Sunrise Fires

by LaBarge, Heather

  Ryan was animated as he pressed for more. “What the fuck happened, man?”

  “We were up at Apex, and he tried to do that nearly vertical push up the side of the ridge — that one on the high-speed turn, the one intended for —”

  “I know the one.”

  Johnnie continued as if Ryan hadn’t interrupted him. “I thought he was going to make it. He got up there pretty high, at least twenty-five feet. But then something happened…not enough throttle, I’m guessing. He fell back, and his bike kinda bounced on top of him.”

  “Damn.”

  “I originally thought he knocked the wind out of himself and definitely must’ve broken some ribs. But he was talking right away. The bike had fallen to the side, and Mark pulled it away. This kid was really excited about nearly making it up there. That was what he was talking about!” Johnnie sounded like a proud parent and both men laughed and smiled at Chris’s exuberance. Johnnie’s faced darkened as he remembered the events. “But then he tried to get up, and he couldn’t move, man.” He looked at his hands, calloused from riding so often. Absently, he stroked the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “Ryan, man, he said…he said…well,” he looked up and met Ryan’s eyes, “he said his legs were dead.”

  “Dead legs?”

  “That’s what he said, and we were all wondering what that meant, too. I mean, you can guess, and everyone all looked at each other really serious out there on the track, but I don’t think we wanted to believe it.”

  “Fuck, man. Fuck. Have you seen the doctor yet?”

  “No, we haven’t seen anybody or heard anything. We probably arrived at least an hour after him because of the drive out of there. He got the high-speed trip on that helicopter.”

  Silence hung between them. My chest tightened with the realization that Chris might be paralyzed at twenty-two. I thought of Ryan’s natural big brother role and how he would take it, knowing he hadn’t been there. I stared at Ryan, captivated by the pattern on his shirt; it was black with tan design on it. I couldn’t see the design, my eyes wouldn’t focus, but it felt good to watch it move as Ryan inhaled and exhaled in a natural rhythm. It calmed me to allow myself to focus on nothing in particular. I thought of Chris’s light enthusiastic personality and how it might be impacted by such bad news. I thought of what I would do and how our lives would change if Ryan had been the one in the accident.

  As the silence dragged on, it felt heavy, stretching the tension between the three of us until Johnny’s voice finally snapped it. “He really couldn’t move his legs, man,” he was almost whispering, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. “I checked to see if he broke one or something, but I didn’t see anything.” He didn’t finish the statement, there was no need.

  Silence fell between us again and stretched on for long minutes.

  “What do you think is taking so long?” Ryan’s frustration and impatience blasted through the silence

  “I don’t know, man,” Johnnie tried to sound soothing, but his nervous energy tightened his voice to a near squeal, making it anything but soothing.

  “Well, fuck, Johnnie. Where’s everybody else? Where the hell is Mark? And who else was there? I mean, who was on this ride with you?”

  Johnnie bristled, his shoulders tight as he sat more upright and eyed Ryan through squinted eyes, his lips a thin tight line. His jaw flexed before he spoke, “Pat had to get home. His wife had to go to work so he had to watch the kids.” His tone was matter-of-fact and controlled. “Mark is outside smoking a cigarette and calling to see if he can get off work tonight. Paul is down the hall in the bathroom.” As he completed the laundry list, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. His eyes were still narrowed and defensive as he stared Ryan down. He looked like a mountain lion, ready to pounce. I half expected to see a tail twitching behind him in warning.

  Ryan’s response was softer, almost inaudible. “Damn — bunch of people on that ride. Shoulda been a good day.”

  Johnnie softened as well. “It was, Ryan, you should’ve been there.”

  “Maybe if I had been, I could’ve talked the kid out of trying that hill.”

  “Don’t start that shit, Ryan. We all tried. He wanted it. There was nothing we were gonna say that would stop him.”

  “Yeah…” But Ryan’s voice trailed off as if he didn’t believe that.

  Chapter Three

  We spent the next week in and out of Mercy Hospital, visiting Chris and supporting his family. It took three days before he was awake again from surgery. It turned out that they had taken him to the back, done some x-rays and tests, and immediately taken him in for surgery hoping to prevent permanent paralysis. They said something about swelling against the spine. Between work and Mercy Hospital, Ryan was consistently on the run. It was a twenty-five minute drive to the hospital from our house, and since Ryan stayed until visiting hours were over, I was never going to see Ryan if I didn’t go with him to see Chris. Thankfully Ryan and I both worked similar hours so I had time in the evenings to accompany him to the hospital, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy to our relationship while also supporting Chris through his recovery.

  In the truck, I had changed to sitting in the center seat as my norm and settling against Ryan as I would if we were at home watching TV on the couch, comfortable, leaning against his side, breathing him in, and chatting about our day. I liked the feel of him next to me, the deep rumble of his voice resonating off my body and eardrums at the same time, lifting me to a happy place while also grounding me with the heavy deep weight of the bass in it. As he drove, I nestled into his side and let my hand trace his chest and belly. His body was muscular, stocky and beefy. I liked the feel of him beneath my hands, strong and full, it felt like he could take me, make me do as he pleased if he wanted to. And knowing that he loved me enough to be tender and loving instead made me feel special.

  In the past week, it seemed he must’ve lost at least five pounds for lack of eating and perhaps dehydration. On one particular trip to the hospital, I pleaded with him for the thousandth time to eat and drink something, suggesting that he stop so we could grab dinner at a drive through on our way to the hospital.

  “I’m not hungry,” he answered.

  “You’ve been ‘not hungry’ since Chris’s accident. Babe, you’ve gotta eat.”

  He sucked his teeth, sighed heavily, and pulled into a fast food place. We ordered a couple of burgers and fries, and as we pulled out, I asked, “Have you talked to your mom about what happened?” This past week had been stressful on Ryan, and it seemed there was nothing I could do to alleviate his feelings of guilt and his drive to take responsibility now, no matter what the cost in terms of his own health and stress. His mother was the person he most trusted, the person who had the most sway and influence in his life, even now that he was nearing thirty and plenty capable of taking care of himself. I hoped that he had called her and that she might’ve helped get him to see that this was really stressing him out and that perhaps we could skip a day or two so that he might rest. Maybe she could convince him to eat or perhaps she’d invite us over for dinner - an invitation he only refused when he had a rock-solid reason.

  “Yeah, on the phone yesterday.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said the same thing everyone says,” he crammed another bite into his mouth, “‘it’ll all work out’ or ‘quit stressing over it,’” he air quoted the words as they sarcastically dripped off his tongue. “Or some other dismissive crap…I don’t remember exactly.”

  His resentful tone was rare for him, in particular, when talking about her. Knowing better than to continue that conversation, I pressed another direction. “Someone was hungrier than he thought.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, swallowing another bite of his burger, almost without chewing it. “I could actually go for another burger.
” He sounded surprised by the idea.

  I smiled, feeling vindicated for having insisted that we stop to grab something. I was tempted to remind him of his heavy sigh and eye roll. Instead, I said, “Okay, baby, take mine. I’ll leave you at the hospital and go grab something around there for myself.”

  He didn’t balk. Instead, he reached right into the bag and grabbed the second burger. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded like wife-talk.”

  I punched him in the arm. “Funny man, eh?” We hadn’t talked about marriage in more than a year. It was a sore subject. Ryan asked me to marry him, and I refused. I had been married twice before, and I knew how marriage changed things. There was no way I was going to ruin this thing with Ryan by exchanging rings and vows and spending tens of thousands of dollars to do it. No, when things are perfect, my policy was why screw it up by changing anything?

  We’d been at the beach when he’d asked me the last time, and it nearly ended us.

  He had me pinned on the blanket, kissing me. My shirt was unbuttoned nearly to my bellybutton and his pants were already undone. He stopped us midstream. “Marry me.”

  “What?”

  “I said ‘marry me.’ It’s been four years and still we poke at this thing,” he thrust his hips at me and his rod stabbed at my already swollen pussy, “I want you to be my wife.”

  “First, it has only been two years. Those first two, before we met, those don’t count. And second, you know, I won’t marry again. We’ve been over this.” He sat up abruptly.

  “We already live like we are married, and I want everyone to know.”

  “They know, Ryan. They know because of how we love each other, how we act around one another, because we cannot hide it.” I sat up and put my hand on the center of his back. “Because it’s real. No piece of paper or ring is going to change that.”

  He reached around his knees and clasped his hands together. “Do you love me? Really love me in the way you say you do, not some fairy tale bullshit, but really love me?”

  “I just told you I did, and I know that you know it already in the way I treat you.”

  “Then why not? Why not make me that happiest man in the world and become my wife?”

  Tears welled in my eyes, and I tried desperately not to let them spill. “Why do you torture us like this?” I smiled weakly and tried to lean into him, to break his hands apart and hold him. I could only manage to rest my cheek on his shoulder and wrap my arms around the tight ball that he had become.

  “C’mon, let’s just break camp.” He got up abruptly and stepped toward the tent despite my hands grabbing at him.

  “Baby,” I pleaded, “don’t be like this.”

  “Like what?” He reeled around. “Like the man who loves you? Like a devoted lover and boyfriend? Like your best fucking friend? Like fucking what? Tell me.”

  “Don’t ruin this moment by giving me that same ultimatum again.” I was standing now, and I crossed to him. “I am married to you. I’m married to you already in all the ways that count. You are all those things you said. And that sums you up as my life mate. I want to be with you and live just like this forever or for until you don’t want it anymore.” His jaw clenched.

  “‘Until I don’t want it anymore’? What is that supposed to mean? I’m so fucking tired of trying to prove that I love you.”

  “I know that you love me, Ryan. I know you do. And I love you, too. Please, let’s just go into the tent. Let’s continue the amazing good morning we started.”

  “Fuck? That’s what you want? You want to fuck this away? Do you think you can fuck me into forgetting that you’ve rejected me so many times?”

  We degraded into one of the biggest fights we’d ever had, and he actually moved out for a period of time. And I’d written him off. Despite how perfect we’d been, I chalked him up to ‘like all other guys,’ and I’d let him go. Initially, I was saddened by his absence and felt stupid for daring to believe that we might’ve been different. When weeks went by and he didn’t call, I was sure that he wasn’t missing me like I was missing him, sure that I’d not meant as much to him as he had to me. And I flipped the switch from missing to resentment. Resentment was a wonderful salve. I decided that I didn’t want him anymore, that he was the one to blame, that he was childish and silly for trying to force my hand and coerce me into marrying him. Good riddance, I didn’t need someone like that in my life anyway.

  When he finally did call, I was cold and aloof. My position on marriage hadn’t changed so I was confused when he reached out. I was sure that he thought we would become friends with benefits and it offended me. Did he seriously think I would be available at his beck and call? On again, off again? Maybe he’d dated others and now thought he could come back to his trusty standby. I definitely couldn’t let him think I was his on-call lover. Had he really even missed me? Or was he just lonely in general?

  I loved him and had missed him dearly in our separation, but I couldn’t bear to let him know that. It was difficult trying to appear unaffected, cautious, and independent while also letting him know that I was open to a conversation about reconciliation. It was an awkward, difficult, and painful road back, despite how much our separation had hurt me and how much I’d hoped we might one day get back together.

  When we finally reunited, we agreed that we each feel whole and happy around each other unlike with anyone else. We hadn’t talked about marriage since, but sometimes Ryan dropped little comments like this one, reminding me that he resented that door was locked.

  * * *

  When we got to the hospital, the overflow from the ER was apparent. Some kind of flu must’ve hit. Every wire bench was occupied, and people lined the walls, huddled together in little pods of illness and injury. Instead of the antiseptic smell that normally permeated the place, it smelled of musk, grass, leaves, sweat, and bad breath. It felt surreal and postapocalyptic the way people murmured in hushed tones and eyed us as we passed, as if we had something they might want, and they were considering taking it from us. We hurried through the madness, and I was glad to be clear of it, shaking off the unsettling feeling with a chill as I punched the up arrow in the elevator lobby.

  We made our way to Chris’s ward and signed in at the nurses’ station. It was much brighter up here and the nurses knew us by now.

  “Welcome, back, Ryan, Jen,” the head nurse greeted us as we headed down the hall to Chris’s room. This place was an altogether more pleasant experience than anything the emergency room and trauma center downstairs had to offer. The fluorescent lights here didn’t seem so grayish blue; instead, they cast a more yellowish peach color to the ward, brightening it. And the smell of flowers dotted the hallway as we passed in front of rooms where they’d been recently delivered ‘get well’ bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, roses, and others, intended to keep the spirits high as the body recuperated. No matter what the impact it had on the patients, it was working on me, and by the time we knocked on Chris’s door, I was feeling rather cheery.

  “Come in!” His boyish voice matched my mood.

  Ryan heaved the solid wood door open, and we stepped inside. The room was intended for two patients, though Chris presently had it to himself. He’d taken up residence on the far side nearest the window. The lights were off, and the room was shadowed and cool inside. Whatever light we had came from the large windows across the room; evening was approaching, but the desert summer meant that sunset was still at least an hour away. The first bed looked dark and dreary. The curtain drawn, separating the two ‘rooms’ from one another, blocked most of the light from reaching it. The bed was made and pillow fluffed at the head of it. A clear Plexiglas clipboard was attached at the foot, hanging in wait for the next victim’s medical chart. There was a side table as well, with little tags in the upper right-hand corner of each likely naming what medical supplies were in each of the drawers. T
he entire scene was sterile and uninviting, unless you wanted to lie down and allow the Reaper direct easy access.

  In just a few steps, the room’s energy changed completely. The bed, the clipboard, the side table—all the furniture was the same, and yet the place seemed entirely different. The light from the window brightened up the back half of the room, and Chris’s bubbling personality made it shine.

  “Hey! My favorite couple!” Chris greeted us, smiling broadly. His bed was mechanically adjusted to the seated position, and Chris was clearly ready for company.

  “Yep. How are you holding up, old man?” Ryan’s tone was warm and loving as he leaned over and hugged Chris.

  “Are you kidding? I wiggled my big toe today!” He raised and lowered his eyebrows repeatedly. “Huh huh? How cool is that?”

  Ryan snorted. “You can do some pretty good things with a big toe, man. Don’t knock it. Know what I’m saying?” And he raised and lowered his eyebrows in a similar fashion.

  “Ewww. Nobody said anything else was paralyzed! Just the legs, man. I still can handle anything you’re getting at. And do it well!”

  “Well, then get up and get to handling. There’s a city full of girls waiting on you.”

  “I will. I will. They say six months to a year, but I’m walking out of this hospital even if I am just hopping on that one big toe.”

  We all laughed.

  I stepped over and gave Chris a hug and kiss on his cheek. “I’m gonna go grab something to eat, hun. I am so glad you are feeling better…well, that you’re feeling your big toe, at least.” And we laughed again. “You want something? Or is hospital food suiting you?”

  “Hell yeah, I want something! An animal style burger and a shake. This food in here is really terrible. But damn, you just got here. Stay a while. Go in a bit.”