by Sarina Bowen
“I’m not their first call,” Callie said. “But give it an hour or two.” Callie was a hospitalist—a doctor who kept track of admitted patients’ medical needs.
“Okay,” Willow said, her eyes on the retreating ambulance. “I guess Dane and I will go to the farmhouse now, and check things out. Then we’ll swing by the hospital to try to learn what we can. We don’t know him all that well, but…” She swallowed. “That looked bad, didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Callie admitted. The force with which he’d hit the pipe was scary. “But bodies can be tougher than they look.”
Willow shivered. “Can I call you in a couple of hours? No matter what, I want to see you tonight. Or tomorrow before we go.”
“Absolutely. I need to hold that baby some more.” She wanted that now more than ever, given the scary accident she’d just witnessed.
God, life was short. Maybe hers wasn’t working out so badly, after all.
* * *
As it happened, Callie was not handed Hank Lazarus’s chart until the following day. And even though she’d had twenty-four hours to process what she’d seen, the first sight of him in a hospital bed gutted her.
Pale and swollen from the IV fluids, he lay perfectly still. Since she’d last set eyes on him, he’d undergone an eight-hour spinal surgery. In place of the goggles and technical fabrics was a new sort of gear—tubes and monitors snaking from his body in every direction.
Even though he was sedated, Callie found herself holding her breath as she checked the tag on his IV bag. As his powerful chest rose and fell, Callie realized how limited her view of her patients usually was. Never before had she gotten such a shocking demonstration of “before” and “after.” She met patients hours or days after things went sideways. But the ashen, broken man in room nineteen was such a frightening contrast to the one she’d seen drop into the half-pipe, it hurt her to look at him.
She forced herself to linger a moment longer. Though it shamed her to say it, there were times when she found herself judging the people in these beds. She might wonder why the patient had thought it was a good idea to ride that zip line so near to the trees, or drive so fast in the rain. Callie had always lived cautiously, and when she saw the results of a preventable accident, it seemed like such a waste.
But the memory of Hank Lazarus flipping effortlessly against the blue sky was burned in her brain. And in spite of the danger of it all, so cruelly proven by the sleeping figure in the bed, she didn’t have to ask why he’d choose to take such a risk. She’d seen the power and the beauty of it with her own two eyes.
Beneath the sheet, he breathed. In and out. At that moment, there was nothing he needed from her. And nothing more she could do.
* * *
Dane and Willow tried to see Hank before they left again for Utah, but the first time they stopped by, he was in surgery. The second time, he was asleep. With the Olympics just weeks away, they had to go back to Dane’s training. “Will you give him our love?” Willow asked, looking shaken in the waiting room.
“Of course,” Callie answered, fully intending to do it.
As it happened, she never did.
In the first place, when Callie finally saw Hank conscious, he didn’t seem to remember her face. And this was not at all surprising. They’d only met for a second, and the mind often forgot the events just before a trauma.
And Hank had a distracting swirl of other visitors as the days went by. His parents, Callie learned, were a sort of Vermont royalty. They were part owners of the ski mountain. And Hank’s father had built half of the condos in the county. There was a daughter, too, another athlete.
Callie gleaned many of these facts from the local paper, which ran a front-page story about Hank and his accident. At age eighteen, he’d left Vermont for the Rocky Mountains, where he’d taken a job as a dishwasher to pay for his lift tickets. He was as famous for partying as he was for winning competitions.
Reading about him made Callie feel like a stalker. But there it was in black and white, on the table in the break room.
From her chair beside Hank’s bed, his mother was a silver-haired force of nature, barking orders at every nurse who dared to enter her son’s room. And whenever Callie saw Mr. Lazarus in the hospital corridors, he was always on his phone
“They’re flying in specialists. Three of them,” nurse Trina told her. The nurse’s station was another excellent source of news.
“That’s a lot of firepower,” Callie said.
“The Lazarus family can afford it. They gave a truckload of money to the hospital,” she said, cracking her gum. “The pediatric wing built ten years ago? That was all them.”
“Wow, really? You’d think their name would be over the door.”
Trina shrugged. “They don’t do bling. Mama Lazarus has those fancy shoes that no sane person wears in Vermont, right? And pearls? But no bling.”
Callie had noticed that, too, actually. Even during this time of crisis, Hank’s mother paced his room in camel-colored cashmere and suede. It was expensive, but not flashy.
“Their daughter survived some kind of childhood cancer,” Trina continued. “They gave the money afterward as a thank-you.”
“That’s generous.”
“Sure. But they’re also exacting. That woman was on my ass tighter than a bumper sticker while I did his blood draw. Like I haven’t been doing this for thirty years.”
“It’s because you look so young, Trina. She probably thought it was your first day.”
The woman rolled her eyes, and Callie moved on to her next patient.
* * *
On Hank’s third day at the hospital, a new visitor showed up. Outside Hank’s room, seated on a plastic chair, wept a very pretty girl. Callie assumed this was Hank’s sister. But again the nurses had the dirt. The statuesque blonde was the girlfriend, and a slalom skier. And a model. She even had a glamorous name: Alexis. Her only obvious flaw was temporary—she’d cried raccoon eyes onto herself each time Callie glimpsed her.
As Hank’s medical coordinator, Callie was in and out, checking to be sure that the prescriptions his various specialists had ordered were appropriately dosed and would not conflict. She kept tabs on his vitals and watched for signs of infection. She was just one in a sea of faces caring for him.
It wasn’t until the fifth day after his accident that they had a real conversation.
Outside the door to his room, his parents were engaged in a heated conversation with a spinal specialist they’d whisked in from Cleveland. Callie slid past them to find Hank staring out the window. When he turned his head to meet her eyes, she could see that the post-surgical drug haze had lifted. In his gaze, she saw a man awake to the world, but in terrible pain. It was her job to try to figure out if that pain was something physical that she could relieve, or rather the distress of waking up to find he could not move his legs.
“Hi,” Callie said softly. “I’m Doctor Anders. Or Callie, if you wish.”
“Callie,” he cleared his throat. “You look really familiar.”
That wasn’t what she had expected him to say. It would have been as good a time as any to mention that they’d met about ten minutes before his accident, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Who would want to be reminded of that afternoon? “I’ve been here all week,” she said instead. “But we don’t expect you to keep track of the dozens of people who prod you all day.”
“And all night,” he added.
She sat down on a stool next to his bed. “That’s my fault. I need to know that they’re looking at your vitals every three hours. It helps me sleep.” She winked, and was rewarded with half a smile. “Now, quick—before the room is invaded again by nurses’ assistants—how’s your pain? Is there anything you need?”
Hank lifted one hand to his face, and Callie was glad to see it. If his injury had happened farther up his spine, he wouldn’t have been able to do that. With his palm, Hank rubbed several days’ worth of whiskers, which only served to mak
e him look more rugged, while he considered her question. “Let’s see…I need a full rack of Curtis’s ribs, with spicy sauce and a baked potato. And I need to get the hell out of this hospital.”
She nodded obligingly, even though she couldn’t fulfill any of those requests. But if he was talking about food and getting out of here, those were both good signs. “You’ll be transferring to a rehab facility soon.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. His gaze wandered again, his eyes aiming at the window.
“The rehab place will let you sleep through the night,” she said, keeping her voice light. “And you’ll have your own clothes. I hear the food is better, too.”
“Couldn’t really be worse,” he said, turning to face Callie again. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and Callie felt the moment stretch and take hold. He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. Silently, an understanding passed between them. It didn’t matter if the food got better. Hank Lazarus was in for a shitty time, truly the shittiest time of his life. The distance he’d come these past five days was a descent from the highest high to the lowest low. And there wasn’t a damned thing either of them could do about it.
“Hang in there,” Callie whispered. “This right here is the very worst part.”
He didn’t break their staring contest. “You promise?” he rumbled, his voice pure whiskey and smoke.
But Callie didn’t get a chance to answer, because his parents burst into the room then, both talking at the same time. “Forty percent chance that he’ll walk from this guy, fifteen percent from the other?” Hank’s mother bleated. “These people call themselves scientists?”
“Flew him all the way out here, and it’s just more of the same,” his father muttered.
Callie watched Hank’s face close down as his parents approached.
“It’s ridiculous,” his father sputtered, pulling in a deep breath in order to fuel the next phase of his rant. Meanwhile, Hank’s jaw began to tick.
Callie stood up. “I know why you’re frustrated,” she announced, folding her arms. Hank’s parents eyed her, and Callie knew what they saw—a young doctor at a good but rural hospital. And she wasn’t even a specialist. But she had something important to say, and she wasn’t going to let them stop her. “You need answers, and you need them now. I don’t blame you at all.”
Hank’s mother opened her mouth to speak, but Callie cut her off. “Unfortunately, that’s not how the spinal cord works. It doesn’t care that you’re desperate to know whether he’ll walk again. There’s swelling and bruising, and his body is still in shock. It’s not the specialists’ fault that they can’t tell you what you need to know. The sooner you push for answers, the less accurate those answers will be, okay? Hank needs time, and we all need your patience. You won’t have the answers for maybe a year. And no specialist, and no amount of money can change that.”
Callie ceased her tirade to take a deep breath. God, she really shouldn’t have added that last part. Never mention money to rich people. She expected Hank’s parents to start yelling at her. But they didn’t. His mother only began to blink rapidly with saddened eyes. And Hank’s father wrapped his arms around her protectively.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence. “If you’ll excuse me.” Callie took a couple of steps toward the door. On her way out, she turned to look once more at Hank. To her surprise, he winked at her.
Callie walked out, and spent the next few hours wondering if she’d receive a reprimand for raising her voice to the Lazarus family. But the call never came.
CHAPTER TWO
NINE MONTHS LATER
As Hank Lazarus’s friend Bryan “Bear” Barry came in through the front door, he brought in the first cold draft of the season with him. Thankfully, he also came bearing a fresh bottle of tequila.
“‘Sup, Hazardous?” Bear asked, shucking off his shoes.
Common wisdom said that autumn was Vermont’s best season. But Hank wasn’t feeling the love. He pressed mute on the TV remote control, and tossed it onto the coffee table. “The Patriots aren’t on their game today.” And neither am I. With a quick press of his arms, he transferred his ass from the sofa to the wheelchair, then wheeled after Bear to go around the bar and into the kitchen. He picked up the bottle where Bear had set it down. “Conmemorativo. That’s the good shit. Are we celebrating something?”
“Maybe.” Bear reached for a couple of shot glasses.
The bottle was cold to the touch, and once again Hank rued the end of summer. This past winter had passed in a hospital fog, and spring was a blur of rehab appointments. Summer had been bearable, what with the renovations to his house finally completed, and with the visits from his sister and his oldest friend.
But now winter would come again. Formerly his favorite season, now winter meant only dark days ahead. His friends would be back on the mountain, hurling themselves off cornices, trying to land a triple cork. Yet Hank would be here alone, in his new gimp pad. Doing what? Watching sports?
Fuck me, he thought. What was the point?
“Hazardous, let’s do this right. Do you have any limes?” Bear was bent at the waist, staring into his refrigerator.
“They’re over here, dude.” Hank wheeled himself to the other end of the vast expanse of Vermont-slate countertop. He had no trouble reaching the fruit bowl, since his father’s architect had redone the space with a tastefully terraced work surface, part at regular height and part a few inches lower, at wheelchair height. “Heads up.”
When Bear turned, Hank lobbed the lime toward his burly, bearded friend. Then he opened a low cabinet—everything had been put in his reach—and pulled out a cutting board.
Bear hesitated over the lime, which he had been about to cut on the slate countertop. “Dude, your pad is more civilized than I’m used to.” He put the lime on the board and finished the job.
“The gimp kitchen is the shit,” Hank muttered. Too bad he would rather live in a double-wide with two functioning legs than in a castle for the broken.
“Where’s the salt, then? Whip it out. And if you have any girls hidden around here, we could use those, too. Tequila tastes better when you’re drinking it off a pair of D cups.”
Hank grinned and plucked the salt off a turntable in the cabinet. There weren’t any girls in his life, but Bear knew that.
Good old Bear. Without him, Hank would have been lost these past few months. It was Bear who made sure he got out of the house at least every few days, preferably for happy hour. And it was Bear who had sneaked half a dozen of those little airline bottles of scotch into the rehab hospital, where alcohol was not allowed.
Hank had drunk two of them while watching Dane win gold in the men’s alpine giant slalom. And then he drank the rest while watching some Swedish asshole win gold in the men’s snowboard half-pipe competition.
Bear sat down on a bar stool. “So now I’ll tell you what we’re drinking to tonight.”
“Oh, I know what I’m drinking to.”
His friend cocked an eyebrow but did not take the bait. “I have a big idea. I’m calling it ‘Gravity Never Takes a Day Off.’”
Hank downed his shot and then bit a wedge of lime. “Bear, there’s still no light bulb going on over my head, here. You’d better pour me another.”
Bear only tented his hands on the countertop. “I want to make a feature-length snowboarding film. It should be a little bit of everything—some sick shots of big mountain heli-riding, some freestyle. Put it to some kickin’ music. Like Warren Miller did for skiing, but edgier.”
Hank didn’t take his eyes off the bottle, which was still not headed his way. “Hasn’t that been done before?”
Bear had forgotten about the tequila. “Not by us! You’re going to be the face of the project. I can make a great film, but I need your cred.”
That was laughable. “I don’t have any cred. I’m a cripple. I have cripple cred.” He stretched across the counter; the bottle was almost near enough.
“Listen, assh
ole.” Bear held the bottle out of his reach. “You’ll narrate it, and I guarantee we’ll have a blast. Guys want to hear what you have to say about the amped-up stuff I’m going to film. And the ladies would throw their panties at the screen. You and I would get a couple of free heli trips to Alaskan peaks. What’s not to love?”
Hank set down his shot glass with a thunk. “Let me get this straight. You would drag my ass to the top of some sick peak, and then wave goodbye on your board? Why would I bother, if I’m only taking the heli back down?”
Bear shook his head. “I’d be filming, not riding. And you don’t have to come up in the ‘copter if you don’t want to. In fact, you can just do the post-production, if that’s how you want to play it. But the partying is better in Alaska than in an editing room.”
Hank just shook his head.
“Hazardous, I need you on this. I want to film it this season, and the first snowfall is only six weeks out. I’ll edit next summer, and tour it a year from now. We can hit the college campuses, and enter part of the film in the Banff festival. It will be awesome.” He put the bottle back down, and Hank snatched it.
He poured them each another shot. “Did you see the news?”
His friend’s face became wary. “Which news?”
“Dude, don’t play dumb. She’s marrying a big mountain rider. That Canadian.”
Bear shrugged. “So we won’t use him in the film. That’s easy.”
That wasn’t the problem, and Bear knew it. “She’s marrying him, and it’s only been eight months since she bailed on me.” He downed his second tequila.
Bear moved the bottle away from him again. “She was a bitch, Hazardous. She was a bitch way before she blew you off. Okay? That is a bullet dodged. Let’s not puke on her behalf tonight. She’s not worth it.”
Hank claimed the bottle again. Even if he suspected Bear was right, he felt the darkness hanging over him. “I’m not going to do the film. I appreciate the gesture, but you can offer it to someone who will really be the man.”
