Every time I wondered if Jake was still breathing, my heart sank so low in my chest that it physically hurt. I tried to stay focused on getting back to the ranch. In the evening, the snow stopped falling long enough for me to make a shelter with branches and leaves, but it didn’t last long. Everything was saturated with snow, so I found a large rock and lay across it. Pistol jumped up and curled into me. We stayed like that, curled in a ball for hours until I had the strength to move again.
Before light filled the sky I was walking out of the valley, delirious, hungry, thirsty, and hopeless. “Dancer,” I whispered over and over. After hours of wishing, she came to me, as if in a dream. She walked out of the foggy haze, her striking white mane flapping against her neck. “Dancer,” I called, and she came trotting through the snow.
It was the first time in my life I truly surrendered. Dancer could have been a dream or an illusion, but at that point nothing mattered anymore except for my next breath. My body was numb and my eyes burned. Swinging my leg over her bare back, I gripped her firmly, taking a handful of her mane near her ears with one hand and a handful near her neck with the other. I bent low and close to her body and squeezed my legs as tight as I could. “Go home,” I said, and she took off, dancing in a full gallop across the open plain.
When she slowed, she was laboring heavily and foaming at the mouth. Pistol was still following us. We had one large plain to cross and then we would be near a road that led to the ranch.
I dozed off and only came to when I heard Redman shouting at Bea, “Call an ambulance!”
Draped over Dancer’s back, I kept my eyes closed, finally feeling safe after hearing the familiar voices. I let my mind wander to the days when I met Redman and Bea. They made Jake and me feel like we were part of a family again. Redman’s face was handsome, weathered as it was, and his voice was deep and rich. I imagined the younger version of himself as the Sundance Kid. Bea, a skinny, feisty woman, would have made the perfect Etta Place in her day. Now her hair was completely gray, always carefully pinned into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and she never wore makeup. Like Redman’s, her face was covered in deep lines from many years of working outdoors. Redman’s hair still had some hint of ruddy color streaking through the gray but his eyes were a dull blue, which sometimes happens when the color fades with age, making even the brightest eyes look lifeless over time. He was an intelligent man and a skilled horseman, and he was compassionate and funny around the people he knew well, but he had a short fuse. Bea took a lot of crap from him, so occasionally she would give it right back.
“Jesus Christ, Red, why did you let these kids go alone?” she yelled as she pulled me down from Dancer’s back. I collapsed into her and spoke with the very little breath I had left.
“Jake is . . . hurt . . . bad. Three hours . . . east of the pasture. He needs . . . help,” I managed to let out. That was my last memory before waking up in a hospital room.
I woke to the sound of beeping from a monitor above me. I was alive. It wasn’t a dream. I turned my aching body and pressed a button to call a nurse. After what felt like an hour, a nurse finally came in and shut off the monitor alarm.
“You were just tangled up, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
“Where is my husband? Where are Redman and Bea and Dale and Trish?” The nurse smiled, looking pleased at my alertness.
Before she could answer, I heard Trish’s thick Texas accent echoing from the hall. “Oh, she’s awake?” She came running in, followed by Dale and Bea.
Trish wore her hair big, blond, and curly as she had in her rodeo-queen days. “Oh, Avelina, you’re awake, it’s so good to see those big brown eyes staring back at me.” Her hair bounced on the tops of her shoulders.
There was pity on all three of their faces. My eyes welled up. “Jake?” was all I could squeak out.
Dale’s entire face looked forlorn, and it looked like he had aged since I had last seen him. Dale was more handsome than most men you might come across in Montana. He had an air of sophistication about him. His dark brown hair was straight and always neatly combed, matching the eyebrows that framed his light green eyes. But that day there was no glimmer in his expression like there usually was.
Bea stepped up with an obligatory smile. “Jake is down the hall. Redman is with him.”
“That’s not what I want to know, Bea.” My voice was high, loud, and demanding.
“Don’t sass me, girl,” she shot back.
I started crying and then sobbing. “What is it, Dale? You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
He was at a loss for words. I ripped my I.V. out. Holding my hospital gown closed in the back, I scurried toward the door. Trish stopped me from heading out into the hallway. She had a wrinkled upper lip that drew the pink color from her lipstick into the tiny lines above her mouth, which were only visible when you were standing about five inches from her face. The result of so many years of smoking, I assumed.
She frowned. “Thank Jesus, Jake is alive, honey. He was awake earlier today, talking to all of us.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
She huffed and swallowed audibly, trying to fight back tears. With her hands gripping the outsides of my shoulders, she looked me right in the eyes and said, “He broke his neck, baby. He’ll never walk again.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. I knew Jake would not be the kind of man to take that news easily. Terrified to see him, I shuffled into the hallway and followed Trish to his room. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling from his hospital bed when I walked in.
Redman rushed past me on his way toward the door. “Glad to see you up and about. He’s all yours.”
I grabbed Redman’s arm and pulled him around. “Why was Dancer out there?” I said, staring intensely into his cloudy blue eyes.
He squinted and then shook his head. “I don’t know. We were packing the horses to head out and noticed that her stall was open and she was gone. A few minutes later she was coming toward the house with you draped over her. All that matters is that you’re both here with us.” He bent, kissed my cheek, and left the room.
I moved to Jake’s bedside and leaned over. He wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
“Hi,” I whispered. He didn’t respond. He continued staring past me toward the ceiling. His eyes looked hollow. “Jake?” I said softly.
I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed his fear and spoke. “You all should have left me out there.”
“Oh Jake, I’m so sorry.” I fell forward onto his chest, overcome with guilt. He was paralyzed because of me.
I knew he could move his hands and arms but he didn’t even try to cradle me. He just let me slide off of him. I collapsed onto the floor in sobs.
Jake spent a month in the hospital and then a month in a recovery center. For each milestone he achieved—regaining full use of his hands and arms, using a wheelchair—I danced around and celebrated while he sat there and glared at me. One day, when we were with his physical therapist, I asked her if Jake could try to work up to using his legs again.
Jake snapped before the therapist could answer. “The doctors said it would be impossible. Are you deaf? Did you not fucking hear that?” Before the accident he never spoke a hurtful word to me.
“I’m sorry, babe,” I mumbled.
He didn’t respond. Instead he wheeled himself down the hall toward the exit.
At our cabin, Dale and Redman built a ramp and made other accommodations for the wheelchair. Life didn’t get any easier once Jake was home. He didn’t want me to bathe him or care for his needs in any way that would embarrass him. Instead, he would call Bea, and even then it was only to do the bare minimum. It made me feel useless and drove a big wedge between me and Jake. By winter his hair and beard had grown long and his eyes had become more expressionless and distant. The electrical current that animated his eyes had disappeared, and they dulled in color to a doleful, hazy blue. He spoke few words to me or anyone else. He would
sit in his chair all day long in the front room and stare out the window. People on the ranch would walk past and wave to him but he would never wave back. There was a small TV in the corner that he kept on all day, usually on a news or sports channel. I think it was to drown out his own thoughts.
Besides Jake’s looks, his personality changed a lot in the months following his accident. He didn’t talk to me about how he felt. He wouldn’t kiss me; he would barely even look at me. Dale tried over and over to help him. He even encouraged Jake to begin studying so he could go back to school and become a veterinarian, or at least an assistant. Dale offered to let Jake work with him but Jake refused. He oftentimes got very agitated at anyone who made suggestions like that.
I stopped trying to convince Jake that he could have a normal life. He would sometimes call me stupid and then he would beat himself up afterward for treating me that way. The only thing I could do was try my best to make Jake comfortable. I continued working on the ranch so that we would have money. I ordered everything that a handicapped person could possibly need and had it all delivered right to our doorstep.
The doctors convinced me that Jake didn’t need pain medicine anymore but he would get so aggravated if I tried to lower his doses. He would tell me that I was lucky I didn’t know what it felt like to be crushed by a horse. He was wrong, though; the pain and guilt I felt was like a stampede of twenty wild horses trampling my heart every day.
On the coldest night that winter after the accident, Jake found a bottle of whiskey under the sink. I sat on our couch and watched him drink glass after glass in front of the fire. Before I went to bed, I went to him. I brushed a hand down his arm from behind and bent to kiss the side of his face.
He grabbed my hand, stopping me, and squeezed it so hard I had to hold my breath to prevent a scream from escaping my lips. Pulling me down toward his face, he seethed through gritted teeth: “Don’t. Touch. Me.”
He let go and I grabbed the bottle. “No more of this, Jake.”
He reached his long arm up, took a hold of my hair and neck from behind, and slammed my head down on the TV tray over his chair. I tried to pull away but he slammed me down over and over again. Scratching at his arms and trying desperately to get away, I could feel my hair being yanked out with every effort. I was crying and screaming and shocked by his strength. When I tasted blood in my mouth, I pleaded for mercy.
“Please, baby, stop,” I cried.
He held me down over his chair and whispered, “I’m taking you with me.” He smelled of whiskey and thick B.O. mixed with the muskiness of his greasy hair.
I fell to my knees as he gripped my neck tighter. “Please! Let go, you’re hurting me!”
“You want to come with me, don’t you?” he said, matter-of-factly.
Seconds later, I felt Redman forcing me out of Jake’s grasp. He didn’t say two words to Jake as he scooped me up and carried me out.
Walking toward the big house with me in his arms, Redman said, “You’ll be okay.” His voice was low and soothing.
He took me into the guest room and laid me on the bed. Bea came in with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth to clean my face. I reached up and felt my swollen cheeks and the blood mixed with tears.
Bea’s expression was stoic as she dabbed at the cuts over my eyes. “You don’t deserve this,” she said.
“Yes I do.” I believed it like it was the ultimate truth, just like I believed that the sun would rise in the morning and fall in the evening.
She started singing “Danny Boy” quietly while she continued cleaning my face. I fell asleep wondering when Jake would come back to me. If he would ever come back to me.
One eye was swollen shut in the morning. I shuffled back to our cabin with my head down and found Jake staring out the front window with his usual blank expression. He turned his chair and looked up at me, studying my face for an entire minute. It was the first time since his injury that I saw any sign of compassion or of the man I knew before. He was guilt-stricken by what he had done to me. He scowled and shook his head but didn’t say anything. He just turned and went back to looking out the window.
After cleaning the cabin, I put on a thick jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses and headed for the door. “I’m going to get milk and bread and cheese for sandwiches. Is there anything else you want?”
He didn’t answer me, which wasn’t unusual. At the bottom of the ramp, I looked up to the window and saw that he was watching me.
I love you, I mouthed to him.
I love you, he mouthed back.
I let a smile touch my lips before turning toward my truck. When I reached for the handle, I heard the explosive, ringing sound of a gunshot. I whipped back toward our cabin and saw, through the window, Jake slumped over in his chair.
It was a cold January morning when my husband, Jake McCrea, put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger, taking his own life just seconds after he had told me he loved me.
I couldn’t fix him. There were no healing powers in my hands.
He hadn’t physically taken me with him, as he had threatened to, but he took what was left of my heart, ending any semblance of life inside of me. At nineteen, I became cold and hard and looked forward to the end of my bleak existence.
CHAPTER 4
Binds Us
Nathanial
SPRING 2010
At twenty-nine I was the youngest attending physician at the UCLA medical center, which earned me the annoying nickname of Doogie. I had skipped a couple of years of the bullshit in high school that the rest of my classmates got stress-acne over. I could do calculus in my sleep so it was no surprise that my general surgery and cardiac residency also flew by at a faster than normal pace.
Every other doctor from my residency found a way to screw up and extend the already painfully long road to becoming an attending. Frankie blew his chances by fucking everybody in the program. Then there was Lucy Peters, who started dating a senior resident and then botched an appendectomy after he broke up with her. But the biggest loser of all the degenerates was Chan Li, who came to work hungover one day and left a thirteen-inch metal retractor inside the abdomen of the patient he had performed a textbook surgery on. Idiot.
My dad started to pull away from me as I climbed the ranks at the hospital. He was still the chief but I think he was trying to avoid rumors of nepotism that plagued me, especially after I began acing every surgery. I went to work and occasionally went back to the apartment I lived in with my cat, Gogo. My mom and dad expressed concern that I was making work my entire life. I thought: So what? How else can you be the best?
I met Lizzy Reid one Monday as I stood over her hospital bed and examined her chart. The fifteen-year-old was asleep when I walked in but began to awaken while I read through her medical history. She looked up at me through piercing green eyes and smiled. Her skin was tan and lush. It was hard to believe she had a faulty heart.
“Hi, Doc,” she said shyly, reaching her hand out to me.
“Elizabeth, I’m Doctor Meyers. It’s nice to meet you.” I shook her hand and went back to reading her chart.
“You can call me Lizzy.” I didn’t respond. “You seem kind of young for a surgeon.”
“I assure you I’m old enough.”
“Oh.” She shrugged and looked away. She mumbled something to herself.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She smiled coyly. “Oh, I was just thinking out loud. Just wondering something. I’m just super curious about stuff.”
“What do you want to know?”
Her lips flattened and her tone went harsh. “I wonder if they teach bedside manners in medical school anymore?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I placed her chart into the slot at the front of her bed, slipped my pen into the pocket of my white lab coat, and crossed my arms over my chest.
Smiling I said, “Technically it’s ‘manner.’ ”
“Same difference,” she shot back.
“Maybe you’re right
.” I put my stethoscope in my ears and warmed up the diaphragm on my arm, rubbing it back and forth. “Can I have a listen to your heart?”
“Thank you for asking, Doc. Your manners are getting better. And thanks for warming that up,” she said as she pulled the top of her gown down just enough for me to slip the chest piece in. I heard the atrial bigeminy right away but I expected it from her ECG results. Her heart sounded like a musical beat. Instead of boom-boom . . . boom-boom . . . boom-boom, it sounded like boomboom-boom . . . boomboom-boom. I moved the stethoscope and heard a deep heart murmur caused by an interatrial septal defect.
“Well?” she asked.
Her parents entered the room with concerned faces.
“Doctor Meyers,” the mother said. “We heard you’re the best around.” She reached out to shake my hand.
Lizzy spoke up and jutted her thumb toward me. “You mean this young guy is the best?”
“Elizabeth,” her mother scolded then turned back to me. “Sorry about that.” She shrugged. “Typical teenager. I’m Meg and this is Steve.”
I shook their hands, picked up the chart, and began writing down notes. Without looking up I said, “Elizabeth’s condition is very common. She has an irregular heartbeat but it shouldn’t have any long-term effect on her health. What we’ll need to address, and the reason she was feeling light-headed during exercise, has to do with a minor defect in her heart. We’ll use a catheter to correct it.”
“Will you have to open her up?” Steve asked.
“No. We’ll go in through her upper leg into the femoral artery, which leads to the heart. At first the pressure of the heart will hold the device in place. Eventually new tissue will grow over the septum, which will correct the oxygen levels in her blood. I’m confident she’ll be able to go back to her usual activities in a month or two.”