by Jamie Beck
“Hey,” I croak. “Anyone out there?”
No one responds, so I yell louder.
“Hey! Somebody. I need help.”
Frustrated by the delay, I struggle to reach my call button again. A heavyset old nurse with a grim face finally appears.
“What do you need, Mr. Hardy?”
“A glass of water,” I bark. “And I want to see the doctor. Something’s wrong. I’m having trouble moving my body and my arms.”
“You’re just coming out of major surgery and we’ve given you heavy painkillers.” She checks my IV. “It takes time for your body to recover from the trauma. Try to relax and rest. The doctor will come see you when he’s free.”
“I don’t want to relax. I need to see the doctor now. I don’t feel right.” I stare at her, but she’s not intimidated. My sense of impotence stuns me. “Can I at least have some water?”
She leaves the room and returns quickly with a small mauve water pitcher and a plastic cup. She places the pitcher on the tray beside my bed and hands me a half-full cup.
“Here you are.”
I take it from her and mutter my thanks.
“When can I talk to the surgeon?” The room-temperature water soothes my parched throat. “I’m telling you, I don’t feel right.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. In the meantime, you need to relax. This will help.” She hands me a small pill before she turns and leaves me alone. Guess my cantankerous mood motivated her to sedate me. I set the pill on the tray and shove everything away.
Hours later, I’m transferred to a double-occupancy room, shared with a man who underwent surgery yesterday. I’d prefer private accommodations, but I’m stuck. My new roommate’s a chunky, middle-aged, cheerful Hispanic fellow. His side of our space resembles a gift shop, filled with brightly colored balloons, flowers, and cards. The nurse introduces Carlos and me. I’m in no mood for chitchat, so I dip my chin and grunt hello.
When the nurse engages me in a clumsy dance to help me into bed, she inadvertently causes me to twist at my waist. The rotation sends a shock wave of pain to my core. My gruff yell startles everyone. I bat my arms at her, wanting to lay blame for my pain. I know it’s not her fault I’m here, but I need to vent my outrage somewhere.
Once settled in my hospital bed, I discover a moderately comfortable position to alleviate some of the pain. The nurse hooks me up to monitoring equipment and a morphine drip before leaving the room.
“You look real banged up. Sorry for you.” Carlos speaks with heavily accented English. “What happened?”
I barely turn toward him, fearing the twinge of tenderness another gyration might launch down my back and legs.
“Car accident.” Jesus, do I really have to talk? “No offense, Carlos, but I’m real uncomfortable right now. I’m not up for much talkin’ just yet, okay?” I smile through clenched teeth. It’s exceedingly difficult under the circumstances.
“Oh, sure, sure,” he says. His apologetic smile reveals his chagrin. “Sorry. I’ll keep quiet so you can sleep.”
“Thanks.” I close my eyes. My body’s taut, anticipating agony. I’m curious about how much I’d be suffering if not for the morphine drip. I’ve never taken drugs, so I’m not keen on flooding my system with heavy painkillers. On the other hand, I’m unwilling to test my mettle without them, either.
Damn, it’s impossible to get any rest in a hospital. If nurses aren’t prodding you hourly, or the commotion from the hallway and nurses station doesn’t disturb you, then your roommate’s visitors will.
Prior to lunch, Carlos’s family arrives bearing more drawings, love, and support. His wife, sister, and children fawn over him, lifting his spirits considerably.
They speak to each other in Spanish, assuming I can’t understand them. But I do, thanks to several well-spent months attending Spanish-language immersion classes when I first moved to Southern California. I’d have been an imbecile to live here unable to understand half the population.
Carlos is considerate and reminds them to keep it down, but he also implies I’m neither especially friendly nor popular. In my peripheral vision, I observe his plump, merry kids. I wonder what it feels like, as a kid, to know you’re safe with your parents. While I usually ignore notions of self-pity, it’s more difficult when I’m confronted by happy families.
Family life with Pop was hardly what most would call comforting, but in our way we were connected to each other. Even when we weren’t speaking, I knew he was out there somewhere and he cared for me as much as he could care for another person.
Once again, the weight of Pop’s death sits on my chest. Then my thoughts drift again to Mama. Have I crossed her mind at all over the years? Did she stay away because she’s ashamed to face me? Would she care if she knew what I’m going through right now? Well, hell—of course not. If she ever cared, she’d have found a way to reach me in the past twenty years.
I glance over and see Carlos’s son kissing his face. Although I’ve never wished to be smothered with affection, a tiny part of me envies Carlos. He’s not alone.
I am.
I’ve designed it this way, but it’s sure going to make my recovery hard. Then again, no one’s ever tended to me. Not since I was old enough to scrape my knees. I’m used to nursing myself and I’m not afraid. Tired, maybe, but not afraid.
The upside of my self-imposed isolation is I don’t have to tend to anyone. You can’t have it both ways, and I doubt I’d be any good at assisting someone else. Hell, I wouldn’t even know how.
After Carlos’s family departs, he leans toward me to apologize. “I hope we didn’t disturb you too much.”
Now I’m obligated to make small talk. I face him and force a smile. “It’s okay. Nice family you’ve got there. You’re a lucky guy.”
“Yes, very lucky.” He grins. “And you? Do you have a wife or girlfriend?”
“No, sir, and I don’t expect company.” I frown briefly, uncomfortable with the truth. The few folks I occasionally socialize with aren’t likely to go out of their way to help me. Come to think of it, I doubt anyone will notice my absence for at least a few days.
Carlos’s voice interrupts my musings.
“Ah, but why? You look like a guy who’s got girls chasing you.” He winks and raises his eyebrows, attempting to boost my spirits.
“Not the kind of girls who’ll come here to check up on me.” Unwilling to elaborate, I simply arch one eyebrow and grin. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
His frown catches me off guard.
“You find a nice girl now. A good girl with pretty insides.” He affects a wise nod, as if he’s delivered novel advice.
I grin rather than challenge his traditional views. What’s the point? He’s being gracious and I don’t want to destroy his illusion of happily ever after.
Thankfully, our discussion’s interrupted when a nurse takes him for a spin around the wing. I’m grateful for the privacy. Unfortunately it doesn’t last too long, because before I can close my eyes, the doctor appears.
Now coherent, I understand I underwent a single-level posterolateral spinal fusion that required a bone graft between the affected vertebrae and four titanium screws. The doctor claims I’m very lucky I didn’t suffer any other major complications from the trauma. I don’t feel too lucky, but at least I’m breathing and I’ll walk again.
He explains a bit about the recovery and my limitations during the upcoming months. I’ll be fitted for a brace I’ll need to wear for a few weeks, and I can’t bend, lift more than ten pounds, or twist for the next three months.
Our discussion wraps up with a mention of the long-term effects of the hardware in my back, such as the potential for future surgery due to the extra wear and tear on the vertebrae on either side of the graft, or the screws shattering or coming loose. I shove those miserable scenarios far from my thoughts.
“You’ll remain here for two more days. We’ll get you up and moving around a bit later today. Your chart indicates
you aren’t married. Do you have a partner or roommate at home to assist with your recovery?” He waits for my reply.
“No. I’ll be alone.”
“Well, how about parents or siblings?” He shoots me a pitying look. “Is there somewhere you can stay for the first couple of weeks while you’ll be dependent on help?”
“No parents, no siblings. I’ll be fine. I can manage.”
“Can you secure a home-care worker? If not, you’ll go to a rehabilitation facility for a week or two, until you can safely manage on your own.”
I vigorously shake my head. “Look, Doc, don’t imprison me in some rehab place. I’ll be fine at home. I work from home. I need my things.”
“We recommend avoiding stairs as much as possible for the next few weeks. You might want a cane for a while, and a grabber to help you pick things up off the floor. With all of the limitations I explained, you surely see that it’s unwise to be alone at first. We don’t want you back here again because you haven’t allowed the graft to take.”
I stare at him, unwilling to concede his point, yet unable to dissuade him.
“Let’s see how the next two days progress. Perhaps you can arrange for some help.” He writes a notation on my chart and nods at me before leaving my room.
Panic escalates at the thought of being confined in a rehabilitation center. Damn it, he can’t keep me hostage. I can survive on my own. When I shimmy to sit upright, pain fans out throughout my core and legs, forcing me to privately acknowledge my house will present challenges.
I want my computer, a newspaper, and something decent to eat. Closing my eyes, I draw a few deep breaths. In desperation and anger, I wonder what the hell happened to the driver who fucked up my life.
Lindsey
The flat, gray sky perfectly reflects my current frame of mind as I make my way to the beach. Rob sent another e-mail late last night. He’s trying to make me feel sorry for him now . . . like I’m hurting him by making him wait and wonder how I’m feeling. Amazing! He betrayed me, not the other way around.
I try to slough off my agitation while I stretch before taking off down the beach.
Morning runs here vastly differ from my typical Central Park excursions. Sand instead of pavement, blue water and sky instead of green grass and trees. The briny air and hushed sound of my feet padding in the sand soothe me while I trot along the shore near the waterline.
Today I’m aware of my life, my legs, and my choices. Instead of focusing on Rob during my run, I mull over Levi’s note and accident. Did he survive? If so, how severe are his injuries? Although he’s been bristly, I can’t set aside my concern.
I suspect his polite-but-distant-neighbors attitude has left him without friends who really care about him. His isolation rouses my empathy.
It’s not my nature to ignore someone’s suffering. Jill used to always tease me about the many “wounded soldiers” whose hearts I’ve healed. Afterward, all my hard work usually waltzed off and ended up as some other girl’s reward. Maybe Jill has a point. But I never help anyone in order to advance my own agenda; I just can’t stand to watch someone struggling. If I can help, I do. At my core, it’s who I am.
And of all the places I might have gone, and of all of the rental homes I might have selected, ending up next door to Levi means something. It must.
It can’t be a random coincidence. There are no coincidences. Right? There was that book Jill’s mom loved so many years ago, The Celestine Prophecy: Coincidences are opportunities in disguise to recognize, and exploit, to improve your life—or something along those lines.
Perhaps Levi and I are destined to teach each other something. Oh, God. Now I sound crazy, even in my own head. What valuable wisdom could he possibly impart? He’s completely unpolished, gruff, and arrogant. Qualities I don’t care to emulate. Be that as it may, I’ll never know unless I try.
By the time I return from my run, I’ve resolved to visit Levi at the hospital. I’m certain I’ll not be welcomed with open arms, but I’m not deterred. I’ll bring him a book. A smile creeps across my face for the first time since last night. I know exactly which book to deliver.
I pull into the hospital parking lot and then my stomach flips over. What if Levi’s facing a major setback? No one wants visitors, especially virtual strangers, while digesting life-altering information. God, that’s assuming he even survived. My stomach lurches again, but somehow my clammy hands mechanically open the car door. Unconvinced my knees can hold me up, I cautiously step out of my car and make my way into the hospital.
Immediately I’m assaulted by the sterile odor. The lighting gives everyone’s skin an ugly green undertone. Concerned visitors and busy employees move through the lobby area. It occurs to me I can’t remember being in a hospital for any reason other than when my cousin Sara had her twins last year. That day had been joyous, unlike today.
A bored woman at the patient information desk shares Levi’s room information. Relieved to learn he survived, I slowly exhale and begin making my way toward his room. I round the corner, pausing to rest my hand on my stomach and steel myself for what may turn into another unpleasant confrontation. As I approach his open door, I hear clipped voices emanating from within his room.
Levi’s typically sexy voice is garbled, probably from heavy doses of painkillers. While I wait in the hallway, I overhear the debate between him and his doctor regarding a rehabilitation center.
Rehabilitation? Is he paralyzed? I remove my hand from my stomach and press it against the wall to my right. Coming here was a rash, self-indulgent idea. I should go. He’s not going to be pleased to see me, and what will I say to him anyway? I’m wringing my hands when the doctor brushes past me on his way out.
Well, it’s now or never. I’m trying to be bolder, so I may as well get on with it. Taking a deep breath, I plunge ahead and enter his room. Levi’s eyes are shut and his hands are fisted by his sides. He doesn’t hear me.
His helmet seems to have protected his face and skull pretty well, but his arms look bruised and swollen, decorated with angry red scrapes. I hide my pity to preserve his pride.
“Hey, Levi.” I take unhurried steps toward the edge of his bed. “How are you?”
At the sound of my voice, his eyelids fly open and his brow knits.
“What’re you doing here?” He stiffens. “How’d you find me?”
“Nice to see you, too.” I smile to disarm him.
“Sorry. Hi,” he amends. “But seriously, how’d you find me? Better yet, why?”
His head tilts slightly as he narrows his eyes. I’d braced for a cool reception, but I’m nonetheless set back by his apparent enmity. And he thinks I punch into the wind!
“The police came to your house late last night. I noticed their lights, so I went to investigate.”
He nods, his face grimacing in acknowledgement. “Snooping. Yep, that sounds like you.” His tone, however, has shifted to teasing, so I raise a brow and continue.
“Anyway, they told me about your collision. I’m not family, so I couldn’t get information from the hospital over the phone. Since I’m a notorious glutton for punishment, I decided to visit. I assumed you could use some company.” I hesitate, preparing for an onslaught of sarcasm. When he issues none, I continue. “At least I learned you’re not a drug dealer, which is what I first thought when I saw the cops at your house so late at night.” I flash a smile and wiggle my brows so he knows I’m joking—well, mostly joking, anyway.
He abruptly tucks his chin and widens his eyes, then sighs, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. His inquisitive stare feels like a spotlight, heating me up. “Did you get the note I taped to your back door last night after dinner?”
“Yes. An unconvincing apology, but I caught the drift.”
He regards me for a moment, then responds in a flat tone, “I don’t think so, or you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I got the message. Butt out.” I nod my head once, for emphasis.
He narrows his eyes.
“So you’re ignoring my request?”
“Under the circumstances, yes.” Evading his glare, I sit on the edge of the bed and fish through my large purse. “You like to read, right? I remember you reading in Florida. Last night I noticed all the books in your house.”
“And?” He cranes his neck to try to see what I’m doing.
“Well, I brought you a book to read.” I hand it to him. “Don’t lose it, I have to return it to the library. I didn’t think it would still be available in the bookstores. It’s older.” Stop babbling, Lindsey.
He inspects the jacket and his brows quirk upward. “This looks like a bunch of hocus-pocus. What magic life lessons are you promulgating now?” he asks skeptically. “Trying to force me to accept what’s happened to me?”
“No.” I pause. “Well, maybe. But that’s not why I chose it.” I decide to be honest. “Levi, isn’t it incredible we’ve become neighbors? Truly. It makes me question whether it’s predestined. Maybe fate wants me to learn something from you . . . or you from me. So, yes, I’m ignoring your note, and I want you to read this book.”
He snickers and sets the book on his thighs. “You think you have something to teach me?”
He’s clearly amazed by the prospect, and sporting the first authentic broad smile I’ve ever seen from him. Even beat-up and broken, he’s more handsome than most men. His blithe reaction encourages me to continue.
“Obviously you’ve lots to learn about basic social graces, kindness, and trust. So, my purpose is pretty clear. What you could possibly teach me, now that’s the real mystery. But I’m open to exploring what it might be.”
He tips his head back when he laughs at my comment, exposing a hearty, deep chortle. Afterward, he snaps his gaze to me, narrowing his piercing eyes to fasten me in place with his stare. As if issuing a warning, he speaks quietly.
“You, Lindsey, have much to learn.”
His confidence and heated stare send a delicious shiver surging through me. Luckily, his roommate returns, breaking the spell Levi cast before my daze becomes apparent.