The Middle Road

by K. G. Reuss

  The Middle Road

  K.G. Reuss

  CM Lally

  The Middle Road © 2019 K.G. Reuss, C.M. Lally

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Untitled

  One

  Diary

  Two

  Diary

  Three

  Diary

  Four

  Diary

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Diary

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Diary

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Diary

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Diary

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Diary

  Twenty-Five

  Diary

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Diary

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Diary

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  About K.G. Reuss

  About C.M. Lally

  Acknowledgements

  Dearest Reader

  Thank you for taking a chance on The Middle Road! We’d also like to take a moment to thank everyone involved in this book—our families, pets, editor, cover designer, complete strangers who paved the way for Carter’s story, and maybe one or two cocktails in the late hours of the night.

  We wanted this book to be raw and emotionally charged. Carter’s story was inspired by our own heartbreaking experiences and many nights in the back of an ambulance. Stories from patients recalling their most vivid, heartwarming memories about living their best lives (dancing on Broadway, falling in love in the rain) to their worst moments (losing a loved one, uncertain futures). It’s their tears, anger, fear, hope that is the blood and bone of Carter George.

  We sincerely hope Carter’s story will give others the courage to fight whatever it is they’re facing. You know that saying, “Live like you’re dying”? Yeah. Do that. Every single day. Always.

  Now, let’s buckle up. It’s going to be a rough ride, but we promise it will be so worth it at the end.

  K.G & C.M.

  “Every man dies. Not every man really lives.” -William Wallace

  One

  Carter

  Karma is a fucking bitch.

  That’s the thought that pops in my head the moment Doctor Aarons says the three little words that alter my life.

  “Carter, did you hear what I said?” Doctor Aarons calls out to me, bringing me back to his office, his words from earlier still ringing in my ears.

  I take in his wizened face, graying hair, the fine lines etched into his skin indicative of his age. An age I’ll never be able to obtain.

  You have cancer. It’s terminal.

  “Yeah. I’m dying,” I grunt, feeling numb inside. I’m not even sure if my heart is still beating. Maybe I’ve already died, his words the nails in my coffin.

  “There are multiple tumors visible on the scans. We can keep an eye on them, see if they’re growing. But honestly, Carter, it’s not good. I wish I had more answers for you.” He surveys me carefully, clearly trying to be delicate in his wording.

  There are only so many ways you can kindly tell someone they’re dying. I get it. Sugar-coating it won’t change a damn thing.

  “I’m so sorry, Carter. We can begin treatment—”

  “What’s the point?” I snap at him, getting to my feet, my head aching. I sway slightly. Doctor Aarons reaches for me, but I flinch away, not wanting him to touch me. I don’t need his help. Not that he can help me anyway. I’m a dead man walking. And only thirty-two years old.

  The pounding in my head throbs tremendously, making me want to vomit. I swallow down the burning bile, unsure if it’s just from the headache or the sickness from the news. Either way, this headache has been killing me for months. I guess that’s the fucking understatement of the year.

  I make my way to the door and pause, looking over my shoulder at him. “How long do I have?”

  “Maybe six months. Tops,” his voice is somber, his mouth turning down into a deep frown. The sympathy in his brown eyes kicks up the nausea rolling around in my gut. “Here.” He steps forward and hands me a script for pain medication. “These will help.”

  “Will they cure me?” I ask softly, looking down at the small, white square of paper clutched in his hand.

  The scribbled mess of his handwriting reflects the images of my life as they flash before me. I take note of his gold wedding band. I’ve never been married. Hell, I’ve never even fallen in love. I’ve been too busy amassing a real estate empire and tearing down companies which won’t aide in the fight for my life that I’ve forgotten about marriage. Family. Love.

  “No,” he answers, patting me gently on the back.

  “Then they won’t help me.” I turn to pull the door open.

  “Carter, take the damn prescription. The headaches will only get worse. You’re going to want them.”

  Snatching the script from his hand, I stuff it into my suit pocket. “My father died from the same disease. You know what the last thing he said to me was as he lie dying in his bed surrounded by all the stuff he’d accumulated over the years? All the money, the real estate, the enemies?”

  Phil Aarons had been one of my father’s friends. They’d gone to college together. He’d been the one to diagnose him with terminal brain cancer.

  “What?” he asks, his eyes filled with more sympathy.

  “He said, ‘Don’t make my mistakes.’ It looks like I’m the spitting image of him, right down to dying in a high-rise that won’t mean shit once I’m dust and ash. The only difference is I won’t have anyone to hold my hand on the way out.”

  “Carter, there are support groups—”

  “Fuck support groups.” I tug the door open, letting it bang against the examination room wall. The models of different body systems tremble on the table, threatening to spill to the floor. I don’t bother waiting for him to reply. I storm out of his office and out to the street.

  I only make it as far as a parking meter before I hurl my guts out onto a New York City sidewalk and someone’s parked Nissan. People dodge away from me as I continue to vomit onto the cracked sidewalk, my hand clutching the parking meter. The pain in my head soars to new levels, the noises and lights from the busy city making my vision blurry.


  When the nausea passes enough for me to pull my phone from my pocket, I call Derek, my driver. When he answers, I’m quick in my needs. After all, time is of the essence.

  “Come get me,” I croak.

  I don’t wait for his response. I end the call and straighten up, leaning against the parking meter, sweat pouring from my face. Within minutes, Derek maneuvers the sleek, black SUV beside the Nissan. Staggering forward, I open the back door before he can come around and do it for me.

  “You look bad,” Derek comments as he stands at the opened door. My head rests against the cool leather of the front seat, perspiration dripping from my forehead. A car honks behind us, making me wince.

  “I’m dying,” I breathe out, closing my eyes.

  “What?” there’s panic in Derek’s voice.

  Derek is young. Twenty-five. I’d given him a job as my driver after he’d delivered many packages and correspondences to me on his bike as a messenger. I saw something in him. Perhaps, it was adventure, something I’ve always wanted. It reflects in his dark eyes whenever he looks around. It’s a hungry look, a voracious craving for more than what life was currently providing. Maybe by driving me, he’d someday be able to afford that backpacking trip through Europe he’s always going on about. But if I’m dead, Derek is out a job and an adventure.

  I keep my eyes closed, desperate to make the pain go away. I reach into my pocket and pull out the script from Doctor Aarons. “I need this. Hurry.”

  Derek wastes no time taking the script from me and scurrying around to the driver’s side of the car. The SUV jerks forward, my stomach rolling again, my head feeling like a drumline is using my skull as its percussion section.

  Maybe death won’t be so bad. Anything is better than the pain and hell I’m in.

  “Derek, crank the air up, full blast.” Within seconds, the cooler air reaches me, and I sink deeper into the seat, loosen my vomit-stained tie, and watch the masses of people go about their day in this city, doing whatever the fuck it is they do to fulfill their lives.

  My life is as dark and depressing as the interior of the car. Black is supposed to be professional, elegant, and a sign of high wealth. What a joke for all the good it does me. All the riches of the world can’t buy me a cure.

  Derek swerves the SUV into a corner space outside of McCabe’s Rx and runs in. They filled my father’s scripts, and here we are, full-fucking-circle, getting mine filled. The twisted, witchy laugh of karma reverberates in my skull making me want to pound my head against the glass window.

  An RV pulls up at the light and waits next to me. I glance over, and two little boys have their faces smashed against the windows, trying to see the height of the tall buildings. Large, luminous eyes take in the big city while tiny fingers point in a million different directions, attempting to get their mom to see everything they see.

  In true Derek loyalty, he brings the pill bottle and a water right to my door, twisting the caps off both to try and please me. With my palm held out, he places two bright green capsules in my hand, and I pop them into my mouth with all the reverence of magic pills, chugging water to wash them down.

  With a sigh, I sit back and close my eyes, squeezing them tighter when a blaring horn assaults the quiet of the car as Derek slides into the driver’s seat. “Where to, Boss?” he asks quietly.

  “Just follow that RV. I want to see what they see,” I murmur, pointing to the big cream and brown colored contraption a few car lengths ahead of us. Derek does as I say, not saying a word about my strange request. Never once have I told him to follow another car, let alone an RV. His eyes slide over to me several times. He thinks I’ve finally cracked.

  And I just may have.

  Eventually, we follow the family across the Brooklyn Bridge and into Liberty Park. We park a few open spaces away, my gaze evaluating the value of the vehicle. The RV has more rust on it than an old tractor I saw once abandoned in a corn field. Neglect. Wasteful neglect.

  This particular rust is older than both parents combined. Here are two people giving their children a lifetime of memories with the only means they have: a rusty, beat-up recreation vehicle and their time and effort inside an adventure.

  Yesterday, I wouldn’t have even paid the slightest attention to them. Today, I’m deeply moved by this loving family. Would my life have turned out differently had my parents given me more time and effort instead of possessions? For all of the things I own, the one thought that won’t escape my mind is that my empty life is a result of neglect.

  Damn it. I rub my forehead trying to erase the throb inside my skull. The ache is lessening, but it’s still a dull roar. Like a bee is trapped inside it, buzzing and flitting around looking for a means of escape.

  “Are you all right?” Derek moves the rearview mirror to take in my full face. Fresh worry lines wrinkle his forehead, no doubt a result of the poorly-timed delivery of my diagnosis from earlier.

  “Yeah, take me home. I need rest.”

  I jolt awake when the engine cuts off and Derek opens my door. The quiet of the garage at my apartment building soothes my troubled mind. Home. Even the whoosh of the elevators rising to the penthouse suite washes away those three life-altering words from my memory for a while.

  I head straight for my office and wait for my computer to boot up.

  “I thought you were going to rest,” Derek chastises as he plops down into the leather chair across from me.

  “I am, after I send a few emails regarding tomorrow.”

  “And may I ask, what is tomorrow— besides Wednesday?”

  “Tomorrow is the day I release my company into the hands of the CFO, I meet with my attorney to settle my affairs, and it’s also the day you buy us a recreational vehicle fit to go across the country. We’re going on an adventure.”

  “We are?” his voice rises with excitement and an unknown hesitation.

  “Yes, we are,” I assure him, turning all my focus to my email.

  “This isn’t going to be some Thelma & Louise trip that you’re planning for…you know, the final scene.” His eyebrows draw together in distress over the thought of it.

  “I didn’t plan on it ending that way, but if it does, I’m calling dibs on Thelma. If anyone’s having hot sex on this trip, it’s me.”

  Diary

  Day 1

  I don’t know why the hell I thought I’d start a diary. No. Let’s call it a travel log. I guess maybe I thought it might help sort my thoughts. Perhaps, after I’m gone someone can auction it off and make a few dollars. The great Carter George’s innermost thoughts before his death. Yeah, I can see it becoming a bestseller now.

  To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never had a ‘no return from here’ situation. There’s always been another deal that’s usually bigger and better. This dying shit definitely doesn’t have another deal after it unless I’m somehow able to barter with the devil once I get to his gates.

  I remember watching my father go. It made me pray to a god that clearly doesn’t exist that I’d go fast. Fuck, I don’t want to suffer like my father did. People say he deserved the long, hard death he got. He was ruthless. He was a businessman, and I’d followed in his footsteps. By the way it’s looking, I’ll keep following them right to the grave. With one exception.

  This road trip.

  Dying has a way of fucking with your head. Maybe this really is karma for being the man I have been. I was my father’s son, after all. He worked himself to the bone, ignoring my mother and me. Then she bailed. She kissed me goodbye, hopped in a limo, and left without a word or consolatory hug. Nothing.

  At first, I got phone calls from her a few times a year, which dwindled to a few times every other year, and became non-existent as I aged into adulthood. Hell, I haven’t seen my mother since I graduated from college. Scratch that. She didn’t show up to that.

  Enough about that. Today I have to go to my board and explain what the hell is going on. They’re going to be pissed, but it’s not like I give a s
hit. I won’t be here in six months, so it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I even have a legacy to pass the company on to. I lived the life of a perma-bachelor, never falling in love for more than an hour at a time. If I even had the time for that. I doubt I’d have stayed married for long anyway. None of it matters now though.

  My story is going to start right after I meet with my board this morning. Then all that shit will be a past life.

  I want to live, damnit. Maybe there’s no cure, but I have six months left. I’m going to live the life I should’ve been living. Strange how your own looming funeral humbles you.

  I’ve sent Derek out to get us an RV. I told him money wasn’t an issue. I also had him get us some camping gear since I’ve never been. He seemed all too eager about it.

  I have to go now. My meeting with the board is at 10:00 AM. I’ll be back to finish this log tomorrow. I hope.

  Two

  Carter

  “Good morning, Mr. George!” Abigail, my secretary, greets me as I walk through the lobby. Her large green eyes drink me in as they always do. I don’t have any doubt she wants me to bend her over my desk and fuck her like a porn star, but the one thing I learned from my father was, “Don’t fuck the help.” It was engrained in my head that most women were gold diggers, and once they had the goods, they’d cut town, leaving you a broken man.