103. Flaming Hoops to Jump Through
FLAMING HOOPS TO JUMP THROUGH
LAYTON
It takes another week of faking my fucked-up life to convince the medical staff that I’m well enough to go home with the commitment I’ll do outpatient therapy five days a week.
Convincing Pop is a whole different ball game.
Shitty pun, but I manage it nonetheless.
“Layton…” He lets it hang in the air, but never finishes the thought. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
An SUV is parked behind the hospital in a loading dock area. It’s not protocol, but the relentless number of strangers who have come to the hospital looking for me indicates groupies or media.
I don’t want either. Staying under the radar and out of the papers are my only thoughts as we move with the staff to the area where they release bodies to the coroner or funeral homes.
The irony is not lost on me.
Correction, the reality in this is not lost on me.
The strong man with big dreams and a perfect life is now leaving weak, hopeless, and desolate.
I bite the insides of my cheeks as I climb into the vehicle.
The force of pulling myself into the passenger seat might as well have been surgical blades slicing through un-numbed flesh. I cover the whimper that spills from my lips with a cough and regret it immediately.
One of the staff, a man in blue scrubs I haven’t seen before, hands me a fabric bag. “Your things, Mr. Ranger,” he says before stepping back into the handful of staff there to legally release me from their care.
Only one face is familiar to me—the older woman who walked me every morning and every afternoon, telling me I could go one more round or reminding me I was strong enough to do it. I turn away from her and the others, hoping I never see their faces again.
“The home health folks set up some things at your place. Your apartment doesn’t look like a spread in a magazine anymore. But it’s just until you don’t need it.”
“I don’t remember you leaving.” I stare out the window, avoiding the idea of hospital beds and Pop dealing with that yet again.
His head whips to mine. “I didn’t.”
“Then how?”
“George handled whatever you needed. He coordinated all of it.” Pop hits a pothole, and I clench my teeth, biting back the sounds that indicate my displeasure. “He was there every day the first week.”
I whip my head to the driver’s seat. “I don’t remember that.”
“I figured. That’s why I’m reminding you. Staff wouldn’t say much to him, but he was there. You have a brother in that man.”
I stare straight ahead. A brother-in-arms, sure… But what if I’m no longer on the field of battle?
We drive the rest of the way in silence. My brain is a silent movie reel of my life. Personal highs. Devastating lows. The joy in my career successes as well as the fumbles, blunders, and errors. Locker room celebrations and flying cars. I cringe. There’s only been one flying car.
My home is a train wreck. The modern white living room with its two-story glass windows and a view of downtown now sports a sturdy, green, old-man recliner.
The downstairs bedroom, always reserved for guests, has had all the furniture removed. Now it holds a lone piece of furniture—a king-size bed with no footboard. It’s set off to one side, leaving a wide aisle.
A hand drops onto my uninjured shoulder. “I’m going upstairs to grab a proper shower. I’ll be back.”
I never turn around but feel the clap of his hand and know when I’m alone. The quiet receding of his boots gives me privacy I’ve not had in weeks.
I’m embarrassed to say it took me this long to get it. Cold dread pours across my skin.
My bedroom is upstairs. Up-fucking-stairs. Stairs I can’t climb. This is my bedroom. This area is where I’ll be living. Not the wide room with black-out curtains and a plush mattress. Not the shower with multiple jets and a steam door. Not the luxury penthouse pad of an NFL player.
This interior room with no windows. The one with a bed that if I look, I’ll probably discover is one that lifts up and down.
And that wide aisle is for my walker.
I can’t get to my workout room either. It’s on the second floor.
I back up and use every last bit of energy to make my way to that ridiculous recliner and fall into it in the least painful way possible. I pluck a pill under my tongue, hating the bitter chalk it leaves as it dissolves, but knowing it’ll hit faster here.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I feel it. A snap. This broken body, my angry mind, my shattered dreams are more permanent and more real than anything I’ve ever known. Everything about me is a has-been.
Fuck my life.
Livy
“But it’s not, Mother. I’m not prostituting myself to the highest bidder as a model. That’s—”
She cuts me off.
“Olivia Morgan. You are half-naked on a billboard. Selling your body in exchange for payment is the definition of prostitution. I’m assuming you’re being paid for such an embarrassment.”
“Embarrassment?”
She launches in again, paying no heed to overtalking me, berating me, and literally calling me a whore.
She won’t listen to anything I say.
More honestly, if I truly consider it, she doesn’t listen to me. She hasn’t for as long as I can remember.
Ever really.
Not preferences in music or fashion. Not my desires when it came to choosing coursework in school or extracurriculars.
My father mumbles in the background, but my epiphany makes concentrating on his words impossible.
My sister wants nothing to do with me. She’s more worried about how my existence impacts her reputation. I’m an inconvenience and an anchor on an otherwise smooth-sailing life.
Mother and Father love me conditionally, and those conditions might as well be flaming hoops to jump through. I’m being burned with each attempt and all I’m seeking is their love and acceptance.
“I’ve got to go,” I say into the phone and disconnect.
My phone immediately rings. Mother flashes across the screen. I silence it and dismiss the call. The ringing begins again.
I finally put my phone on do not disturb and fold onto the floor, dropping my face into my hands.
The first hitching sob gets Kyle’s attention. I know because he whimpers and pushes up on his haunches to amble my way. He sits in front of me and pushes his snout under my chin.
When he starts to lick my hands, I reach up and stroke his broad head.
“Love you, Kyle. So thankful for you.”
He makes himself small—at least he attempts this—and puts his head in my lap, looking up from droopy eyes to watch me, his eyes constantly monitoring my face.
I let the tears fall.
From the outside looking in, people see an accomplished woman.
Heck, I have a doctorate and that’s nothing to sneeze at.
I’m employed by a prestigious institution and have the respect of my colleagues.
I’m thirty-one, and due to a nice contract with Excel and Layton Ranger’s recommendation, I own my little beach house outright.
I paid it off last week when the endorsement check came in.
I have an enviable life with the best dog on the planet.
What they’ll never see is the rest of my reality…
My parents can’t choose me. My sister is inconvenienced by me. My deficiencies cost me my fiancé and my future. And Kyle—perfect, sweet Kyle—won’t live with me until I’m ninety and ready to die.
Sometimes learning the truth is more painful than living the lie.
I want the comfort of talking to Sabine. I want the ease of being with Layton. Instead, I let the moment hit me—it’s a tidal wave of reality shifting the sands on which I stand—and own the reality of my life.
For all its joys and sorrows, it’s my reality. What am I going to do with it?