What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

He clutched the steering wheel so hard his knuckles throbbed. His doctor had increased the lithium dosage; until it took effect, his broken brain compelled him to do stupid shit like stalk his wife with full awareness of being an asshole. Alex switched on the left turn signal before the next intersection. He was hardly in the right mindset to talk to her even if he did find her.

To his dismay, he did just that.

She was coming out of a coffee shop with Anya in her travel bed and a man at her side. Alex pulled into a spot across the street and put on his glasses. Brandon Johansson. He remembered Brandon from the centerman’s days playing for Toronto. An average player, a workhorse but no one’s idea of a standout star. He had centered the checking line, if Alex recalled correctly. He’d never been good enough offensively to crack the top six, and every couple of years he’d bounced to a new team.

They stood on the corner, their conversation animated, punctuated with flirtatious smiles.
You’re being paranoid.

Brandon leaned in and brushed his lips over Stephanie’s cheek. She beamed and gave him a little wave before carrying Anya up the street to the BMW.

Alex slumped over the steering wheel. Seeing Brandon on her own would have been bad enough, but she had no right bringing another man around Anya.

Was he the “friend” she mentioned last year?

He banged the heel of his hand against the wheel, breathing in frustrated grunts that signaled an imminent meltdown. Logic demanded he examine the facts, which were that he possessed no evidence of anything adulterous. Jealousy, aided and abetted by illness, dictated he kick Brandon’s ass and wrest the truth from Stephanie by any means necessary.

You told her to leave.

He inhaled for four counts, held for two, and exhaled for four.
In control, confident, caring.

Keep it together for Anya.

His phone rang.

***

Stephanie

“How’s my favorite sister?” Matt chirped on the other end of the line.

“Or only sister. How are you?”

“Great. Nervous. Were you this nervous before your wedding?”

“I was two months pregnant. I was more concerned about not throwing up.”

“Ha! Yeah, that makes sense. I wanted to thank you and Alex again for offering to host the reception.”

“Happy to do it. I’d rather you put Dad’s money toward a house than a party we can easily afford to throw you.”
Even if I have to pretend my husband and I are speaking to each other.
“By the way, Matt, do you have a minute?”

“Of course. Everything okay?”

She’d assumed the one luxury she possessed was time. She was young; she’d visit those far-flung cities, check those life goals off her bucket list. Her dreams were not mere fantasies but unrealized potential, a template for the life that was hers to achieve. Each time she reached for the stars and came away empty-handed was an incentive to fly farther and higher. Now she lay dying on the ground, her wings smashed and the sky so far away. Each year, each orbit around the sun, tighter and tighter, a noose. And faster, so that even standing still she felt she was running, each second slipping from her grasp as she chased them with arms outstretched, knowing the edge of the cliff was looming just beyond her line of sight.

“No. I—I found out I have lung cancer.”

Silence.

Maybe it was all a dream, or had been, those ephemeral moments where everything had fallen into place and she was not pitching headlong into a meaningless future. “Matt?”

He puffed out a breath. “I’m coming out there.”

“No, I’m fine”—now she was insulting his intelligence—“Okay, not fine, but this cancer has a high survival rate.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me or you?”

“You’ll be here soon enough anyway. They want me to have surgery because it doesn’t really respond to chemo, so I’ll do it. Does that make you feel better?”

“Were you actually thinking about
not
getting it?”

“I just had this argument; I’m not up for it again. I haven’t scheduled it yet, but I will. Soon. All right?”

“Better be scheduled by the time I get there. Got it?”

“Loud and clear. Get back to Allen, and don’t worry about me.”

“I’ve been doing it your whole life. I’m not about to stop now. Love you, sis. See you soon.”

“Can’t wait. Love you too.”

Stephanie sifted through the paperwork she was stashing in the travel bag and located the surgeon’s number. Anya depended on her. And she owed it to Matt, after everything they had endured at their father’s hands, to stick around. Matt and Allen planned to adopt, and she intended to meet her future niece or nephew.

She made the dreaded call. The surgeon could fit her in tomorrow afternoon, at which point they’d schedule the surgery, verify insurance, and send paperwork to the hospital. But there remained one document left to tackle, a reminder of how wrong surgery could go. She had recruited Jacob to sign as a witness and Nicole, a commissioned notary, to validate it. The Living Will unfortunately required two witnesses.

Health Care Treatment Instructions in the Event of End-Stage Medical Condition or Permanent Unconsciousness (Living Will)

I, Stephanie Grace Hartwell, of Erie County of New York hereby adopt the following Living Will.

The following health care treatment instructions exercise my right to make my own health care decisions. These instructions are intended to provide clear and convincing evidence of my wishes to be followed when I lack the capacity to understand, make, or communicate my treatment decisions.

If I have an end-stage medical condition (which will result in my death, despite the introduction or continuation of medical treatment) or am permanently unconscious such as an irreversible coma or an irreversible vegetative state and there is no realistic hope of significant recovery, all of the following apply (cross out any treatment instructions with which you do not agree):

1. I direct that I be given health care treatment to relieve pain or provide comfort even if such treatment might shorten my life, suppress my appetite or my breathing, or be habit forming.

2. I direct that all life-prolonging procedures be withheld or withdrawn.

3. I specifically do not want any of the following as life prolonging procedures: (If you wish to receive any of these treatments, write “I do want” after the treatment)

heart-lung resuscitation (CPR) _____________________________________

mechanical ventilator (breathing machine) _____________________________________

dialysis (kidney machine) _____________________________________

surgery_____________________________

chemotherapy________________________

radiation treatment _____________________________________

antibiotics___________________________

Please indicate whether you want nutrition (food) or hydration (water) medically supplied by a tube into your nose, stomach, intestine, arteries, or veins if you have an end-stage medical condition or are permanently unconscious and there is no realistic hope of significant recovery. (Initial only one statement).

Tube Feedings

___________I want tube feedings to be given.

OR

No Tube Feedings

___
SGH
________I do
not
want tube feedings to be given.

Hardly the circumstance under which she preferred to see Alex again. Rebuild their marriage with a paper that instructed doctors to pull the plug if she ended up comatose? Why bother trying? Easier for him to move on if the pieces had already been swept up and thrown away.

In the end, maybe everything
was
about him.

Chapter Eight

Alex

The Mercedes’ hands-free screen lit up. Paul Jackson, the Seattle Earthquakes’ president. Alex tapped the button. “Hello?”

“Sasha, it’s Paul. How are you?”

“I’m…all right. This is a surprise.”

“On behalf of the organization, I wanted to extend my congratulations on the birth of your daughter. Almost two months old now, is that right?”

His chest constricted. “Yes.
Spasibo.
”

“I also wanted to tell you that what you’ve been doing in speaking out about your illness is incredibly brave and much needed right now.”

Accepting that had proved more difficult than Alex had expected. Until he’d experienced their suffering for himself, he had considered those who attempted or committed suicide as weak. Damaged in some way. Selfish. The inevitable conversation with his parents had been long, tearful, riddled with self-blame on their end though he had tried to explain what Dr. Reese had told him. They’d reached an uneasy accord after a couple hours.

“No one likes to talk about mental illness in pro sports. It takes the best hockey player in the world dealing with it himself before we finally pay attention, when we’ve already lost too many good guys to depression. So we failed you. Your behavior was you asking for help, and we punished you with scratches and fines instead.”

“You didn’t know. I didn’t either.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. We don’t know what to look for, and no one is there to tell us. You’re helping to change that.”

Ironic, given how his life was currently collapsing all over again. “I’m trying my best.”

“We could’ve done better, Sasha, so consider this our apology. And frankly, I’m glad the Players’ Association rejected your offer. Hell, I’m the jackass that convinced Pat to lock you up for eight years because I thought you were invincible. I have no one to blame but myself for the cap hit. But I appreciate the gesture more than I can tell you.”

“Thank you, Paul. I’m sorry my salary is hamstringing the team like this.”

“Well, we took a chance, and it didn’t work out. That’s the way it goes in this business sometimes. You’re a superstar, but you’re not a superhero. At any rate, we were lucky to have you while we did.”

No one was lucky to have him, but he let Paul continue.

“Give my best to your wife and daughter. And this thing in the news…Look, we stand behind you a hundred percent. Whatever else you’ve done, we know you’re not that guy.”

“That means a lot to me.”
Considering I can’t remember a goddamned thing about it, which isn’t helping my case.

“Take care, Sasha. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

“Thanks again, Paul. Take care.” Alex disconnected, turned onto the driveway, and shut off the engine. He stared at the house. A terrible melancholy rooted him to the seat, rendered him unable to bear a silence and emptiness too reminiscent of the months after his injury.

The phone rang again, and that too was a painful reminder of those months wishing and praying for Stephanie to call. He unplugged it and lifted it to his ear. “
Zdravstvuyte.
”

“Sashka!” purred a sultry voice. “
Kak ty, detka?
”

“
Privét
, Nataliya. I’m fine. How are you?” Alex unlocked the door, kicked it shut behind him, and tossed his keys onto the counter.

“‘Fine’? You talk as if you don’t even know me! When do you come to see me, baby?”

He ground his teeth. “The trip is off. My wife is…She can’t make it.”

“Then I come to America, and we shoot video there.”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Yes, yes, I come to you. It is too long since we see each other. I make you famous singer!” Her husky laugh congested the line.

“I’m already famous.” And honest to God wished he weren’t. He’d be a footnote on the Buffalo evening news instead of a national scandal. Stephanie’s decisions wouldn’t be openly scrutinized and ridiculed, most of all her choice not only to marry him but also to have his child. Bound to him for life no matter what. For better or worse.

“Not for this. That voice of yours! We record when I get there. We make sexy video, and you become famous pop star like your Natashka.”

“I—what?
Nyet.
No sexy video. I’m married, Natasha. I have a little girl.”

“So serious now? Where is fun boy I know?”

“It’s been ten years. We’re not teenagers anymore. Listen, it’s been great to talk to you, but I—”

“I see you soon, Sashka. I call you when I arrive.”

Bozhe.
Natasha was the last thing he needed right now. If they went ahead with recording the song and the video, the media would attack him as frivolous. Not taking the charges seriously. The alternative? To brood alone in his empty house while his life crumbled around him, and everyone knew by now where that road led. They’d be anticipating it, eager for it. Served him right for all he’d done, whether or not the allegation was true. Whatever path he chose was the wrong one in someone’s eyes.

No harm in reconnecting with an old friend, and he could use an ally. Maybe even have a little fun. Stephanie probably was.

Stop. You have no proof of anything.

But he had eyes. He’d witnessed the tenderness between them—in front of his daughter, no less.

Deep breaths again. Centering statements. Tension draining from his neck and shoulders, from the fingers he unclenched and flexed.

He texted Natasha to ask how soon she could get there.

***

“Sasha, come on in. We have a lot to discuss. I found something that I think is going to ensure this case never sees the inside of a courtroom.”

“Oh?” Alex sat opposite Ed and crossed one leg over the other.

“She has quite the psychiatric history, as it turns out. We’ve got a statement from our psychiatrist confirming histrionic personality disorder.”

His stomach soured. “What’s that?”

“Basically, she’s compelled to be the center of attention and has often used inappropriately sexual behavior to get what she wants. She’s been institutionalized three times for clinical depression and bulimia—”

“
Nyet.
Find something else as a defense.”

“Sasha, you have no memory of the night you spent with her and a long history of womanizing and substance abuse. Maybe—big ‘maybe’—we can bank on your celebrity, but you’re not American either. This might be a bigger fiasco than the Kane case.”

“Do you understand what this does? We attack her for being mentally ill. That’s my defense. I
am
mentally ill, Ed. How can we claim her illness made her lie about being raped when hypomania might have made me rape her in the first place?”

A shadow passed over Ed’s face. “Are you saying you did it?”

“No. What I’m saying is that we can’t use her illness to smear her and pretend mine doesn’t exist. Hypomania makes me do similar things.”

“You have to work with me here, Sasha. If this goes to trial, the prosecution will rip you apart. They’ll rip your wife apart. You might watch your daughter grow up from behind bulletproof glass.”

Ed finds out you’ve been stalking Stephanie, and you can say
do svidániya
to her and Anya forever. You have literally nothing to save you.

“All right.” Alex rested his elbows on his knees and slumped forward. “I’ll do what you want.”

He had enough friends in journalism, and enough money to keep it a secret from Stephanie. All he required was a phone number.

And a prayer.

***

Stephanie

No better day than Hump Day for a much-needed respite, and Nicole had volunteered to babysit. Stephanie drove downtown to meet Brandon at a cozy restaurant of exposed brick and dark woods she and Alex had meant to try but never found the time to do so. Brandon had arrived first, and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek before pulling a chair out for her.

“Chivalry’s not dead after all, huh?”

“Don’t tell me Aleksandr doesn’t pull out chairs and open doors.”

She smoothed her cloth napkin over her lap. Gallantry, despite his bedroom antics, was encoded in Alex’s DNA. “Let’s not talk about him just now.”

“Sorry. Drink?”

“All of them. But I’ll start with the Jelu.”

Brandon placed the drink order, as well as one for roasted wild mussels and baked macaroni and cheese with apples and bacon. If smoking was Alex’s vice, macaroni and cheese in any form had long been Stephanie’s, one she did not intend to give up either.

“So how are you feeling?”

“Good enough to keep playing weekend league.”

Brandon cocked an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Didn’t you collapse at a game?”

“Collapse? No. God, is that what they’re saying? Aside from this cough, I feel fine. I’m not putting my life on hold yet.” She sucked the tender, buttery meat from a mussel shell. “I need to pretend things are relatively normal until this other crap blows over.”

He scooped up a mouthful of macaroni. “This is none of my business, but do you think he did it?”

“Jesus, Brandon.” She scowled. “If I thought he was capable of that, I wouldn’t have married him. My husband is not a rapist.”

Brandon studied the pint of draft beer in his hand. Aside from cream ale with Buffalo wings, Alex never drank beer. Spirits only.

Ugh. Stop.

Most people avoided directly admitting they had something on their minds, because they didn’t want to feel they were inconveniencing their friends. Brandon’s hints were all too obvious. “What happened with your ex-wife?”

He sank back in his chair and smirked, but the smile faded as he stared at the guttering candle in the center of the table. His brown eyes had grown damp. “Let’s just say she’d give Aleksandr a run for his money. Whole time we were married, eh? And I was the last to know. That was the worst part. I didn’t realize my friends were pitying me and none of them had the balls to tell me the truth. Turns out, she couldn’t handle being alone so much. As if she didn’t know while we were in college that I was going pro.”

“I’m sorry, Brandon.”

“It took a long time for me to trust women again, I gotta be honest. And the thought of getting seriously involved again…I don’t know if I’ll ever be emotionally prepared for that.”

“I’m not sure anyone is ever emotionally prepared to fall in love.”

“I guess not. I just…Damn.” He chuckled and swiped his thumb over his bottom lip. “He had to show up last summer, didn’t he? And I can’t help thinking he doesn’t deserve you.”

“He’s not what you think.”

“How long do you keep making that excuse for him? Maybe he’s exactly what everyone says he is, and you’re so determined to see the good in him, whatever might be left over from when you were kids—to
save
him—that you’ve blinded yourself to what’s right in front of you. You’re a fixer, Steph, but some people can’t be fixed.”

Stephanie shoved back from the table, the chair scraping against hardwood, and dug into her wallet for some cash. “I really have to get back—”

“Wait. I’m sorry, Steph.” Brandon made a deferential show of his palms. “That was out of line by a long shot. Hey—let me pay for this, and we can, I don’t know, go for a walk and cool off?”

“All right,” she sighed despite her newfound yearning to lock herself in the guest room with Anya and shun all other human contact for the next six months. What if he was right? And Courtney, for that matter? That Alex’s Jekyll and Hyde act lay not in his illness but in a fundamental personality flaw, one she willfully disregarded because she had bought so thoroughly into the myth of their inexorable love. Parts of him remained sealed rooms, their secrets unknowable. The best she hoped for was that he would forget them and leave them to crumble, detritus carried away on the wind.

They walked into the late spring evening. A cool lake breeze whisked through the streets, and the city lights glittered in geometric shapes of yellow, white, blue, and red, decanting abstract streaks onto the darkening water.

“That was a dick thing to say. I know he’s, uh…”

“Bipolar. You can say it.”

“Yeah. It must be hard on him. On both of you. I don’t even know why I’m jealous. He’s like that guy in a poem we had to read in secondary—what’s it called? Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“‘Richard Cory’.” She was nothing if not a font of useless knowledge.

“Right. Good-looking, lots of money, seems to have it all, then one day he goes home and kills himself. And no one can figure out why a guy like that would be so unhappy.”