Damage Done

by Virginia Duke

  "What took y'all so long?" Sarah asked, "I thought you were right behind us."

  "I had to take Lauren to the bathroom."

  That was a lie, she'd walked around to try and kiss Kenneth after he buckled Lauren in, and he'd pulled away to make a call on his cell. It was a good ten minutes before he got off the phone and joined them in the car. No apologies. No explanations. He just said, "Alright, let's go."

  She’d only been trying to thaw the ice, she hadn't really wanted to kiss him to begin with. But her feelings were hurt nonetheless.

  Sarah nudged, her face proud, "Can you believe Caleb is starting varsity this year?"

  "No, it’s crazy. It makes me feel old."

  Rachel had known Caleb practically his whole life, she and Sarah show jumped together growing up, they'd shared a love for horses. Rachel never had many other girlfriends, but Sarah got pregnant their sophomore year of high school, back when having a baby so young wasn't socially permissible, and ever concerned with other people's opinions, Savannah disapproved of what she called, "Sarah's predicament." So when the pregnancy became obvious, the school district demanded Sarah's parents withdraw her, and Rachel's mother refused to allow them to have any contact.

  Sarah left for Houston then, humiliated, where she lived with an aunt who'd taken care of Caleb so she could finish high school. She'd gone to one of those alternative education centers for knocked up teenagers and kids with homemade tattoos or blue hair, all those kids who refused to conform. After she left, Sarah’s boyfriend hadn't been allowed to see her either, but it didn't bother him as much as it had Rachel. In a town where football stars can do no wrong, he'd escaped the snickers in the halls and the haughty judgment over his part in getting Sarah pregnant, and it hadn’t taken long for him to find some new girl to corrupt.

  Sarah married a guy she met in college, and Nathan was the only father Caleb had ever known. He sat happily next to her in the bleachers waiting for their son to take the field.

  "So is Caleb nervous?" Rachel asked.

  "I think Nathan is more nervous than Caleb,” Sarah laughed, “You know how he is about this crap."

  She leaned over and cupped his face with her hand, kissing him on the mouth.

  "The hell I'm nervous," he pulled away in protest, "It's only the first time my kid is hitting the football field as a varsity player, what father would be nervous about a thing like that?"

  "The kind of father whose been twittering around like a lunatic for three days, asking his son if he's studied his plays or eaten his broccoli."

  "Stop telling on me," he teased, kissing her quiet.

  Rachel looked to Kenneth who sat playing with their kids and wondered when they'd stopped kissing. She couldn't remember the last time they'd kissed privately, much less in public. A small kind of guilt crept over her, realizing she didn't even miss it. It always felt more like an obligation than an instinct.

  She watched him for a moment, noticed a speck of gray creeping into his short blond hair. His handsome face was beginning to show his age, but only barely. He turned and looked her way, laughing, the joy only one's children can bring written on his face, but then his laughter faded.

  "Tickle me, Daddy, tickle me, Daddy," Lauren begged, her brown curls bouncing as she jumped up and down in front of him. And instead of risking a smile for the wife he'd long stopped trying to make happy, he turned back to entertain his kids.

  Rachel wouldn't complain though, she never did. Whatever else Kenneth wasn't, he sure loved those babies, and God did they love him. Everything their mommy lacked in fun and tickle time, their daddy made up for a million times over. Besides, he was keeping them busy and she was preoccupied, Jake's anecdote from yesterday morning was still fresh on her mind.

  She'd stopped by Dr. Valentine's on the way home to beg for a Valium refill, but he was out of the office until Monday, and she'd have to suffer through until then. She looked around the stadium cautiously, her anxiety rising, and wondered if she might run into him there.

  Would she recognize him? Would she take the high road and nod pleasantly, or ask him how he’s been? In another universe she’d kick him in the balls as hard as she could and laugh while he lay on the ground crying. She’d probably just freeze up and make a fool of herself though.

  She reached into her purse for a distraction, digging around for a mint or chocolate that found its way to the bottom, consciously working to push the fear away, to focus on the here and now, not to let herself get sucked into the obsessive pattern of her treacherous 'What If' game.

  The band struck up and the bleachers erupted in applause, cheerleaders pumping their pompoms, nodding their heads and yelling about spirit. The band quieted and everyone sat, then rose again to attend the small girl singing the national anthem, the microphone a little too close, her voice distorted. Rachel searched the field for Caleb and waited for the girl to finish singing.

  "Where's Caleb?" she asked as they settled back in for the game.

  "There he is," Sarah pointed, "Number 22”

  “He looks so big down there.”

  “I know! I can't believe that's my baby," Sarah said, “Just wait until Hunter gets that big, it’s going to break your heart.”

  “He breaks my heart enough as it is.”

  She didn’t want to think of Hunter at seventeen. She was already screwing him up, he’d probably end up less like Caleb and more like one of the kids smoking weed across the street.

  Dammit, Rachel, stop.

  The teams lined up in formation and Ellis' center snapped the ball. Their quarterback shuffled left and right, searching for a hole, the Bulldogs defense pushing hard towards him, eager to take him down. But he felt the pressure and threw the ball away just before he was tackled.

  Sarah laughed loudly in Rachel’s ear, “Are they serious? That kid’s a midget, he’s half the size of these other players.”

  “Yeah, he is pretty little.”

  Another play, incomplete. The center snapped the ball a third time, the amateur game going nowhere fast.

  "Is that a new coach this year?" Rachel asked disinterestedly, lazily scanning the teams on the sideline.

  CRACK.

  She heard the hit before she saw it. The quarterback had been sacked. Already in motion and too close to pull back, a handful of players piled on top of him.

  "That's right, Bulldogs! Defense!" the man in front of her yelled. The players slowly crawled off one another, Caleb jumping up and down in celebration, the defense congratulating themselves on the tackle.

  Another man several rows away yelled, "That's okay, Eagles, it's early! Shake it off, Michael, shake it off!"

  But Michael wasn't shaking it off.

  The quarterback was lying in the grass, not moving, his helmet several feet away. His teammates crowded around him and the coaches peeled them away to get to the injured player.

  He must have broken a leg or something, Rachel's brain scanned its memory for all the terrible injuries that could ruin this kid's football career. She searched the field for the ambulance that sat parked nearby during games, it wasn't there tonight. She turned to Kenneth who stood, arms crossed, watching silently, Hunter and Lauren at his feet fighting over the toy robot.

  “Kenneth, he’s hurt, go help them.”

  "Calm down, Rachel,” he said, his eyes still on the field, “He’s probably fine.”

  A coach frantically waved over an assistant, and the players went down to single knees in the silent prayer they make when a teammate is injured. The stadium hummed with people talking under their breath, waiting for Michael to get up and walk off the field, or wave, do anything to signal he was just shaken up. He still hadn't moved.

  "Kenneth!" she yelled, "Go help them! Something is wrong!"

  But he'd already started jogging down the stairs and she watched him jump swiftly over the short chain link fence separating the stadium bleachers from the playing field. He pushed his way calmly through the crowd until she lost sight of him in the lar
ge group circling around the injured quarterback.

  Sarah reached over and squeezed her hand, sharing the motherly dread that grows when a child is hurt and nobody is sure just how badly. Rachel wondered where Michael's mother was, a flickering pain in her chest at the thought of Hunter being injured playing a stupid game of high school football. Horror filled her as she pictured herself watching an event like this unfold knowing it was her child on the ground, not moving.

  An eternity passed before they heard the sirens of the ambulance in the distance, confirming for the audience that the injury was probably serious. They hadn't even tried to carry him off the field. This was no broken arm.

  "Rachel," Sarah pinched her arm, "Rachel, go see what's happening, I'll watch the kids."

  She walked down through the crowd and made her way to the large circle of people murmuring, whispers passing back and forth as they stood shoulder to shoulder, peering over one another to get a better look.

  She touched a stranger's sleeve and asked quietly, "Excuse me, sir, do they know what's wrong, is he okay?"

  "He's not breathing. That firefighter is trying to fix it so he can breathe."

  She was hesitant to push through the crowd, she would just be in the way, and piss Kenneth off. She turned back to the bleachers, but her gaze was drawn by a commotion beyond the group of people hovering around Michael.

  That's when she first saw her, the woman who had to be the mother. Michael's mother. Her blond hair was tacked to her wet face, her long slim legs kicked at the man holding her back from the crowd. He was strangely calm, unflinching as her pointed boots hit him over and over, dirtying his khaki slacks.

  She screamed, "Let me go!" and pushed against the much taller, built man, but he wasn't deterred, and his muscles flexed with ease as he held her tightly in his grip.

  Rachel suddenly felt the woman's powerlessness as if it were her own, thought how scared she must be. She'd always had an irrational fear of strangers, and even people she’d known her entire life, but whenever crisis struck and she saw someone experiencing that kind of desperation, she was compelled to reach out and tell them she understood.

  Without thinking, she started towards them, but something made her stop. Even with his back to her, Rachel managed to overhear his deep voice, soothing, but firm, "No. No, Chrissy, let them help him, he'll be alright. You have to let them help him."

  A shiver ran through her spine.

  The ambulance screeched into the parking lot and a Sheriff's deputy yelled, "Everybody move, get out of the way!"

  The crowd thinned, making room for the medical team as they raced onto the field with their bags of equipment. Kenneth's co-workers made their way past the worried faces to where he sat kneeling over the young player, one hand at the base of his skull and the other lying gently on his chest. He'd never looked so pale. Kenneth never went pale. The paramedics dug through their equipment for supplies, and Rachel lost sight of them as the crowd tightened around them again.

  The unmistakable drum of helicopter rotors grew increasingly loud and the deputy yelled again for the crowd to exit the field. She stood back and watched the emergency helicopter land, shielding her face as the pressure from the rotors stirred up wind and dry grass all around her.

  A nurse jumped out and rushed to the scene and Rachel found Kenneth again, still kneeling with Michael. As the helicopter team began preparations for transport, Kenneth stood back, his white shirt drenched in sweat. His arms hung limply at his sides, his hands bloodied. Michael was quickly loaded onto the helicopter, the engine revved and they rose abruptly, taking the vicious winds with them. He looked blankly in her direction.

  She started toward him and he found her in the crowd, walking leisurely in her direction. With the noise of the helicopter gone, the woman screamed again, drawing Rachel's attention back to them. He finally relented, dropping his hands from her arms as she looked up and spit violently in his face.

  "I hate you!" she screamed, then raced into the crowd toward the Sheriff's deputy.

  The tall man with the broad shoulders was a statue, unmoving, his back still to the crowd. She watched as he wiped the spit from his face with the back of his arm and then slowly raked both hands through his thick chestnut hair, pushing it back from his face. He took a long moment, standing there, hands buried in his hair as he stared into the dark distance. It was a small, meaningless thing to do, the pensive action of someone who wasn't aware people might be watching. It felt familiar, made her uneasy.

  "It was too late," Kenneth said flatly. She wrapped her arms around his chest to hold him until he held her back, but only briefly.

  "It'll be okay, Kenneth, I'm sure it will be okay."

  "No, I don't think it will," he said, not unkindly, and pulled away from her to make his way to their kids.

  She looked back to the tall stranger, inhaling sharply as he turned on his heel to leave.

  “Dylan!” she yelled instantly, surprising herself.

  Dylan looked straight at her and stalled, recognition taking over. Neither of them moved. Her heart raced and her fingers tingled with nervous excitement, she didn’t want this, why had she called out to him? But she'd seen his face now and couldn't look away, she’d known it instantly.

  It was distinct, not a face easily confused with another. He had the same cutting cheekbones, the same strong chin. Dylan was mostly his father's son, sharp and rugged, except for the velvet smooth skin, a delicate shade of honey. That was a gift from his Native American mother, her almond skin and her wide, infectious smile - the smile he wasn't wearing tonight. The smile that had disarmed her. Charmed her, seduced her. And ruined her. She couldn't make them out through the distance, but she remembered the pale blue eyes, lilac against his dark skin. They were kind and - smart, always seeing things others couldn't. Or wouldn't.

  Leaner, older, it had seen more of the world, but it was unmistakably the same sweet face she'd worked so hard to forget. His was a savage, primal beauty, and Rachel's chest ached as she watched Dylan turn from her and walk briskly towards the parking lot, disappearing from her life. Again.

  ***

  He opened the door and readjusted the seat until his long legs would fit comfortably underneath the steering column. He'd let Michael drive him to the game, excited they'd finally finished the restorations to the 1961 Porsche Roadster, Dylan's birthday gift to him months earlier. It needed some work when he'd bought it, but it was the only one he’d been able to find without having to drive clear outside of Texas.

  "It's got to be the James Dean Roadster!" Michael told him just before his sixteenth birthday, "The ladies love James Dean!"

  "Alright then, hotshot, I'll see what I can do," Dylan had laughed, "But if you can't pick up ladies without a Porsche, then we need to work on your game."

  He slammed the clutch to the floor, threw the car into gear and made his way to St. Helen's. He was never in a hurry to get anywhere, but tonight he flew down the interstate at ninety miles per hour, daring a cop to pull him over. He wouldn't have stopped if they'd tried, and he briefly considered calling to ask for an escort. They wouldn’t give him one, but at least he’d have it on record that he’d asked.

  Why now? Michael was hurt, he was on his way to the trauma center for God’s sake. He hadn't expected to see her tonight. She’d yelled his name to get his attention. Did she expect him to be excited to see her? And then she just stood there like a - like the manipulative self-serving woman she’d always been.

  Fuck her, she probably thought he’d come running to talk to her, like she still held him on her tiny puppet string all these years later.

  There was a time when he’d have given anything, his life even, if it meant he could talk to her just one more time, but the obsessed boy she’d haunted day in and day out for years after deciding he wasn’t good enough for her? He was dead now, buried deep inside the bitter man who’d sworn never to let another woman get close to him.

  He'd paid his dues, Dylan was done spending his
life wandering from one distraction to the next because he couldn’t get over Rachel Beauchamp.

  But he'd had to force himself to turn away, she looked now just like she had then, soft brown curls pulled away from her fair skin, dark eyes, the delicious mouth she’d first claimed him with. She was still the same fascinating, stunningly beautiful girl he'd remembered, and probably the same tortured and sadistic bitch he'd tried so hard to forget.

  He needed to get to the hospital and find out what was wrong with Michael. He tried to call Chrissy again, to see if she'd heard anything, but it went straight to her voicemail and he threw his phone onto the dashboard angrily.

  When he pulled into the hospital parking lot, he could still see the helicopter on the landing pad and he wondered how long it had taken them to make the trip. Maybe Michael was okay, that off-duty paramedic came to help, but Dylan had dragged Chrissy away because she was only getting more hysterical. He had no idea what was happening. He ran to the information desk and waited as the attendant talked on her cell phone.

  She raised a finger signaling for him to wait, and laughing, she said, “I can’t believe he said that to you!”

  His impatience hit a high note and he snatched the phone from her, “Michael Fletcher, he was brought in air-med, where is he?”

  “Sir,” she began, “Do NOT touch me again or I will call security.”

  He slammed the cell on the counter, “Do that, and I’ll call your supervisor to make sure they know your personal calls take priority over patient business. Buzz me through or I’ll have your ass fired before the end of your shift.”

  Her nostrils flared angrily, but she buzzed him in and reached calmly for her cell phone as he walked through the opening double doors. Dylan rarely resorted to being a dick in order to get what he wanted, but his whole life was behind that door and he didn’t give a shit what anybody thought of him then.

  “Excuse me,” he said, slowing to ask a passing nurse, “I’m looking for Michael Fletcher, he was brought in air-med just a few minutes ago.”