Love Lies Beneath (21 page)

“You don't think smoking dope might impair her judgment a little? Like maybe enough to make her believe it's okay to stay out all night with her boyfriend?”

“I think she would have chosen to do that with or without marijuana.”

“I assume, with or without marijuana, she has enough sense to use birth control?”

“She's been on Depo-Provera for almost two years now. One shot. Twelve weeks of protection.”

“Except from STDs.”

“Well, there is that. Hopefully, between her health classes and my harping, the message to use condoms, too, will have sunk in.”

“Does Graham know about the pot? Or the birth control, for that matter?”

“Are you kidding me? He'd totally overreact.”

Whoa. Not only has she gone hippie, but she also keeps secrets from her husband. What else don't I know about Mel?

“How about you? Have you smoked weed?”

She laughs. “Would you let me drive your car if I told you I have?”

“Not with me in it.”

At Truckee, we turn off the interstate, onto Highway 267 toward Tahoe. A steady stream of cars pours from the Northstar portal—skiers, going home after a fabulous weekend. I'm jealous. Luckily, most of them travel the opposite direction, back toward the cities. Those we do have to follow are probably locals, because they maneuver the pass in a competent, most untouristy manner.

The whole time we climb, I contemplate how many things I never suspected about Melody. I believed I knew her inside out, and it's worrisome in a way, although it is a good reminder to never assume nor take things for granted. That a person is married to a doctor and goes to church doesn't mean she's a perfect, law-abiding soccer mom. And even if she's your sister, one who has always confided in you, that doesn't mean she has confessed everything. God knows there's information about me that Mel isn't privy to. Pretty sure she'd prefer it that way.

The evenly sawed five-foot berms along the roadways inform me winter has made a regular appearance at Tahoe this year. And as we ascend the hill to Cavin's, the snow stacks are even taller. Someone has cleared a place for the Escalade in the driveway, however.

We are still sitting in the Cadillac when the front door opens, and out comes Cavin, dressed in Sunday-casual clothes that highlight his physique—slim, long-sleeved T-shirt, butt-hugging jeans. “Wow. I forgot how handsome he is,” says Mel.

“You should see him naked.”

She doesn't respond, and I wonder what she's thinking—
How inappropriate,
or
Yeah, that might be interesting
? Either way, her face colors slightly.

Cavin comes to unload my gigantic suitcases. But first, he circles and opens the passenger door, poking his face inside. “Hello, beautiful lady.” It's been a month since Carmel, and his kiss makes me realize how much I've missed being with him. It is sweet and lingering, despite our one-woman audience. When it's over, he grins. “You nervous?”

“Nah. I've kissed a guy before. In fact, I've kissed
you
before.”

He rolls his eyes, looks toward Melody, as if asking her to translate.

“Oh! You mean, am I nervous about the surgery? Should I be?”

“Nope. You're in good hands, and I'll be keeping an eye on those hands.”

“Good, then I'm still not nervous.”

“Good, then I hope you're hungry. You probably won't feel like eating much post-op tomorrow, so I went all-out tonight. Let me help you down, and I'll get your bags.”

Mel and I follow him inside. It's warm and neat and smells divine. “Roast chicken?” I ask.

“Cornish game hens, wild rice, and artichokes. No mangoes. I'll stow your luggage, then we'll open some wine.”

Once he's out of the room, Melody comments, “A doctor who can cook? That's a killer combination. If I were you, I'd hang on to this one.”

One day at a time, darling sister. One day at a time.

For not being nervous, I'm pretty damn anxious about going under. Sometimes they do arthroscopies using local anesthesia, or a spinal block. But my knee is in need of total reconstruction, and that will put me on the table for several hours. As the nurse inserts the IV, I'm actually shaking.

“Hey,” she soothes. “This doesn't hurt that much. Do needles bother you?”

“Not usually. I just don't care for the idea of being knocked out.”

“You've never had surgery before?”

“Only for my wisdom teeth, and when I woke up afterward, the way the dentist leered at me gave me the creeps. I hate feeling helpless.”

“No worries.” She tapes the needle to the hollow of my inner arm, leans close conspiratorially. “I hear you've got a very special watchdog observing. But even if he wasn't, Dr. Stanley isn't the leering type.”

“How do you know about my watchdog?”

She gestures toward the door, where Cavin just happens to be standing, facing the other direction, talking to Melody. “I've got eyes.” Now she lowers her voice. “Barton isn't all that big. Word gets around. Congratulations. He's a keeper.”

Two people in less than twenty-four hours. Not that I necessarily disagree, but it's almost enough to make me take a harder look. Everyone's got flaws. Some you can live with, some not so much.

“I'll go let them know you're ready for the anesthesiologist. Your sister wants to come in first. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

I watch the nurse go, fresh and trim, even in her paisley scrubs, and wonder if she has a thing for Cavin, or if they've ever hooked up. Probably not, considering his desire not to manipulate the boundaries of ethics. Still, when she passes him, he can't help but look, and jealousy jabs, straight-razor thin and just as sharp.

Mel shuffles across the room, sits in the wheeled chair bedside. “You good?”

“Yeah, except I think that nurse has a crush on my doctor.”

“I wouldn't worry if I were you. That man is crazy about you.”

A Band-Aid for my wound.

“We'll see. How are things at home?”

“Want to trade places?”

“That good, huh?”

“Let's just say if I could, I'd stay up here a few extra days.”

“So, do.”

“Can't. I've got a big project due.”

“A writer's job is portable.”

“True. But a mother's job isn't. Especially the mother of teenagers.”

We leave it there and Dr. Stanley comes marching in, clipboard in hand, to deliver some pre-op cheer and post-op instructions. “You won't be in the mood to listen later,” he says, before rattling off a very long list of dos and don'ts.

“You expect me to remember all that?”

“I'm sure Dr. Lattimore will remind you, if memory fails. The main thing is, don't push too hard for the first week or so and stay off your feet completely, except to use the bathroom, for the first three days. And ice. Lots of ice.”

“You sure the knee will be better after it heals?”

“Good as new.”

“Really? Can you do the rest of me, too?”

He chuckles. “The rest of you appears fine to me. Wouldn't you agree?”

The last sentence was addressed to Cavin, who has come to escort me to the OR. “Better than fine,” he answers. “Ready?”

“Give me one second? I need to tell Melody something.” The two doctors step away from the bed and I wiggle my finger, inviting Mel closer. “If anything should happen—not that it will, this is routine and all—but if there's some weird complication or something, all my affairs are in order. I've established a trust, named you executor. I e-mailed my attorney's name and number last night. Just in case.”

She pulls back, surprised. “Me? I . . .”

“What?”

“I've never even considered what might happen if you . . .”

“Died? It's bound to happen sooner or later, hopefully the latter. There's a lot at stake, Mel. I wouldn't want Mom to get her filthy hands on any of it. No way she will, the way I've structured the trust. If you want to be overly generous with your own funds, fine. But, please, never give her a cent of mine.”

“Whatever you want.”

“No. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Mel gives me a hug.

Cavin wheels me into the OR.

The anesthesiologist does his thing.

Defying professionalism, Cavin kisses my forehead before he goes to wash up and don surgical scrubs.

As I wait to slip into oblivion, I think about the lovemaking we shared last night. Though still limited by my range of movement, we made sure it was the very best yet because it will be several days at least before we can indulge again. Can't wait to see what it's like once I'm good as new.

I'm aware of movement and know that Dr. Stanley and his crew are arranging the instruments he'll need—the scope he'll insert in the small incisions they'll carve. The camera attached to the scope, which will transmit images onto a screen. Surgical drills, saws, biters, shavers, scissors, and so on. Saline solution. Sutures. Oh yes, I've done my homework.

They'll remove torn cartilage.

Trim torn structures.

Graft tendon to repair torn ligaments.

They'll . . .

I float up out of darkness into muted light. It's heavy, or the air is. It's hard to take a breath. I wheeze in one. Another. Three. And now it's a little easier. Except my head throbs. And I think I want to vomit. But it hurts to move, so if I puke, it will be all over myself. Where am I?

“Oh, good. You're awake.”

“Cavin?”

He takes my hand. “Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

“Define awful.”

“Headache. Nausea. General discomfort.”

“Sounds about right. Any pain in your knee?”

“Oh, man. Not until you mentioned it.”

“I'll get you some promethazine for the nausea. Once that's not a problem, you can have pain meds. I think we'll keep you here overnight. I've got a surgery in the morning. By the time I'm finished, you should be good to go. Meanwhile, get some rest.”

Despite my being asleep for however many hours, rest sounds good. Wait. “What time is it? Did Mel leave yet?”

“Not yet. It's a little after two and the car is coming at three.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course. You're in Recovery. We'll need to move you to a regular room. Then she can have a short visit, as long as you're still awake. If you doze off, we won't bother you, however. Can I pass on a message in case that happens?”

“Yes. Tell her not to worry about calling my lawyer.”

It's a good thing Cavin is overseeing my recovery, for a couple of reasons, the main one being he insisted from the day he brought me home that I push through the pain and work on extension. It hurts like hell, but I've had plenty of time to read up on postsurgery recovery, and without encouraging my knee to straighten, I could lose range of motion permanently.

He also has access to the latest gadgets, including this cool machine that combines cryotherapy with intermittent pneumatic compression. It's more effective than ice, continuously cycling cold fluid through a knee wrap. And the IPC stimulates tissue healing, at least theoretically.

The first three days are frustrating because, other than the stationary stretching exercises, I can't do very much. Despite the lack of activity, I'm tired and in a fair amount of pain because I'm trying to wean myself off the oxycodone as quickly as possible. I have to keep my knee elevated and hooked to the machine. I can feel my butt growing fatter by the hour.

Cavin alternately cheerleads and scolds. The truth is, I need both, and he seems to instinctively know which way to push, and when. At the moment, he's examining the incisions, something I'm glad I don't have to do on my own. For someone who prides herself on total independence, I'm a wuss when it comes to wounds.

“Looks good,” he says. “No sign of infection. And the swelling is subsiding.”

“It itches like crazy.”

“That's not uncommon, though I'm sure it must be annoying.”

“Not nearly as annoying as all this time on the couch.”

“No worries. You'll be up and running in no time at all. Well, no actual running for a while.”

“Stationary bike?”

He manipulates my knee gently, assesses the size of my grimace. “In a day or two, but only for fifteen or twenty minutes at first. If you push too hard, it could be counterproductive. You can add time as the extension improves.”

“Don't suppose you have one lying around somewhere, do you?”

“So happens I do, and other equipment, too. But I want you to leave the treadmill and elliptical alone for a while. Nothing weight bearing for several weeks, please, or until I say it's okay.”

“Ooh. I love when a man takes charge.”

That elicits an honest laugh. “I'll keep that in mind, though I've got a feeling that would be quite the challenge.”

“Very true. But you're not the type to back away from a dare, are you?”

“Some things are worth fighting for.” He smoothes the bandage back over the stitched incisions, turns to give me a passion-peppered kiss. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” I trace the outline of his lips with my tongue, and the implication is clear.

He gifts me with his perfect smile. “That should probably wait a few days, too.”

“Fine.” I pout theatrically. “Then I guess I'll have to drown my disappointment in a glass of wine.”

“When was the last time you took your meds?”

“No worries, Doctor. I'm managing my pain completely with ibuprofen today.”

“Excellent. Very good to hear, in fact, and in that case, I'll join you.”

As he swivels toward the kitchen, I call, “Mind if I turn on the evening news?”