Chapter 7
7
We get nose jobs all the time in the NHL, and we don’t even have to go to the hospital.
– Brad Park
Frank
The doctors do more tests. They’ve already sent the debris to the lab to grow the new cells. The whole thing sounds disgusting. Especially all the aftercare.
Surgery is tomorrow morning. Mom will be here by then and will stay at my place. Life has turned into an absolute shitstorm. Even worse, there is a chance I won’t ever play again. I think of Merritt Alexander and wonder if he feels I’ve gotten my just desserts.
In my room, Maya sits in the visitor’s chair in the corner, as if her presence in the background might provide comfort. With a resolution I have to force, I try to ignore her, but the little peeks I keep taking tell me that I’m a doomed man. Reading glasses perched on her nose, she barely looks up from her phone as I curse under my breath.
“Surgery, huh?”
Thoughts about what might happen jangle through my body. No weakness, Sauer, my inner censor chides. Because she’s not looking at me, I push away the shivers and try for a casual slump. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll be recreated as the bionic man.” My halfhearted joke produces a quick glance and a snicker.
“You’ll be good as new once you’re through the recovery. Everything they use is original, Sauer.” The cheery lilt grates.
“Frankenstein.” I make a growly sound.
Her screen goes dark. “Just catching up on some of my reading.”
“On knees?”
“Specifically this combination. Surgery isn’t a specialty of mine, so I wanted more insight into what your rehab should look like.”
Her deliberate movements as she puts her phone into a pocket mesmerize me. Then she moves closer and reaches out. Cool fingers press against my wrist, sending a fireball through me. Aware that she’s just checking my pulse doesn’t stop the surge of unexpected desire.
A gurgle in my throat is the only sound I can make through the shock of her touch until the sound barrier cracks wide with a familiar and unwelcome yodel.
“Frankie. Where are you, Frankie?” Mom’s voice echoes through the hallway. My hand jerks away as Maya straightens. She quickly returns to the chair. The praying mantis arrives with a flourish, eyelids emerald green, mascara clumped, cheeks with poorly blended rouge. A truncated stringy ponytail does nothing to enhance the unnaturally blond hair streaked with lime green.
Mom’s trademark attire is always studded with sequins and today’s outfit is no exception. Decked out in a sparkly sweater, the design shows a Christmas tree surrounded by kangaroos to remind me I didn’t come home for the holiday. Her gaze avidly travels around the sterile space.
When her eyes fall on Maya, Mom’s sweet smile is patently false. Maya, sitting in the corner looks dazed, her mouth slightly open.
Then Mom trains steely gray orbs on me and the smile transmutes to a glare. Her vocal cords vibrate as she snaps, “Who’s this? You didn’t say you had a girlfriend.”
Paralysis strikes again. Mute, I shake my head no. Maya starts to speak but Mom’s a Zamboni and rolls right over her. “If I’d known, maybe I would have stayed home.” Her X-ray body scan makes my face burn with shame.
Maya stares at Mom. Her face is frozen in a “who is this Gorgon?” expression. Her mouth opens, moves, but no sound comes out.
“Name?” Mom holds out a claw, long, curved nails painted bright red. Her resemblance to the harpies I remember from a youthful foray into mythology makes me swallow a laugh.
The chair catches in a flaw in the flooring and tips back hitting the wall as Maya stands. “Maya Pullman. I’m one of the physical therapists with the team. I’ll be working with your son to get him back on his feet after the surgery.”
“Good luck with that. Frank will push back. You’re in for a lot of grief. He doesn’t like being bossed around by women.” She lets out a spiteful snicker. “Hope you don’t crumble away like a pile of rotten bricks.”
“I’ve dealt with many difficult cases, Mrs. Sauer,” Maya says politely.
The stonewall look Mom gives her, chills me. “If you say so.” At her sides, the constant flicking of her fingernails belies the firmness of her tone.
A bitter, salty taste fills my mouth. “Funny, Mom, that hasn’t deterred you in the least.”
“I’m your mother. I know what’s best for you. After thirty-five years, the least you can do is acknowledge it.”
“You, the girls, the aunts—you all know best. I’m sick of all the criticism. Telling me all my choices are wrong. When I went pro, I paid off the house, bought you a new one when you decided to have your sisters move in. Every month I pay into a spending account for a bunch of lazy females. None of you work, or even volunteer. Shop and go to fancy restaurants. What kind of life is that? All you do is spend, then complain I don’t give you enough, demand more.”
A sneer disfigures her face. “When you can’t play anymore, what will you do?”
The accusation hits a sensitive spot. I don’t know what I’ll do.
“You have no education, no skills. We’ll all be out on the street.”
I don’t mention the nice pot of cash I've put away to retire on. One of the first moves I made when I went pro was to hire a really good money manager. One option would be to suggest that she get a job. She’s not too old.
That’s a knockdown drag out I can’t win, so instead I say, “You could spend less and save some of what I give you each month. You’d have a nice nest egg now. Or you could start selling some of your accumulated junk. A few of those Kelly handbags would bring in a nice return.”
“Very funny. There are six of us managing on that paltry sum.”
Heart racing, my blood pressure spikes. Frantic beeps come from the machines and an alarm blares out. Knives slice into my chest. Two nurses rush into the room, check monitors, then give me a shot of something. “It’s Esmolol to bring down the pressure. You should start feeling better soon. The doctor is on his way.”
Maya, breathing hard, walks over to Mom, slaps her face, and screams, “Get out of here, you bitch,” just as the doctor and two orderlies come to a halt.
“Call security and have them clear the room,” the doctor orders.
My voice comes out weak and strained. “Maya can stay. But get my mother out of here.”
“You’re choosing that whore over your mother?” Mom’s shrieks sound hoarse now.
“I’d choose the Marquis de Sade over you,” I snap back.
Two guards arrive, take over from the orderlies, and hustle her out of the room. Over her screeches, one of them can be heard saying, “Come quietly or the police will deal with this disturbance.”
The orderlies follow them out.
“Get your dirty mitts off me. Let me go. I’ll sue your asses off for this.” She struggles against their hold, the shrieking fading away as they drag her down the hallway.
I picture Mom struggling against her captors, kicking out and twisting in their grasp.
Maya smooths down my hair and rubs the back of my neck. “Are you sure you want me to stay?”
Her touch tingles and soothes me. I grab her hand and squeeze in the affirmative, blown away by how she stood up for me. Guess not all women are the same.