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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 thisis 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 theI know you can do itsandI’m proud of yous.Every admonishment when celebrated too early or was penalized pointlessly. Every encouragement from the University of Oklahoma through the end of last season. It has herI love yous.
