Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  “I know. Damned shame, too.”

  “You’re really a fan?”

  “Yes, though I never played.” Parker didn’t like the stress the football player placed on the word, ‘really’. “I’m a surgeon. Have to watch my hands.” The doctor held up his hands, stretched his fingers. “What else did you want to clear up?”

  “Quiet as it’s kept, everything I did with Robert wasn’t based on instinct. I’m a degreed physical therapist.”

  “Really? Well, that certainly makes a difference.”

  AJ leaned back and eyed the doctor. “Why? You figure ’cause I’ve got a little brawn working for me, I can’t have brains?”

  “No.” Yes. “It’s just that it was never mentioned in any of the articles or programs I saw,” Parker said, backpedaling.

  “I see.”

  “Please, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mean…” Parker was embarrassed by the look of understanding on AJ’s face. “Will you continue your work? I mean, now that you’ve written this book and set out on the road of celebrity?”

  “You’re givin’ me too much credit,” AJ grinned. “I’m off the football field for good, but I’ve got the PT background and a small practice.”

  “You’re a physical therapist with a practice? Really?”

  “Yes. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

  The wisdom in the football player’s face almost shamed Parker. Almost. “I, ah…just assumed…PT schools are pretty competitive.”

  “Almost as hard to get into one as it is to get into med school.”

  “Touché.” Parker bobbed his head and tried to remember if he had given his full name. He didn’t want the player supposing, even correctly, that it had been name alone that had gotten him through his prestigious medical education. “Where did you go to school?”

  “Emory.”

  Damn. He’s even smarter than he looks and sounds. “Emory is an outstanding school.”

  “And I was an outstanding student. I completed my work during the off-season.”

  Like a part-time job.

  “And before you say it, I never treated school like a part-time job. My course and lab work was a priority, and I did have to hustle to get through. Just so you know, an NFL season is no walk in the park; adding school…well, I wanted it.”

  Parker emptied his glass and signaled for a refill. “You seem serious. This is more than just a hobby for you.”

  “I like workin’ with people, seeing bodies find motion and wellness…Yeah, it’s far more than a hobby, and I’m going to stick with it.”

  “Does your athletic past influence you? Did that last hit you took, the one that ended your career, have anything to do with your choice?”

  “Maybe.” AJ emptied his Red Stripe, remembered the bone-shattering crunch of his knees, and sat looking down at the bottle.

  Thinking, Parker guessed, when he licked his lips and leaned forward on his stool. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question—as an athlete. When you took that last hit, what went through your mind? What did you think when you couldn’t get up; when you had to be carried off the field on a stretcher?”

  “Man, you don’t mind gettin’ personal, do you?” AJ shook his head heavily and drew a deep breath. “I thought my life was over, that nothing would ever be the same. I thought…” he looked at the doctor, and released the breath slowly. “This is going to sound silly to you. I thought I would never run again.”

  “And after the surgery?”

  “That it hurt, but I was glad I could feel it.” The corner of AJ’s mouth lifted in a mirthless smile. “That I was the biggest fool in the world, and that if God would let me run again, I would never stop.”

  Pushing his lips together, Parker nodded. “Can you run now?”

  “Yeah. Matter of fact, I ran the Peachtree Road Race a few weeks ago. Wasn’t perfect, wasn’t pretty, but it felt good to do it. Like at least part of me was back in my real life.” AJ accepted another cold bottle from the barman and took a deep swallow.

  “What if,” Parker asked, “what if you could give that to someone else? Another runner?”

  Suspicion crowded AJ’s brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I have a patient. A runner. She’s refusing therapy now, but if I could convince her to try, would you consider taking her on as a new client? She just might consider it if she knew how hard another athlete had worked.”

  AJ laughed. “Where did that come from? You don’t know anything about me. I could be fifty kinds of fraud for all you know.”

  “You were acting from concern for wholeness and health when you took on Robert Crown.”

  “Robert was different.”

  Parker tried to pin AJ with his eyes. “Different how?”

  “He was a man, a football player.” AJ saw the shift in the doctor’s face. “Before you say it, no; it had nothing to do with gender. It’s just that with football, well, you learn to work through the pain. It’s a different mindset, and I wouldn’t be right for her.”

  “Is that what they taught you at Emory? To walk away from a potential client because they didn’t participate in your sport of choice?” Parker twirled the glass. “I thought they had a better curriculum than that.”

  AJ glared at him, and Parker had the pleasure of realizing that he had just hit a nerve. “You sound like a man seeking a challenge, and I can promise that this patient will be a real challenge for you.”

  “What’s her condition?”

  Got him! “Basically very good. She did lose two toes, though.”

  “Ouch.” AJ flinched.

  “From all that I understand, she was a highly competitive runner with Olympic aspirations. You ought to be able to identify with that.”

  “Yeah, going all out for a goal makes a lot of sense to me, but what’s your stake in this woman’s recovery?”

  “Stake? Stake implies a gamble.” Parker grinned too easily, then assumed a more sober visage. It wouldn’t do to have the other man think he was being suckered. “This is no gamble. With proper therapy and support, her recovery is certain.”

  “Certainty is relative. You said she was an athlete, Olympic class. That takes a certain kind of pride and sacrifice,” AJ said slowly. “What’s your guess as to how she’ll see this recovery that you’ve got planned for her?”

  “About as you’d expect. I’m a healer.” The doctor shrugged, knowing that AJ was probably thinking back to his own playing days. “My interest is in seeing my patient as whole as she can be…under the circumstances.”

  “Under the circumstances? What ‘circumstances’ would those be?”

  “She’s never going to have the body she had. She’s never going to run the way she once did.”

  “That’s pretty honest. You getting tired of baiting me?”

  “She has an excellent, well-conditioned body. She’s used to working hard. That’s half the battle, isn’t it? Come on,” Parker lifted his glass in salute, then downed the end of his drink. “What have you got better to do?”

  Good question. I sure won’t be spending the time with Bianca. AJ raised his bottle and returned the salute. “Tell you what, I’ll meet her, do an initial assessment, then we’ll decide whether or not I’ll take her on as a patient.”

  Parker signaled the barman and nodded as he watched the liquor cover the ice in his glass. “That’s the best you can offer?”

  AJ nodded. “For now.”

  “Then it will have to do,” the doctor said, offering a handshake to seal the deal.

  Chapter 9

  “I really hate trashing through these reports.” Palmer pushed the dog-eared stack across her desk. Leaning back, she stretched hugely and yawned. Recovering, she primly tugged her peach cotton top down over the exposed inch of her tight brown skin. When she was sure her partner had missed her display, she folded her hands on the worn blotter covering her city-issue desk. “Reading vehicular reports is definitely not the fun part of the job I signed up for. And the pictur
es—ugh!”

  “Don’t go actin’ like a girl on me.” Brighton licked his thumb, and turned the page. “We gotta read the reports, and the pictures are a part of that. Sometimes what’s left of the car is the only witness we’ve got.”

  “No kidding.” Palmer used her short-nailed fingertips to push the stack even further away. “On this Kellogg case, we’ve got pages and pictures of the wreck and the condition of the weather and the road at the time of the accident, and not a single living soul has come forth to say that he saw anything.”

  “That would just be too easy, now wouldn’t it?” Brighton turned another page. A few unattached sheets slipped from Brighton’s grasp and fluttered to the floor. Nudging one or two with his loafer, he ignored them and kept flipping.

  “You gonna pick those up or not?”

  “Not.” He flipped another page, then watched it fall from the folder to join the others. “See? I’ll just wait ‘til I finish, then get all of them at once.”

  “Lazy.”

  “No, just conserving energy.” He licked his thumb again. “You shouldn’t be so critical.”

  Palmer ran a finger along the edges of the stack of reports. “Did you take a look at the reconstructionist’s report?”

  “For all the good it did. Deacon’s pretty resourceful. He used a total-station system, and pulled in some crash-scene measurements.” Brighton lifted a glossy sheet from the file and turned it so that his partner could see it. “Makes a nice kind of 3-D picture, don’t’cha think? We can see what she must have seen during the accident.”

  “Sure we can. Looking at that thing we can see everything except the car that hit her.” Standing stiffly, Palmer eyed her partner, then headed for the papers drifting toward his feet. “You knew it would get to me.”

  “What?” Brighton feigned innocence, but the flick of his eyes gave him away.

  Palmer growled something about his being raised in a barn and collected the pages. Scanning as she slapped the pages together, she frowned. “From what I can see, they were able to collect evidence showing the principal direction of force, trace evidence, like gravel and road debris, and they found some paint scrapes on her car.”

  Brighton placed the folder on the desk in front of him. “They test the paint?”

  On her knees, Palmer shuffled the pages. “Looks like they checked the speed from the skid marks, got the stopping time and distance, and after doin’ the math, it adds up to a lot of nothing. And I don’t see a single thing on the paint.”

  “Not even a hint of the color?”

  Palmer sucked her teeth and frowned. “Did you just hear me say that I didn’t see a single thing?”

  Forgiving, Brighton grinned. “Then I say we go old school. Let’s start with trace evidence, find out the color, and check out the one other person we know was there.”

  “The doctor.”

  “Exactly. Plug his name in and let’s see what kind of cars come up under his ownership. Then we’ll just…”

  “I’ve already got it.” Palmer pointed to her desk.

  “Oh, you’re a sly one. Open it up and let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Reaching across the space between their desks, Palmer snagged the report, while Brighton flapped a questing hand across his desk.

  “Looking for these?” Palmer offered his reading glasses.

  “Yeah, thanks.” He jammed them on his nose and peered over them. “That’s better.” Noticing her smirk, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t ever get old, partner. Life is hard when your arms are too short to read.”

  Palmer tried not to laugh. “I’m seeing four…five…no, six different cars listed here for Dr. Parker Reynolds, including a Corvette, a vintage Porsche Targa, a Rolls Corniche…”

  “Rolls Corniche. Nothing quite like hand-built luxury, is there?”

  “When you can afford the very best…” Palmer left the thought hanging.

  “Not on what I make.” Brighton looked at her over the top of his glasses. “Wasn’t he driving a Lexus when we were there?”

  “Yeah, a really nice new one.”

  “Is it on the list?”

  “Uh-huh.” She drew a finger across the list. “Got it right here.”

  “Did you see the tag hangin’ on that baby? ‘C Y I WRK’.”

  “He’s a regular one-man fan club.”

  Brighton’s chair moaned when he rocked back and closed his eyes. “True dat.”

  * * *

  “Who was the bright person who decided that this was flesh-colored?” Marlea pulled the thick beige surgical stocking over her foot. “It doesn’t look a thing like my flesh.”

  “Is that humor?” Reynolds glanced up from his Palm Pilot, smiling. “Coming from you, I suppose it is, isn’t it?” She pulled the leg of her sweatpants down over the sock. Ignoring the surgical shoe, she tucked one leg protectively behind the other.

  “You’re coming along quite well. We’ll need to arrange for your continuing therapy.”

  “You’ve got jokes, right?” Marlea’s crooked smile was hopeful. “I already told you, I don’t want therapy.”

  She looks about twelve years old, sitting there on the bed in that sweat suit with her hair pulled up like that, pouting. Parker tried to distance himself from her vulnerability, from the way she looked.

  “Marlea, I understand that you’re reluctant to talk about it.” I would be, too. “You’ll be leaving the hospital shortly, and we need to come up with a plan that will get you back on your feet.”

  “You know what? I’m not reluctant, I’m pissed way the hell off!” She slammed her hand against her thigh and her eyes burned into the doctor’s. “What good will therapy do, ’cause even if I’m on my feet, we won’t be running, will we?”

  “Life is not just about running; you should know that by now.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Narrowing her eyes defiantly, she dropped her chin to her chest. “You’ve never been committed to anything, have you?”

  “I’m a doctor. I’m committed to life.” Parker tried to smile.

  “Running is, was, my life.”

  Her head stayed low, and Parker’s usually agile mind flailed about, seeking the right words. “Running has absolutely nothing to do with the kind of teacher you are, or the quality of woman you are.”

  “That sounds good, but…” When she lifted her head, her brown eyes held more pain than Parker would have ever imagined. “Next thing I know, you’ll be standing there trying to tell me that not only am I lucky to have survived, which I agree with, but that no one worthy of me will mind the changes in me.”

  “Your friend Libby doesn’t seem to have a problem.”

  “Libby loves me. She would be my friend if I grew two more heads and a hump on my back. It’s not the same thing.” Marlea’s shoulders rose and fell. She untucked her stockinged foot and held it in front of her. “My foot will never work the way it used to. It’ll never look normal again, not even to me. You’ve already told me that you can’t attach any more toes to it. You can’t fix me.”

  “Marlea…”

  “Uh-uh.” She cut him off with a decisive shake of her head. “It’s not like I have a man who will mind, but I might want one some day. If I was your woman, would you want me cuddlin’ up to you with my stumpy ol’ foot? Think about it. How many men do you know who are out there looking for a woman like me? I’m not talking about some freak collector. I’m talking about an honest, decent, intelligent, loving man—somebody to plan a life with? And what about children? How would I explain it to them?”

  Father, can I get a break? Parker prayed, feeling undeserving. Looking into her pain is too hard. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You’re a beautiful woman, with a talent for teaching children; there’s no way around that. You would make a wonderful wife and mother. Your life path is up to you. But I think that if we, if you, are going to make positive steps, you have to commit to therapy.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Yes, I do
.” Parker saw himself through her eyes for the first time, and guilt poured over his head and shoulders, sticking like tar. Remorse edged into the tiny bends and crevices of his heart, but it wasn’t enough to stop his heart from breaking for her. She trusts me, he knew. I want to give her a promise I can keep.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. I can promise that your recovery will be faster and far more complete with therapy than without it.” Surprising himself, he reached for her hand, and was pleased when she didn’t pull away. “Try the therapy, Marlea. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  “Promises, promises…” Pressing her lips thin, she looked at their joined hands.

  “How about this one. I promise that you will walk again. Maybe,” he smiled, “you’ll even dance again.”

  “But will I run? Will I ever run again? And if I could ever have that dream come true, what about my balance? My speed?”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Haven’t you ever heard that you have to walk before you can run?”

  “Jokes,” Marlea muttered.

  But at least she smiled! “There are no promises here, but there is an excellent physical therapist in town, and he’s available. His time is at a premium these days because, in addition to his practice, he’s working with the Federal Awareness Coalition on a diversity amendment, and he has some other ongoing business ventures. Very bright man, though. Did I tell you that this guy is a former NFL player with a very big heart?”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about him. Big heart, huh? Is that why he’s a ‘former’ NFL player?”

  “Enough of that, you little smartass. You know what I mean. He’s one of the best and most motivated therapists I’ve ever met.”

  “Yeah?” Marlea teased, “but is he cute?”

  “That would require a highly subjective judgment, and as of this moment, I am not prepared to offer an opinion as to his degree of cuteness—unless that would get you to commit to working with him. In that case, he could certainly be called cute.”

  “You’ve already talked to him about me?” Marlea probed, pushing her tongue into her cheek.

  “Please don’t look like that.” Please! “This man is a professional. I couldn’t very well ask him to take on a case without telling him something about you, now could I?”