104. Symphony of Anguish
SYMPHONY OF ANGUISH
LIVY
Days became weeks and now weeks want to become months. Or, at least, it feels like it.
Layton is home. I’ve heard this in medical team meetings at the office, not because I’m working with him or that I’ve even developed a PT plan for him. That’s because he was unwilling to see me.
I try not to let the repeated rejection sting, but it does. I stopped going after the third time I knocked on his hospital room door only to be turned away.
Three times I showed up professionally for a patient and personally for a friend.
Three times Mr. Ranger refused to let me into his room to discuss his care.
Three times Layton didn’t refute his dad or override his decision.
Three times I left feeling a little less than. That was three times too many.
Before the accident, I wanted to play and release some sexual tension, not build a deep relationship.
I thought there was a connection. Even if we couldn’t have more, I thought there was mutual respect.
But to deny professional medical treatment means he either doesn’t trust me or doesn’t want to see me. Or both.
Both hurt.
If I wanted to be a better runner or shave seconds off my time at the starting line, I’d ask him. He’s an expert at that.
I’m the expert at getting his body back to how it was designed to function. His refusal to see that angers me. It diminishes my part on this team and it’s insulting.
Dr. Silverberg leads his care team, and after submitting my notes on his continued refusal for treatment, I recuse myself. I’m back to patient care with players who want the help and are willing to do the work.
And that starts with injury prevention through core strength and balance. Injury prevention is always better than injury rehabilitation.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” I announce to the yoga class.
Team management has told everyone this is a resource they support and encourage. It’s free to any and all in the complex and does not count as break time.
More and more people are coming. Very few people are using this as a get-out-of-jail-free card for a few hours a week away from their standard duties. Besides, most of us don’t know what a forty-hour workweek is anyway. Especially between July and January… February if you’re lucky.
“Let’s begin. Stand straight. Open your chest. And take several deep breaths.”
Without permission, my eyes go to Layton’s old spot even if it was only for a handful of classes.
His presence was larger than life and his absence is equally as notable.
I have to stop thinking about him.
Hans Carlson and Arthur Mattis are more disciplined now, although they’re also more somber. I hear the team was rocked by the news of Layton’s injuries and him landing on IR. And in this pack, he’s the alpha, so there’s a void in more than just the locker room.
Marshall is stoic, his practice far more focused.
We spend the next hour building strength and flexibility while releasing the stressors that impact our days, if only for an hour.
Mind, body, and soul align for peace.
If only for a while.
Layton
“Yes, sir,” I say through gritted teeth.
I listen as the man from team management drones on and on. I nod as if he can see me through the phone, but inside, I’m seething.
“I look forward to the day I can take you off that list.”
Injured reserve.
Reserve.
The next-in-line maybe athletes who can’t play.
Almost good enough.
But not.
“HR will call you about what that means for your comp. The full resources of the team are at your disposal. Avail yourself of everything, Ranger. We need you back at one hundred percent.”
“Thank you.”
“Medical and coaching will give me regular updates. My door is always open.” And with that, the owner hangs up.
I want to throw my phone across the room, but I resist. Pop has walked in, and not that he wouldn’t understand, but my temper getting the best of me won’t help this situation.
I live in a constant state of anger. I’m pissed at everything and everyone.
Including myself. Always myself.
It’s that or pity.
The self-loathing is new. I’ve never understood how anyone could resent themselves until now. But hating my fucked-up life is my new mantra.
I peaked at twenty-nine. Now life is all fucking downhill from here.
“What did he say?” Pop points at my knuckles wrapped around the phone leached of all color.
“IR. Pay cut. All the resources to help me get back. Blah, blah, blah.”
Pop sighs and takes a seat on the sofa across from me. “Real talk, Layton. What do you want?”
I look at him incredulously, tamping back the emotion that threatens. I don’t know, Pop. My life back. My job back. To stand without pain spearing through me.
“Son, I asked you a question.”
I look around my apartment. My pointless fireplace in a city that never gets below sixty-eight degrees, floor-to-ceiling windows, low modern furniture. I look anywhere but into his eyes.
When I meet his gaze again, my voice is flat and defeat is audible. “My life back.”
He says nothing. We both know that’s an impossibility. Not an improbability I can fight my way through. It’s not something that time in the gym and good habits can accomplish.
Impossible. Not an option on the table anymore.
“You sure you don’t want to come home for your therapy?”
“Positive.”
“It would do you some good to get out of the city and get some fresh air in your lungs. You know the family would love to see you.”
“I know. But my doctors are here.”
“We have doctors in Texas, you know.”
I don’t roll my eyes at my old man. I respect him more than I’ve ever told him. He’s just trying to help, but my answer isn’t going to change. And right now, the idea of people rallying around me in my weak and broken state makes me want to scream.
“I know, Pop. I’ll be fine.”
I almost add that I’ll come home for Father’s Day, but I know better than to make a promise I plan to break.
The knowing look I see in Pop’s eyes will haunt me until the day I die. He knows I’m lying to him.
He starts to speak but refrains, shaking his head.
He stares at his hands. His wedding ring is still lodged on his finger, old and scratched.
The only time I’ve ever seen him not wearing it was when he was in the hospital in October and the fluids made him swell.
It was back in place before he was discharged.
“Don’t know that I believe that right now.
” His voice is quiet as he studies his fingers.
“Need to know that my kids are going to be okay. And you—” He stops and holds my eyes.
“You’ve always been independent. You’ve always been driven.
My son with his eyes on the prize. You’ve always been your mom’s.
Emilia would know what to do right now, but I’m at a loss.
” He rubs an eye with his thumb. “How do I help you, Layton? I don’t know what to do. ”
I’m floored. I’ve seen my old man this vulnerable only once, and it was last March when our world crumbled. Otherwise, never.
“I don’t either.” My words are quiet. The anger is gone, giving way to defeat.
I stand, sucking in a breath from the cramping in my back from the movement and hobble away. The clicking of the walker and the sharp exhales through my nose make a symphony of anguish that I wish I could drown out.
I enter my guest room—my room—and lower onto the bed, cursing under my breath at what effort it takes and how weak I am after expending the energy.
I lie back, only to realize I left the light on and the door open. Fuck it. It’s not worth the torture to my body to rectify either.
I fake sleep until I hear Pop wander back upstairs. I find the pill the nurses gave me to help me sleep and I don’t even bother to swallow it. I crush it between my teeth, tasting the bitter, metallic powder, and wait for oblivion.