102. Science Experiment
SCIENCE EXPERIMENT
LIVY
It’s beginning to feel personal.
I’ve been turned away at Layton’s hospital room door for two weeks.
Records indicate he’s had another two surgeries in that time.
He hasn’t been discharged. And much to my chagrin—and I can only assume to his—his medical records are passed through the offices of the medical staff, and so far as I can tell, legal and public affairs too.
He is a person, and those HIPAA laws should be enforced, but since he gave permission in his contract upon signing, the team has decided his body is their business. And I guess it is. But Mr. Ranger’s words echo in my head: I give zero shits what his team wants.
I can see why.
The team is making plans. And much as I don’t want his dad to be right, many of those are being made without consulting Layton.
But when Mr. Ranger, or Layton himself, is turning people away that are trying to include him, they’re buying some of the reaction.
I’ll try again this afternoon. One last player appointment, and I’ll head to the hospital before going home to Kyle.
But it’s not a player appointment at all. Hans Carlson isn’t in my office. A man in a Henley and Dockers sits on my patient table, fidgeting with gadgets. He stops like a busted ten-year-old when I walk in the door, the band snapping back and hitting him in the jaw.
He rubs it while I question why a man was allowed into my office where there are patient records. And how grown men can always assume anything in the world can be made into a slingshot. It must be in their DNA.
“You’re not Hans. Who are you? And why are you in my office?”
I plop my hands on my hips, lifting my chin.
“I can definitely see it.”
“That doesn’t answer either of my questions.”
“Oh, sorry.” He walks my way and extends a hand. “I’m George Richards. I’m Layton’s agent.”
“That’s one.” I tap my toe, impatiently. When he waits too long, I twist my wrist in a go-on gesture.
“Oh, yeah. Layton is a client and a friend. He called me before his accident and asked me to do a favor for him.”
I lift my brows.
“…For you.”
My mouth falls open, and I close it, acting as if I’m not floored.
“Layton is the new face of Excel. One of them anyway. He asked me to look into a line of yoga wear that might need a rep.”
I reach back for my desk, needing something to steady me as I take in what the man in front of me says.
“He said you were an athlete, but not in the traditional sense. He says you’d rep them well and would have a lot to offer a company like that.”
“I’m a practitioner and a therapist, not a model or an athlete.”
“I disagree. And I have two companies that are looking for someone who can fit the bill. They usually go with sand volleyball athletes, but want to look at women who would fit the brand better. Yoga and Pilates wear can be modeled by anyone with the right body type. But someone who has that look and can do the poses—that really piqued their interests.”
“Okay.” I hedge.
He’s an affable enough guy, but I’m struggling to take in all that he’s saying. His body is animated as he speaks. He’s not “selling it” exactly, but his excitement is like a child’s. He’s happy about this.
“Excel is one, which is convenient. They already know me. Their attorneys aren’t sticklers with redlines.
They’re pretty quick on the deal and generous for an unknown.
” He looks at me as if I’m the unknown as if I didn’t already know.
“The other is a bigger known company, with a more lucrative deal but with tighter terms. The name is one you would know, so if you’re into that instead of the money, I’m happy to make that introduction. ”
I stand, struck dumb. Add this to “things I never considered once in my life.” It’s up there with Hollywood calling or hitting my head on doorjambs.
“What do you think?”
“First thoughts, and not in any order… You’re crazy. Layton is crazy. I know exactly zero about repping a clothing line or anything it takes to make that kind of deal. I’m not a model or particularly pretty—”
He scoffs.
I lift my brows and stare at him. “Why did Layton suggest this?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. He was mentioning the Everglades so I’m fuzzy on the details. I just kept thinking of not being eaten by swamp creatures.” He smiles broadly.
“I can see why he likes you. Back up. You said an awful lot a bit ago.”
He takes a step back and the look on my face must be comical. “Not like that.”
“I know, but it’s been a rough time and it made me laugh.”
“When you say generous and lucrative, what do you mean?”
He gives me two figures, both multiple times what I make here. And the NFL isn’t stingy, and it wasn’t my first rodeo with negotiations.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Obviously, the bigger brand has more money to play with. Like Fashion Week kind of money. But there are more rules that come along with it.”
“I like their product. I wear their product. Same with Excel.”
He pulls some papers out of a messenger bag and sets them on my desk. His card is paper clipped to the top. “Take a look at these. Study them. You may want an attorney to review them, at least the bougie one. And then let me know?”
My brain flits to my attorney sister. She could review these within minutes and advise. And she wouldn’t charge me. But the lecture I’d get isn’t worth the freebie.
“Do you have a lawyer you recommend? Mine takes longer than I’d like.”
He plucks a business card from the holder and flips it between his fingers. “I’ll email you a list before you finish reading the documents.”
“Thanks, George.”
He smiles before grabbing his things and making for the door. He stops, his back still to me, and says, “Layton was my first client. He’s a friend. We’ve navigated this business together. Please help him.”
And he pulls the door open and walks out into the bustling halls.
Layton
Keeping all of my focus on not falling, on staying upright and moving forward, I push the walker in front of me as fire sears up my body from my knee to my hip and into my back where it fuels the firestorm that is my new chronic pain.
A nurse who’s old enough to be my grandmother accompanies me with some belt contraption. Occasionally, she steadies me with a hand light on my lower back. “Good. You’re doing great, Layton. Let’s turn back, and you can return to your room.”
I want to growl. I want to scream. She thinks it’s “great” that I haven’t collapsed under the screaming pain and can push the metal walker on my own for another twenty-five feet.
I’ve got news for her. It’s almost taken me to my knees, except for the oxy.
That’s half of why I can stand. Numbing the pain from excruciating down to merely agonizing.
Quite frankly, the other half of what holds me up is fear. The idea that crumpling on this floor without the flexibility I had three weeks ago, knowing the pain if I can’t catch myself—hell, if I even try to catch myself—what more could shatter, dislocate, or reopen.
And that’s not the staples or stitches that would burst, the tubes that would be knocked out of place, the metal screws digging into tender flesh, or the bruises on bruises.
It’s not will that keeps me going.
It’s fear.
Fear and knowing that I’m thirty minutes away from something that further dulls the pain and lets me sleep.
They say that’s good for me. Something about my body healing and the T-cells regenerating or some shit. They tell me not to fight it when it wants to come.
I don’t.
But not because it’s healing or whatever. It’s that I get to check out for a few minutes from the stark reality that this is my life.
It’s not hearing everyone talking about home health or “little gains.” Fuck little gains.
It’s not listening to the staff talk about my body—about me—as if I’m a science experiment.
It’s not seeing worry in Pop’s eyes. Or the dark shadows under them.
On top of everything, the smell of the antiseptic around here singes my nose hairs and takes me back to dingy rooms with overly helpful staff when Mom was in and out of the hospital.
Before choosing to let go at home on her own, that is.
They’re always overly helpful on the cancer ward.
It’s the knowing in their faces coupled with the dwindling hope in everyone they see.
I feel as helpless as I did at her bedside. Maybe more so, because at least then I knew she was still alive. Despite the shit, I still had her.
It’s also hearing the unfamiliar dings on a new cell phone I don’t fucking want. I’ve only used it to do one thing. I begged George to go to wherever they towed my truck and comb through what’s left of it to find my phone.
I haven’t heard back yet.
But that phone—my phone—has to be okay.
It has our texts. All of Mom’s texts. All the I know you can do its and I’m proud of yous. Every admonishment when I celebrated too early or was penalized pointlessly. Every encouragement from the University of Oklahoma through the end of last season. It has her I love yous.
My mom’s love is in that phone.
It cannot be gone.
Last year when I lost her, I expected sadness and grief. I didn’t expect the blackness that swallowed me whole.
I didn’t expect, nor am I proud of, the alcohol and other ways I coped.
But if I lose her again…
If I lose her words and all the ways her love was so tangibly poured out…
Especially now, after losing the only thing that’s ever mattered, I don’t just fear falling and not being able to get up.
I fear letting the darkness swallow me.
For good.