by Shelly Ellis
Encouragement didn’t mean much when your body was this broken, this weakened.
“What’s the point? You said yourself that I’d probably always walk with a limp,” Terrence had muttered sullenly to Dr. Sidda as he sat on the examination table. “It doesn’t matter how much I hop around with that damn cane, Doc. Nothing is going to change that.”
The doctor had studied him carefully for several seconds before lowering himself onto a rollaway chair at a sleek black desk on the other side of the examination room.
“You still have to try, Terry,” Dr. Sidda had said softly before grabbing a notepad on his desk along with a pen. “And I know someone who might help you. I’m writing you another referral.”
“Please, Doc, don’t send me to another damn physical therapist,” Terrence had grumbled. “I hated that shit! That’s why I stopped going in the first place.”
Dr. Sidda had scribbled something on the notepad before ripping off a sheet. He had extended the sheet toward Terrence. “It’s not a physical therapist.”
Terrence had squinted down at the sheet of paper as he took it out of Dr. Sidda’s hand. “Then what’s it for?”
“Psychotherapy.”
When Terrence heard the word, he flinched. “You . . . you want me to see a shrink?”
Dr. Sidda took a deep breath, set down the notepad, and linked his hands in front of him. “Dr. Sweeney comes highly recommended. She specializes in patients like yourself who may be—”
“I don’t need a shrink. I’m not crazy!”
“Terry, I don’t think you’re crazy. But I do think you may be dealing with mild depression as a result of your accident.”
“I’m not depressed,” Terrence had argued with tightened lips. His heart had started to thud wildly in his chest. He had balled his fists at his sides. “I’m just pissed off! I’m blind in one eye and I can barely walk! I’m getting fucking sued! If anyone else was going through what I’ve been going through, they’d be fucking suicidal. But you don’t see me climbing up on a chair putting a rope around my neck!”
“And this depression may be your biggest obstacle to making a full recovery,” Dr. Sidda had said, ignoring Terrence’s tirade. “The only help I can offer is of a physical nature, but perhaps you need something more than that . . . something deeper.” Dr. Sidda had held up his hand. “Please, just consider it.”
I don’t need any goddamn therapist, Terrence now thought angrily as he reclined on his sofa and a Mediterranean-style house exploded on his television screen. Fireballs silhouetted the action-movie hero, who ran in slow motion.
In all the years that Terrence had lived in the Murdoch household, witnessing his parents’ dysfunctional marriage and dealing with his father, who had all the warmth of an arctic iceberg, Terrence hadn’t gone to therapy. He had survived and thrived without sitting on any shrink’s couch complaining about his problems and his doubts about whether his father had really loved him or any of his other siblings. Terrence Murdoch wasn’t a whiner; he handled his shit privately and moved along to the next thing. Terrence saw no reason to see a therapist now. He wasn’t depressed; he just wanted to be left alone. Was that so hard for everyone to understand? Besides, black people didn’t do therapy.
Suddenly, Terrence heard his doorbell ring. He lowered the remote and beer bottle to a nearby end table and glared at his front door.
“Who the hell is that?” he mumbled aloud before shrugging and deciding to ignore it. He returned his attention to the movie. The doorbell rang again and Terrence started to grumble.
He grabbed the stainless-steel cane that was propped up on the edge of the ottoman and slowly pushed himself to his feet. It was a slow process, crossing the distance of twenty feet between the living room sofa and his front door. He could have made the trek in less than sixty seconds in the old days. That wasn’t the case anymore. While he limped toward the front door, his left arm shook with the burden of carrying the weight of his body. The doorbell kept ringing. Hearing that singsong chime over and over again was infuriating.
“I’m coming, goddamnit!” he yelled, breathing heavily.
Finally he reached the front door and practically fell against the wooden slab. He peered through the peephole into the condominium’s hallway. When he saw who waited on the other side, he cursed again.
It was his brother, Evan, wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt and khakis, looking concerned as he glanced down at his watch.
I told him I didn’t want to see anyone today, Terrence thought angrily.
Momentarily forgetting his fatigue, he quickly undid the deadbolt and bottom lock. He snatched the door open and glared at his older brother.
Evan’s handsome face instantly brightened. “Hey, you’re alive! Paulette, Lee, and I were starting to wonder. You didn’t return my phone calls.”
“I didn’t know that not answering phone calls constituted being dead. Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you.”
Evan nodded, ignoring his brush-off and peered around him at the condo’s interior. “Well, I’m here anyway. Can I come inside?”
Terrence groused again before throwing the door open all the way, then he turned around to begin the slow trek back to his sofa.
“Jesus!” Evan exclaimed, shutting the front door behind him. “It smells horrible in here! Like a men’s locker room. It looks horrible, too. When’s the last time you had this place cleaned?”
Terrence didn’t answer, but instead kept walking, finally reaching the edge of the Afghan rug.
“I thought you had a housekeeper,” Evan continued, frowning down at the stack of unopened mail, dirty dishes and glasses, and discarded beer bottles that were piled on the glass coffee table. He glanced around him. “You know, I could recommend one for you if she isn’t—”
“I don’t need a goddamn maid,” Terrence said as he collapsed onto the sofa and sighed with gratefulness at being back in its warm, reassuring embrace. “I got rid of the one I had. I don’t need a new one.”
Evan leaned over and turned on one of the end table lamps, flooding the room with light and making Terrence squint his good eye. Evan’s frown deepened. “Why’d you get rid of your housekeeper?”
“Because I don’t need one, all right? Besides,” Terrence said, returning his attention to the television screen, “I need to save all the money I can, so I can hand it over to my lawyer and the woman who’s suing me.”
Evan sighed as he fell back into one of the armchairs facing the sofa. “Your lawyer told me you haven’t been returning his phone calls.”
“You talked to my lawyer?” Terrence asked tightly, eying his brother.
“He can’t do his job if you don’t work with him.”
“So what? He went crying to you? What are you, my fucking mother?”
“No, I’m your brother—and I care about you. We all care about you.”
Terrence didn’t respond. Instead, he raised one of the half-empty beer bottles to his lips.
“Should you be drinking that and taking your painkillers?” Evan asked, now frowning. “I thought you weren’t supposed to mix that stuff.”
“Don’t worry. I’m off of Vicodin now, Mom.” He raised his brows again. “Is that why you’re really here? Were you worried that I’d overdosed?”
“I just hate seeing you this way, Terry.”
“Jesus! What way?” Terrence shouted, slapping a hand on the sofa armrest. “What are you—”
“When’s the last time you’ve taken a shower?” Evan asked, inclining his head.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“When’s the last time you brushed your teeth or shaved?” Evan pointed at Terrence’s scraggly beard. “Hell, you could have a family of forest animals living in that thing for all you know!”
“I’m going for a new look,” Terrence mumbled sarcastically, taking another drink.
“You don’t leave the house except to go to the doctor or physical therapy and you’re not even doing physical
therapy anymore! You don’t talk to anybody. You just sit in the dark like a mold or a fungus. And when you finally do talk to someone, you fly off the handle! Paulette said you yelled at her yesterday and now you’re being pissy with me. I mean . . . I just . . .” Evan paused and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
“I don’t want your fuckin’ apology,” Terrence said icily, “or your pity.”
“I’m sorry you got banged up and you lost your eye,” Evan continued, undaunted. “But, Terry, honestly, I’m just happy that you’re breathing and you’re still here with us. We didn’t know if you were gonna make it. I’m happy that you’re alive!”
“At least you are,” Terrence muttered before taking a drink.
Evan closed his eyes. “I hate seeing you this messed up. I hate seeing you this depressed. I know it’s hard, but—”
“I’m not . . . fucking . . . depressed!” Terrence yelled, pulling back his arm and throwing his bottle at an adjacent wall. Glass exploded everywhere, making Evan jump from his seat, catching both men by surprise.
“Then what the hell would you call that?” Evan asked seconds later, pointing at the oozing stain that was now on the living room wall and pooling on the Brazilian hardwood floor.
“Frustration,” Terrence said through clenched teeth. “I’m frustrated at being stuck in this fucked-up body! I’m angry that even if I wanted to leave the house, I don’t want to deal with the looks of pity I see in people’s eyes whenever I go into town. You think I don’t know what they’re thinking, Ev? Oh, poor Terry Murdoch! He was such a big, handsome guy who had the world at his fingertips. Well, he doesn’t have it anymore, does he? He’s just a one-eyed cripple. That poor, poor boy! That loser!” He furiously shook his head. “I don’t need that shit. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me! You included, Ev.”
“So what? Are you just going to stay hiding in here forever? You’re just going to wait until you gain two hundred pounds from all that shit you eat now and die of a heart attack? Or is your plan to drink enough beer and tequila that you die of cirrhosis of the liver first?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Terrence said, as he reached for another half-empty bottle. “When I do, I’ll let you know.”
Terrence watched as his brother loudly swallowed, like he was fighting back a myriad of emotions. Instead of seeing pity in Evan’s eyes, he saw a desolate sadness that almost made him regret what he had just said—almost.
“Fine,” Evan murmured as he walked back across the living room toward the front door. “Whenever the time comes, I’ll have someone come and pick up your body before it starts to stink and we get complaints from the neighbors.” He reached for the doorknob, then paused. “But just remember this, Terry. Whenever I was at my lowest point, whenever I felt like I’d be better off dead, you were always the one to give me a pep talk and set me straight. You were the one who gave me perspective about being with Leila and told me that none of what other people thought about us mattered. You’re the one who told me to pull it together and go after what I wanted or just stay fucking miserable. Now you’re at your lowest point and you won’t even listen to your own advice. You’d rather listen to the voices of people who feel sorry for you, but those people mean nothing to you! You’re listening to them instead of the people who really care!” He shook his head again in bemusement. “That doesn’t make you a loser, Terry. It makes you stupid and a fucking hypocrite!”
He then opened the door and slammed it closed behind him. The sound of the television filled the empty room.
Terrence lowered his head at his brother’s words.
Yes, his body was broken. There was no getting around that truth. But did he finally have to admit that his spirit was broken too? Did he need help to heal it?
“You need something,” a little voice in his head said. “Because what you’re doing ain’t working, bruh! What you’re doing will have you dead in a year!”
After a few minutes, Terrence reached for his cane again and slowly hoisted himself to his feet. He limped toward the coffee table, where his mail sat along with the discarded referral that Dr. Sidda had written. He made his way to the granite kitchen island, where his cordless phone was perched. He settled himself onto one of the barstools and slowly dialed the number Dr. Sidda had written.
“Uh, h-hello,” he said to the woman who answered. “I’d . . . I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Meredith Sweeney.” He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, then nodded. “Yeah, whatever slot you’ve got, I’ll take it. The sooner the better.”
Chapter 7
Evan
Evan closed his eyes as his head fell back against the leather headrest.
“Where to next, Mr. Murdoch?” his driver asked.
“Let’s just head home, Bill. I’m exhausted,” he muttered. And he was.
Evan had had plans to go to his office in Arlington even though it was the weekend. He had wanted to get some badly needed work done, but that no longer held any appeal for him. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. His thoughts would keep coming back to his brother, Terrence.
Evan felt like he was watching his brother drowning, but instead of Terrence reaching for the life preserver that was thrown to him or even fighting the current on his own, Terrence seemed to be waiting patiently for the raging river to drag him under. It was painful and heartbreaking to watch.
I wish I could reach him, Evan thought as the car made a left turn onto the roadway that would take him back to Murdoch Mansion. I wish he would listen.
But Terrence had always been cocky and stubborn. Neither one of those traits did him any favors in his current predicament.
The sorrow Evan felt for Terrence was only equaled to the rage he now had for their half-brother, Dante. While talking to Terrence’s lawyer about the lawsuit the other woman in the car crash had filed, the lawyer had mentioned in passing the name of her attorney.
“Dante Turner,” the lawyer had said. “He’s with Nutter, McElroy, and Ailey.”
The instant Evan had heard his half-brother’s name, his jaw tightened. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”
“I asked around about him to see if he’s a reasonable guy,” the lawyer had continued, unaware of Evan’s growing anger. “Maybe he’d be willing to lower the four million in punitive damages that she’s asking for. I asked if he might force it to go to trial, which isn’t ideal since the police still haven’t been able to determine who was at fault in the accident.” The lawyer had paused. “I want to warn you that none of what I’ve heard from my colleagues about Mr. Turner was good, Mr. Murdoch. They said he’s one mean son of a bitch—and he’s money-hungry.”
Of course, Evan knew all of this already. Dante had gone out of his way to ruin the lives of his siblings—from having an affair with Evan’s wife to trying to blackmail and bully Paulette into selling him all her shares in Murdoch Conglomerated. And he had done it out of sibling rivalry and to exact some revenge on their deceased father, which was so delusional it wasn’t even funny. Now it looked like Dante had turned his laser sights on Terrence and of course, it had to be the moment when Terrence was most vulnerable and the least likely to defend himself.
Evan gritted his teeth again as he glared out the Town Car’s tinted window at the passing cars and scenery. His fists tightened at his sides.
He wanted to wring Dante’s neck. He wanted to punch his half-brother in the face over and over again. He had let Dante off the hook too easily in the past. It was time he dealt with him once and for all.
“So, what are you going to do?” the voice in his head mocked. “Put a hit out on him? What are you? Michael Corleone?”
No, Evan wasn’t going to order a Mafia hit, though frankly, with the right amount of money, anything was possible. He would find a way to take care of Dante. He just needed time.
Evan’s cell phone began to ring. He opened his eyes and sighed before glancing down at the phone screen. When he saw the name
on his caller ID, he frowned. He slowly raised the phone to his ear.
“Charisse?” he said, not succeeding in keeping the shock out of his voice.
“Hi, Ev, how . . . how have you been?” she answered timidly.
Evan hadn’t heard from his wife, Charisse, in months—not since she had entered rehab to avoid jail time for a drunk-driving incident. From what he had heard, she had already fallen off the wagon. She had just finished another thirty-day program and was living with her mother again in her childhood home.
“Why did you call me, Charisse?”
There was no need to be civil. They hadn’t been civil for most of the years that they were married; he didn’t see any reason to start now.
Evan heard her anxiously clear her throat on the other end. “I just . . . I just wanted to talk to you. I need to talk to you, Ev.”
“About what?”
“About us. About our marriage. I need to—”
“We don’t have a marriage. Let’s be honest. We haven’t had a real marriage in years. And if you’d finally sign and send back the documents my lawyer sent to you, we would be well on our way to being legally separated, divorced, and out of each other’s lives permanently.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll send you the papers if you agree to talk to me.”
“We are talking,” he said tightly.
“I mean really talk. We can’t do this over the phone. I need to see you in person . . . please,” she whispered, sounding desperate.
Evan’s frown deepened. What was this about? Why was she reaching out to him now? He wondered if she was stalling. Maybe she wanted to negotiate more alimony or more of their marital assets.
Fat chance of that, he thought. She had forfeited all her rights to negotiation when he caught her having sex with Dante, and he had the cell phone pictures to prove it.
“Ev, are . . . are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” he muttered, though he didn’t know why. He should have hung up on her already.
“So, will you meet me? Will you do it?”
He sat quietly for several seconds and then finally exhaled and nodded. “Fine, Charisse, if you’ll sign the goddamn papers, I’ll agree to meet you. We can do it next week.”