Hard Knocks

by Ruby Lang

  Golfer walked up to plate with a five-iron in his hand. He waggled his bottom and stared down the pitcher. The crowd hooted. There was more unsubtle butt movement.

  Adam wondered how Helen had been roped into it. He doubted that she had a Russian billionaire breathing down her neck. Golfer finally picked up a real softball bat and swung mightily. The ball connected. He was on first.

  The Docs were in trouble.

  Helen, he noted, was doing a tree pose in short center field. She was trying to be subtle about it, but there it was. He smiled to himself. When she thought no one was looking, she pulled her leg back in another stretch.

  Beside him, Serge laughed softly. “You’re staring at her,” he said.

  “So what?” Adam muttered.

  “So, to an objective outside observer, it looks like you’re crazy about her. And it didn’t help that you were glued to her side before. Also, Yevgeny’s minion is glaring at you.”

  Janel was glaring, in between texting furiously.

  “She should be happy with any kind of publicity,” Adam murmured.

  Serge shrugged. “I’m up,” he said. “You can borrow my stick.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Serge didn’t answer. He pulled on his goalie mask and walked out onto the field. The crowd roared. Serge put his hands to his mask and blew kisses.

  Adam looked at the hockey stick that Serge had left behind. That’s what Serge thought he should bat with? He sighed. Well, at least he was good at hitting things.

  By the sixth inning, the Jocks were up thirteen to three. The Docs were having constant conferences. They were determined to be serious—except for Helen. She had apparently given up any pretense of paying attention and was now doing a full-on yoga demo. She was her own show. Adam had given up any hope of doing anything besides staring and hoping that she would perform downward facing dog. At bat, she connected with the ball well enough, and she ran quickly, more swiftly than some of those lumbering docs who yelled and screamed at her to keep moving. It’s just a fucking game, he wanted to yell at them. His fists clenched, and he heard Serge laughing all the way from home plate where he wore his goalie mask instead of catcher’s gear.

  Helen didn’t let it bother her. She settled at first and did something crazy and incredible with her back leg. He watched and ground his teeth as a basketball player tried to chat her up. She gave him a sweet smile.

  Adam felt tense. Maybe he needed to take up yoga.

  Those hoping for some sort of midrun speech from Helen had given up quickly. Golfer had put on a pair of neon pink jodhpurs and was prancing around the outfield, clearly egging on the docs. In the stands, kids chomped on soy dogs. Adam had scored a run with his hockey stick, and caught a pop fly in his baseball cap. He felt like he had done his part.

  And the Docs were out. At the seventh inning stretch, some kids, maybe a few of the healthier ones from the children’s wing, did a choreographed number. In the middle of it, they grabbed some of the players to come up and dance with them. Track Star did a fancy break-dance move. The doctors had no sense of rhythm. Well, again, except for Helen. She wasn’t doing anything difficult, but she moved in a way that was so carefree and yet joyful, it was so much better than all of them combined. She whipped her supple body around the spins and gave a flourish to her kicks.

  She must have been incredible to watch at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Of course, she probably would never have given an ungainly, hormone-crazed guy like him the time of day. Not that she would now, not that he had, apparently, changed much. He would forever be catching up with her. A hearty cheer signaled the end of the routine.

  If this were like any of the games they played when he was a kid, maybe the teams would go out for pizza afterward. The Docs looked like sore losers, though.

  Maybe he could suggest going out for pizza.

  And maybe he could get her alone in a corner booth and take her out to laser tag. And maybe they could neck in the backseat of his car.

  God, what was he thinking?

  But at that moment, the woman with a sharply cut bob stepped up to the plate with a microphone.

  She introduced herself as the chair of the hospital and kept her remarks brief, thanking the attendees and the players. But the jolt came at her next words. “And now, here to judge the Snowball Tourney’s Annual Exceptional Chicken Contest, Dr. Helen Frobisher and Oregon Wolves hockey player, Adam Magnus!”

  An exceptional children contest—or was it an exceptional chicken contest? And he was the judge? What. The. Fuck.

  He shot a look at Janel who waved him to the plate. He jogged up to it and joined Helen. Again.

  “Just remember,” the woman with the sharp bob murmured, leaning in to shake his hand, “it’s all in fun.”

  Helen crouched down to shake the kids’ hands, and Adam, knees protesting, did the same.

  “What’s your name?” Helen asked a young, redheaded girl.

  “Lariat,” the kid said. “And my chicken is a Silkie! Her name is Wilhelmina.”

  The next kid, Thoreau with his chicken, Zandra. And Stogie with Caramel.

  “This is the strangest seventh inning show I’ve ever seen,” Adam whispered to Helen as they watched Thoreau play tic-tac-toe against his heirloom chicken.

  “Stay weird, Portland.”

  Thoreau won the game and hugged the fowl.

  It was so nice, so normal, conferring with her, chatting. It was sort of like they were spending the day together, even though the circumstances were strange. Then again, oddness seemed to draw them together. He liked the crisp air and the breeze. Someone handed him a soy dog, and it tasted delicious. He liked the way Helen talked so comfortably to all of the kids and to the anxious parents. They almost seemed like a normal couple on a date. A date where they were judging poultry.

  Finally, the chair of the hospital board came to them with ribbons and envelopes. It looked like there were plenty of prizes. “Oh, good, something for everyone,” Adam said, relieved.

  “I thought you’d love the opportunity to judge some livestock, Farm Boy.”

  She nudged him, and her eyes glittered with laughter. He felt his heart swell.

  They had a word with each kid to talk about how great they all were, and it took a while to talk about that. A cheer went up for the exceptional chickens and children. By the time Adam jogged back to join his team, the weather had gotten colder and his muscles were stiff. He felt great.

  The game resumed. Sort of. Helen went back to the outfield. Golfer came up to bat determined to outshine everyone, it seemed. Maybe he was the Exceptional Chicken. After testing a couple of bats, he was now attempting to juggle them, swinging them high into the air so that he could have enough time to catch them. “What’s he doing now?” Serge exclaimed next to him. “Does he think this is some kind of carnival?”

  “Can you blame him for thinking that?” asked Soccer Guy.

  As Golfer moved farther and farther away from home plate, the Docs started to shift from their positions nervously.

  But then, of course, Doctor Sandy-Hair yelled something at Helen, which caused her to jog up to the pitcher’s mound. And the asshole Golfer started to lose control. Instead of throwing it straight up, the heavy wood went right across the field, and even before Adam could start to run for her, before he could shout a warning, the bat came down on Helen’s head.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It’s a good thing there are a lot of doctors here, was a thought that Helen had never expected to have, ever. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Or were they closed already? There was too much light intruding, too much shouting. Her head tingled. It wasn’t even pain, it was just too much feeling. Someone warm and smelling faintly of Icy Hot was touching her shoulders. Adam, she thought. She was glad it was him. But he wouldn’t know what to do with her, how to help.

  She had to tell him what to do. “I think I have a concussion,” she mumbled.

  Or maybe she didn’t.

  • • •
>
  Adam was supposed to get on a plane in the morning to fly out to New York for a series of road games, then go home briefly for the holidays, but with Helen in hospital, he didn’t want to leave the city.

  He paced his apartment. Of course, he wasn’t haunting her bedside. They weren’t anything to each other, and she was hardly alone. Practically the whole hospital had been watching as that bat came at her. She had her friends and colleagues and any number of people wanting to soothe and cure her. He probably shouldn’t have bolted ahead of the doctors who were trying to help. He’d only gotten to touch her for a few minutes before they took her away, just long enough for her to murmur something to him. He thought she said concussion. But maybe it was just a word he expected to hear from her. He couldn’t even say anything back because his throat was clogged with worry.

  Petra had been the one to turn him away, though. And Serge had made him go home.

  So he went home.

  Despite Petra’s distraction, she’d promised to text him. Helen’s friend had been the only one who could reason with him and reassure him. She knew exactly what to do, like almost everyone else there—everyone except him. And the golfer, who had retreated in ignominy.

  If Adam ever saw the golfer again, he was going to break every single stick in his bag. Then he would do the same to Dr. Sandy Hair. The man probably had lots of expensive golf clubs to break because he was just that kind of asshole. There had been no need for Dr. Sandy Hair to call Helen up and put her in the line of fire.

  Adam clenched his fists. He checked his phone again. Nothing from Petra since she’d texted to say the diagnosis had been concussion. Just like Helen said, he thought.

  He wondered how much pain she felt. The last time he’d had a concussion, even lying in bed staring at the ceiling made him dizzy. His own head throbbed with tension just imagining her confused and hurt.

  He thought about what Helen had said about her father, about how close she had been to him, how helpless she must feel, and the powerlessness crawled through his hands until he noticed that he was gripping the damp sheets. This is what it feels like to be on the other side, he thought. Watching and waiting, living in suspense over the pains suffered by someone else.

  He wondered how she managed to do it—not just with her father, but with all of her patients. What would it be like to be responsible for so many people? What would it be like to watch people deteriorate? What would it be like to live with that frustration all the time, especially for someone as vital as Helen? What did she do with all that energy?

  He gave up on sleep. He smoothed the sheets as best he could, rechecked his luggage, and then he logged on to his computer.

  He thought he’d put the worst parts of his life behind him: the drinking, the near bankruptcy. But tonight, he felt bad—too bad to sleep, too bad to stay up. And he hadn’t even been hit.

  • • •

  So this is what it felt like to receive karmic justice, Helen thought, her eyes closed. For future reference: karmic justice felt a lot like a concussion.

  She felt confused and slow, and she had a headache threading like a loud, persistent argument through her skull. Sometimes, she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten in the hospital—or that it was a hospital. It was better to stay asleep, to lie in this strange bed while other people took care of her, to not be able to sustain a thought for very long before sinking into dreams. Her colleagues came in to wake her at regular intervals. Petra was there and Joanie and Sarah. She woke up groggily at one point and wondered where her family was, then realized they were in Canada. She remembered her dad was sick. It was better when she forgot.

  Petra had dealt with the paperwork the night before and called Helen’s brother. She texted updates to a list of people and pushed visitors out. It was easy for her friends who were hospital personnel to overstay their welcomes. They were used to remaining in rooms exactly as long as they thought they should. But Petra was firm.

  But early the next day, when the nurse helped Helen sign out, Helen thought that she remembered that Adam had also been with her—held her—so briefly she wasn’t sure it was real. She felt something, though, almost as if he’d left the smallest dent in her just by putting his warm hands on her. And now he wasn’t there, and those imprints he’d left on her ached.

  When Sarah arrived to drive her home, she brought Helen a change of clothing and a huge green drink.

  “What is it?” Helen asked, suspiciously.

  “It’s my latest. I call it Epic Kale.”

  Helen took a sniff. “You realize that I almost died recently.”

  “Yeah. I heard you were wearing your tiger-striped leggings. You know my policy: Never wear anything you could potentially be caught dead in.”

  Sarah checked her seatbelt.

  Helen said, “Just for that, I’m updating my will to reflect that I wish to be buried in those leggings. And I want an open casket funeral.”

  The sweater and yoga pants that Sarah had brought Helen were comfortable and perfect, although she was not going to tell her friend that. She took a cautious sip of the juice and peeked at herself in the mirror. Her face wasn’t terrible, she thought, touching it gingerly. She would have a scar on her forehead, and there would be yellow and purple bruising for days. She liked it. It was just a little unexpected, a little unfamiliar, much like this kale juice.

  “I don’t think Epic Kale is the right name for this,” said Helen. “Maybe, It Kaled Have Been Worse. Or Kale Me Now.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Sarah muttered, fiddling with the GPS.

  “GPS? Are you serious? It’s my house. You’ve been there millions of times.”

  Sarah turned the ignition. “Well someone’s obviously feeling better.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Then Sarah said, very casually, “I heard that Adam Magnus pushed people out of the way to reach you.”

  “I wouldn’t know if he did,” said Helen.

  She felt a warm gush of pleasure to have it confirmed, though. Another one of those, and she’d be leaking all over Sarah’s pristine car. She blinked and shielded her eyes, telling herself that the sun was making her head hurt.

  Sarah had snapped into work talk now. She said something about rearranging office schedules with Joanie and something about hospital shifts. All Helen heard was that she was covered and that she didn’t have to do anything for a few days.

  Sarah had planted the Adam seed on purpose, damn her.

  Adam had run to her. Despite all she’d done, despite all the stupid things she’d told him, he had rushed to her side. She hoped that he’d punched that obnoxious showboating golfer. And Dr. Al McGinnis. She hoped that he’d shoved Al McGinnis down like a screaming derby-girl banshee.

  Not that she advocated violence.

  She felt irrational laughter floating to the top of her stomach. Her head was fuzzing again, and she hoped Sarah was keeping track of the meds, because Helen felt close to becoming a giggling, crying mess. It wasn’t the pain, so much, as it was her vulnerability. Disconcertingly, she wished that Adam were at her apartment, waiting for her. He would be so warm and comforting. A hard fist of desire settled among all the other jangling physical feelings, and she concentrated on trying not to whimper.

  Her head jerked up.

  They rounded the corner onto her street. The GPS was talking to Sarah as if she were a very young child, albeit one with a sophisticated understanding of measurements.

  But Adam hadn’t come to see her today. He couldn’t last night, of course. He wasn’t even her boyfriend. He didn’t even know her number. She didn’t know his. It was probably better for her pride if she didn’t have it because she’d probably call him and blubber and pass out midsentence. But she didn’t care about her pride at that moment.

  The car came to a stop, and Helen gritted her teeth.

  “Just two minutes and we’ll be inside, and you’ll be able to take your drugs,” Sarah said.

  Damn Sarah for being too p
erceptive.

  Helen stumbled out of the car and held on to the roof.

  Petra was waiting inside. “I had Ian send food from the restaurant,” she said.

  “Bed, just bed,” Helen muttered.

  She didn’t even want to move her lips.

  Her friends helped her up the stairs. Petra doled out the meds, and Sarah slung her into pajamas. They drew the blinds.

  She wanted to tell them that she didn’t need a babysitter, she was a brain doctor, and she knew exactly what was wrong with her and what she had to do. But what she had to do included having them stay with her. They wouldn’t have listened anyway. And she didn’t really want them to go.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the next afternoon, Helen was starting to feel a little stir crazy. She was tired of wearing flannel pajamas and clicking listlessly through the television channels—not that she was supposed to watch too much TV. She was well enough to be on her own now, but she still needed bed rest. What a crock. Forget about cures for progressive brain degeneration, forget about concussion and hockey: When she was better, she was going to expose the stupidity of rest and recovery. Because all that idle time led to brooding, and brooding led to regrets, and regrets were really terrible and useless.

  The problem was, she knew all the rules for dealing with concussion, and that made her want to flout every single one of them. She wanted to stand on her head or do cartwheels across her living room. She wanted to stay up all night playing video games and bike to the office. She wanted to blare Beyoncé and dance around her kitchen shout-screaming the lyrics. She wanted to check the statistical analysis on the cervical spine-injury study that she and her colleagues in the neurology department had started, despite the fact that it wasn’t her job—she wanted to get obnoxious about the numbers and yell at the study statistician even though she knew she wouldn’t win. She even wanted to do her practice paperwork so that she could rail at the insurance company, for God’s sake.