Coming in from the Cold

by Sarina Bowen

  “So, what is it about Mondays in Vermont?” Coach asked, chewing. “Everything is closed. Driving up to the shuttered Laundromat felt like the last straw.”

  “Tell me about it,” Willow smiled. “It’s restaurants, too. It took me a while to figure that out after I moved here. Don’t get hungry on a Monday. I think it’s because they cater to the tourists from Connecticut, so closing Sundays is a bad idea.”

  “Ah,” Coach bit into his roll. “Wow,” he said, chewing. “This is amazing.”

  “There’s nothing like warm bread to lift your spirits,” Willow agreed. And hers could really use a lift.

  “So you’re not a native Vermonter?” Coach asked.

  Willow laughed. “Far from. I grew up in Philadelphia.”

  “You still have family there?” he asked.

  It was an innocent enough question. He had no way of knowing how difficult the topic really was. “No family,” she said, without elaborating. Technically, Willow couldn’t be sure this was actually true. But after the state stepped in after neighbors had leveled charges of neglect, Willow had never seen her parents again. She had only the shakiest memory of their faces.

  Coach was studying her. “Another member of the club, then,” he said.

  “What club?” Willow transferred the rest of the hot rolls onto a rack to cool.

  “Dane has no family—that’s how I became his nursemaid.” He put another bite into his mouth. “For me, there was a wife. But she died.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks, it happened years ago. So how did you get to Vermont, then?”

  Willow was happy to hear a change in the subject, even to this one. “There was a man. He left. It happens.”

  “It does.” He sipped his coffee.

  “So…” Willow had a question that had been bothering her. “The knee. Will it heal properly?” She didn’t really want to start a conversation about Dane, but she’d hate to think his career was over, all because of one nasty fall. And, vain as it was, she still felt culpable.

  “It will heal,” Coach said. “There’s no reason to think he won’t be training for the Olympics by the fall. It just wasn’t that bad a break.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Willow said.

  “It is,” Coach agreed. “Most definitely.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Willow pulled her truck into the gas station and hopped out with her credit card. She began her transaction only to look up and see that the man filling up his pickup truck in front of her was Travis. She felt her face flush as she locked the nozzle in place. Travis had left her two messages inviting her out to dinner. And she had ignored both of them. She’d been feeling too overwhelmed to be social, especially with someone who might be attracted to her.

  “Hi,” he said mildly. “How are you doing, Willow?”

  “Good, Trav,” she smiled, hoping for a neutral topic of conversation to spring forth into her mind. “I’m doing well.”

  Now there was a big fat lie.

  “I heard about your injured tenant,” Travis chuckled.

  “Did you?” Willow asked, hoping to sound impassive. She fiddled with her gloves so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

  “Sure. The lifties always talk about him. What’s it like having a world-renowned asshole living on your property?”

  “It’s fine, because I never see him,” Willow dodged. And it was true.

  “At least the rent checks won’t bounce.” Travis took the nozzle from his truck and hung it back up on the pump.

  “Hey, Travis?” Willow asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What did you mean that night when you said his family was crazy?”

  “Ah,” Travis said, folding his arms. “I don’t think he’s dangerous, exactly.” Then his face split into a grin. “In spite of his name, right?” He slapped his leg. “Anyway, his mother was always lurching around town when we were growing up. She was kind of out of it all the time. And then his brother, too. They’re just a family of drunks. It turns you into an asshole.”

  Willow’s pump stopped, and she put the nozzle back in its holder. “I’m pretty sure I come from a family of drunks,” she said, giving Travis a sideways glance. She capped her fuel tank. It was one of the only things she’d gleaned from her childhood file with the state. She knew almost nothing about her parents, except for the fact that alcoholism had been one of the causes of her removal from their home. “Does that make me an asshole?”

  Travis lifted up both hands, like a busted perp. “Willow, come on. I was just running my mouth.” His face was red.

  Willow knew she was being ridiculous. She had no reason to defend Dane, and Travis had only been good to her. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

  “I’d better get back,” Travis sighed. “I’ll see you around.” He hopped into his truck and started the engine.

  She slid behind the steering wheel of the truck, her misery closing in around her.

  * * *

  Willow and Callie dined together the next day on hospital cafeteria fare. “So, now I have an appointment for an adoption counselor and a baby-care class on the same afternoon. And ten days to decide which appointments to keep.”

  “I bet that doesn’t happen often,” Callie said.

  “Actually, I bet it does,” Willow said. “I can’t be the only person who has teetered this long on the fence.”

  Callie put down her sandwich. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean to be flip.”

  “It’s all right. I know I have to decide soon.”

  “You’re really considering every option, aren’t you?”

  “Every last one,” Willow said.

  They were silent a moment, and Callie finished half her sandwich. She brushed the crumbs off her fingers. “Can I ask you a psych question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Suppose there’s a prisoner, and he’s serving life with no chance for parole.” Callie fiddled with the straw in her drink.

  “No, you should not get involved with him,” Willow laughed.

  Callie rolled her eyes. “Very funny. But listen, okay? So, this prisoner has already served a decade, maybe two. Then one day, the warden walks in and says, ‘Whoops. We made a big mistake, you’re free to go.’ My question is this: how does the guy react?”

  Willow swallowed a bite of salad. “Well, in the movies, he kisses his lawyer and dances out of prison, to the sound of trumpets and violins,” Willow said. “But in real life, probably the opposite would happen.”

  “What does the opposite look like?” Callie asked.

  “People are ruled by their expectations. And if the unexpected happens, even good things, we find it hard to adapt. In real life, the prisoner probably has a total breakdown. He’d punch his lawyer, scream at his mom. Drink himself into a stupor. He might never get over it.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” The look on her face was far away.

  “Callie? Are you letting someone out of prison?”

  Her friend looked thoughtful. “Probably not,” she said. “But of course, I can’t really talk about it.” She picked up the other half of her sandwich.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dane had never felt so trapped and alone.

  Coach was always nearby, of course. He went to junior races in Vermont and New Hampshire on the weekend, looking at the up-and-comers. But Dane led an impossibly claustrophobic life in the apartment. Save the occasional follow-up doctor’s appointment, there was nowhere to go. He and Coach had tried going out to eat a few times, but it was such a hassle getting in and out of the Jeep, pushing the passenger seat as far back as it would go. And then sitting there in the restaurant feeling like a man with a black cloud hanging over him.

  The only thing that brought Dane any pleasure at all was the thing that was causing him so much pain. In the afternoons, after she came home from work, Willow would always visit with her chickens. From one of the two windows in Coach’s
little living room, he could see an oblique slice of Willow’s yard, including the barn door. Dane would stand there waiting, leaning on his crutches until she came out, swinging her egg basket, heading for the door.

  If it was a sunny day, the barn would already be open. The chickens always came running like a pack of puppies, swarming Willow’s ankles. She always set the basket down and scooped one of them up. The chicken would sit in the crook of her arm while Willow stroked its back. Then she would invariably pull some raisins out of her pocket, and the girls would flap themselves into a frenzy while she doled out these treats, talking to them.

  He watched because of the look on her face, which was always peaceful. There was no way to imagine that she wasn’t having a really hard time right now. Callie had said as much. But at the same time, at least for the moments when he spied her out the window, she wasn’t totally broken.

  That made one of them.

  * * *

  After dark was when Dane had the most trouble. It made the apartment—and his life—feel impossibly small, with nothing to see out the window except for his own ugly reflection looking back at him. On this particular evening—barely distinguishable from all the others—Dane had been channel surfing for half an hour, nothing holding his attention for more than a few minutes.

  Coach was beginning to fidget in his chair. “So what’s the deal with Willow?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Dane kept his eyes on the screen.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? What’s the goddamned problem?” Coached grabbed the remote out of Dane’s hand and turned the power off. “I see you watching for her in the backyard. I can only guess why you do that. But when she brings the mail to our door, you won’t even glance in her direction. There are twelve-year-old boys with more game than you.”

  Dane began the difficult chore of getting off the couch. Leaving his legs propped onto the chair, he crab-walked his upper body onto the floor. “I know you’re bored, Coach. A few more weeks and we’ll be out of here. You can go find some teenage prodigy to do you proud in case I blow up again before the Olympics.” With his hips suspended in the air, Dane pressed up on his fingertips and began a series of dips, working his chest and arms.

  Coach looked into his beer bottle. “You’re acting like a sorry asshole, Dane. Even for you, this is extreme. I just want to know—what did that nice girl do to you?”

  Dane finished a set of thirty before resting his butt on the floor. “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t mean it the other way around. What did I do to her?”

  Coach leaned on his elbows and looked Dane in the eye. “Fine. What did you do to her?”

  “If you want to know so bad, I got her pregnant.”

  “Fuck.” Coach put his head in his hands. “You poor kids.”

  “Why do you feel sorry for me? She’s the one who’s knocked up.”

  The look on Coach’s face was the hardest one he’d ever seen there. “Don’t ever talk to me like I’m stupid, Dane. Just because you don’t talk about your problems doesn’t mean I don’t know what they are.”

  “You don’t know what they are.”

  Coach’s stare was unrelenting. “If that’s the line you want to take, fine.”

  “Leave me alone, Coach.”

  “I leave you alone too much. If you won’t talk to me, I think you need to get some help.”

  Dane snorted. He lifted his hips off the floor again and began another set.

  “I have one question, and if you answer it, I won’t bring it up again.”

  Dane lifted his eyes.

  “When you look out that window at Willow, what do you see?”

  Dane’s tightened his abs and decided to press the set to forty reps. “I see someone who punched me in the gut,” he ground out.

  “That’s what love feels like, kid.”

  Dane adjusted his balance so that he could dip himself with only one arm. Then he reached up and lunged for the remote, snatching it out of Coach’s hand. “If you’re so wise, what are you doing sitting alone in this shit hole with me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Callie was disappointed to see Willow’s truck in the garage when she pulled up the farmhouse driveway. Her friend came smiling to the kitchen door when she opened her car door.

  “Callie?” Willow called. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Callie took care to bring both her purse and the calmest face she could muster from the car. “Willow, how come you’re not at yoga?”

  Willow shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it. And you said you couldn’t be there.”

  Callie flinched. “Willow, I need to talk to Dane. But I don’t want you to come.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Doctor-patient privilege,” Callie whispered.

  Willow’s mouth fell open. “You’re scaring me, Callie.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “No matter what, you are going to be fine. Stay here, and put on a kettle for tea?”

  “All right,” Willow said, her face reluctant.

  Callie squeezed her friend’s hand, and then forced herself to turn away from Willow’s frightened eyes. She continued toward the apartment door, feeling around in her purse for the things she’d brought with her.

  * * *

  Dane had heard the car pull into Willow’s driveway, and then the sound of women’s voices. He steeled himself against what was coming. Even so, his palms began to sweat. There were two knocks on the door, and then it opened. Callie appeared on the threshold.

  His mouth went dry.

  Coach popped up off the couch. “I’ll step outside,” he said, before Callie could even ask.

  “Actually—” the doctor cleared her throat “—I might need you nearby.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dane spit out. “Coach, this is private.” He wiped his hands on his T-shirt and took a deep breath in through his nose. Steady, he coached himself. Whatever the doctor said, it didn’t change anything. The die had been cast a long time ago.

  Still, he found himself studying Callie’s stony face, looking for clues. Doctors gave out test results all the time. Callie probably had plenty of practice delivering bad news. But she couldn’t know how desperately he wished he could duck the truth a little longer. Just a few more years of not knowing—that’s all he had wanted. And now he couldn’t have even that.

  Quicker than Dane would have liked, Coach put on his coat and disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

  Callie approached the sofa, where Dane sat with his broken leg propped onto a chair. She took something out of her bag and held it up to show him. A syringe. “This is a sedative. If you can’t control your reaction, if I think you’re going to hurt either one of us, I’m going to sedate you.”

  “You won’t need it. My test results won’t really be news.” In spite of the brave words, his chest felt tight.

  With a grim face, Callie drew a piece of paper out of her purse. Fuck. He locked a defiant stare onto his face.

  “Your test came back, Dane. You’re negative for Huntington’s. You’re don’t have the gene.”

  A second passed, then two. Dane, his jaw cemented together, was having trouble understanding what she’d said. For a long moment he replayed her words in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then he felt his face sag, and the room got fuzzy around the edges. “No,” he heard himself say.

  Callie knelt down into his line of sight. “Yes. I have the lab report right here.” She handed the paper to him. “You don’t have it.”

  Dane’s throat clenched as he took it from her, curling his fist around it, crimping the paper. “It’s wrong.” It had to be. And whenever the correct diagnosis was eventually revealed, this moment of uncertainty would come back to burn him like a hot poker. He knew how badly misplaced hopes could cut a man. He’d spent his teenaged years waiting for someone to tell him that there’d been a mistake—that Finn would live.

  But the disease always won. He’d seen it too many times t
o believe that he’d be any different.

  Callie reached into her purse again and took out a second sheet of paper. “I did two different labs, Dane. Two results, from two different states. Same answer. You’re going to have to get old like the rest of us.”

  “You’re a liar,” he whispered. It wasn’t fair, trying to make him think that.

  She shook her head. “I’m not lying.”

  “Bitch.” He stared her down, looking for any sign of weakness. Watching for a flinch.

  She returned his gaze with clear eyes. “I did what you asked. Now it’s all on you.”

  When he spoke again, his voice cracked. “You’re just fucking with me.”

  “No, I’m not. And that means every other ugly thought you’ve ever had, every muscle tremor, those weren’t symptoms, okay? You’re fine, and now you have to figure out how to live with yourself.”

  Throwing the beer bottle in his hand was purely a reflex. As he watched, it went whistling past Callie’s head, landing with a bright crash on the other side of the room. Along with the sound of shattering glass, he heard a scream of frustration from his own mouth. Then the door flew open and Coach ran inside. “Don’t FUCK with me!” Dane yelled.

  “Dane!” Coach cried, running across the room. He laid a hand on Dane’s shoulder.

  But Dane swatted him off, and then swung himself unsteadily to his feet. The room was too hot, and there were too many people in it. He couldn’t think. If he could just get outside, the world might become a recognizable place again.

  “Sit down,” Coach ordered.

  “I’m leaving,” Dane said, his heart galloping around his chest.

  Coach tried to press him back toward the couch, but Dane wasn’t having it. He swung an arm into his coach’s gut, sending the older man stumbling. But because he was standing on just one leg, the swing put Dane off kilter, too. He began to topple.

  That’s when Callie dove at him, aiming his body back into the sofa. “Hold him!” she yelled, and Coach fumbled towards them both, leaning onto Dane’s shoulder, pinning him awkwardly to the couch.