by J. P. Hansen
“Immediate surgery? I don’t like the way that sounds.”
“I don’t mean to scare you. I doubt you need surgery, but I wanna take all the precautions. You’re getting the FOD.”
“FOD?”
Dixon smirked as he said, “Friend of Dixon. The friend of Dixon advantage.”
Glaring into Dixon’s flirty magnified eyes through his horned rims, bile returned to Brooke’s mouth. Big gulp.
“Let me wrap an ice pack on your ankle. This will be cold for the first few minutes.”
“I’m a big girl. I’ve iced an ankle before.”
“When?”
“In college.”
“Did you go to Duke?”
“You serious? I could take you criticizing my looks today, but now, you’ve offended me.” Brooke’s lips curled into a devious smile.
“Don’t tell me you’re from the dark side?” Dixon crinkled his bony nose causing his glasses to slide down.
“Is that what you call a Tar Heel?”
“Oh my God, Chase didn’t warn me. I guessed you were a Blue Devil since you worked at Pharmical. How did you get hired there?”
“That is the million dollar question I keep asking myself.”
“Well, coming from UNC, you must be something extra special to work there then.”
Most of the time, Brooke enjoyed the North Carolina/Duke banter. But, coming from this nerd, she felt offended. Dixon Carter, Dixie-dawg, gave her the heebie-jeebies. She opted to just stare at her ankle with pursed lips, hoping he’d go away. Dixon took his cue and exited as awkwardly as he entered.
Brooke perched upright with eyes trained on the door handle. She half expected doctor dawg would barge in to sneak a peek. The ice pack settled on her ankle as little droplets ran off her foot, landing on the tile floor. The sensation shifted from torture to soothing in a matter of minutes. She sighed and remembered Tanner…
It was raining that day. One of those intense southern downpours that forces anyone with common sense to wait in shelter until it passes. Late for the appointment, she pulled up to the curb and dropped off her boyfriend. She watched him limp across the soaked pavement and hobble through the automatic door. Wounded and drenched, he still looked attractive.
Jake “Tanner” Hart was entering his freshman season as a highly touted linebacker for the North Carolina Tar Heels. A High School Parade All-American second teamer with good grades, he was heavily recruited and had his pick of Division One schools. He had it all—sprinter speed, vertical leap, strength, and toughness. The dirty blond may have looked like a Beach Boy, but he was one tough football player. Kurt Cobain with muscles.
A Charlotte native with a father who played varsity baseball at the University of North Carolina, it was a given he’d stay local. After an official visit to USC—mainly to see California—he committed early to the Tar Heels. Brooke Anne Ingram, his high school sweetheart and a successful athlete in her own right, accepted her UNC cross country scholarship soon after Tanner committed. Prom king and queen, they made a striking couple. People—even complete strangers—often stopped and smiled at them. Both from prominent families who actually got along, wedding bells were imminent.
Nearing the end of the grueling two-a-day practices, Tanner had suffered a broken hip during a brutal tackling drill. Brooke had missed it and was glad she didn’t witness the injury. She winced when she heard how vividly the bone popped, how Tanner screamed in pain, how his teammates vomited instead of calming him until the paramedics shot him full of morphine.
Listening to the orthopedic surgeon, Brooke understood Tanner’s suffering would fall just short of apocalyptic. The thing that amazed Brooke the most was how Tanner never complained. She realized he had to be depressed. It was the first injury he’d ever suffered—in an instant, his dream of playing pro ball shattered—yet he never let on that it bothered him. He hid his emotions. Always did. It probably festered in his youth, but his coach reinforced it: Never let them see you sweat. Ever.
To Brooke, she only saw Tanner in positive light. Even his negative qualities. She adored him. And, he adored her. That day in the doctor’s office, he looked so vulnerable—and so handsome. When the doctor said he’d have to redshirt his freshman year, he accepted it with grace. She fell in love with him all over again.
Why did it ever have to end?
Chapter 6
While the hip slowly healed, the young couple grew closer. Brooke did more than merely excite Tanner, she inspired him. He loved her sense of humor, her love of children, and her enthusiasm for life. He was convinced that his hip mended ahead of schedule because of her spirit. They began discussing marriage at the end of their sophomore years.
With Brooke watching his every move on the playing field—even on the sidelines—Tanner started at strong side linebacker his junior year and was elected team captain as a senior. Though the hip still nagged him, he never let it show. Brooke’s athletic accomplishments rivaled Tanner’s. She lettered all four years and set three school records as a senior.
During graduation week, Tanner dropped to one knee and Brooke’s eyes immediately welled up as she covered her mouth in astonishment. In a deliberate and serious tone, he said, “Brooke Anne, I can’t even put into words my love for you. You have always been there for me. Through my highs and my lows. I can’t promise you a life of highs, but I can promise you I’ll love you always. You are my everything…” His lip quivered as he whispered, “Will you marry me?”
Tears streamed down Brooke’s creamy immaculate complexion. Too choked up to speak, she nodded rapidly, then drew a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Yes. Oh my God, yes!”
They married one year later.
A loud clank shook Brooke out of her daydream. Even though it was so long ago, her memories of Tanner never faded, just like their dream love. She heard a knock, then the door swung open. There stood Nurse Kankles holding a wheel chair. She eyed Brooke, then asked, “Are you alright?”
Brooke sniffled and swept her fingers under each eye. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’m going to cart you to your MRI.”
Brooke glanced away, still leery of her appearance, and said, “I can probably walk on it. The ankle doesn’t even hurt.”
“Sorry honey. Doctor’s orders. Take my hand.” Her man hands matched her kankles.
The MRI lasted ten minutes, and Brooke clung to her tiny smock the entire time. Thankfully, happy doctor dawg didn’t come in panting; she just wanted to throw on her sensible sweatpants and unrevealing T-shirt.
The test results were ready after only twenty minutes; Brooke figured a few days. There definitely were some advantages to the FOD thing she thought, as long as he doesn’t look at me.
Dr. Dixon Carter explained that she only had a bad sprain. Aside from some typical signs of wear and tear consistent with a cross country runner, she should heal in a few months.
“Great, that’s good news. Thanks for everything, Doc. I can see why Chase thinks you’re the best.” The moment the words left her mouth, Brooke regretted it.
“I’m flattered.”
“Is there anything I can do or some prescription you can write me to help it heal faster?”
Dixon’s mouth curled into a fiendish grin. He said, “Sure, my hot tub tonight. I’ll pick up a prescription for Moet & Chandon bubbly. Works wonders.”
Brooke felt like hurling what little food she had in her stomach. Her expression caused Dixie-dawg to actually back up one step, nearly falling into the corner. Usually, Brooke’s southern manners trained her to be polite no matter what. Rather than a customary no thank you, she said, “Um, no, I’d like to keep this professional.” She wished she had a rolled up newspaper.
Dixon mumbled, “Well, if you change your mind…maybe some other time when you’re feeling better?”
Brooke’s scowl propelled him out of the room without even attempting to respond. After scurrying out the door that shut harder than usual, she thought, what kind of person has friends
like this? She pictured Dixie-dawg sifting through her personal records, causing a wave of nausea.
***
Brooke’s ankle still ached and she considered cancelling again. After pulling the ice pack from her freezer—the thought of Dixon touching it still repulsed her—she secured it around her ankle with an Ace bandage. The first few seconds felt especially frigid, even more agonizing than last time; she wished it would subside. And hopefully, help ease the trip.
The throbbing dissipated as Brooke merged onto the I-40 onramp toward Greensboro. Though not too late to turn around, the trek to visit her father was long overdue. She figured he would want to spend more time than lunch today.
Though Weston Ingram still considered Brooke his little girl, he was tremendously proud of how she’d turned out. They had a special bond that survived life’s phases. Brooke spent her first ten years idolizing him, the next ten despising everything he did and resenting him for ridiculing her dream of working with children—and the rest of the time since, regretting how she had treated him. If anyone could overcome suffering, it was her father. She still called him, “Daddy,” and probably always would. In fact, Brooke enjoyed her father—and didn’t know what she’d do if she ever lost him.
A good number of Brooke’s friends had been raised primarily by their mothers, a reality of society’s divorce rate. None of them had fathers in their lives like Brooke did. Though most people viewed the day Brooke was born as a tragedy, she didn’t. She never knew her mother—never had the chance—yet, she felt her loving presence through her father. Seated on his lap as a child, Brooke enjoyed hearing stories about her mom. She was a radiant woman who selflessly made the ultimate sacrifice. Brooke often wondered what her mother would be like today; how her life would be different if she hadn’t died while giving birth to her.
Brooke realized her daddy must have grieved hard after Mary, his beloved wife and the mother she never knew, died so tragically. She understood the feeling of despair all too well. She wondered if he ever blamed her. If he did, he only let on once. On her sixth birthday, after he tucked her in, she remembered feeling scared. Clutching her blankie, she had wandered into his bedroom and caught him crying. As his eyes met hers, she asked, “What’s wrong Daddy?” He said nothing, then wiped his eyes and said, “Go back to bed sweetie.”
She scrutinized his hands, noticing their wedding picture and the tears smeared across the glass. With a tender voice like a little angel, she asked, “Do you miss Mommy?” He nodded with chin wobbling and trembling lips, unable to speak. After a long pause and another swipe at his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then said, “I do…but, I love you with all my heart. You’re my princess. You’re as beautiful as she was. Now, go back to bed and dream sweet dreams.”
That night was her earliest memory of her father. She guessed each birthday brought out the same bittersweet emotions. When she spoke of her ritual trips to Tanner’s gravesite, he had a knowing that stemmed from experience. Today, she wanted to talk about moving on, but since he never remarried, she wondered if he ever had.
Brooke merged onto I-85 South heading toward Charlotte. She always dreaded this hour and a half part of the drive. The mundane highway lulled her to sleep. One of the few highlights of I-85 was the Lexington stop. Her mouth watered thinking about the Honey Monk—the world’s greatest BBQ—especially since she skipped breakfast. She said “Not today,” her daddy would kill her if she showed up full.
Brooke dialed his landline. After five rings, voicemail—the ancient kind that played the message out loud on the phone. She left a message as quickly as she could. Most people at this stage could be reached via cell phone. Or, better yet, if they were out, they would forward their landline to their mobile. Not Weston Ingram. The media fear mongers had him convinced that cell phones caused brain tumors. With the ten minutes a month he’d use a cell phone, if cancer struck him, then the entire human race would end in Verizon Armageddon. She didn’t feel like talking now anyway, he’d get the message.
Aside from outdated beliefs about the Japanese and irrational cell phone phobia, her father was a brilliant man. After winning the prestigious Morehead Scholarship and its free ride to UNC—where he met Mary—he attended Duke Law. The Duke Law Journal accepted him in his second year and then he finished the following year with a perfect GPA. With those credentials, Weston Ingram could work anywhere in North Carolina. He chose the oldest law firm in Charlotte. After becoming the youngest partner, he rose to the top by age 58. Though he was still senior partner at sixty-two, he talked about retiring and making golf fun. Brooke knew he would never retire, and, given his impatience, feared golf would kill him.
On rare occasions, Brooke didn’t heed her daddy’s advice. She had to admit, most of the time, he was right. But, despite her own dreams, he always wanted her to be an attorney. His expectations were beyond merely obtaining a college degree; he wanted her to follow his career path and have what he had. She didn’t dare tell him that many of her friends had doubts about her chosen path since it did not appear to involve children, which she had always dreamed of. Then, when North Carolina offered her a free ride, the conclusion was forgone. In the middle of Brooke’s senior year in college, being a lawyer just didn’t feel right.
Brooke had mulled over the legal profession, due to her daddy’s not-so-subtle prodding and out of respect, but she ultimately decided against it. Analyzing career options, she simplified her choices: doctors diagnose, buyers haggle, teachers teach, businesspeople discuss and present, but lawyers argue. It boiled down to not wanting to bicker with people all the time. She couldn’t imagine entering the profession with her can’t we all just get along? attitude. And, she couldn’t imagine Weston Ingram, Esq. doing anything else.
Noticing the exits, the two and a half hour drive seemed to fly by. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she grimaced. Daddy’s little girl looked like the before picture. Oh, well, he’ll understand.
Turning into Myers Park, memories resonated. Happy memories. Myers Park served as a perfect place to grow up, and welcoming even after moving away. One-hundred year old majestic oaks imparted a sense of historic identity. Brooke turned onto Queen’s Road, with its stately mansions on plush green one-acre lots separated by tree-lined dogwoods in the median.
While pulling into the semi-circle driveway, Brooke spotted her father perched on his front porch in his favorite spot—a rocking chair similar to hers. He grinned, then waved as he stood. He had dressed up for her once again. He glanced at his watch as usual and she wondered how long he had been sitting there.
With the car in park, but still running, Brooke lowered her window, and said, “Hi daddy.”
Placing his hand on her car door, he said, “You’re a little late. I was worried about you.”
“I left you a message. Besides, I’m not late. I told you I’d get here in time for lunch. It’s not even noon yet.”
He squinted at his watch again, just to make sure, then said, “I bet you’re hungry.”
“Actually, I ate a big breakfast,” she lied.
“Well, I’m famished. I have a reservation at the club. I want to go before it gets too crowded.”
Brooke didn’t feel like the country club scene—definitely not the Charlotte Country Club—especially in her outfit. “I’m not dressed properly.”
“Nonsense. You look fine,” he strained to inspect her ankle, “Plus, you have an injury. We don’t have to go to the Mecklenburg Dining Room. We’ll grab a sandwich at the Byron Nelson Bar.”
Furrowing his bushy brown brows, she knew it wasn’t optional; he obviously wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He wore his customary country club ensemble: light yellow slacks, striped blue Brooks Brothers’ button down, and blazer. He looked dead set on showing off his daughter. “Okay, we can go if you want. Get in.”
He pulled her door open and grimaced. “You shouldn’t drive on that ankle.”
“I just did Daddy. For two and a half hours and I made it here just fine.�
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“Let’s take my nice big car. I don’t think you should drive any more than you have to.” Sick of driving, Brooke conceded. Her father didn’t make senior partner at the law firm by losing many arguments, including with his little girl. She reached down and untied the bandage, flipping the slushy warm ice pack to the car’s floor.
“Let me help you.” He gripped Brooke’s shoulder as she turned to step out.
“I’m okay.”
“Where are your crutches?”
“I haven’t used those things yet. They’re more of a hindrance.” Struggling to stand, she wished her father would loosen his grip. His rigid fingers dug into her shoulder like arrows. She wanted to tell him to let go, but realized he was just being a southern gentleman. Brooke recalled Chase and his strong yet tender touch.
She slinked, favoring her good foot, with her daddy still clenching her arm too tightly—like a tourniquet. He led her to the key pad on the side of the three car garage, punched in the code, then still clutched her as the door opened. She noticed the Arnold Palmer Cadillac license plate holder. He opened the heavy door for Brooke without loosening his grip on her.
“Thanks,” Brooke swung her bad ankle in, then hopped up and slid inside. She appreciated the comfortable, wider seats, but smiled as she thought about the BMW. She settled, relieved he was driving—she wouldn’t have to hear him try to drive from the passenger seat.
Starting the car, the vents burst warm air into Brooke’s face. The stereo blared a classical piece that might have been recognizable at human decibels. He was oblivious. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” He shifted the car into reverse.
“Huh?” Brooke hoped he would kill the turbo hair dryer and supersonic stereo—she didn’t dare mess with his controls.
“I said, I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Brooke grimaced, causing her father to lower the music but he left the air conditioner howling. As if screaming into a fan, she said, “I know. I’ve been busy.”
