me about the accident where you broke your leg.”

  “Wow, another fun topic.” I inadvertently rubbed my leg, something I did whenever I thought about it. It still pained me when the weather was cold or when I’d done some strenuous exercise. “Not much to tell. I was riding my dirt bike, having a good time, as always. You can really lose yourself when you’re flying on one of those bikes, you know? I took off and knew before I even hit that I was going down. Blacked out. When I woke there were a lot of strange faces peering down at me with tight mouths and creased brows. The pain was so fucking bad, I couldn’t actually pinpoint where it was coming from.” I looked back at the farm picture. Sugar was right. It would be cool. “I knew it had to be bad because the red lights of the ambulance were getting closer. I remember moving my toes because liquid was sloshing around in my riding boot. Then I felt something hard like a tree branch sticking into my leg and I thought, shit, I landed on a tree. Turned out to be the femur jutting through my skin.”

  “Christ.” She sat back looking a few shades whiter and possibly regretting that she’d dug into this topic. “I guess anyone could forgive you for getting hooked on painkillers.”

  “Forgive? Nah. My dad thought I was weak for needing them for so long.”

  “They are highly addictive, Tommy. You have nothing to reproach yourself for there.”

  “I don’t know about that, but they sure helped me get through it. The physical therapy was pure torture, but they got me walking again.”

  “I occasionally catch a slight limp, but I have to say you’ve mended well. Compound fracture of the femur is a horrid injury.” She finished the juice and stared at the empty glass. “I’m not big on eating oranges, too much work, but I love the juice.” She put the glass down. “Tommy, tell me about the boy on your team, Alex Yardley.”

  I stared at her across the desk. “Shit, my dad really didn’t leave out any details, did he?”

  “Actually, he left out a lot.” She closed up the folder, and I wished it meant that we were done. “I was hoping you’d fill in some holes.”

  “I beat the shit out of the guy. What’s there to say?”

  “You were in the locker room at school, right? Did this fight happen before the broken leg?”

  “Yeah, it was after practice. I was training after my knee injury, training reluctantly. My dad had basically told me I had to play again or he was shipping me off to some quasi-military school. It was one of those ‘tough love’ schools to straighten me out. My dad was good at one-sided negotiations. I guess that is why he’s so successful. Give your opponent options, just make sure the options suck.”

  “You consider your dad an opponent?”

  I sighed. “Look, I know you’re always looking for that magic ticket to treatment town and I know you think it’s my dad. Yeah, we had a pretty contentious relationship. He was pissed because he couldn’t control me like he had everything else in his life, and I was pissed that nothing I ever did was good enough. I was a shitty student, mostly because school bored me, and bad grades kept me out of the one thing I was good at, sports.”

  “But you played football.”

  “Yep. Sometimes, if you’re talented enough, grades can be overlooked or changed.”

  “So, because of your abilities on the field, you passed all your classes?”

  “C’mon, you know this happens all the time. Lots of shit gets overlooked when you’re the star quarterback.”

  She stared down at my folder. “Like beating another kid to a pulp?”

  Kirkendall was fueled with ammo today. It was as if she’d decided just to light all the fucking fuses at once and see which stick of dynamite went off first.

  “Alex Yardley was a senior who outweighed me by fifty pounds. I was just barely sixteen. I’d basically screwed him out of his position on the team by being better, a lot better. The guy hated me, and I hated him. He knew I had a stutter, and he made a point of calling me T-T-Tommy. I ignored him most of the time but, you know, if you let things stew long enough, shit boils over. We were in the locker room. Coach Higgins was in his office. Alex started telling me that the only reason I was playing first string was because my dad had bought me the position.”

  Kirkendall’s eyes widened. “Was that true?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, Alex just wanted it to be true.”

  “Of course, you have to understand where the guy was coming from. Someone much younger had outplayed him. That had to be a hit to his ego and being an athlete—”

  “What are you trying to say, Doc? That we jocks have monstrous egos?” I laughed.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Finish the story. So, you were in the locker room—”

  “I was just getting dressed and he walked over from his locker and shoved me real hard. I smacked into the locker and that was it. I turned around and just started pounding him.” The words came out smoothly, as if I’d practiced this version in my head.

  “And the coach?”

  Another fuse. “What about him?”

  “You said he was in his office.”

  “I know he was there. He had this annoying habit of snapping the gum in his mouth. Always had a mouthful of it and he would chew it like a fucking cow with cud. He’d snap it over and over like some stupid kid.”

  “He didn’t intervene?” she asked.

  I looked over at the farm picture again and wondered what Sugar was up to and what Kirkendall and Julian had been talking about that had made him leave looking like a man turned to stone.

  “Tommy?” she asked, bringing me back to the discussion.

  “I t-t-told you,” the stutter made the chill in my tone seem almost laughable, “I was his sophomore prize. His gift from the fucking football gods.”

  She knew the nerve had been struck. This session was over. The office walls were closing in on me, and I needed a smoke. Kirkendall stared at me across the desk for a second. “I think we got a lot done today, Tommy. You can go.”

  Chapter 10

  Sugar’s long legs caught my attention, as they usually did. She was wearing jean cut offs that were so frayed, tufts of white thread dangled sensually around the tops of her thighs. She was leaned over a helium tank blowing up a red balloon. I stood behind her for a second, taking advantage of the view, until she sensed me there. She tied a knot in the balloon.

  “Working on a new profession for when you break out of this place?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Nope, they’re actually part of my escape plan. I’m not going to break out. I’m just going to float out under a cluster of helium balloons.”

  Sugar was one of the few girls I knew who could match my sarcasm with her own.

  She picked up a blue balloon and yanked the end over the spout. “Nurse Greene was given the task of filling hundreds of balloons for visitor’s day, and she was really stressing about getting it done along with her regular work.”

&nb
sp; “Let me guess. You volunteered to help her.”

  She turned the nozzle and the balloon inflated. “With the stipulation that I don’t inhale the helium.”

  “Damn, there go my plans for a helium high.” I walked over to the counter. “Where is Nurse Greene?”

  “At lunch, I think.”

  I picked up a bunch of balloons from the pile on the counter. “This is a lot of friggin’ balloons.” I glanced through the front doors. The sun was blaring outside and heat was rolling up off the white cement paths. I grabbed a handful of balloons. “Follow me.”

  “Tommy, I need those. Where are you going?” She followed as I headed outside and toward the garden.

  There was a half decent sound system on the covered patio that was only turned on for special outdoor events. I walked over and turned on the radio, found a decent station and cranked it. I figured it would take people on the inside awhile to figure out that I’d switched it on. The music rolled across the neatly mowed grass and grounds.

  I clutched the balloons in my fist and strolled across to the garden. I picked up the hose and pulled a balloon over the end. I filled it with water. Sugar grinned. She reached back and tied her hair up in a loose bun. She tied the balloons off as I filled them. Fifteen minutes later, we had a stockpile of colorful water balloons and a crowd gathered across the front window to watch. Nurse Greene must have still been eating lunch because she hadn’t come out to turn down the music. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ blasted across the grounds.

  “Hey, Sugar, I dropped a balloon on the way over here. Could you go get it?”

  My beautiful accomplice spun around and walked across the lawn to the lone yellow balloon. She bent over to pick it up. As she turned back around I heaved a water balloon at her. It broke on her shoulder. Water dripped down her white t-shirt.

  “Why, look at that,” I said. “You’re wearing a pink bra under that shirt.”