Love Lies Beneath (7 page)

Other than the sledgehammer pounding my patella, and the hot drain of blood from my face, everything is just peachy. “F-f-fine,” I manage, flushing the toilet. “Be right there.” I have to talk myself into standing, however.

By the time I finally manage to zip my pants and wash my hands, I've regained a little composure, at least until I turn away from the sink, forgetting my knee just long enough to twist my weighted right leg sideways. The ensuing
pop!
forces that scream from my mouth after all.

Trevor flings open the door. “Holy shit! You're white as an albino's ghost.” Fascinating colloquialism.

“Yeah. This thing decided to hurt after all.” I avoid the details. Only an idiot could have forgotten that injury in the space of three minutes. “Could you get me a couple of ibuprofen?”

He decides to isolate the knee, and by the time he's finished applying an elastic bandage, the on-duty attendant, Sierra, arrives. She assesses his work, gives an approving nod. “Good job, T. I'll take it from here.”

Trevor pats me on the shoulder. “As soon as your sister catches up with you, go straight to the ER, okay?” His newfound concern borders on comical.

“Cross my heart.” He starts to leave, but I stop him. “Hey, Trevor? Thanks for the expertise. Not to mention the entertainment.”

It's after two by the time Melody finally stumbles in, tired from the unaccustomed exercise. I'm sipping hot tea and reading an old
Ski
magazine, fairly comfortable, or at least as comfortable as I could convince Sierra to make me, with an extra pillow and one of her personal Vicodins.

“Are you okay?” Mel demands.

“Most of me. Except my right knee. That is most definitely
not
okay.”

“Do you know how scared I was when that guy—who was stoned out of his head, by the way—snowboarded up to tell me you were here?” She storms over to the gurney. “How did he know I was your sister?”

I tip my hands like a spokesmodel might. “This lovely powder suit is the approximate color of orange marmalade, and designed to conceal every flattering curve so stoned snowboarders won't be tempted to ravish you.”

“You. Are. Hilarious.” Mel yanks off her helmet and shakes her head, trying to loosen the sweat-plastered mess beneath it. “Now, don't you wish you'd been wearing one of these?”

“One: I don't think they make helmets for your knees. Two: my head is just fine. And, three: if my hair looked like that, ski patrol wouldn't have stopped for me.”

She doesn't find the joke funny. “Why are you so stubborn? Think of what might have happened. It could have been worse!”

“Could have been better, too.”

“Okay, so now what?”

“I'm told I must go straight to Barton Memorial for a learned opinion.”

The Tahoe area offers a wide range of outdoor recreations—skiing, biking, hiking, boating, Jet-Skiing, rafting, and even more unusual activities like paragliding and skydiving. So it makes sense that South Lake Tahoe's small hospital has one of the best orthopedic centers in the country, staffed by doctors well versed in sports medicine. That information came via Sierra, who tells Mel now, “We'll bring her down the gondola via gurney.”

I've had some time to think about the logistics. “Why don't you go on ahead, stow your stuff, and have valet bring the Escalade around? The ticket is in my purse. Unless you want to take a couple of more runs first.”

She gives a “yeah, right” eye roll. “Looks like you just cut our vacation short.”

“Hey. I prepaid the hotel and bought lift tickets for four days. No matter what's happened to me, you can still ski. In fact, I expect you to.”

“We'll see.” Her voice remains terse, but her expression softens, going all sisterly concerned. “Okay. Catch up to me in valet.”

As she reaches the door, I call out to her, “Hey, Mel? At least I didn't hit a tree!”

We pull into Emergency late afternoon. I will say this about Barton Memorial: it's a beautiful facility, with a rock and pale wood facade that melts into its surroundings. Mel goes inside to request a wheelchair and I sit looking at the forest, which serves as a buffer, both for noise and also for less impressive housing tract views. South Lake Tahoe has taken a lot of time to create its woodsy design, especially with its later redevelopment. It must be nice to live up here, at least in the off-season.

The ER must not be too busy today because after the initial paperwork I don't have to wait very long for an exam. A nurse takes my vitals, then hands me over to the on-call doctor, who looks to be around sixteen years old. “I know what you're thinking,” he says when I eye him suspiciously. “No worries, though. I am an actual certified physician. But even if I wasn't, I'd say we'd better take X-rays, as well as an MRI.”

The nurse returns, hands me a hospital gown. “Do you need help putting this on?”

“I think I can handle it. Should I leave something on under?”

“Panties only, unless they have anything metal. No metal. No jewelry.” She glances at the five-carat pink diamond engagement ring, now worn on my right hand. “I'll leave that with your sister if you want.”

“Please. And since this is going to take a while, would you ask her to go get some other clothes? These pants are trashworthy.”

“Will do.” She takes my ring, plus a pair of sapphire studs, admiring them noticeably as she leaves. I hope they make it to Melody, but if not, they're insured.

I manage to shed what's left of my clothing in favor of a fashionable pink tent, which sort of ties closed in back. I'm still working on the second bow when someone knocks on the door. “You decent?”

“Loaded question, one I plead the fifth on. But you can come in.”

The tech, whose name is Timothy—not Tim—helps me into a wheelchair and escorts me to X-ray. When they finish irradiating me, it's off to the magnetic resonance imaging machine. I'm glad it's not my brain they want to look at, as I'd be claustrophobic with my head immobilized inside this behemoth. Instead, Timothy faces me toward it, feet first.

“Lie back and try to relax,” he says, clamping the top piece of what's called a knee coil in place. Then hands me a set of earphones. “The machine is loud. What kind of music do you like?”

“Anything louder than the machine?”

“Death metal?”

“Not that loud. Something with a decent beat and lyrics I can decipher.”

Timothy smiles. “You got it.”

I'm sort of surprised when it's country he chooses (he looks more preppie than cowboy), but not totally disappointed. It does fulfill my general request, and I can listen to almost anything for a half hour, which is about how long the procedure takes. When it's over, Timothy wheels me back to the examination room.

“Someone will be in to discuss the results in a little while,” he says.

“Any chance at some pain medication in the meantime?” The Vicodin has vacated my premises.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“If my sister's here, can she keep me company?”

“I'll see what I can do about that, too. Meanwhile, here's something to read.”

I spend fifteen minutes with a very old
People
magazine before Melody comes traipsing in, carrying a shopping bag. “I tried to find something loose over the legs, but nothing in your wardrobe fits that description. So I brought a pair of my lounging pants. They might be big in the waist, but we can pin them.” She sits on a wheeled stool, amuses herself, rolling it forward and back. “How are you? Any news?”

“Nope. Waiting on results. And painkillers.”

Moments later, Dr. Babyface comes in to address the latter. “I'll give you a prescription for an opiate, but want you to wean off it and straight onto eight-hundred-milligram ibuprofen as soon as possible. Your file says you drink alcohol daily?”

I nod. “Pretty much. Unless I don't feel like it.”

“I ask, because many pain medications contain acetaminophen, which can cause serious complications in combination with alcohol . . .”

He goes on about
what
complications, and what he'll prescribe instead, et cetera, et cetera. I don't know exactly what he says because I tune out almost immediately. All I really want is a pill right now. Finally, not quite as if reading my mind, he goes over to a cabinet and finds a sample of something or other, hands it to me with a paper cup of water.

“That should kick in fairly quickly.”

“What is it again?”

“Vicoprofen. Hydrocodone and ibuprofen. Be sure to eat plenty of fruits and vegetables because one of its side effects is constipation . . .” He lists more, but I quit listening at “nausea and vomiting.” I'll simply refuse them.

“How long until we hear something about the tests?” asks Mel when he finishes.

“Anytime now, actually. You were lucky today . . .” He realizes the irony of what he just said and grins like a goon. “Okay, you could have been luckier. But one of our best orthopedic surgeons happens to be here. This is Dr. Lattimore's designated surgery day, and he had just finished up some paperwork when you came in. He decided to stick around and is assessing the films right now.”

Just about the time my head goes light and my knee quits aching, the door opens, and in walks a most amazing man. He's maybe forty, tall and sinewy beneath careless expensive clothes. His hair is the deep golden color of lager, well barbered, but uncombed and slightly askew. Generally, I'm not big on the casual look, but it works perfectly for this guy.

“Good afternoon . . . er, I guess technically, it's evening. I'm Dr. Lattimore. I specialize in sports injuries. And you, Ms. Cannon, have a doozy.”

“Doozy? Is that official doctor language?”

He laughs, and it's honey rich. Inviting. “Yes, actually. It's Latin for ‘one destroyed knee.' You've torn both your anterior cruciate ligament and your medial collateral ligament. In addition, your meniscus looks like it went through a meat grinder. You must have been moving!”

“Yes, and I was cruising along just fine until I got rear-ended.”

“So, what does that mean?” demands Melody.

“And you are . . . ?” The good doctor turns in her direction.

“Melody's my sister. And my mom. All rolled up in one.”

“I see. Well, what that means is reconstructive surgery. A single ligament tear can often be rehabbed successfully without it, but not two, and the cartilage complicates things further.” He moves toward me, assessing. “You look like an athlete. I'm sure you'll want to heal as quickly as possible, and this is the best option.”

He reaches the side of the gurney, pulls back the sheet to examine my knee. His fingers are long tapers, manicured and suede skinned, and when he touches my leg, tiny ripples of energy radiate upward, clear to my thigh. Whoa. What was that?

Whatever it was, I'm pretty sure he felt it, too. Our eyes meet, and I see that his are the green-gray of the ocean beneath rain. “Phew,” he says, palpating my knee very gently. “You're going to be swollen for a while, and we can't do surgery until the swelling subsides, or we'd risk scar tissue.” He pauses, fingertips still exciting my nerves. “Don't know why I'm saying ‘we.' Once you can bend and straighten without a problem, you can have the surgery done at the hospital of your choice.”

When his hand withdraws, I notice no wedding ring, nor any white shadow indicating one is worn outside of the workplace. “So, does that mean I'm bedridden, or what?”

“Not at all. You should stay off that leg for at least two weeks, but I'll give you some exercises to do. You'll want to regain strength and range of motion as soon as possible. But don't stand for long periods or walk too far without the crutches I'll send home with you. We'll brace it for now, too.”

“Can she drive?” asks Mel.

“Not for a while. You can chauffeur, right?”

Melody smiles. “Looks like it's Christmas at my house, after all.”

God help me.

The nurse comes in with a sheaf of papers, gives them to the doctor, who in turn hands them over to me. “As promised, the pre-op exercises. Plus one of my business cards, in case you decide you want to do the surgery at Barton. Dr. Rice will finish up in here, and you'll be on your way. Sorry about the circumstances, but it's been a pleasure meeting you.”

He reaches out to shake my hand. I am subtle but direct when I don't let go immediately. I want him to feel the electric rush when I lock his eyes with mine and lower my voice. “Would it be out of line to ask for your cell number? In case something comes up in the middle of the night?”

“Highly unusual request,” he says. But he grins, retrieves his business card, and scribbles on the back:
Cavin, 530-777-8992
.

I'm not surprised Dr. Cavin Lattimore gave me his number. But Melody is stunned, not only by the gesture but also by my boldness in requesting it. We are back in the room, and I'm on the sofa, leg pillow-propped on the coffee table, in front of a gas fire in the faux fireplace.

“Cavin,” I sigh. “Great name, huh? I've never met a Cavin before.”

“Have you no sense of shame?” Mel asks.

“Shame? I'm not familiar with the word. Does it hurt?”

“Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired. I mean it, Tara.”

“Look. The attraction was mutual, obviously. And life is too short for games.” Except when they bring you pleasure or accomplish a goal.

“Are you really going to call him?”

I pick up my phone and dial, expecting it to go straight to voice mail.

Instead, he answers. “Cavin here.”

“Oh, hello,” I purr. “This is Tara Cannon.”

“Tara? Oh, yes. ACL, MCL, and meniscus. Everything okay?”