Damage Done (12 page)

He picked at the salad he'd pulled out of the fridge,
standing as he ate, never sitting down, always prepared to make a quick exit
whenever she was around. 

"Did you know he went to the school and explained that
he was trying to talk his wife out of filing a civil suit?" she pressed.

He chewed slowly, taking his time to swallow, "No,
Rachel. How would I know that? I work at the Fire Department, not the school
district." 

"I thought you might have heard, maybe somebody told
you."

He sighed, annoyed, and put the tupperware back in the
fridge.

"No, Rachel, that news hasn't made its way around to
me yet. I don't pick up the phone and call my buddies the minute I hear some
juicy piece of gossip."

Angry at the implied insult, she went on shakily, "You
don't pick up the phone at all, maybe if you'd answer it occasionally you'd
know what's going on around you. Don't you think it's important to follow up
and find out if this woman is going to sue you?"

"Rachel, do we need to have a fight over it? I'm sorry
I haven't heard this guy went up to the school. I haven't heard from him. I
can't do anything about whether his wife wants to sue me. I just have to wait
and see, it's not the first time somebody has become angry and made threats
because they were grieving, or because they don't like how I do my job,"
he said, his voice slowly rising, "And I never answer my phone because it
never rings. And if it does ring, and I don't answer it, it's because I'm busy.
And if you really need to talk to me, and I don't answer my phone, you know you
can call the station and somebody will get me on the phone."

"Kenneth, you never talk to me," she said, her
voice rising, "If you haven't heard anything, what was that paperwork
Henry brought you?"

"Jesus Rachel!" he said loudly, "I don't
have time for this shit."

"Oh my God!” she yelled, surprising herself, “Can you
ever just admit that sometimes, just sometimes, you're an asshole and you
deliberately avoid having to talk to me?"

"Can you ever admit that you don't know how to talk to
me without coming off as bitchy and insulting?" he shot back.

Rachel slowed down, taking a breath before she continued,
"Kenneth, I just want to talk to you, we never talk. And I want to talk
without fighting."

"Rachel, I'm not sure I'm capable of doing that
anymore."

***

Rachel woke herself, panting, and quickly slid her fingers
down to where her clit ached for relief. Her back arched in response to the
orgasm, and she bit her finger to keep from crying out, his voice still in her
ear, "Come for me, puss."

She allowed herself the release, and then shook with anger
because she hadn't had the strength to fight him off.

The weekend was dragging by too slowly. She wanted to spend
time with the kids and get out of her head, but Kenneth's parents had taken
them for the weekend, and Saturday morning she wound up cleaning out her studio
in the attic. Maybe painting again would bring her some peace.

She spent hours going through her crap and remembering
things she hadn’t wanted to remember and before she could get around to doing
some actual painting, she found herself in the kitchen contemplating a glass of
wine and a block of cheese. Kenneth hadn't come out of his room, she couldn’t
get Dylan out of her head, she’d never felt more lonely and dejected.

She called Jake to come entertain her, but he’d gone out of
town with Mark. She called Sarah instead, and her friend raced over, excited to
get away from the hoard of teenage boys who'd taken over her home that day.

Rachel reached over and emptied the bottle into Sarah’s glass
then stood to throw it in the garbage.

“You’re not the only one,” Sarah laughed, “Sometimes Nathan
and I go two or even three weeks without having sex, it’s hard with the kids
and all of the other stuff we have going on.”

Rachel felt worse, she reached for a second bottle of wine.

“No, Sarah,” Rachel said, “I mean, months of not having
sex. Since January.”

Sarah set her wine glass hard on the kitchen table, and
yelled, “January?”

“Shut up!” Rachel hissed, “He’ll hear you!”

“Rachel,” Sarah said, her voice lowered, “What the hell is
going on with y’all?”

Rachel knew she shouldn’t have said anything, but she’d
already had too much to drink and when the subject of sex came up, she couldn’t
help but complain that she wasn’t getting any. She needed to deflect.

“Kenneth is considering the priesthood,” she smiled. Sarah
didn’t laugh.

“Rach, are y’all okay?” she asked seriously, “I had no idea
it was this bad.”

The lump in Rachel’s throat grew and she tried to think of
how to get out of the conversation, but she swallowed her wine instead and
tried to let Sarah be a friend to her.

“We’re not okay, he’s been sleeping downstairs. He won’t
talk to me. I asked him to go to counseling, but he refused. I’m not sure what
else to do. I know you have to work at a relationship, but-”

“Working at a relationship, yes,” Sarah interrupted, “But
how hard should it have to be, Rachel? Since January?”

Sarah tried to help her work through it and come up with a
plan to talk to Kenneth, but they’d had too much wine, Rachel was hugging the
toilet by ten o’clock, and Kenneth had to drive Sarah home. She prayed her
drunk friend wouldn’t say anything to him on the ride home, and she was
relieved when he spent the rest of the weekend ignoring her.

They had a meeting with the team of specialists early that
morning. It had been just over a week and after days of fighting to find out
what was going on with Michael, they were finally ready to sit down with them
and let them know what they’d observed.

Dylan stood alone near the window, Chrissy and her husband
sat at the large round table opposite the doctors. He listened to his heart,
beating almost out of his cheat, the room was dead silent until the lead
physician launched unceremoniously into his monotoned account of the events leading
to their meeting.

“The spinal cord was severely injured just above the third
cervical vertebra, rendering the necessary muscles incapable of controlling the
breathing function, specifically the diaphragm. This injury requires immediate
intervention to aid in breathing, but in Michael’s case, he appears to have
gone at least five or more minutes without oxygen to the brain, resulting in
severe anoxic brain injury. The expectation for any meaningful recovery is
zero. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The beating in his heart quieted and Dylan turned to look
out the window, bringing his hands to his head and interlacing his fingers. He
didn’t need to lose control here. Not now.

“A permanent loss of function?” Chrissy asked, “Meaning
he’ll never walk again?”

She hadn’t understood.

Dylan stared out the window and listened to the sounds of
his own breathing, watching the tiny people move around below, like ants
scurrying for food. He’d felt it days before, he’d known they would lose him.
But hearing it said out loud, the official declaration of Michael’s expiration
from this world, it was a lead pipe beating him into oblivion. He barely heard
the rest of the conversation, the doctor’s voice hummed softly in the distance.

“Had Michael received earlier intervention, it is likely he
would have suffered tetraplegia, or total permanent paralysis in both the upper
and lower extremities, in which a patient may still experience a meaningful
recovery. In Michael’s case, however, the lack of oxygen caused an irreversible
end to all brain function. Without the emergency cricothyrotomy performed on
site by the attending paramedic, Michael would have asphyxiated and died on
scene. It’s unfortunate the procedure wasn’t performed sooner, but in any case,
we do not expect Michael to recover. He’s experienced a permanent loss of
function.”

“What does that mean?” Chrissy asked, her voice cracking.

“It means he’s brain dead,” Dylan said angrily, annoyed
that she could be so stupid.

He turned and left, to see Michael one last time. He
wouldn’t be coming back. He needed to say goodbye. But when he walked into the
tiny room with all of the machines and the shell of the boy he’d loved for so
long, he turned and walked out.

Michael had left him already, it was too late for a
goodbye.

***

Rachel met with the florist Monday morning, she needed to
look at arrangements for the gala, but she still didn’t have any idea what she
wanted. It was nearing lunch before she made it into the office and sat in her
chair with a thud, reaching straight for Dylan's check. Jake was pressuring her
to make a decision.

It would have been incredibly rude to Nancy and Edward for
Rachel to return it, and they really did need the money, but she couldn’t help
but feel that to accept it was inviting trouble. Without it, she might have to
ask Savannah for the money. 

She shoved the check in a binder on her desk so she
wouldn’t have to look at it. It had only been a few days, there was time to
think about it later. She was digging through her junk food drawer when the
front door opened and she heard somebody come in quietly.

Usually people she knew would announce themselves, but
today there was silence.

"Hello?" she called out, feeling around for her
boots with her feet, "May I help you?" 

"Rachel, It's Dylan."

The suede voice, smooth and deep, the goosebumps it brought
her body when it was close to her. He sounded angry, and demanding. And she was
there alone, Jake wasn’t coming in that morning.

Panic.

It was too late to run, there was no way out. She reached for
her wrist and popped the rubber band over and over, trying to ward off the
tightness in her throat, the rigidity of her fingers. Her eyes began to blur.

Don't puke. Breathe, Rachel. Stay here. 

"Just a moment," she called shakily.

She pulled up the worn leather cowgirl boots and told
herself to stay calm. This didn't have to be the confrontation she'd always
imagined, she would just return the check and thank him politely, tell him she
was sorry about his son, and then she'd tell him she had a meeting.

Good plan.

She stood, absently running her shaking hands over the
wrinkles in her denim dress, tightened the thick leather belt she'd chosen to
help slim her expanding waistline, and checked the pearl buttons in the front,
concerned they'd come undone. Why did she feel so exposed?

She made her way cautiously into the front room, and her
breath caught when she saw him there, tall and imposing, a giant in her small
office space. His shirt was a crisp white today, black suit pants. No tie, the
hair was disheveled, defiant locks hung loosely against his tanned cheekbones.
He ran his fingers over some materials she'd left out for anyone who might stop
by. The same fingers running across her skin, over her bended knee, tracing her
hip bone, she remembered the moan she'd made the first time they reached her
already stiff nipple.

She popped her rubber band.

"Are you here for the check? I still have it."

"What?" He turned and looked at her, confused.

God, he was still so handsome, all of the classic features
of traditional masculinity, except for the baby fine skin that covered them. A
lifetime of swimming and being outdoors, and he still hadn't aged. She felt so
old. What was wrong with her? She was worried about how she looked, why?

Disgusting, Rachel, stop it.

She bent to gather the toy blocks Lauren had strewn around
the room, needing a distraction from having to look directly into his face, she
was sick of his face.

"I haven't cashed it,” she said, “I didn't know if it
was appropriate."

Now that she was trying to articulate it, she couldn't find
the words. She bit her lip, frustrated at her brain's slow response.

Where is that damn bin we keep the blocks in?

"Rachel, of course it's appropriate. Keep the check. I
wanted you to have it. I- I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. Of
course I want you to keep the check. I didn't come here for that."

The large, soft hands made their way to push the hair from
his face, his biceps flexing, the white dress shirt tightening around them. He
stood, hands in his hair, and when all else oozed confidence, that sexy habit
betrayed his uncertainty. He was nervous. He should be after what he’d done to
her. But it gave her little comfort. He wouldn’t stop watching her, she was
afraid to make eye contact. She knelt to scoop up the last of the blocks, and
in the absence of the bin she shoved them in the corner.

"Dylan, I'm sorry about Michael."

She stood finally to face him directly, and his hands
dropped to his sides, his face changed from uncertainty to pain. Despair. He
swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with force, he was fighting back
tears. This entire situation was just too unpredictable, she didn’t trust him,
she didn’t trust herself. She wanted to him leave.

But she needed him to stay, now that he was there, maybe
she’d find some resolution and finally be able to move on with her life. He
took a step towards her and she stepped back instinctively, her hand shaking
between them. He stalled then and turned to the sofa where he sat, elbows
resting on his knees. He clasped his hands and watched her silently.

"I'm sorry about Michael," she tried again.

He was making her too uncomfortable, her legs began to
tremble.

"Yes. Michael," he repeated, taking a deep
breath, and then another, "Michael isn't going to make it. His mother
never leaves him, she doesn't want to let him go. It's- it's been hard."

Rachel’s heart was breaking in a million pieces, for a
million different reasons. She snapped her rubberband, panic still slowly
bubbling to the surface.