Guyliner

by J. Leigh Bailey

  “Jackie, why don’t you take Abby and take care of the paperwork? I’ll stay here with Connor and Dr. Jonas.” His dad rubbed his hands together in a manner Connor had long ago learned meant he was worried. His gaze strayed to Abby, and then he shot a significant look toward Connor’s mom. She looked at her youngest child and seemed to catch on. With a nod, she headed for the reception area, Abby in tow.

  “I’ve got to go,” Coach Petrewski said. “Make sure you let me know what’s what.” He followed Connor’s mom out.

  “Thanks, Coach.” Connor swallowed hard. The pain from his knee made him nauseous.

  Once the small area cleared and it was only the three of them—Connor, his dad, and the doctor—Dr. Jonas bent over Connor’s knee. He probed the swollen area gently. “What were you doing when this happened?”

  With Dad listening intently, Connor explained, with many pauses to catch a wheezy breath, about the collision with the other player and the popping noise. When the doctor manipulated the knee, bending it this way and that, cold sweat broke out on Connor’s face and stars danced before his eyes. Despite the pain medicine he’d finally been given, he had to bite his tongue until it bled to contain his shout.

  After what seemed like hours of torture, Dr. Jonas stepped back, his face grim. “We’re going to get you into X-ray and take a look at the knee. Hopefully that will give us an idea of what’s going on.”

  X-ray was another adventure in agony as Connor was forced to angle his leg to get the right shots. An hour later he was back at an exam table surrounded by his mom, his dad, and both of his sisters. Allyson had given Becca a ride to the hospital. Becca told him that Allyson hadn’t wanted to get in the way, so she left after making Becca promise to call when they knew something.

  No one talked. They stood there, eyes clouded with worry and bodies restless. Abby nestled in her father’s arms, sound asleep with her head on his shoulder.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Connor’s mom said with false cheer. “A little ice, a little ibuprofen, and you’ll be good as new.”

  Connor certainly hoped so. Especially when the doctor came in with the X-ray films. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  Connor fisted his hands in the starchy sheet on the cart. Somehow that statement wasn’t very comforting.

  “Nothing is broken. I don’t see any cracks or fissures. That’s the good news. That’s also the bad news. Because the X-ray doesn’t show anything specific, you’re going to want to see an orthopedic specialist. I’ve called over, and they’ll be able to see you in the morning.”

  “So you don’t know how badly he injured his knee?” Connor’s dad started rubbing his hands again.

  “There are a few possibilities. It could be something as minor as a strained knee that will get better with a couple of days of rest. The pain Connor’s feeling is a little more extreme than I would expect to see. With the popping he felt and the way the knee moved when I examined it, I think it’s more likely a torn or sprained ACL.”

  Connor’s dad bowed his head, brows lowered.

  “So tomorrow we take him to an orthopedist. What should we do in the meantime?” Connor’s mom asked.

  “I’ve written a prescription for some pain pills. I recommend ice and elevation for the night, and we’ll get him set up with a brace and some crutches.”

  The adults continued to talk and plan but Connor couldn’t focus. The words torn ACL kept running through his mind. He’d heard what happened to athletes who had done that. Often it was a career-ending diagnosis. Well, here’s hoping for strained knee. He really didn’t want to think about what a torn ACL would do to his future.

  Chapter 25

  THE NEWS was bad. The orthopedic specialist repeated the same probing tests that Dr. Jonas had and then ordered an MRI. Connor was cranky—or so Mom claimed—from pain and worry. Connor and Mom were ushered into an exam room where they were to have a consultation with the ortho guy. A grandmotherly nurse brought Connor an ice pack. Connor tapped the arm of his chair in a frenetic rhythm that matched the jittery surges coursing through his body. He stared at the fake plant on the doctor’s desk. Wondering about the purpose of a plastic African violet gave his mind something to focus on instead of worrying about the doctor’s diagnosis.

  His mom reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Relax, baby. You’ll be fine.”

  He jerked a nod, indicating that he’d heard, not that he’d agreed. When would the doctor come in and tell him what was wrong with his knee?

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the door opened and the orthopedic surgeon walked in. He sat at his desk and withdrew a stack of papers, including a couple of pamphlets.

  Dr. Baylis was about the same age as Connor’s mother, thin and almost delicate in appearance, with narrow hands that were surprisingly strong despite their look. He folded those fragile-seeming hands on his desk and looked at Connor with steady eyes and a serious expression. “Just as we thought, you’ve torn your ACL.”

  “So what’s next?” Connor’s mom squeezed his hand in hers, her gaze intent on the doctor.

  “There are a couple of options. Sometimes we can manage to stabilize the knee enough through extensive therapy, and in the long run have very few problems.”

  “That’s good, right?” His mom sounded hopeful.

  “This approach is generally more appropriate for individuals who live a mostly sedentary lifestyle with little or no physical activity.”

  “But that’s not me,” Connor said. “There’s got to be something else.”

  “I’d agree, based on what you’ve told me about your athletic participation. I think you’d benefit more from the second option, which is ACL reconstructive surgery.”

  “What does that involve?” Connor’s mom’s voice was as tight as her grip on his hand.

  Dr. Baylis pulled out a colorful pamphlet from a file and handed it to Connor’s mom, which made her release Connor’s hand. “We’ll do a hamstring autograft, which is made with the semitendinosus tendon and the gracilis tendon for a strong graft. These tendons will be braided and folded to form a thick strand for the replacement graft, which is then threaded through the heads of the tibia and femur and screwed into the opposite sides of the two bones.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Connor admitted. The doctor’s words tumbled past him like a foreign language; nothing made sense. Not even the glossy brochure.

  “I have some brochures for you that will help explain the process, but essentially we’ll remove an accessory hamstring and an accessory abductor from your leg and screw them into place. This combination, when it heals, will serve the same function as the ACL.”

  Even explained a different way, the doctor still talked over Connor’s head. He thought he figured out the gist of the procedure, though. The idea of taking a tendon from one part of his leg and putting it to use in another seemed weird to him. Didn’t he need the other tendon? Why else would it be there?

  “How soon will I be able to play baseball again?” That was the real question. So much of his future rested on the chance for a sports scholarship. His stomach knotted as he waited for the doctor’s response.

  “I’ll be honest, the recovery time after the surgery is lengthy. It usually takes about nine months, including extensive physical therapy.”

  Connor’s heart lurched. Nine months? He’d miss the rest of this season, and it was hard to tell if he’d be in a position to play on the team next year. He felt lightheaded. This couldn’t be happening.

  “You’re a catcher, right?” There was a grimace of sympathy on Dr. Baylis’s face. “That’s a lot of pressure and strain on the knee. It’s not unheard of for an athlete to come back from this kind of injury, but the knee will never be as strong and steady as it was. For a catcher, well, I don’t have very high hopes you’ll regain enough strength to play.”

  Dr. Baylis said something else, but Connor wasn’t listening. That was it. His baseball career was over. It wasn’t as though
he’d hoped to go pro or anything, but he had been counting on a scholarship. A lot of kids got good grades but were not athletic, and there were a lot of excellent athletes who didn’t have the academic chops to succeed in college. Having a record with both had been his sort of ace in the hole when it came to college applications. What was he going to do?

  “The biggest problem with the graft will be after the surgery. The strength and viability of the replaced ligament can be affected by movement for a few weeks after surgery. Because of that you’ll need a leg brace to keep the leg stationary while it heals.”

  “So you think surgery is the best approach?” His mom sat forward in her chair, gripping the pamphlet.

  “I do. Connor’s age and level of physical activity really make surgery the best option.” Dr. Baylis handed Connor’s mom the stack of informational sheets. “We’ll want to schedule it in the next couple of weeks. We need to wait until the swelling goes down before we can do it. Stop at the desk on your way out, and the nurse will fit you into my surgery schedule. In the meantime, keep the brace, ice the knee every couple of hours to help decrease swelling. Use the pain pills Dr. Jonas prescribed last night, but you should be able to switch to prescription-strength ibuprofen within the next day or so. If the pain doesn’t improve, call. One of the sheets I gave you includes these instructions. Keep movement to a minimum, use the crutches. You won’t be feeling up to going to school today, but by Monday you should be able to handle it.”

  His mom stood up and shook the doctor’s hand. Connor handed the now melting ice pack to the nurse. With a hiss of pain and judicious use of the crutches, Connor was able to stand. He balanced on his crutches behind his mother, his mind in a haze while she scheduled the surgery and confirmed the presurgery instructions. It felt like he was in a television show with mute on. Activity continued around him, but there was no sound to clue him in on what was going on. Without a word, Connor followed Mom out of the building.

  NUMB. HE was completely numb.

  Connor lay on the couch, leg propped on a couple of pillows, staring blindly at the ceiling, exactly where he’d been for the last four hours. It wasn’t the pain pills either. Sure, they did a great job of masking the throbbing in his knee, but they had no effect on his emotions. Any strain of fear or anger was muffled by the Velcro straps of his leg brace.

  The clack of his mom’s heels echoed as she walked down the hall toward the living room, and he closed his eyes, faking sleep.

  “I know you’re awake,” she said, settling into the squeaky desk chair by the family computer. “Sleeping people don’t hold so completely still, and your breathing would be deeper.”

  Stubbornly, Connor maintained the pretense. As long as he didn’t open his eyes he wouldn’t have to have the talk she seemed determined to have.

  “I know this sucks,” she said. “But it’s not the end of the world.”

  He held his position.

  “You need to eat something. Those pain pills will tear up your system if you take them on an empty stomach.”

  After a long pause, she stood up. “You’re exactly like your father. Both stubborn beyond sense.”

  No way was he like Dad. He would have told her that too, if it didn’t mean he’d have to “wake up.” She was probably trying to get a rise out of him. It would have required too much effort to play into her plan.

  “Fine, wallow. I expect you’ve earned it. But don’t wallow too long. Get it out of your system now. I won’t let you hide here forever.” He felt her lean over him and press a kiss to his forehead. “It really will be all right, Connor. You’ll see.”

  He must have fallen asleep for real because when he woke up, another two hours had passed. Connor stayed on the couch, but instead of faking sleep when his mom returned from picking up Abby at daycare, he zoomed through the channels on TV in a desperate search for distraction. It might have been easier if he paused long enough on any one channel to actually see what was playing. As it was, the constantly changing lights and colors on the screen put him into a kind of trance.

  He stopped his mindless clicking at the sight of a blue eye outlined with black eyeliner. He watched the whole commercial before realizing he’d spent thirty seconds watching a makeup advertisement. He hadn’t been following along with the words, only fixating on the eye that reminded him of Graham.

  Shit. That was the last thing he needed. Why did he have to be everywhere? Connor had been trying so hard to stay on plan, to avoid distractions in the form of an eyeliner-wearing soccer phenom, but nothing seemed to work. Saturdays had been pure torture. Part of him understood he was being unreasonable. Another part, probably fueled by fear, wanted everything to go back to the way it was before. Back before he’d been forced to look too deeply into who he was and what he wanted.

  “Want to watch Dora on TV?” Abby stood in front of him. “When I feel bad, Dora makes me feel better.”

  “No.” Connor resumed his manic channel surfing.

  He cycled through the channels twice more as she left and came back. She clutched a half-full glass of milk in her tiny hands. “Here you go. Milk makes you strong, right?”

  Wordlessly he took the glass from her and set it on the end table next to the couch.

  “Does your leg hurt bad?” she asked.

  Connor grunted.

  “I can kiss it and make it better,” she offered.

  “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

  She stared at him for a second and then ran up the stairs. She came back a few minutes later with her arms full of stuffed animals.

  “Here, you can have Mr. Bear. He takes care of me when I’m scared. And the purple pig and the pink pony always make me feel better.” She sat each colorful member of her plush menagerie on the back of the couch. “And—”

  “Jesus, Abby, go away!” Connor grabbed a toy and hurled it across the room. “Go bother someone else.”

  Her big blue eyes filled with tears, and with a liquid sniff she spun on her heel and ran out of the living room, her cries trailing behind her.

  What did I do? “Abby!” Without thinking, Connor jerked into a sitting position. The movement was too quick, and he shouted and fell back as pain exploded through his leg. He crashed back into the couch, clutching at his knee. White splotches danced in front of his eyes, and his leg pulsed in agony.

  The chime of the doorbell barely registered.

  His mom strode into the room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “What’s wrong with Abby?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer the question. She reached the front door and pulled it open. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is Connor home?”

  Connor forgot his throbbing knee. What was Graham doing here?

  “Of course,” his mom said and stepped back to let him through. “Go on in to the living room.”

  What? Graham couldn’t be here. Connor was a mess. And the house. Connor scanned the living room, taking note of the ratty couch, the ancient television and the damn squeaking desk chair. He reached up to check his hair and wasn’t surprised to find one side stuck up at odd angles, the other side completely flat where he’d slept on it.

  Graham walked in, carrying a paper grocery bag, a sympathetic smile on his face. “Hey, how’re you doing?” His gaze darted to the crutches propped against the wall. He sat the bag next to the coffee table.

  “I’ll leave you two to talk. He’s been grumpy as a bear,” Mom told Graham, “so growl back at him if he growls at you.”

  “Mom!”

  “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Soda?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

  Connor waited for his mom to leave them alone before he looked at Graham. “What are you doing here?” In his attempt to hide the pleasure he felt at seeing Graham, Connor’s voice came out abrupt. In response, Graham’s expression lost its warmth.

  Graham crossed his arms over his chest. “Is it so strange that I wanted to come by and see how you were doing? I was at the game, saw
you get hurt, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. It’s the kind of thing a friend does. Are you going to sit there and tell me Marc hasn’t called, or Allyson?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts. I wanted to see how you were and to drop off your stuff.” He pointed to the paper bag.

  “What stuff?”

  “When they hauled you out in that ambulance, you left your mask, hat, and leg guard thingy behind. I picked them up. I figured you’d want them at some point.”

  “My mom was right.” Connor sighed and picked up the glass of milk Abby had brought for him. “I am a grumpy bear. Before you got here, I yelled at Abby for no reason.”

  “I take it she is responsible for your current companions?”

  “What?”

  Graham nodded at the back of the couch where a pink pony, a purple pig, and Mr. Bear sat vigil over Connor’s sickbed.

  Connor shifted the purple pig so it sat upright. “Yeah. She was trying to cheer me up.”

  “That’s kind of sweet.” Graham looked wistfully at the toys. “Sometimes I really wish I had siblings.”

  At that moment, Kory and Kaleb tumbled into the house, bickering. “You’re so wrong,” Kory said. “You don’t know anything about it, dumb sh—”

  “Kory!” Connor snapped.

  Kory caught himself before finishing the swear word. “Whoops. Forgot you’d be here.”

  “Geez, Kory”—Kaleb elbowed his twin—“Mom’s here too, you freak.”

  “Whatever.” Kory tossed his backpack in the corner by the door and kicked off his shoes. He seemed to notice Graham standing in the middle of the room for the first time. “Who’re you?”

  “Graham, these are my brothers Kory and Kaleb. This is Graham, a friend from school.”

  Kory examined Graham. “Dude, are you wearing makeup?”

  Connor bit back a groan. As soon as his knee was better, Kory was going to get it. “Kory, don’t be rude.”

  Graham raised one angled brow, returning Kory’s rude stare. “Yep.”