Coming In From the Cold(12)

He'd learned on past trips that the fickle Gods of rural cell phone  coverage smiled on this parking lot, and so Dane delayed the inevitable  by calling Coach.

"Where are you?" Coach said quickly, always wary of Dane's disinclination to show up for flights on time.

"I'm going to be a day late," Dane said quickly. No point in beating  around the bush. "Sorry, Coach. I'll catch a night flight, and be there  in time for course inspection."

"Aw, kid. They're going to shoot me on sight," Coach complained, "when I turn up with more excuses for you."                       
       
           



       

"So take a later flight yourself. Or tell Coach Harvey to go fuck himself. Seriously."

"Where are you?"

"I just pulled into the nursing home. I'll be a couple of hours here,  then I'll shoot down to Boston. I got the Jeep stuck last night and  couldn't get dug out until midmorning. Honestly. Show Harvey a fucking  newspaper. We got two feet, and Logan was shut down for a few hours. I  heard it on the radio. I'll be there on time, and I'll ski fast. And  then he can kiss both of our asses."

Coach sighed into the phone, and it sounded like a hurricane gale. "See that you do."

"Have a beer on me, Coach. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I have too many beers because of you, kid. If you would just explain to Harvey that you're having a family emergency … ."

"No can do," he said. "But how about I just win the race, instead?"

"See you over there," Coach sighed. And then he hung up.





* * *



Dane tucked his phone away and walked into the home. He was greeted by  the nauseating smell of floor polish mixed with antiseptic, and the  glare of fluorescent lighting.

"Hello, Mr. Hollister," the receptionist called. "I have a letter for you from Dr. Brown." She held out an envelope.

That was not a good sign.

"Thank-you," he said, taking it. He gave her a salute and strode past,  down the hall and to his brother's door. Pausing outside, he slid his  finger under the flap and opened the envelope. The letter was just as  discouraging as he assumed it would be. Dear Mr. Hollister … still trying  to get his infection under control. New antibiotics … haven't given up  hope …

Dane shoved the letter into his pocket and steeled himself before  pressing the door open. His first view of Finn was always a shock, and  he'd learned to smile as a cover.

When he walked in, his brother's eyes flicked up to his from an  unbelievably emaciated face. "Hey!" Dane said, taking three long steps  toward the wheelchair, keeping eye contact like a champ. Even though  Finn's chin sagged toward his chest, his brother's face contracted with a  tic of recognition.

Or, maybe it was just a tic.

Dane couldn't be sure. The wall that the disease had built between them  had started out low enough that it could be stepped across, if not  ignored completely. But layer upon layer had grown these past fifteen  years. Now it was so high as to be impenetrable.

"Hi, Finn." He took his brother's fragile hand into his and straightened  it out as best he could. This hand, once incredibly strong and lithe,  had helped Dane into his first ski boots, snapping the buckles into  place. Now it was bent like a discarded piece of cardboard, cupped onto  itself, useless.

And feverish.

Dane felt the pressure settling into his chest-the inescapable pain that  always hung on him in this place. He looked around and found Finn's  copy of the Boston Globe, unruffled, on the bedside table. "Let's find  the sports section," he said, opening up the pages. "Who's on top of the  basketball standings?" he asked. Then he began to read.

He read every article in the section out loud. Before Finn had  deteriorated so far, Dane used to tell him things about his own life.  His brother had given him drool-y smiles after hearing all of Dane's  antics on the ski hill. But things were looking so desperate now, the  feeding tube snaking out of Finn's blankets, the IV that delivered the  newest antibiotic. It seemed unfair to talk about all the good things  Dane enjoyed that Finn did not.

Or maybe he'd stopped telling Finn good news because talking to his  brother felt too much like looking in the mirror. Now that Dane was  knocking on thirty, his own unfortunate future loomed large. How long  would it be before he was in Finn's shoes, perhaps in this very room?  Dane had chosen this nursing home because it was the nicest he could  find. At fifteen grand a month, it was expensive. But when Dane visited,  his brother was always well cared for. He was clean and well tended,  and the nurses who came through were cheerful and quite obviously well  paid.

The best nursing home in New England. Now there was a dubious honor.

The sports section completed, Dane was fast running out of things to  talk about. He watched Finn's eyes flicker across his face. There was  still a person in there, paying attention. The disease had a marked  effect on the sufferer's personality, but dementia didn't hit every  victim the same way. He had no way of knowing how much his brother still  understood, because the muscular deterioration had taken away his  ability to speak more than a year ago.                       
       
           



       

Dane hesitated, wondering what to tell Finn next. So, I met a girl. Some  part of Finn might still like to hear what his little brother was  capable of pulling off in the back of a Jeep. But Dane wouldn't tell the  story. Because if Finn were still able to understand it, then both of  them would be depressed by the inevitable conclusion. Dane couldn't see  the girl again because fate had determined that he would likely also be a  loser in the same harsh game of genetic roulette.

Fate was a tricky bitch, anyway. Because if it weren't for Finn, Dane  would have never met Willow. He would never be training in New England,  and he wouldn't have crossed her path. Heads you win; tails I lose.

This kind of math-disease math-was always on his mind. How many years  until his brain faltered, and he began to forget things? How many people  would assume he was a drunk when his gait went goofy?

Lost in thought, he hadn't spoken in a couple of minutes. "Sorry," Dane  said, his own voice echoing into the silence. "I'm shitty company  today." He ruffled the newspaper again. "Let's see what's happening in  the TV section. Maybe there's something good coming on for you this  week."





Nine





"I really appreciate this favor, Willow." Her friend Travis swept his  hand across his head again, trying to keep his wavy blond hair under  control. "I really don't want to miss the big game." When he smiled,  Travis's eyes crinkled at the edges. He had the open face and friendly  gaze that a good bartender required.

"It's no problem, Trav," she said, tying the half apron around her waist. "I think it will be fun."

"Hope so," he said, looking up and down the bar, which was nearly empty,  except for three ski-lift operators at the far end, and Willow's friend  Callie at the other. "Wednesdays aren't too bad," he said. "And I'll be  back before the bowling league guys come in. If there's something you  can't find, ask Annie." He dropped his voice, even though the waitress  was out of earshot in the adjacent dining room. "She's kind of a bitch,  but she's worked here a long time."

"Gotcha," Willow said, smoothing the apron down. "Have fun and don't worry about a thing."

"If she gets slammed, I'll help out," Callie volunteered from her bar stool.

"If she gets slammed, I wanna watch," one of the lifties muttered, and his friends guffawed into their beers.

Travis leaned close to Willow's ear again. "They're disgusting, but probably harmless," he said.

"I've heard worse." She flashed him a smile.

When Travis went out, Willow did a little twirl in front of Callie.  "This is kind of fun. Like playing lemonade stand, but with alcohol."

The waitress, Annie, came in from the dining room, slapping an order slip down on the bar.

Willow picked it up to read it. "Annie, I think this says: one book, one corn and a bird."

Annie snorted. "A Beck's, a Corona and a Budweiser."

"Huh, okay. Coming right up."

When Annie huffed out of the bar, Willow grinned at Callie. "See that? I get to say things like ‘coming right up!'"

"I guess Travis asked the right girl for this favor." Callie sipped her beer. "Is he paying you for this gig?"

"I won't let him," Willow said. "He's helped me out a lot since John  left. He recommended me for my temp job, he found someone to patch my  roof for cheap. He's been a good friend."