Beautifully Awake(54)
His emotional words were penetrating. My mind spun with a million questions. Chase was hiding something. Was it the heaviness that occasionally filled his eyes?
My voice barely above a whisper, I asked, “Is that his sister?”
Asher’s shoulders visibly tightened. “Yes. He never mentioned her to you?” I subtly shook my head no. He abruptly turned on his heel, cursing under his breath. I shifted on my instantly wobbly legs. My stomach sunk. Asher paced back and forth in front of the glass-lined wall before finally stopping to stare out the window. “Damn him.” He ran a hand through his tawny hair before giving me the words I dreaded. “She’s dead.” I audibly gasped, wrapping my arms tightly around my waist. “He never told you he had a sister?” My eyes filled. “They were twins, inseparable.”
At those words I inhaled a sharp, painful breath. Flashing in front of my eyes were our conversations and the tension surrounding music. Small pieces of the puzzle were fitting together, but the photo of our patient Kelly’s twins was at the forefront. He shut down that day.
“When?” I needed to know. How long had he suffered?
“She was ... um ... twenty-one.” Asher turned around and met my gaze. His eyes softened at my obvious sorrow. I was saddened to learn that Chase had a twin sister who died, but what distressed me more was the fact he hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me. Shit. Fifteen years.
“What happened?” I asked.
“There was a car accident.” A tear rolled down my cheek. Asher gripped my elbow and led me to the high wingback chair that faced the fireplace. “Sit.” I followed his command and eased myself down into the chair.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Asher shrugged and looked away.
“Why didn’t I tell you what?” A deep intense voice came from the doorway. “What’s going on?” His face was obscured from my view, but I heard the flaming intensity in his breath. Asher directed his eyes toward the mantel not speaking a word. Chase let out a small ragged sigh. His footsteps stopped directly behind my chair. “I’ve had enough. I’m done here. This was a mistake. We should have never come here.” He crouched in front of my chair and looked at me. “You’re crying, baby?” He swiped at the moisture that collected under my eye. “Damn it, Asher, what the fuck?” The glimpse of sadness in his eyes was replaced by anger. He looked up at Asher. “She’s crying. Fuck ... I’m getting you out of here.” He pulled me from the chair and led us directly through the front door. He slammed it closed before drawing me into a tight embrace.
By the time we approached the Ben Franklin Bridge it was ten thirty. Home. Up until today, the four-mile round trip trek across the majestic suspension bridge was my favorite run. However, it paled in comparison to the high I had from running in Central Park. After our brief appearance at the birthday brunch from hell, blowing off steam was imperative. Six miles of unexpected green mixed with concrete jewels encased by towering skyscrapers was a runner’s dream. With my sneakers and Pandora alone I could have been a pig in shit replaying the weekend’s highlights. Hell, other than the meeting the family fiasco, the whole weekend was a highlight. Quite possibly of my life.
I put music on the backburner though and resorted to running and talking. The loss of Chase’s twin sister was understandably heartbreaking. I hoped one day he would open up to me, but after witnessing his eyes when he walked in on Asher’s and my conversation, I steered clear of any topic family-related. I would have strapped an oxygen tank to my back to keep him from retreating into his head. So by mile two, with some mild coaxing, he finally engaged again. Dr. Playful was back. And in an attempt to keep the conversation light, I rehashed funny Sierra stories and told him all about my Cape Cod beach obsession. He talked about Asher and some of their crazy antics, pre-professional life.
It was a good eighty degrees out, despite being early evening, and Chase hadn’t even broken a sweat. Museum Mile marked the halfway point, and all but a thin sheen covered his arms and legs. I, on the other hand, was a puddle and needed to wring out my panties. He teased me mercilessly when I begged for a break. If he hadn’t been sex in sneakers I probably would have quit. Instead I pushed up the West Side and back down the East, before passing the beautiful Carousel and looping back west to finish at Tavern on the Green. Awesome.
Even in my short visit, it was obvious the two sides of the park seemed to have their own distinct personalities. Chase explained it like different specialties in medicine; city neighborhoods had their stereotypes as well. Terms like rich, old money, sophisticated, and class obsessed referred to his parents’ neighborhood—more like his God-awful mother who made Main Line brat sound like a compliment. Versus liberal, artsy, eccentric and wealthy, when he referenced his side of the park. I sensed that Chase’s address was nothing more than polar opposite from his parents. It was crystal clear he hated the idea of stereotypes. Period. It seemed as well as he fit his born and bred Upper East Side neurosurgeon stereotype, he defied it. After all, most surgeons wouldn’t even risk waving their hands between sensored elevator doors, never mind box. Dr. Contradiction.