Damage Done

by Virginia Duke

  Taylor, Billings & Easton

  In a flash, she understood. It was too good of an offer to have come out of nowhere. They'd said their partner wanted them to write her a check, that he'd shown them the article from the Courier. Dylan asked them to.

  Why?

  Rachel sat silently, staring at the unopened envelope, stunned.

  Creeeaak.

  Lauren ran in yelling, "I have to go pee pee!"

  Jake walked into her office, "Hey, you feel better yet?"

  She shook her head and handed him the envelope. Without considering the return label, he ripped it open and pulled out the check. There it was, fifty thousand dollars on a slip of paper. He slid it towards her on the desk and unfolded the enclosed note typed out on expensive stationary and read it out loud.

  "From the Law Office of Nancy Taylor, Edward Billings and Dylan Easton," and then looking to Rachel he mouthed, "Wow."

  She shook her head.

  "Just wow," he said out loud this time.

  "Is he trying to mess with me? What is the deal?"

  "I don't know, Honey, but I'd give him a call or shoot him an email to find out. Or not. I don't know. We can always return the money and you can tell him to get fucked."

  "I need to process."

  "Yeah. You process, I'm going to find a protein bar."

  He set the letter on her desk and started to walk out, turning back to say, "Wait. Rachel, maybe this is his way of apologizing. Or thanking Kenneth for what he did on the football field."

  It had been less than an hour since she'd given him the rundown on what she'd learned in the nail salon, Dylan being Michael's father, or stepfather, she still didn’t understand it. She told Jake how she'd seen him holding the woman back while they waited for the ambulance to arrive, how she’d seen him in Crane's yesterday, the Gossip Squad saying he'd been to see the school.

  Maybe that was it. The article came out Sunday, she’d gotten the call from the firm Monday morning, they’d had lunch on Wednesday and now here it was exactly one week after she’d first seen him at the game and she already had a check in her hand. Maybe this was about Michael. Maybe this wasn't about her after all.

  The feeling in her chest was indistinguishable. Relief or fury. It was hard to tell.

  ***

  Kenneth had no idea what she was talking about. He studied her quietly, probably diagnosing her in his head as she waited for his response. She asked if he'd been approached by Michael's father, if there had been any correspondence between them after the accident.

  "No, I considered calling, but I thought it was best if I waited until we knew for sure they weren't going to file a malpractice suit."

  He picked at the salad he'd pulled out of the fridge, standing as he ate, never sitting down, always prepared to make a quick exit whenever she was around.

  "Did you know he went to the school and explained that he was trying to talk his wife out of filing a civil suit?" she pressed.

  He chewed slowly, taking his time to swallow, "No, Rachel. How would I know that? I work at the Fire Department, not the school district."

  "I thought you might have heard, maybe somebody told you."

  He sighed, annoyed, and put the tupperware back in the fridge.

  "No, Rachel, that news hasn't made its way around to me yet. I don't pick up the phone and call my buddies the minute I hear some juicy piece of gossip."

  Angry at the implied insult, she went on shakily, "You don't pick up the phone at all, maybe if you'd answer it occasionally you'd know what's going on around you. Don't you think it's important to follow up and find out if this woman is going to sue you?"

  "Rachel, do we need to have a fight over it? I'm sorry I haven't heard this guy went up to the school. I haven't heard from him. I can't do anything about whether his wife wants to sue me. I just have to wait and see, it's not the first time somebody has become angry and made threats because they were grieving, or because they don't like how I do my job," he said, his voice slowly rising, "And I never answer my phone because it never rings. And if it does ring, and I don't answer it, it's because I'm busy. And if you really need to talk to me, and I don't answer my phone, you know you can call the station and somebody will get me on the phone."

  "Kenneth, you never talk to me," she said, her voice rising, "If you haven't heard anything, what was that paperwork Henry brought you?"

  "Jesus Rachel!" he said loudly, "I don't have time for this shit."

  "Oh my God!” she yelled, surprising herself, “Can you ever just admit that sometimes, just sometimes, you're an asshole and you deliberately avoid having to talk to me?"

  "Can you ever admit that you don't know how to talk to me without coming off as bitchy and insulting?" he shot back.

  Rachel slowed down, taking a breath before she continued, "Kenneth, I just want to talk to you, we never talk. And I want to talk without fighting."

  "Rachel, I'm not sure I'm capable of doing that anymore."

  ***

  Rachel woke herself, panting, and quickly slid her fingers down to where her clit ached for relief. Her back arched in response to the orgasm, and she bit her finger to keep from crying out, his voice still in her ear, "Come for me, puss."

  She allowed herself the release, and then shook with anger because she hadn't had the strength to fight him off.

  The weekend was dragging by too slowly. She wanted to spend time with the kids and get out of her head, but Kenneth's parents had taken them for the weekend, and Saturday morning she wound up cleaning out her studio in the attic. Maybe painting again would bring her some peace.

  She spent hours going through her crap and remembering things she hadn’t wanted to remember and before she could get around to doing some actual painting, she found herself in the kitchen contemplating a glass of wine and a block of cheese. Kenneth hadn't come out of his room, she couldn’t get Dylan out of her head, she’d never felt more lonely and dejected.

  She called Jake to come entertain her, but he’d gone out of town with Mark. She called Sarah instead, and her friend raced over, excited to get away from the hoard of teenage boys who'd taken over her home that day.

  Rachel reached over and emptied the bottle into Sarah’s glass then stood to throw it in the garbage.

  “You’re not the only one,” Sarah laughed, “Sometimes Nathan and I go two or even three weeks without having sex, it’s hard with the kids and all of the other stuff we have going on.”

  Rachel felt worse, she reached for a second bottle of wine.

  “No, Sarah,” Rachel said, “I mean, months of not having sex. Since January.”

  Sarah set her wine glass hard on the kitchen table, and yelled, “January?”

  “Shut up!” Rachel hissed, “He’ll hear you!”

  “Rachel,” Sarah said, her voice lowered, “What the hell is going on with y’all?”

  Rachel knew she shouldn’t have said anything, but she’d already had too much to drink and when the subject of sex came up, she couldn’t help but complain that she wasn’t getting any. She needed to deflect.

  “Kenneth is considering the priesthood,” she smiled. Sarah didn’t laugh.

  “Rach, are y’all okay?” she asked seriously, “I had no idea it was this bad.”

  The lump in Rachel’s throat grew and she tried to think of how to get out of the conversation, but she swallowed her wine instead and tried to let Sarah be a friend to her.

  “We’re not okay, he’s been sleeping downstairs. He won’t talk to me. I asked him to go to counseling, but he refused. I’m not sure what else to do. I know you have to work at a relationship, but-”

  “Working at a relationship, yes,” Sarah interrupted, “But how hard should it have to be, Rachel? Since January?”

  Sarah tried to help her work through it and come up with a plan to talk to Kenneth, but they’d had too much wine, Rachel was hugging the toilet by ten o’clock, and Kenneth had to drive Sarah home. She prayed her drunk friend wouldn’t say anything to
him on the ride home, and she was relieved when he spent the rest of the weekend ignoring her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They had a meeting with the team of specialists early that morning. It had been just over a week and after days of fighting to find out what was going on with Michael, they were finally ready to sit down with them and let them know what they’d observed.

  Dylan stood alone near the window, Chrissy and her husband sat at the large round table opposite the doctors. He listened to his heart, beating almost out of his cheat, the room was dead silent until the lead physician launched unceremoniously into his monotoned account of the events leading to their meeting.

  “The spinal cord was severely injured just above the third cervical vertebra, rendering the necessary muscles incapable of controlling the breathing function, specifically the diaphragm. This injury requires immediate intervention to aid in breathing, but in Michael’s case, he appears to have gone at least five or more minutes without oxygen to the brain, resulting in severe anoxic brain injury. The expectation for any meaningful recovery is zero. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  The beating in his heart quieted and Dylan turned to look out the window, bringing his hands to his head and interlacing his fingers. He didn’t need to lose control here. Not now.

  “A permanent loss of function?” Chrissy asked, “Meaning he’ll never walk again?”

  She hadn’t understood.

  Dylan stared out the window and listened to the sounds of his own breathing, watching the tiny people move around below, like ants scurrying for food. He’d felt it days before, he’d known they would lose him. But hearing it said out loud, the official declaration of Michael’s expiration from this world, it was a lead pipe beating him into oblivion. He barely heard the rest of the conversation, the doctor’s voice hummed softly in the distance.

  “Had Michael received earlier intervention, it is likely he would have suffered tetraplegia, or total permanent paralysis in both the upper and lower extremities, in which a patient may still experience a meaningful recovery. In Michael’s case, however, the lack of oxygen caused an irreversible end to all brain function. Without the emergency cricothyrotomy performed on site by the attending paramedic, Michael would have asphyxiated and died on scene. It’s unfortunate the procedure wasn’t performed sooner, but in any case, we do not expect Michael to recover. He’s experienced a permanent loss of function.”

  “What does that mean?” Chrissy asked, her voice cracking.

  “It means he’s brain dead,” Dylan said angrily, annoyed that she could be so stupid.

  He turned and left, to see Michael one last time. He wouldn’t be coming back. He needed to say goodbye. But when he walked into the tiny room with all of the machines and the shell of the boy he’d loved for so long, he turned and walked out.

  Michael had left him already, it was too late for a goodbye.

  ***

  Rachel met with the florist Monday morning, she needed to look at arrangements for the gala, but she still didn’t have any idea what she wanted. It was nearing lunch before she made it into the office and sat in her chair with a thud, reaching straight for Dylan's check. Jake was pressuring her to make a decision.

  It would have been incredibly rude to Nancy and Edward for Rachel to return it, and they really did need the money, but she couldn’t help but feel that to accept it was inviting trouble. Without it, she might have to ask Savannah for the money.

  She shoved the check in a binder on her desk so she wouldn’t have to look at it. It had only been a few days, there was time to think about it later. She was digging through her junk food drawer when the front door opened and she heard somebody come in quietly.

  Usually people she knew would announce themselves, but today there was silence.

  "Hello?" she called out, feeling around for her boots with her feet, "May I help you?"

  "Rachel, It's Dylan."

  The suede voice, smooth and deep, the goosebumps it brought her body when it was close to her. He sounded angry, and demanding. And she was there alone, Jake wasn’t coming in that morning.

  Panic.

  It was too late to run, there was no way out. She reached for her wrist and popped the rubber band over and over, trying to ward off the tightness in her throat, the rigidity of her fingers. Her eyes began to blur.

  Don't puke. Breathe, Rachel. Stay here.

  "Just a moment," she called shakily.

  She pulled up the worn leather cowgirl boots and told herself to stay calm. This didn't have to be the confrontation she'd always imagined, she would just return the check and thank him politely, tell him she was sorry about his son, and then she'd tell him she had a meeting.

  Good plan.

  She stood, absently running her shaking hands over the wrinkles in her denim dress, tightened the thick leather belt she'd chosen to help slim her expanding waistline, and checked the pearl buttons in the front, concerned they'd come undone. Why did she feel so exposed?

  She made her way cautiously into the front room, and her breath caught when she saw him there, tall and imposing, a giant in her small office space. His shirt was a crisp white today, black suit pants. No tie, the hair was disheveled, defiant locks hung loosely against his tanned cheekbones. He ran his fingers over some materials she'd left out for anyone who might stop by. The same fingers running across her skin, over her bended knee, tracing her hip bone, she remembered the moan she'd made the first time they reached her already stiff nipple.

  She popped her rubber band.

  "Are you here for the check? I still have it."

  "What?" He turned and looked at her, confused.

  God, he was still so handsome, all of the classic features of traditional masculinity, except for the baby fine skin that covered them. A lifetime of swimming and being outdoors, and he still hadn't aged. She felt so old. What was wrong with her? She was worried about how she looked, why?

  Disgusting, Rachel, stop it.

  She bent to gather the toy blocks Lauren had strewn around the room, needing a distraction from having to look directly into his face, she was sick of his face.

  "I haven't cashed it,” she said, “I didn't know if it was appropriate."

  Now that she was trying to articulate it, she couldn't find the words. She bit her lip, frustrated at her brain's slow response.

  Where is that damn bin we keep the blocks in?

  "Rachel, of course it's appropriate. Keep the check. I wanted you to have it. I- I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. Of course I want you to keep the check. I didn't come here for that."

  The large, soft hands made their way to push the hair from his face, his biceps flexing, the white dress shirt tightening around them. He stood, hands in his hair, and when all else oozed confidence, that sexy habit betrayed his uncertainty. He was nervous. He should be after what he’d done to her. But it gave her little comfort. He wouldn’t stop watching her, she was afraid to make eye contact. She knelt to scoop up the last of the blocks, and in the absence of the bin she shoved them in the corner.

  "Dylan, I'm sorry about Michael."

  She stood finally to face him directly, and his hands dropped to his sides, his face changed from uncertainty to pain. Despair. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with force, he was fighting back tears. This entire situation was just too unpredictable, she didn’t trust him, she didn’t trust herself. She wanted to him leave.

  But she needed him to stay, now that he was there, maybe she’d find some resolution and finally be able to move on with her life. He took a step towards her and she stepped back instinctively, her hand shaking between them. He stalled then and turned to the sofa where he sat, elbows resting on his knees. He clasped his hands and watched her silently.

  "I'm sorry about Michael," she tried again.

  He was making her too uncomfortable, her legs began to tremble.

  "Yes. Michael," he repeated, taking a deep breath, and then another, "Michael isn't going to make it. Hi
s mother never leaves him, she doesn't want to let him go. It's- it's been hard."

  Rachel’s heart was breaking in a million pieces, for a million different reasons. She snapped her rubberband, panic still slowly bubbling to the surface.

  "Kenneth wanted to contact you, but- but he wasn't sure. We didn't know if you'd want to hear from him."

  “What?” he asked severely, and then a moment of remembrance, "Oh yes, Kenneth. Your husband."

  "Yes, my husband, he was there. We wanted to call, but- but we heard your wife is considering a malpractice suit, and then, you sent me that check, and I haven't- I mean, under the circumstances, it just- he wasn't sure you'd want to hear from him."

  She had no idea what she was saying, she didn’t even want to talk about Kenneth.

  "She's not my wife," he spat bitterly, "We were never married." He looked hard at her then, a flash of fury as he finished, "I've never been married. But I'm trying to dissuade her from filing any lawsuits. She's still grieving."

  Rachel inched toward the overstuffed chair opposite him on the couch and sunk into it slowly, guarding herself. He took another deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, and exhaled heavily. She'd never known him to be capable of such disquiet, to be so uncontrolled, and she knew she should feel afraid, but suddenly she was fighting the urge to hold him, touch his face, anything to still the pain of losing a child. The dark shadows of her own loss moved her to console him now, even after blaming him for so long.

  But she didn't want to feel compassion for him. Years of therapy and trying to move on with her life, they’d all gone out the window when he’d shown back up, and her memory of him had been reborn in hurt and anger. She couldn't reach out to him, she sat stiffly in her chair, popping her rubberband, waiting quietly for him to finish.

  "I don't know if she'll ever stop grieving, but she knows in her heart that this was just a tragic accident, whether she says it or not. Nobody is responsible. You can tell your husband I appreciate what he tried to do for Michael."