Chapter 4
Chapter 4
By the time Tanner got home that night, stuffed with a great meal, he felt happier than he had in years. Even though quality sleep remained elusive, the following morning he’d woken up smiling and ready to face the day for once. That had to count for something.
Well—he’d thought he’d been ready for the day, but the damned doorbell rang at 7:00 a.m. Forced to get up from his perfectly comfortable spot on the couch, he was surprised to see his twin sister walking through the front door. Instant dread settled over him. He should have known leaving her questions unanswered the day before would be all the provocation she needed to hunt his ass down. The only silver lining he could see, and the only reason he didn’t yell at her to get the fuck out, was that she’d brought goodies. In one hand, a tray of coffee cups, and in the other, a box of pastries. Sighing in annoyance and resignation, he limped towards the kitchen, ignoring the burning pain in his left leg. The heels of her boots were obnoxiously loud on his bare floors as she trailed after him.
“Is your leg feeling worse?” Cameron asked, entering the kitchen. “Is the pain increasing? Your doctor said that—”
“Coffee, Cam. Have mercy! Hand over the damned coffee before interrogating me,” he groaned, unable to hide his irritation, especially before his first dose of caffeine. Jumping all over his ass like this before his first cup of joe was criminal, and she should know better.
Cameron huffed, handing over his cup. It wasn’t hard to tell which was his. Hers had whipped cream oozing from the top. He liked his coffee with just a splash of milk. Whipped cream was a dessert thing. Not a coffee thing.
“I thought you might be a bit more agreeable since you got laid last night,” she said, as she flipped open the lid on the box of pastries. Tanner ignored her completely in favor of choosing a chocolate glazed doughnut.
“Oh, come on,” Cameron snapped impatiently. “You’re not going to tell me about Ms. 1215 Larry Drive?”
At that Tanner’s head snapped up, half a doughnut hanging out of his mouth. How the fuck had she known that?
Then it dawned on him.
“What the hell, Cam! You tracked my phone’s location last night?”
“Had to. I knew you’d give me fuck all information otherwise,” she answered, like the absolute remorseless, relentless menace she’d always been. After his last little— episode— his shrink had gotten together with his mother and Cameron, convincing him to share his location with them on his phone. The app was set up to be used only as an emergency measure. She wasn’t supposed to be tracking his whereabouts because she wanted to know who, what, why, how, where, or when he went out to dinner or on a date. What the fuck? Unconcerned, acting totally innocent, Cameron placidly sipped her coffee, waiting for Tanner to divulge details of his evening. She obviously felt perfectly entitled to know everything and expected him to start talking.
But that facade didn’t remain in place for long. After about a minute, she broke.
“Oh, come off it! I was just being a concerned sister! Perfectly reasonable!”
“You’re a pain in the ass and a psycho!”
“Oh, give it up! Just tell me what I want to know , ” she replied matter-of-factly.
Tanner glared at her in frustration, grabbed a chocolate croissant and stuffed most of it in his mouth in one go. He’d cave eventually, if only to set her straight on how not to use the location app for her own personal satisfaction. But, in the meantime, it was so much fun to stuff his cheeks with fresh baked goods like a squirrel loading up on acorns in the fall. And the sugar rush was amazingly satisfying while he delayed responding to her pesky-assed questions.
“Come on, Tan. What’s her name? Where’d you meet? Are you going to see her again?”
He swallowed the last bite of croissant down with a sip of coffee and sighed. “His name is Lance. I bought a desk from him—”
Of course, in her usual style, she interrupted him before he could finish.
“A guy?! Damn! How hard did you hit your head in that helo crash?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Chill out, Cam. It wasn’t a date,” he explained, like it wasn’t immediately obvious. “The guy’s ex-girlfriend left a whole bunch of furniture behind when she moved out, told him she didn’t want any of it, and he offered to let me have it if I could help him fix a couple of things around his house. That’s all there is to it. Case closed.”
Cameron deflated and slumped over her coffee. With a put-upon sigh, she plucked an almond croissant from the box, taking a bite from it as she shook her head in disappointment.
“Can’t believe you let me think it was a date. Got all worked up for nothing!”
“I didn’t say anything about going out on a date. It’s your own damned fault for jumping to conclusions,” he said, snickering and waving the last glazed doughnut in front of her face.
She snatched it from him and stuffed it in her mouth so fast it was a blur. Then she stuck her tongue out at him.
“Cameron, please know I mean it when I say—you’re so very fucking annoying that you take it to a whole new level. Almost a professional one.”
Cameron pressed a hand to the middle of her chest, blinked rapidly and sniffled like she was trying to hold back tears.
“Oh, honey! You really do love me! That’s so sweet! Now go on and get in the shower. You reek, and we have to be at the hospital in 45 minutes.”
“What are you talking about?” Tanner asked, shaking his head. “The appointment for my arm is next week.” He’d just checked his calendar the night before when he promised Lance that he’d help him with some projects once he got his doctor’s approval.
“Sure, but I set up a follow up with the kinesiologist, Dr. Williston, that your surgeon referred you to for your leg. Guess I forgot to tell you.” She shrugged and smiled innocently. Tanner knew damned well she hadn’t forgotten at all. He’d flat out refused to go. His leg was done for. It would hurt for the rest of his life. He’d gotten that message loud and clear when the surgeon had explained his options. He also knew the surgeon had recommended Dr. Williston hoping that Tanner would finally agree to allow them to amputate the lower half of his leg, as the surgeon had originally recommended.
No. Fucking. Way.
“I’m not going.”
Maybe Cameron hadn’t quite understood where he stood on the issue. Or maybe she’d thought he’d cave under pressure. He wouldn’t. Not this time. Not ever. He’d fought tooth and nail to keep his left leg. As hard as it was to live with the pain, he sure as shit wasn’t going to let the doctors take it. Over his dead fucking body.
“Dr. Williston already knows how you feel. I swear—I’m not trying to trick you into anything. But if you want to keep walking on it, you need to learn how to keep it as healthy and mobile as possible.” She sounded so sincere that he paused to think this through.
As he did so, a tidal wave of panic swept over him, imagining having to survive yet another assessment and subsequent negative recommendation. He’d had more than enough of those already, and he sure as hell didn’t want—or need—another one to add to his trainwreck of a life. Why couldn’t she just back the hell off?
“Tanner, please! I just—do it for me? I hate seeing you in pain. If she can help you be just a little more comfortable, it would be worth going, right?”
He took another deep breath, relieved that his chest wasn’t so tight this time. Maybe if he could just stop feeling so stressed about it, he could manage this one damned appointment and close the book on this issue once and for all. A boy could dream, couldn’t he?
“I’m not going to let them take my leg,” he stated firmly.
“I hear you,” she said, swallowing her distress. “I promise, Tanner.”
He wasn’t even remotely close to being convinced that she would keep her promise or that she could possibly understand why the mere thought of losing his leg terrified him in a way nothing else could. But he supposed she had a point. If he wanted to keep the damned leg, he had to learn how to take better care of it.
*****
Lance wasn’t much for texting. In fact, he often thought about how good it would feel to hurl his phone like a football into the middle of the lake near his house. Nevertheless, he kept glancing at it, waiting for some sign of life from Tanner. It was probably stupid of him, but—it couldn’t be helped. All morning, as he combed through work emails and client documents, he snuck glances at the screen of his phone, which consistently lit up with unimportant or annoying notifications. As the morning dragged on, he resigned himself to texting first, feeling uncertain and awkward as he composed it:
Lance Kingsley
I know you think my job is boring,
but I’ll have you know that this morning I got a paper cut from filing…
I’m clearly living on the edge.
He pressed send before he could second guess himself, then put the phone down, not expecting to get a reply anytime soon. To his surprise, it buzzed two seconds later.
Tanner Casey
Damn… had no idea how dangerous your job is.
You’re a really tough guy.
Lance Kingsley
Ha! That’s nothing.
Wait until I tell you all about carpal tunnel…
Tanner Casey
Please don’t. I really don’t think I could take it…
Lance Kingsley
Agreed. I’ll spare you the gory details.
How’s work? I still don’t know what you do now, btw.
Tanner Casey
Maybe I’m a psycho killer.
Or an exotic dancer.
Lance Kingsley
Are you?
Tanner Casey
Unfortunately, no. I sell lawn care.
Family business and all that.
And I don’t know how work is because my sister kidnapped me,
And I’m currently sitting on my ass,
waiting for a doc to tell me my leg is fucked for good.
Lance Kingsley
Is it?
Lance Kingsley
Never too late to become an exotic dancer.
I know the leg’s fucked, but how are your hips?
I’ve been told it’s all in the hips.
Tanner Casey
Hips are holding up okay.
Think psycho killing might be easier to get into.
Lance Kingsley
Hmm…
Kinda hard to drag a body with only one arm and a bum leg, though.
Questionable use of humor perhaps, but Tanner was in a tough spot and Lance figured he’d best avoid anything remotely resembling pity.
Tanner Casey
Damn… There goes another big dream.
Lance Kingsley
It’s alright. I think you’d make a great stripper.
We can find you a cool stage name.
How do you feel about Sugar Lips?
Tanner Casey
I think that’s probably false advertising.
He wasn’t sure what Tanner meant by that, since he had perfectly nice lips, but he decided it was best not to say as much.
Lance Kingsley
What about Peg-leg?
Too on the nose?
Tanner Casey
Wowwwwwww
How very fucking rude
And to a veteran…
And for one horrifying moment, Lance thought Tanner might actually be mad. But then, Tanner’s next text came through. A hilarious gif of a pirate with a wooden leg walking across a ship’s deck.
Tanner Casey
Not sure I could pull off the pirate wig and hat, tbh.
Lance Kingsley
Fair point. We’ll workshop it over beers.
Still planning to come over after work on Friday?
He felt like a needy teenager making sure people were coming to his birthday party. Truly pathetic he thought, as he anxiously awaited Tanner’s reply. Practically holding his breath like some kind of lovesick teenager. Jesus, Lance needed to get laid. He was apparently desperate for attention.
Tanner Casey
Yeah. I wonder if I can hold out until Friday.
My sister is seriously driving me to drink right now…
Lance Kingsley
I think drinking is way better than psycho killing.
Let me know anytime you need an alibi.
Or a drinking buddy.
Tanner Casey
Will do.
As Lance placed the phone back on his desk, he tried to re-focus on work, a peculiar flutter of excitement coursing through him. The same sensation he’d felt the other night when Tanner had come over for dinner. The unfamiliarity of it gave him pause. After all, how sheltered had his life become that the excitement of having beers with a friend was suddenly startling?
He couldn’t help thinking of Julie as he mulled that over. She’d often commented on his lack of hobbies and social life. She’d even called him boring on several occasions, and Lance had never bothered to deny it. Hell, he’d sort of agreed. Lance Kingsley, accountant extraordinaire. Living for his 9:00 to 5:00 job. Placing comfort and financial security above all else. A boring, plain guy, living a boring, simple life, and never striving for anything beyond that. But that wasn’t the full story. It wasn’t that Lance didn’t like excitement—it was simply that he’d spent his entire childhood aiming for this. This exact balance and stability. This sense of normalcy. The point at which life just cruises along without drama and pain. He didn’t crave chaos and turmoil because he’d grown up drowning in it. So yeah, Lance liked his 9:00 to 5:00 job. He loved his house in the suburbs, and now he was more than ready to add some fun stuff to his life. Like hanging out with friends and family, having cookouts, working on his house, and exploring local home improvement stores. Today, for the first time in a long time, he got excited thinking about all those great possibilities. Like spending time with someone he really wanted to get to know and, more importantly, someone who did not think he was boring. Setting those thoughts aside for now, he re-focused on his work while enjoying the buzz of excitement running through his veins. Occasionally, just for fun, he stopped to count down the hours until his evening with Tanner. It was somewhat cringe-worthy, and kind of silly, like something a child might do. Something—something he might have learned to do as child, if he hadn’t grown up in a house on fire.
*****
Dr. Williston was nice enough, but Tanner didn’t trust her any farther than he could pick her up and throw her. And, let’s face it, with only one good arm, that wasn’t very damned far. Truthfully, he didn’t trust any doctor. Ever. He never doubted their good intentions—he just knew that their agendas were not always his agendas. It was rude and ungrateful, considering that a team of devoted medical professionals had practically glued him back together after the crash but—he’d been unable to overcome his instinctive distrust of her, even before she’d begun to speak.
“Your primary care physician is quite concerned about the imminent onset and advancement of arthritis,” she explained with a kind smile as she examined his most recent X-rays. Tanner didn’t need to be a doctor to see that his left leg was basically a jumbled mess of screws, pins, and rods.
“Isn’t he kind of young to develop arthritis?” Cameron asked. She insisted on attending all of his medical appointments, despite his repeated protests. But he knew it was just because she needed assurance that he was receiving the best of care, so he really couldn’t bring himself to kick her out of the room.
“Arthritis develops because of wear and tear on the joints over time and in certain situations when the joints are overused. Essentially, the cartilage between the bones deteriorates, causing pain and inflammation. Because of the severity of his injuries, there’s a much greater risk of early onset arthritis. His ankle, his knee—there was so much damage there that, over time, we’re looking at a probable calcification, and a dramatic decrease in mobility, not to mention the ongoing need for pain management.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he restrained his growl. “I’m not going to lose my leg,” he said through gritted teeth.
Dr. Williston looked both surprised and concerned. “Hold on, Mr. Casey, that’s not where this discussion is going. Arthritis will eventually develop, but there are several procedures available to slow down the process of calcification and hopefully preserve the integrity and longevity of your joint cartilage as much as possible.”
She pushed two copies of a detailed pamphlet on the topic across her desk towards them.
“What kinds of procedures?” Cameron asked, leaning forward in her chair to grab one.
“Injections, for one. Many of my patients have benefitted from routine steroid injections. Supplements can be used as well. It would be trial and error, as each patient reacts differently to each type of treatment. However, glucosamine has been known to promote cartilage health.”
Tanner was staring blindly at the pamphlet. His heart rate shot up as a trickle of sweat worked its way down the side of his face. He felt as if he was looking off into an abyss as the reality of the inevitable worsening of his condition sank in. He felt so goddamned helpless to stop any of it. What the hell kind of future did he have to look forward to? Where was the quality of life he so desperately wanted and hoped for?
“Mr. Casey, it’s important for you to understand that I’m not going to push you into making any decisions today. Please consider the options available to you and know that it’s entirely up to you as to how, and when, to proceed. I’d rather you weren’t living with crippling pain for the rest of your life and my job is to help you make careful, informed decisions, not hasty, careless ones.”
Tanner gave her a jerky, awkward nod. His throat was so tight he couldn’t speak. But he felt a brief glimmer of hope.
It was silent in the car on the drive home. Cameron glanced at him frequently but waited until she’d parked in front of his condo building before speaking. In the process of lifting the door handle, he stopped and turned towards her.
“You know I love you and want only the best for you.”
“We don’t have to do this.” He replied quickly, hoping to kill the conversation before it got started.
“I know I was wrong that day for trying to intercede on your behalf about—I know it’s your decision. It’s your leg and I shouldn’t have—I’ll never forgive myself for—”
“Stop.”
“I need to say it. I never apologized. It wasn’t right of me to—”
“Cameron, please—”
She persisted in talking over top of him. “I mean it, Tanner. I was only trying to—”
“Stop!” he finally yelled in stark fear and desperation. He sounded so—harsh and ugly—totally unlike himself.
Cameron jerked backwards in shock, raising both hands defensively.
Taking a deep breath, Tanner regained control and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry. You were only trying to help. It’s not your fault I’m—struggling. I appreciate everything. Really. I do.”
Cameron didn’t look remotely convinced but gave him a quick nod. “You’re seeing your shrink later today, right?”
Was this what his life would be like from now on? He’d lose his temper—if not his fucking mind—and the only relief in sight was his weekly shrink appointment? Where he could cry, bitch, whine, moan, and complain as much as he wanted to because Dr. Jones was getting paid to put up with him?
“Like every other fucking Tuesday,” he said, aware of his petulance, but not really caring. Cameron smiled at him encouragingly. Before she could say anything else that would only make things worse, he made his escape. He was insanely relieved that she didn’t linger, driving away before he reached his front door.
Once inside, he switched on every light in the condo, refusing to give in to depression and darkness, literally or figuratively. The sun shone brightly, but there wasn’t enough light inside. Never enough light. Not when he felt like this—like the darkness might come and swallow him whole.
He remembered what Dr. Jones had said that first time—when his sister had pushed too hard, and he’d spiralled—when—when he’d found himself back in that hellhole—this time one of his own making.
Three years is a long time, Tanner. But it isn’t worth throwing away the next thirty.
Something about those words—that reminder—that challenge. It had grounded him. Light. He had to hold onto light. To the world.
He almost made it to his bedroom when his leg suddenly buckled under him when he put too much weight on it. He had to lean against the wall of the hallway to keep his balance. Pain overrode his panic temporarily, as he slid down the wall and ended up sitting on the floor. He gazed at the ceiling through a blur of tears, trying to breathe through the pain. Reflexively, he clutched his bad leg and smoothed his hands from his heel to his hip, calming down as he focused on the fact that it was still intact—painful, but intact.
His leg was intact.
He took another deep breath, enjoying the pleasant aroma of vanilla in the air. Vanilla, not mold, not rot. Vanilla. His home smelled of vanilla. It had plenty of light. He repeated these details like a mantra.
His cell had smelled of rot, sweat, mold, and—death. This, he reminded himself, was not that cell. The cool hardwood floor beneath his hands was nothing like the dirt and rocks he’d slept on for three miserable years. His condo was filled with light. There wasn’t a shadow in sight. Not one.
His cell had been dark. Always so very dark.
“Not the same,” he said out loud, trying to steady his hammering pulse.
He was close to regaining control when his phone rang. No. It didn’t ring. It blared, and it was so loud, that Tanner fucking jumped.
He pressed answer before he’d even bothered to read the caller ID.
“Hello?”
Then nothing.
“Hello?” he repeated loudly. All he could hear was some weird static and rustling noises.
He looked down at the caller ID, puzzled when he saw Lance’s name.
“Lance? Lance! Hello?”
More rustling, and then—suddenly Lance finally responded.
“Tanner? SHIT! My phone must have slipped out of my pocket and fallen in between the couch cushions! I didn’t mean to butt dial you. Sorry about that, dude!” he said, sounding embarrassed and for some reason that just made his call that much funnier.
“No worries,” Tanner replied as he slumped against the wall. He shut his eyes, focusing on calming his breathing and heart rate.
“You alright? You sound kinda freaked—” Lance said, and fuck, Tanner had to be a real fucking mess to not only feel that way but also sound that way.
He snorted, his reply brutally honest. “When aren’t I?”
“Hey, no—” Lance protested, his voice suddenly serious and concerned. “You better cut yourself some fucking slack, you hear?”
Tanner was momentarily taken aback by Lance’s commanding tone. But he was also aware of his gut tightening with pleasure at the knowledge that Lance cared enough to speak to him that way.
“D’you know, they say it takes three months of doing something before it starts to feel normal. After that—your brain recognizes it as average. Regular. Predictable, and everything outside of it becomes the opposite. By my count, you’ve had three years of hell, and then only a few months of your new life—so, if you were well adjusted already, you’d just be some new kind of freak by neuroscience standards.”
A freak of neuroscience—well, that certainly wasn’t something to strive for, now was it?
“How the hell do you know so much about this anyway?” Tanner asked, surprised at how amused he was by Lance’s views.
“Research. Lots of research. But my point is—you’re doing mighty fine, jarhead.”
“I wasn’t a jarhead—” Tanner protested, though by Lance’s quick bark of laughter, he knew that and just wanted to fuck with him.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Lance asked, adopting a more serious tone.
“You already have. Thanks for the butt dial. I’ll see you Friday, for sure.”
“Aye, Aye, Sergeant,” Lance replied.
Tanner refused to take the bait. He just laughed as he prepared to hang up.
“Call if you need anything, alright?” Lance added before he cut the call. Just like that, leaving those words hanging between them, giving Tanner another jolt of startled pleasure along with intense feelings of warmth and affection that he’d never experienced while interacting with any of his other friends. Definitely new territory for him, and the only frame of reference he had was what he’d experienced with his own family. His sister said stuff like that all the time. So did his mom and Mark. But coming from Lance, it felt—different. Family was supposed to take care of you no matter what. But friends?—if that’s what he and Lance were—friends had no such obligations.
Light. Tanner had to hold onto the light. Looking around at all the lights in the condo, he thought having Lance just a call away might just be the brightest one of all.