“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she said politely, “You’ll have to ask the nurse’s station, it’s just around the corner to your left.”
He ran down the hall, slowing when he saw Chrissy pacing the floor in the distance, chewing her nails and scrolling through her phone.
“Chris!” he called, “Where is he?”
She looked up and walked toward him, relieved she was no longer alone.
“Oh my God, Dylan,” she said, then through fresh tears, “I can’t get Jeremy on the phone, and I have no idea what’s happening, they won’t tell me anything!”
Her husband was out of town on business, and she’d been upset he hadn’t come to Michael’s first game. They’d only been married two years, and Jeremy’s job took him out of town more often than Chrissy would have liked.
He walked to the nurse’s station. “I'll find out, is he in a room or what?" he asked Chrissy, "Where is he?”
“They took him upstairs.”
“Excuse me,” he said loudly, “Michael Fletcher, what’s his status?”
The nurse looked up from his ten inch binder and nodded at the office behind him, “Talk to my supervisor, she can fill you in.”
Dylan banged impatiently on the closed door until an old woman emerged. She looked like she should have retired ten years ago.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
“Please God, I hope so,” he yelled, “I just need to know what’s going on with my son!”
“Okay Honey,” she said calmly, “Let’s go find out, what’s his name?”
“Michael Fletcher.”
“Oh yes,” she said, “Come with me.”
They followed her to a nearby waiting room, Chrissy sat, Dylan preferred to stand.
“Is he okay?” Chrissy asked, “What’s the matter with him?”
“We’re not exactly sure yet,” the nurse offered sympathetically, “He’s been taken upstairs, the doctor said it looked like a neck fracture blocked his airway, they’ve got him on a ventilator. I’m sorry, but that’s about all we know at this point. I promise as soon as they know something, they’ll be down to speak with you.”
Dylan felt the breath being pulled from his chest and he struggled not to lash out as the old woman who’d just sucker punched him offered condolences and asked if she could get them anything to drink.
He didn’t know what to do, he was a man who’d made a living telling other people how to handle life’s curveballs, and Dylan couldn’t even find homeplate.
“Is there a pool here?” he asked suddenly.
"I'm sorry?"
"A pool, a swimming pool," he demanded.
She nodded, “Yes, next door in Health and Wellness, in the basement.”
Dylan left Chrissy and made his way briskly to the building next door where a group of senior citizens were leaving, laughing as they exited. An old man held the door for him. He didn’t think to thank him, he went straight for the elevators and the basement, stripping his shoes and shirt before he’d even made it through the glass door to the empty pool.
He hurriedly removed his pants and dove into the lukewarm water, wearing only his underwear, not caring who may have seen him.
Desperation and rage coursed through his veins as he swam lap after lap, pushing himself harder than he’d pushed since he was a kid, exorcising her face from his mind.
Michael would need him to stay focused.
***
By Sunday afternoon they were still desperate for news of Michael's condition, and he was tired of listening to Chrissy cry and yell at the nurses and doctors. Jeremy was due home that afternoon, Dylan needed to turn her over to her husband so he could go to his apartment and shower. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the game Friday. He hadn’t slept, his mind racing, on autopilot, but his body was shutting down.
He left Chrissy resting on a sofa in the small room and walked down the corridor to Michael’s room on the trauma unit. He watched through the glass as two nurses talked quietly inside, probably arguing over which of them Chrissy had been a bigger bitch to.
Seeing Michael in that room, strapped to the bed with hoses running all over him and machines buzzing and beeping, it was agony. It reminded him of his mother, just before the cancer finally took her. His whole life he'd been made to say goodbye to the people he'd loved the most. He didn't have the strength to do it again.
The cafeteria was empty, he sat with a cup of coffee and a pile of newspapers somebody had destroyed that morning, looking for the Sunday crossword or anything he could use to distract himself, even for a moment.
But then he saw her photo and his heart lurched at the sight of her.
Rachel.
He scrambled for the LifeStyle section, shoving the rest of the paper to the floor. Maybe the sleep deprivation was playing tricks on him.
No, it was Rachel’s face all over again, just as she'd been Friday night. She stood casually next to a bald man in the photo, some guy they went to school with. Her hair sat perfectly around her face and shoulders, and she smiled timidly, pretending, not the honest smile he remembered.
But it was her, he read the article more than a dozen times. She'd organized a non-profit to support battered women. She was hosting a fundraiser, a black tie affair.
Rachel Beauchamp. Rachel Daniels.
He’d decided years before that he'd never really known her, that he’d been an idiot and a fool and the reality of the Rachel he loved was far more loathsome than he’d ever wanted to see. He was a dumb kid, blinded by a pretty face and the hormones raging through his body.
Dylan convinced himself she’d gone off and lived the same selfish and materialistic life her mother had, she’d probably married a doctor or a politician.
Wasn't that why she’d left him? Because he never fit into the world she was born into?
He wasn’t prepared to see that she'd done the opposite, that she'd become an independent businesswoman, that she'd been working to save people. And the article said she'd married a paramedic. Not exactly gold digging.
He’d waited years for the opportunity to ask her why, to tell her she was wrong, to show her how wrong she was. He would tell her he was sorry he hadn’t seen what a vicious cunt she was before she’d had the chance to fuck up his life, he could have saved them both a lot of heartache if he'd have seen it sooner.
This gala was his chance.
Jeremy relieved him from supervising Chrissy, and he spent the evening running through a dozen different ways he wanted to confront her. When it finally came to him, he lay in his bed imagining the look on Rachel’s face, she’d never suspect it.
He walked into the office first thing Monday morning and tossed the article on Nancy’s desk.
“I’m writing a check to sponsor this fundraiser, but I’d like it to appear to come from the firm, ” he said, “I’ve got to deal with Michael and the hospital, I’d appreciate it if you’d hook up with her and be the face on this."
"Sure, Dylan," Nancy said as he walked out, "Are you alright?"
"No," he said, stopping to tell her one last thing before he left, "But I will be. And Nan, don't let her know it's from me until after we've written the check, alright?"
CHAPTER THREE
Rachel startled, her breath racing. She'd been dreaming. It had been over a year since her last nightmare, but then he’d shown up. After sixteen years. How could it hurt this much after this long? It wasn’t healthy to still be so angry, or to feel afraid after all this time.
She didn't want to hate him anymore. It was so hard to keep hating him.
It was early Monday, she looked out the window over the kitchen sink as the coffee brewed, Kenneth's jeep sat under the moonlight in the driveway. He must have come in after she'd gone to sleep. He could've loaded the dishwasher.
Rachel had worked so long not to feel resentment toward him, but it had been creeping back in over the last year, and it ate away at her guilt over being unhappy. Kenneth never helped around the hou
se, never picked up a toy, never rinsed a dish.
She'd always assumed responsibility for the housekeeping, for all the maintenance and repairs. The old Victorian constantly had things needing to be repaired, and unlike the office where she was simply a tenant, managing those repairs was up to her. Yes, it was her house, her father had left it to her, but it was supposed to be his home, too.
The first few years he'd give her an excuse for not helping when she asked, or he'd offer some bullshit apology and a mile long list of promises to contribute.
But then he’d started telling her to let it go, it wasn’t important, “God, Rachel, it’s not cancer, it’s the fucking laundry.”
She shoved away from the sink in disgust and dug through her bag for her notebook and pen, writing it down was the only way she could organize her thoughts and stay focused on what was important.
Was her resentment justified? Was she desperate for excuses to lay the blame of their failing marriage on Kenneth? Had she ever really had a partner in him, or had he only wanted to her hero? Was she just another warm body to save? Had she ever loved him, or was he simply an attractive man who'd been kind to her?
She met Kenneth during the lowest, darkest stage in her life, right after she'd moved to Dallas and started at the Art Institute. The year before they met, at Savannah's insistence right after losing the baby, she'd gone straight to Riverview Psychiatric Center where she spent several weeks in a deep depression, crying and begging for death to take her.
"I just want to die," she would wail into her pillow, and "I just want my baby." Her body in knots, she’d cry and sleep, and cry, while Savannah stood in the corner nervously folding a handkerchief over and over between her thin fingers, “Rachel, I’m so sorry, dumplin', I think you need more help.”
Ten months they’d kept her there, the nurses forcing antidepressants down her throat and sending her off to art therapy and talk therapy and karaoke therapy. The fog of pills was thick, but it was the grief and anxiety that still clouded her mind. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. When they finally said she was ready to come home, her mother had hired Dr. Valentine to ease the transition. He assumed Rachel's care in the real world, and they quickly established a rapport.
"It's important for you to take control of your own life, Rachel," he'd said candidly in his dark office one morning, "Your mother and father, and your stepfather, they are supportive and you're blessed with resources many women in your situation live without. What would make you happy? What obstacles are you facing? What steps can you take to eliminate those obstacles?"
She'd gone to the Art Institute then, she was almost 20 years old. Her father hadn't cared, his alcoholism was at an all-time high, but Rachel's mother worried about letting her go. Dallas was four hours away and after everything that had happened, Savannah was understandably reluctant. But with Dr. Valentine's influence, Savannah eventually conceded, and she and Jameson leased Rachel an apartment. She studied clay and oil painting, and tried to forget about the baby, the hospital, and the boy who'd promised to love her forever, but ruined her life instead.
Kenneth was a few years older, he'd been wrapping up his paramedic studies at the local community college. He was an urban kid, his parents loved to travel, he liked art and music and theater. Rachel was small town, reserved and sheltered, and Kenneth was worldly and fun and outgoing. And he was handsome, and he'd taken care of himself, spending afternoons and weekends playing rugby and disc golf with his dozens of friends.
Until he met Rachel. She was dark and brooding, sad and quiet, and he'd started spending more time trying to cheer her up and less time doing the things he'd loved. She hadn’t seen it then, but looking back, he’d wanted to save her. The hero in him had seen a challenge, and he leaped.
He spent three months convincing her to go out with him, and another three months convincing her to fuck him. He kept her busy and he made her laugh. It felt good to forget, even for those brief moments, and then one night at dinner during a visit from Savannah and Jameson, he'd asked her to marry him.
Rachel’s father had given him his blessing, and he promised to make her happy and keep her safe. Her mother nodded approvingly as Rachel sat stunned, Kenneth on one knee in a restaurant full of people clapping and cheering, "Say yes!"
So she said yes.
And then her mother planned the biggest, most lavish wedding she could imagine, the ceremony and reception Savannah had been robbed of in her own two marriages. Rachel went along, in a fog and haze of anti-depressants and Valium, certain then that she'd been doing the right thing, doing what was expected of her, convinced it would make her happy one day. But it hadn't.
There were some good times though. She’d wanted to have a baby and he'd wanted to have sex, and she had a hole to fill and he'd wanted an easy-bake life. So when she finally got pregnant after four years of trying, they'd both been thrilled over Hunter. Rachel swore she’d never forget the first baby she carried, but having Hunter helped fill the void over time, and then Lauren came and the pain of loss become more and more tolerable.
Going to work everyday helped Rachel learn to appreciate Kenneth as a husband. Reading stories from women who were stuck in relationships they didn't know how to leave, their husbands and boyfriends punched them, screamed at them, threatened to kill their children if they left, and then she’d go home to her own husband - she was lucky to have him. He wasn’t perfect, but Kenneth never yelled, never told her what to do. He'd never called her a stupid bitch, never slapped or shoved her. And he loved their children in a way her father had never loved her. He spent hours wrestling and playing imaginary games Rachel never had the creativity or the patience to endure. He showered Hunter and Lauren with hugs and kisses, and it had helped Rachel learn to show them affection, too, something she'd never had from her own parents.
And because of that, she'd excused the lack of passion, and his refusal to help around the house. She told herself to be grateful when so many women spent their nights hiding in bedrooms, hoping not to have to defend themselves or their children from violence or name calling.
It wasn’t enough though. The older she got, and the greater the distance grew between them, the clearer she’d started to see things. She'd worked so hard to empower other women to see their potential, encouraging them to make their own destinies and fight for their own happiness, but Jake was right, she'd never done it for herself.
She was trying now, she’d been trying harder to stand up to Kenneth, to tell him what she wanted. What she expected from him. The longer he slept in the guest bedroom, the easier it had become, but the ice on his shoulder was a heavy price to pay.
She sipped her coffee, watching the antique clock on the wall tick away at the hours before her family would come alive, then went upstairs to wake the kids and drag them down for breakfast. As soon as they were settled with some cereal and cartoons, the doorbell rang.
Anyone they knew would have come around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. She was still in her robe, and she stopped to check her reflection in the large mirror in the foyer. The dark figure in the stained glass window was barely visible, the sky still a rainbow of black and red when she opened the door hesitatingly. She was surprised to see the constable's uniform.
"Hey Rachel," Henry Lowe said, no smile to soften the blow, "I hope I didn't wake you. I didn't want to come to the kitchen in case you weren't decent."
"No Henry, we’re up, is everything okay?"
"Sure, sure. But I need to talk to Kenneth, is he home?"
"He's in the shower."
Silence.
"Wanna come inside and wait?" she asked, pulling the door wide enough for him to come in, "I've got coffee."
"Umm - sure. I'll have some coffee. Thanks, Rachel."
"This is weird, Henry, are you sure everything's okay?" She shut the door behind him and led him towards the kitchen.
"I'd rather wait until Kenneth is out and then we can talk about it. Where are the kids?" he asked, lookin
g around.
"They're eating breakfast in the den, watching cartoons."
"Can we shut the door so we can have some privacy?"
She pulled the heavy swinging door closed, turned back with shaking hands and quietly demanded, "What's the matter?"
"It's just some legal documents, Rachel, I have no idea what’s inside."
Maybe it was from what happened Friday, they heard Micheal’s mother was threatening lawsuits, but it had only been two days, surely not enough time for her to have filed suit.
She pulled a coffee mug from the cabinet and filled it from the pot. Henry sat in silence while she gathered the sugar and pulled the cream out of the fridge.
"Sorry Henry. I didn't mean to be ugly to you."
"It's alright. I'm sorry I came over so early."
"How are your kids?"
"They're good, getting big."
"I'll get Kenneth," she said, setting Henry's coffee on the table and heading down the hall.
She knocked gingerly at the bedroom door and called softly, "Kenneth?"
When he didn't answer, she walked in and heard the shower running in the bathroom.
"Kenneth?"
She pushed the door open. The exhaust fan ran loudly, they'd needed to replace it ages ago. He was still visible through the steamed shower glass, leaning against the side where the water ran hot against his skin.
His eyes were closed, he hadn't seen her.
Kenneth was always in excellent shape, but she hadn't seen him naked in so long, it took her by surprise. He was leaning back, his broad shoulders pressed against the glass, his legs spread wide and his face to the ceiling as he stroked his dick. She thought to turn and walk out silently, but stood mesmerized instead. She'd never seen him like that.
His pace quickened, his breathing picked up and his mouth fell open, he reached forward and leaned against the wall with his free hand, his head hanging to the floor as he gave his cock half a dozen long slow strokes, milking it from the base to tip until he came, a deep grunt polishing off the pornographic scene.
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