Are you kidding? Look at it! Jillian demands. It’s… it’s all torn up. It’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like it’s going to fall apart or something.
It looks like it’s going to fall a-part, Sunshine mocks in a sing-song voice. You know you’re just saying that because my knee hurts so bad and you can’t stand to see me getting all the attention.
No, Jillian protests, no, you’ve got it all wrong. My knee does hurt! It’s killing me, Sunshine, you’ve got to believe me, you’ve just got to…
3.2.2: Dallas
Her eyes flutter open. She’s looking down – into a well? – and a circle of faces is looking up at her. Then, with a sickening whoosh, it all turns over, and she realizes that she’s actually looking up and the faces are staring down at her.
Why does Daddy look so worried? Jillian wonders, groggily. Even mother looks concerned – but she looks like she’s pissed off about something, too. Well, she always looks like she’s pissed off about something, so that might not be significant. Jago’s eyes are miles away, I wonder what he’s thinking about? And who’s this guy in the white coat?
Oddly, no one seems to know that she’s there. They’re looking at her knee, at each other, at the floor, off into the distance, everywhere but at her face. Maybe they think I’m dead, she thinks, with a chill. And maybe I’ll try to talk, but nobody will be able to hear me, they’ll just keep staring and staring and I’ll never be able to attract their attention. After a while, they’ll bury me, and then I really will be dead.
But I can’t be dead, my knee hurts so bad!
What’s wrong with it?
“My knee…,” she says weakly. And everybody seems to jump a little…
“Jill, thank God.” G.W. reaches out and presses a weathered, sweaty palm against her face. It feels incredibly comforting. She presses her own hand over his to trap it.
“How do you feel?” the white coat asks, and Jillian feels foolish for not having realized that he’s a doctor.
How do I feel? “I’m… I’m a little woozy, but it’s clearing up. I think. My knee…” She glances down at her knee, but it’s wrapped in bandages, which is not a good sign. But it looks a lot better than it did in her dream.
“Would you like a sip of water?” the white coat asks, and suddenly she realizes that her throat is parched. She nods, gratefully, and someone – Jago? – pours her a cup of water from a plastic pitcher that stands on a small table by the side of the bed.
“Easy,” the white coat cautions, as Jillian begins to gulp down the drink. “Just sip on it.”
“What am I doing here?” Jillian finally asks, after she’s sipped her way through half a cup; and it immediately strikes her as a dumb question. “I mean, how did I get here? I don’t remember… Did I finish the race?”
“Yes, you finished the damn race,” Barbara Anne says, with unrestrained annoyance. “But you screwed up your knee royally while you were at it.”
“Barbara Anne.” G.W. places a hand on his wife’s arm. “This isn’t the time or the place to…”
She shakes off his hand. “You’re right, this is not the time. The time would have been five years ago when she started running those ridiculous races. The time would have been before she messed up her knee so badly that she’ll probably walk with a limp for the rest of her life.”
Jillian feels what little color there is drain from her face. Is that true? Daddy looks like he wants to punch Mother’s lights out. Is that because she’s lying, or because she’s telling the truth?
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” the white coat says, matter-of-factly. A short, round man, the doctor’s face is covered by a dark, neatly trimmed beard and topped by a full head of wavy hair. He speaks crisply, in short bursts, like a man in a hurry. “I’m Dr. Gold,” he adds extending a hand.
As she lifts her right arm, Jillian notices that there’s some white tape around it just above her wrist, and that there’s a tube sticking out from under the tape. Tracing the tube, she sees that it extends from a partially collapsed plastic bag that’s hanging from a hook on a metal pole. She pauses, wondering if she really should be moving that arm, but Dr. Gold grasps her hand and gives it a shake, so it must be okay.
“Was that a greeting,” she asks, as she grips his hand, “or are you just trying to see if I can lift my arm?”
“Both,” he says.
Jillian’s not sure if he’s kidding, but she laughs anyway. “How bad is my knee, Doctor?” she asks. And suddenly, she doesn’t feel quite as jolly as she did just a moment ago. “What did I do to it? I don’t even remember how I got here. Did I pass out?”
Without releasing her hand, Dr. Gold sits on the side of the bed and glances at his watch. “Yes, you did pass out,” he says, as he studies the sweep second hand gliding slowly over the face of his silver Rolex. “Or so I’ve been told. As to what you did to your knee,” he adds, “the x-rays were negative. But you’ve got a meniscus tear that looks pretty bad on the MRI. And your ACL…”
“Wait, wait, wait.” She holds up her free hand. “How long have I been here? What time is it?”
The doctor glances at his Rolex again. “It’s nearly seven, and you arrived in the ER about an hour ago, I’d say. Maybe a little more.”
All those tests, she thinks, and I don’t remember a thing. She sighs. “The x-rays were negative…” she prompts.
“Which is a good sign,” the doctor points out, as he lays Jillian’s hand back on the bed. “But all that really tells me is that you don’t have any broken bones. But the MRI suggests that you’ve got some pretty serious ligament and cartilage damage. Nothing I can’t fix,” he adds quickly, in response to the sudden distress on Jillian’s face. “But if I were you, I don’t think I’d plan on running any marathons anytime soon.”
“So there’s no permanent damage?” She searches his face. Is he leveling with me? she wonders.
“Ohhh, I don’t think so,” he says. “But I won’t know for sure until I get in there and poke around. I don’t know how you managed to finish the race on this monster…” – he reaches over as if to pat the swath of bandages that engulfs her knee, then apparently thinks better of it – “… but, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a smart thing to do.”
Barbara Anne mutters something, which Jillian decides to ignore.
“Okay,” Dr. Gold says, as if something has just been settled. “I’m glad that I got a chance to speak with you. I was afraid that you weren’t going to wake up before I had to knock you out again for surgery.”
Surgery.
Jillian stiffens, which only intensifies the insistent pain in her knee.
She takes a few seconds to look around and take stock of her surroundings. She’s in a typically sterile hospital room – off-white walls, a large window, sparse and coldly functional furniture. Except for the doctor, all of the people who were staring down at her when she had awakened are now pressed back against the walls of the room, as if scattered by centrifugal force. She is, she notices for the first time, wearing a hospital gown. Somebody changed my clothes, she realizes. How could I have slept through all that?
“Where am I?” Jillian asks, then she laughs as she realizes how strange the question must have sounded. “I mean,” she clarifies, “what hospital am I in?”
“You’re at Baylor,” the doctor says as he rises to his feet. “Baylor Scott and White Medical Center. In Dallas,” he adds, as if he’s not sure that she even knows what city she’s in.
“Figures.” The doctor raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Daddy’s on the board,” Jillian explains. “I think he’d rather see me die out on the street than have an ambulance take me to Presbyterian or Medical City.”
The doctor turns and casts an appraising glance at G.W. “So,” he says accusingly, “you’re the reason they pulled me off the golf course on my day off.”
“I’m afraid so, Doc,” G.W. says, apologetically. “I didn’t want anybody but the best taking care of my little
girl, and Hargrove says you’re the best orthopedic surgeon in the whole goddamn state.”
“He’s right, of course,” Dr. Gold says, and Jillian starts to laugh, but then she’s not sure that he’s joking.
A nurse sticks her head in the door. “We’re ready, Doctor,” she announces. “Dr. Aprutari is waiting in the OR, and Dr. Mellencourt is on his way in.”
“Where’s the shot I ordered?” the doctor snaps. “I needed it here five minutes ago.”
“It’s coming, Doctor,” the nurse says contritely, and she ducks back out of the room.
Dr. Gold glances at his watch, and Jillian gets the feeling that he’s trying to emphasize the point that he is, indeed, such a busy man that a delay of even five minutes can screw up his entire day.
“Are you going to do arthroscopic surgery?” she asks, trepidatiously. “I mean, you’re not really going to cut me open, are you?”
The doctor raises an eyebrow. “That’s not the phrase I would have chosen,” he says. “But no, arthroscopic surgery is not the procedure of choice in this situation. Your injury is simply too massive to be handled by the delicacies of the arthroscope. I’m going to use more traditional methods to repair the damage to your knee.”
“But you won’t really know the extent of the damage until you get in there and take a look,” Jillian objects. “You said so yourself. Wouldn’t it make more sense to try a scope first? And then if my knee turns out to be too fucked up – sorry,” – she glances reflexively at her mother, who makes a face and rolls her eyes – “… if it’s too messed up to fix with arthroscopic surgery, then you could put me under the knife. Wouldn’t that make sense?”
“If you had fewer injuries, and if they were less severe,” the doctor explains, “I would indeed recommend an arthroscopic exploratory procedure.” He’s trying to sound patient, but Jillian gets the feeling that he’s annoyed. “But my experience tells me that arthroscopic surgery would not be productive in this case.” Reading her indecision, he shrugs. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me on this one, Jill,” he says.
“Jillian, dear,” Barbara Anne interrupts, “I know that you’re not feeling well, but I think that it would be considerably more pleasant for everyone if you’d stop arguing and let Dr. Gold do his job.” She smiles icily.
Jillian glares at her mother. “It’s my knee, Mother,” she says, angrily. “If I let him cut me open, I won’t be able to run for months. With arthroscopic surgery I could be back on the track in a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, dear me, yes, how silly of me,” Barbara Anne says sarcastically. “You must have some terribly important races planned for the next few weeks. And I’m sure that they’re worth risking permanent injury for.”
“Barbara Anne,” G.W. interrupts, angrily.
“Oh, stop it, G.W.,” Barbara Anne snaps. “You’re just as bad as she is. Hargrove Lanier says that Dr. Gold is the finest surgeon around, and he’s the Chairman of the Board of the whole damn hospital, and you think that you know more about medicine than he does? Do you want to push your daughter around in a wheelchair for the rest of her life?”
Just as G.W. is about to reply, the door swings open and the nurse enters the room carrying a syringe. “I’ll take that,” the doctor barks, and he waves her out of the room.
“What is that?” Jillian demands, fearfully. “What are you doing to me?”
“Jillian,” Barbara Anne says. “Really!”
“It’s just a little something to make you sleepy,” Dr. Gold says, absently. He holds the syringe up to the light and squeezes the plunger slightly. A few ominous drops of clear liquid trickle from the point of the hypodermic needle.
“You can’t do that to me without my permission, can you?” Jillian looks around for support, but none seems to be forthcoming. Jago, who has been strangely silent, meets her gaze briefly, then looks down at the floor. Her mother returns her stare through narrowed eyes. Her father looks back and forth between his wife and his daughter, uncharacteristically uncertain about what to do.
“As a matter of fact,” Dr. Gold says, “we already have your parents’ permission. However,” he continues, holding up his free hand as Jillian starts to object, “I certainly will not proceed if you have any objections. The decision is entirely yours.”
Jillian thinks it over. “What will you do,” she asks cautiously, “if I decide to have arthroscopic surgery instead?”
The doctor shrugs. “I would attempt to dissuade you, of course. I feel that you would be making a serious mistake. However, if you persisted in your decision I would be obligated to withdraw from the case. I could recommend one of my colleagues, if you’d like. Or you’d be perfectly free to seek treatment elsewhere.”
Jillian takes a deep breath and looks down at the bandages that encase her knee. Then she looks up and finds Jago. “Coach?” He flinches, as if he’s been dreading the possibility that she might call on him. “Coach, I don’t know what to do. Help me,” she pleads.
“Whatever you decide to do,” the doctor interrupts, “I suggest that you make up your mind as quickly as possible. The sooner we get you into the OR, the better are the chances that the damage can be successfully repaired.”
Jago shakes his head and holds up his hands weakly. “I do not know, Jillian,” he sighs. “It is possible that arthroscopic surgery might have you back on your feet sooner. But I do not know.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Your knee did look very bad,” he admits. “Perhaps you should listen to the doctor.”
Something’s wrong, Jillian thinks. Jago’s acting like he’s not really saying what he wants to say. And why did mother just shoot him such a hot glance? I guess he didn’t say what she wanted him to say, either.
“Daddy? What do you think I should do?”
Like Jago, G.W. is staring glumly at the floor. “Whatever you decide to do, sweetheart.” He looks up at her uncertainly. “I’ll support you in whatever decision you make, Jill. But I think you’re going to have to decide this one for yourself.”
“Oh, honestly, G.W.” Barbara Anne is clearly disgusted. “Does she look like she’s in any condition to make a rational decision? That’s what we’re paying the doctor for!”
“Stop it,” Jillian says weakly. “Please, stop arguing.” Suddenly, she feels very tired. “I think I know what I want to do. I think…” – she swallows, hard – “… I think I’m going to go ahead and let Dr. Gold operate on my knee.”
“Thank God,” says Barbara Anne, clearly annoyed that it took Jillian so long to make the obvious decision.
“If I had made the Olympics,” Jillian explains, more for her own benefit than for anyone else’s, “it would be different. If there was even the slightest chance that arthroscopic surgery would let me compete in the Olympics, I’d go for it. But the way things stand,” she sighs, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to take a couple of months off.”
“You’ve made a wise decision, young lady,” Dr. Gold says. “I take it that we can proceed? I have a surgical team standing by in the OR, and I hate to keep them waiting.”
“Go ahead, Doc,” Jillian says. “Shoot me up. Gimme the drugs.”
“Are you sure?” the doctor asks. He holds the syringe up to a nub that protrudes from the tube that extends from her arm. “Once the midazolam reaches your brain, you’ll have only a few minutes to change your mind.”
His smirk suggests to Jillian that he’s trying to come across as being funny, but Jillian gets the feeling that he’s being sarcastic, that he didn’t appreciate her questioning his judgment. Especially after being yanked off the golf course on his day off.
Well, let me think about it, she almost says.
But instead, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them again, and says: “Go for it.”
3.2.3: Dallas
She watches as Dr. Gold depresses the plunger. It seems like a momentous event, like she should see a dramatic splash of color in the tube that runs to her wrist, like she should feel something warm
washing over her body. It’s almost a disappointment that nothing happens.
Jillian sighs and closes her eyes. “I still can’t believe that bitch slashed my tires,” she says. “Although I don’t guess there’s any way we can prove it. You didn’t pick up the tubes, did you, Jago?”
“No, I am sorry,” Jago answers dully. “I had other concerns at the end of the race.”
“You know,” Jillian says, to no one in particular, “if I hadn’t tried to pass that last pack, I would have been okay.” She speaks matter-of-factly, without bitterness, as if reflecting on something in the distant past. “I wouldn’t have had that last wreck, and I wouldn’t have had any trouble holding off those dumb little twins, whatever their names were.”
“Kelso,” Jago supplies, helpfully. “The Kelso twins. From Houston.”
With some reluctance, she opens her eyes. Clearly distressed, Jago meets her gaze only briefly, then he stares down at the floor again. “Poor Jago,” she says. “You’re taking it harder than I am.” She tries to prop herself up on her elbows so that she can see him better, but her head swims, so she sinks back down on the pillow.
“Don’t try to sit up,” Dr. Gold admonishes, placing an unnecessary restraining hand on her arm. “Just relax.”
“Don’t worry,” Jillian says, closing her eyes to let the dizziness pass. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Warily, after a few seconds, she opens her eyes. Although she still feels lightheaded, the room has, at least, stopped spinning.
“From Houston, you say?” Jillian tries to pick up the thread of a conversation that seems to have started hours ago. “They looked so young. What are they, high-school girls?”
“College girls,” Jago replies. “From Rice University. But I believe that they have just completed their freshman year, so you are not far from wrong.”
“They must be thrilled about going to the Olympics,” Jillian says dreamily. “I know I sure was. It’s an incredible feeling. Especially when you’re only in high school.”
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