Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “It was Bohm’s Moto Perpetuo.”

  “Whatever. The point is, from what I’ve observed about you and Rob, it’s always been two steps forward, three steps back. You’re never going to get to happy doing that dance, little sister. You’ve got to take the chance, when it comes to Rob . . . sounds like, maybe, when it comes to Theo. But only you can do that, Liv. It’s not that you don’t want it; it’s that you don’t believe you deserve it. That’s a problem.”

  “That you solved for yourself twenty-five years ago.” I suck in a sigh. “You were always the braver one.”

  “Hey, my transgressions weren’t nearly as heinous and devastating as yours. I get that. I only fell in love with a man. You refused to hang on a cross and be Dad’s musical savior. Believe me; I’m aware of which flaw came at a greater price. And yet you stayed. I’m not the braver one of us, Liv . . . Not even close.”

  “Your point of view is slanted.”

  “My point of view is distant—clearer perspective.” I am quiet; Phillip knows we’ve reached an impasse. He sighs and leans forward into the screen. “So tell me, what’s my nephew like?”

  Our Skype conversation goes on for the next half hour, until the screen freezes twice and the desk phone rings. The answering machine picks up and we hear Rob’s voice, and Phillip says, “Liv, maybe you’d better get that.”

  “What for?”

  “Liv . . .” he says in a warning tone. “Three steps back . . .” Before I can act, Rob hangs up.

  Phillip and I end our Skype call and I mumble into the blank screen. “Yeah, but what you don’t know is that those last few steps were off a cliff.” The phone rings again. It’s Rob. This time I answer. “Yes?”

  “I called your cell an hour ago.”

  “It’s dead. That’s the best way of avoiding people I don’t want to talk to. At the moment, that’s just about everyone I know.” If Phillip lived closer, had a better grasp on the myriad of troubles that plague my marriage, he might have had a different opinion, or a more lasting influence with the one he offered. As it is, I hang up on my husband and head into the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator.

  Seconds later the phone rings for a third time. Rob’s voice echoes. He’s angry, but he also sounds off-kilter. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I peek around the refrigerator’s stainless-steel door, hearing words so tense they would snap a Slinky. It ends with “So come here if you want. I’m not sure what else to do for him—or you.” He hangs up.

  Back at the desk, I fumble for the play button on the answering machine. Rob tells me he’s at Mass General—with Sam. As he does, my hand rises to my mouth. He’s in the emergency room. I don’t call Rob back. I just throw on a coat and grab my purse. It’s a jumbled drive between city construction, the muddy hues of a sinking sun, and my life. Right turns and wrong ones, unexpected twists in the road.

  When I arrive at Mass General, I’m not entirely sure how I got there. I can’t find a spot, so I park in an obvious tow zone—the brilliance versus the inconvenience of Boston hospitals. At the emergency room entrance, the double doors open automatically. Rob is coming down a corridor, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, the front of his Pats jersey smeared in blood—like maybe they put him in the game this afternoon. I stagger to a stop.

  Wild scenarios erupt in my mind, ones where Rob confronted Sam at his hotel. A fight ensued. But how or why Rob is blood splattered, yet appears unscathed, makes no sense. While Rob is a fitness freak, Sam is a professional athlete. Better still, avoiding a punch is the thing Sam learned best growing up. “What happened?” My head shakes with questions.

  “I went to see your ex.”

  “What the hell did you do to him?”

  “What did I . . . ?” Rob thumbs at his chest. “Yeah. I guess that’d be your next wild claim.” For a moment I think he’s going to stomp right past me and out the doors.

  “Well?” I say, pointing to the blood streaks he just pounded. “What am I supposed to think? You’re upright, making phone calls, and Sam’s—”

  “In with the doctor.” I look past Rob and down a busy corridor. “I didn’t hit him. Christ, Liv, do you really think I went to see your ex-, pro-athlete husband with the intention of punching him in the face? I like risks; I don’t have a death wish.” His gaze glosses over me. “And don’t flatter yourself. Beating the shit out of him because of you wasn’t on my to-do list today.”

  I think of my accusations about him and Sasha. He’s right; a jealous confrontation wouldn’t make sense. “Why would you go see him at all?”

  “Because I can’t figure out what’s going on with you—or us.” I glance away. “I was desperate. I thought maybe he could enlighten me. It was, um . . . educational. He knows you well.”

  “What did you want to ask him?” I lower my voice. “Maybe see if my claim about not having sex with him matched his?”

  “Actually, that came up here at the hospital.”

  “And he told you nothing happened, right?”

  For a moment, Rob doesn’t respond, though his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. He stares, pursing his lips before replying. “He said you were drunk. That eventually you passed out.” Rob scrubs a hand over his face and pushes past me. “He’s in treatment room four. See him or don’t.” I turn; he continues to walk away.

  “I’m sorry.” The loud and abrupt apology stops him. “I’m sorry about the other night. No matter what, I shouldn’t have gone to Sam’s hotel. It was a bad choice. Will . . . will you tell me what happened?”

  He turns. “If I had any sense at all, I would do exactly that—word for word.” His face is uncharacteristically solemn and he draws a deep breath. “As I said, I thought a conversation with him might give me a clue about what the hell is going on. We didn’t get very far. When he opened his hotel room door, his nose was already bleeding. I cracked some joke about the husband of somebody else’s wife getting there before me. He only said ‘I wish.’” Rob looks down the hallway. His face is a disturbing mix of compassion and anger. “He was white as a sheet, sweating. A minute or so later, he fell forward into me.” Rob’s hand grazes over his jersey. “I caught him. But he caught me by surprise. I lost my balance. He fell. On the way down, he hit his head on a piece of furniture. Once he was out cold, you kind of became an afterthought. I called 911.”

  I’m wobbly myself. I reach for Rob’s arm. He yanks it back. “Is it, um . . . So you ended up here because . . .”

  “I rode in the ambulance with him. It seemed like the decent thing to do. He regained consciousness by the time they got him on board. From what he said to the EMTs, he’s clearly concerned that his leukemia has relapsed.” Rob shakes his head. “All the shit you’ve put me through the past few days—to be honest—the past hour, and I end up feeling sorry for the son of a bitch. When we got here, they ushered me into the room with him. But even prone, your ex managed to leap to your defense. While waiting for a doctor, we talked. First, he asked point blank if I was having an affair with Sasha. Dying or alive, the guy’s definitely got a set.”

  “He always did.” A tear surprises me, dripping off my chin.

  “Guess you two did a lot of personal sharing. He certainly provided me with an earful.”

  “About what?”

  “Your past with him.” He looks me up and down. “Your present.”

  “What present?” I say, incredulous. “Yes. I spent the night in his hotel room—I was angry, upset . . . I admit it was a poor choice. But I told you, nothing happened.”

  Rob stares, breathing deep again. “He said that’s what he told you. Interesting, I told you the same thing about Sasha and me—aside from one night of unremarkable ancient history.” His blue eyes meet mine. He speaks more softly. “Tell me something, at this point, if I was having an affair with Sasha, why wouldn’t I just admit it? What would I be fighting for, considering where . . . where we are right now?” He whips around, heading toward the doors again.

  Rob’s interpreta
tion clarifies a stunning point. He’s right. If he was having an affair with Sasha, the last place he’d go would be to Sam Nash’s hotel room. “Rob, wait.” My breath catches, my heart fluttering. “Don’t walk away like this.” My plea is loud enough to draw the stares of waiting patients and medical personnel.

  He stops and turns, though I can tell it’s more a gesture of obligation than desire. On his face is a rarely seen look of loss, maybe judgment. I get the distinct impression he’s about to say something devastating. Instead, he snickers, his tone defeated. He shakes his head. “I can’t do this, Liv. Not now. Maybe today . . . the other night was meant to be. Maybe this is just the push we needed.”

  I take a step back, Rob’s words hitting like a physical response I would never associate with him. “You’re pissed off about where I spent the night. I get it. Probably something like learning you and Sasha slept together all those years ago and that you both kept it from me.”

  “Mmm . . . something like that, though not quite. Not after my talk with Sam.”

  “But I told you—”

  Rob holds up a hand. “I’m up to speed on you, booze, and bad choices.”

  “Fair enough,” I say quietly, knowing he’s right, wishing he didn’t have quite so many go-to examples. “As for you and Sasha, I can’t explain the hotel souvenirs or what it looks like. But, um . . . but given the ledge we’re standing on, based on what’s happened . . . You and Sasha, it doesn’t seem so likely.”

  “That’s great, Liv. Glad to hear it.” He nods and his mouth dips to a frown. “Here’s the bad news.” He looks past my head, down the hallway. “Knowing the ledge we’re standing on. Given what’s happened, I don’t know that I give a shit anymore.” He turns and leaves.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Olivia

  “We should have your labs back shortly. We’ll go from there.” Dr. Travers pats Sam’s arm. She’s an overtly caring emergency department physician. Or so I have determined in the past hour.

  “Dr. Bogart?” Sam asks.

  Standing beside him, I just listen and look at the stress-filled clench to Sam’s jaw. It’s in confirmation of what he already knows, or doesn’t want to hear. “We’ve got a call in to him,” she says. “Why don’t we just get some solid numbers before drawing conclusions? The fever may be a combination of an infection and a still-weak immune system. As for the nosebleed—it’s hardly conclusive. The shift in climate for you and Boston’s dry fall air could do that to anybody. We don’t know until we know . . . Let’s keep a good thought until then.” Sam nods; the doctor and her chipper disposition exits.

  “Not terribly convincing, was she?” he says.

  “She may be right. Like she said, positive thoughts. You don’t know.”

  He leans his head back against the pillow. “Yeah, Liv. I do.” I reach over and squeeze his hand. It’s hot. In addition to the bloody nose, he has a temperature of 103. IV fluids are being pumped into him for now. Separately, you could make a hopeful argument for his symptoms. Together, I suspect Sam knows better. I squeeze tighter. The bruises on his arm. I’m suddenly aware they’re not a result of his workout at Brandeis, or like the fresh bump on his head. A drip of blood puddles at the top of his moustache. I hang on to my poker face and subtly hand him a damp cloth the nurse has left. He takes it and presses it to his nose. We both suck in a sigh. Even while clinging to my hand, he trembles slightly. “It was, um, good of your husband to come here with me. Did he leave?” Sam glances at the clock, disoriented.

  “Rob left. He, um . . . he had some business things to see to.”

  Sam cinches his brow. “You should know, after we got here, I asked Rob if he was shagging your friend.” He shakes his head. “At least I think I did. Sorry . . . am I making that up? I, um . . . we talked about a lot of different things.” He sinks his head deeper into a pillow.

  “No. You’re not making it up. Don’t worry about Rob and me. What I thought about him and Sasha was, I think, just the last straw.” I take an even deeper breath. “Hey, why don’t we find something more positive to talk about?”

  “Compared to my health, I thought your marriage was a more positive topic.”

  Levity dominates for a split second. “You don’t know,” I say more soberly, squeezing his hand harder. “And you got better before. Nothing says you can’t do it again. You’re a man who beats incredible odds—all kinds.”

  “I don’t think so, Liv. Not this time. When it comes to this disease, I got lucky once.” He lets go of my hand, brushing his over the fresh bruises on his arm. “But I ignored these . . . I’ve been feeling lousy for a while. To be honest, since you’ve turned back up, it’s occurred to me . . .”

  “What’s occurred to you?”

  “You know I’m not a big believer of fate or even fitting endings, but maybe there’s a reason we didn’t stay together all those years ago.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “If we had, we’d be old history by now—I mean, considering you . . .” He glances at me. I shrug. “Considering me, what were our odds of keeping it together? Our departure from one another would have been something uglier than an awkward conversation in a hotel room.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “These past few days, I’ve been thinking about the thing that’s scared me most. It isn’t dying. It was dying alone. You’re here. Maybe fate’s seen to just that much.” He turns his head away and focuses on a blank wall. We are quiet as he composes himself. I assume it’s a distraction when Sam reaches for his cell, tucked beneath the sheet. He clicks on the screen. There are two calls from Brandeis, no others. He glances at me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re suddenly responsible for me.”

  “That’s not how I took it. Can we just not allow fate to have the worst-case scenario? Not yet.”

  He clicks on the phone again, one contact in particular. “I’ve kept in touch with Rex Simmons, the PI I hired to find Tate. Even after I got better . . . Well, I thought it wouldn’t be the worst thing to know where your closest kin is.”

  “Tate,” I say breathlessly. “A bone marrow transplant. It’s why you went looking for him in the first place.”

  “Yeah. A sibling is your best bet. After that, blood relatives become . . . Well, not even a distant second. I have a few cousins. Bogey said it was lottery-ticket odds they’d be a match, but they insisted on getting tested anyway. They weren’t.”

  I inch away from Sam, my rough fingertips running over my mouth. “I, um . . . so if a sibling is your best chance, and cousins are at best a lottery-ticket shot . . .”

  Naturally, he does not follow my lead. “There’s the national marrow donor registry, but so far no match. Of course, back when this all started, Bogey talked about a haplo match.”

  “Haplo . . . ?”

  “Yeah—a half match. Longer odds than a sibling, more realistic than a cousin; a newer treatment compared to traditional bone marrow donor matches.” He clicks off the phone and looks at me. An effort to smile collapses to a shudder, visible through his bearded chin.

  “And what, um . . .” My chin shudders back. “Who qualifies for this half match?”

  Sam shakes his head. “Parents . . . a kid. For whatever good that doesn’t do me.”

  My heart pounds furiously. A male nurse with a wheelchair comes through the door. It’s best he takes Sam away; otherwise he’d hear my heart thumping.

  “Mr. Nash, since you did hit your head, just to be on the safe side, Dr. Travers has ordered a CT.”

  “Right. Because I’m sure a brain bleed would be a worse way to go.”

  A few moments later, he’s helped Sam into the wheelchair. As he does, the nurse goes on about a historical and dramatic last pitch, a final out—what an extraordinary thing a World Series win, like that, must be. As they back out of the treatment room, Sam’s damp eyes blink into mine. He replies with phrases that sound canned, like he’s answered this question a million times. I suspect his perspective change
d in the past year, maybe to “it’s only a game.”

  The moment Sam is gone I snatch my phone from my purse. I scroll to what may be Sam’s last pitch, the one that’s in my possession. It’s a curve ball, listed under Theo McAdams.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Olivia

  The next few days are a hazy whirl—I’ve jumped from one shaky life (my own) deep into another. Subsequent tests confirm what Sam suspected. At the hospital, he hit me with a rash of numbers, white counts, and other medical jargon that I couldn’t interpret. Regardless, Sam’s grim summation said it all: “Hell, if they were baseball stats, I would have never even made the minor leagues.” Sam was admitted to the hospital. He’s too ill to travel. Like a single snowflake falling, there is one speck of good news—Mass General is the best. They excel in treating his particular type of leukemia. But the snowflake is quickly swallowed by the surrounding storm. Because Sam has relapsed after remission, treatment options change. His best chemo hope is lesser-proven clinical trials. I guess having the best is all about perspective.

  I take a crash course online and learn pedestrian facts about myeloid leukemia: age has a lot to do with odds in this particular disease—if Sam were younger, his chances would be better. Of course, if he were older, they’d be worse. So he falls to the middle. Yet cure rates are greatly affected by the type of treatment—numbers vary between stem cell transplants and traditional treatment, or even trial chemo therapies. Even though the overall numbers are not wildly encouraging, people have survived; they beat the odds.

  I want their names. I go from website to website, searching for more positive outcomes. I find none. Mostly I learn the differences between remission, relapse, and a cure. When I left Sam in his room, I was all about curing him. No wonder he just kept smiling and nodding. Remission is the realistic hope. It’s what he achieved back in California. It’s what he was hoping would last longer than six or seven months. I continue, absorbing more grim statistics, the latest clinical trials, and quality-of-life studies. As Sam said, his best hope for a bone-marrow donor remains his brother.