Damage Done (5 page)

He needed to get to the hospital and find out what was
wrong with Michael. He tried to call Chrissy again, to see if she'd heard
anything, but it went straight to her voicemail and he threw his phone onto the
dashboard angrily.

When he pulled into the hospital parking lot, he could
still see the helicopter on the landing pad and he wondered how long it had
taken them to make the trip. Maybe Michael was okay, that off-duty paramedic
came to help, but Dylan had dragged Chrissy away because she was only getting
more hysterical. He had no idea what was happening. He ran to the information
desk and waited as the attendant talked on her cell phone.

She raised a finger signaling for him to wait, and
laughing, she said, “I can’t believe he said that to you!”

His impatience hit a high note and he snatched the phone
from her, “Michael Fletcher, he was brought in air-med, where is he?”

“Sir,” she began, “Do NOT touch me again or I will call
security.”

He slammed the cell on the counter, “Do that, and I’ll call
your supervisor to make sure they know your personal calls take priority over
patient business. Buzz me through or I’ll have your ass fired before the end of
your shift.”

Her nostrils flared angrily, but she buzzed him in and
reached calmly for her cell phone as he walked through the opening double
doors. Dylan rarely resorted to being a dick in order to get what he wanted,
but his whole life was behind that door and he didn’t give a shit what anybody
thought of him then.

“Excuse me,” he said, slowing to ask a passing nurse, “I’m
looking for Michael Fletcher, he was brought in air-med just a few minutes
ago.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she said politely, “You’ll have
to ask the nurse’s station, it’s just around the corner to your left.”

He ran down the hall, slowing when he saw Chrissy pacing
the floor in the distance, chewing her nails and scrolling through her phone.

“Chris!” he called, “Where is he?”

She looked up and walked toward him, relieved she was no
longer alone.

“Oh my God, Dylan,” she said, then through fresh tears, “I
can’t get Jeremy on the phone, and I have no idea what’s happening, they won’t
tell me anything!”

Her husband was out of town on business, and she’d been
upset he hadn’t come to Michael’s first game. They’d only been married two
years, and Jeremy’s job took him out of town more often than Chrissy would have
liked.

He walked to the nurse’s station. “I'll find out, is he in
a room or what?" he asked Chrissy, "Where is he?”

“They took him upstairs.”

“Excuse me,” he said loudly, “Michael Fletcher, what’s his
status?”

The nurse looked up from his ten inch binder and nodded at
the office behind him, “Talk to my supervisor, she can fill you in.”

Dylan banged impatiently on the closed door until an old
woman emerged. She looked like she should have retired ten years ago.

“Can I help you, Sir?”

“Please God, I hope so,” he yelled, “I just need to know
what’s going on with my son!”

“Okay Honey,” she said calmly, “Let’s go find out, what’s
his name?”

“Michael Fletcher.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “Come with me.”

They followed her to a nearby waiting room, Chrissy sat,
Dylan preferred to stand.

“Is he okay?” Chrissy asked, “What’s the matter with him?”

“We’re not exactly sure yet,” the nurse offered sympathetically,
“He’s been taken upstairs, the doctor said it looked like a neck fracture
blocked his airway, they’ve got him on a ventilator. I’m sorry, but that’s
about all we know at this point. I promise as soon as they know something,
they’ll be down to speak with you.”

Dylan felt the breath being pulled from his chest and he
struggled not to lash out as the old woman who’d just sucker punched him
offered condolences and asked if she could get them anything to drink.

He didn’t know what to do, he was a man who’d made a living
telling other people how to handle life’s curveballs, and Dylan couldn’t even
find homeplate.

“Is there a pool here?” he asked suddenly.

"I'm sorry?"

"A pool, a swimming pool," he demanded.

She nodded, “Yes, next door in Health and Wellness, in the
basement.”

Dylan left Chrissy and made his way briskly to the building
next door where a group of senior citizens were leaving, laughing as they
exited. An old man held the door for him. He didn’t think to thank him, he went
straight for the elevators and the basement, stripping his shoes and shirt
before he’d even made it through the glass door to the empty pool.

He hurriedly removed his pants and dove into the lukewarm
water, wearing only his underwear, not caring who may have seen him.

Desperation and rage coursed through his veins as he swam
lap after lap, pushing himself harder than he’d pushed since he was a kid,
exorcising her face from his mind.

Michael would need him to stay focused.

***

By Sunday afternoon they were still desperate for news of
Michael's condition, and he was tired of listening to Chrissy cry and yell at
the nurses and doctors. Jeremy was due home that afternoon, Dylan needed to
turn her over to her husband so he could go to his apartment and shower. He was
still wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the game Friday. He hadn’t slept,
his mind racing, on autopilot, but his body was shutting down.

He left Chrissy resting on a sofa in the small room and
walked down the corridor to Michael’s room on the trauma unit. He watched
through the glass as two nurses talked quietly inside, probably arguing over
which of them Chrissy had been a bigger bitch to.

Seeing Michael in that room, strapped to the bed with hoses
running all over him and machines buzzing and beeping, it was agony. It
reminded him of his mother, just before the cancer finally took her. His whole
life he'd been made to say goodbye to the people he'd loved the most. He didn't
have the strength to do it again.

The cafeteria was empty, he sat with a cup of coffee and a
pile of newspapers somebody had destroyed that morning, looking for the Sunday
crossword or anything he could use to distract himself, even for a moment.

But then he saw her photo and his heart lurched at the
sight of her.

Rachel.

He scrambled for the LifeStyle section, shoving the rest of
the paper to the floor. Maybe the sleep deprivation was playing tricks on him.

No, it was Rachel’s face all over again, just as she'd been
Friday night. She stood casually next to a bald man in the photo, some guy they
went to school with. Her hair sat perfectly around her face and shoulders, and
she smiled timidly, pretending, not the honest smile he remembered.

But it was her, he read the article more than a dozen
times. She'd organized a non-profit to support battered women. She was hosting
a fundraiser, a black tie affair.

Rachel Beauchamp. Rachel Daniels.

He’d decided years before that he'd never really known her,
that he’d been an idiot and a fool and the reality of the Rachel he loved was
far more loathsome than he’d ever wanted to see. He was a dumb kid, blinded by
a pretty face and the hormones raging through his body.

Dylan convinced himself she’d gone off and lived the same
selfish and materialistic life her mother had, she’d probably married a doctor
or a politician.

Wasn't that why she’d left him? Because he never fit into
the world she was born into?

He wasn’t prepared to see that she'd done the opposite,
that she'd become an independent businesswoman, that she'd been working to save
people. And the article said she'd married a paramedic. Not exactly gold
digging.

He’d waited years for the opportunity to ask her why, to
tell her she was wrong, to
show
her how wrong she was. He would
tell her he was sorry he hadn’t seen what a vicious cunt she was before she’d
had the chance to fuck up his life, he could have saved them both a lot of
heartache if he'd have seen it sooner.

This gala was his chance.

Jeremy relieved him from supervising Chrissy, and he spent
the evening running through a dozen different ways he wanted to confront her.
When it finally came to him, he lay in his bed imagining the look on Rachel’s
face, she’d never suspect it.

He walked into the office first thing Monday morning and
tossed the article on Nancy’s desk.

“I’m writing a check to sponsor this fundraiser, but I’d
like it to appear to come from the firm, ”  he said, “I’ve got to deal with
Michael and the hospital, I’d appreciate it if you’d hook up with her and be
the face on this."

"Sure, Dylan," Nancy said as he walked out,
"Are you alright?"

"No," he said, stopping to tell her one last
thing before he left, "But I will be. And Nan, don't let her know it's
from me until after we've written the check, alright?"

Rachel startled, her breath racing. She'd been dreaming. It
had been over a year since her last nightmare, but then he’d shown up. After
sixteen years. How could it hurt this much after this long? It wasn’t healthy
to still be so angry, or to feel afraid after all this time.

She didn't want to hate him anymore. It was so hard to
keep hating him.

It was early Monday,  she looked out the window over the
kitchen sink as the coffee brewed, Kenneth's jeep sat under the moonlight in
the driveway. He must have come in after she'd gone to sleep. He could've
loaded the dishwasher.

Rachel had worked so long not to feel resentment toward
him, but it had been creeping back in over the last year, and it ate away at
her guilt over being unhappy. Kenneth never helped around the house, never
picked up a toy, never rinsed a dish.

She'd always assumed responsibility for the housekeeping,
for all the maintenance and repairs. The old Victorian constantly had things
needing to be repaired, and unlike the office where she was simply a tenant,
managing those repairs was up to her. Yes, it was her house, her father had
left it to her, but it was supposed to be his home, too.

The first few years he'd give her an excuse for not helping
when she asked, or he'd offer some bullshit apology and a mile long list of
promises to contribute.

But then he’d started telling her to let it go, it wasn’t
important, “God, Rachel, it’s not cancer, it’s the fucking laundry.”

She shoved away from the sink in disgust and dug through
her bag for her notebook and pen, writing it down was the only way she could
organize her thoughts and stay focused on what was important.

Was her resentment justified? Was she desperate for excuses
to lay the blame of their failing marriage on Kenneth? Had she ever really had
a partner in him, or had he only wanted to her hero? Was she just another warm
body to save? Had she ever loved him, or was he simply an attractive man who'd
been kind to her?

She met Kenneth during the lowest, darkest stage in her
life, right after she'd moved to Dallas and started at the Art Institute. The
year before they met, at Savannah's insistence right after losing the baby,
she'd gone straight to Riverview Psychiatric Center where she spent several
weeks in a deep depression, crying and begging for death to take her.

"I just want to die," she would wail into her
pillow, and "I just want my baby." Her body in knots, she’d cry and
sleep, and cry, while Savannah stood in the corner nervously folding a
handkerchief over and over between her thin fingers, “Rachel, I’m so sorry,
dumplin', I think you need more help.”

Ten months they’d kept her there, the nurses forcing
antidepressants down her throat and sending her off to art therapy and talk
therapy and karaoke therapy. The fog of pills was thick, but it was the grief
and anxiety that still clouded her mind. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. When
they finally said she was ready to come home, her mother had hired Dr.
Valentine to ease the transition. He assumed Rachel's care in the real world,
and they quickly established a rapport.

"It's important for you to take control of your own
life, Rachel," he'd said candidly in his dark office one morning,
"Your mother and father, and your stepfather, they are supportive and
you're blessed with resources many women in your situation live without. What would
make you happy? What obstacles are you facing? What steps can you take to
eliminate those obstacles?"

She'd gone to the Art Institute then, she was almost 20
years old. Her father hadn't cared, his alcoholism was at an all-time high, but
Rachel's mother worried about letting her go. Dallas was four hours away and
after everything that had happened, Savannah was understandably reluctant. But
with Dr. Valentine's influence, Savannah eventually conceded, and she and
Jameson leased Rachel an apartment. She studied clay and oil painting, and
tried to forget about the baby, the hospital, and the boy who'd promised to
love her forever, but ruined her life instead.

Kenneth was a few years older, he'd been wrapping up his
paramedic studies at the local community college. He was an urban kid, his
parents loved to travel, he liked art and music and theater. Rachel was small
town, reserved and sheltered, and Kenneth was worldly and fun and outgoing. And
he was handsome, and he'd taken care of himself, spending afternoons and
weekends playing rugby and disc golf with his dozens of friends.

Until he met Rachel. She was dark and brooding, sad and
quiet, and he'd started spending more time trying to cheer her up and less time
doing the things he'd loved. She hadn’t seen it then, but looking back, he’d
wanted to save her. The hero in him had seen a challenge, and he leaped.

He spent three months convincing her to go out with him,
and another three months convincing her to fuck him. He kept her busy and he
made her laugh. It felt good to forget, even for those brief moments, and then
one night at dinner during a visit from Savannah and Jameson, he'd asked her to
marry him.