Catastrophic Read online

  “Come on superstar,” Curl called as he went. “Valley game’s less than six months away. You want to be ready or not?”

  After just ten yards, his quads started to burn. A slow, searing ache that started at the base of his spine and wrapped clear around to his calves.

  After twenty yards, his knee started to burn. Not the tingling flame of lactic acid coursing into the body, but a deep, breath-stealing blaze of pain.

  Gritting his teeth, Tyler gutted out the last five yards and paused at the end of the cone formation. He put his hands on his knees and extended his legs beneath him, trying to shake away the inferno raging within them.

  “Come on now,” Curl called. “If you go through hell and still make it back, it doesn’t count as dying, right?”

  Once more Tyler dropped into a crouch and started moving, going back the way he’d just came. One by one he counted off the steps, letting his injured leg lead the way. Within five yards his progress was reduced to slow and torturous, his calves and abductors screaming as he inched along.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” Curl called. “We’ve got to get that thing stronger if you’re going to be ready.”

  After ten yards the pain turned white hot beneath his skin, the agony almost unbearable. Tyler paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath, willing the leg to keep going. He raised it into the air and pushed out against the bands, the knee responding with a low cracking sound that drew Curl to his side in a flash.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Nothing,” Tyler muttered, his eyes closed tight and his head pointed towards the ceiling.

  “No, for real, that didn’t sound good. We’re done here.”

  “Ten more yards,” Tyler said, his voice just a whisper between heavy panting.

  He didn’t make it one more step.

  Once more Tyler lifted the leg into the air and pushed to extend the bands. The moment he did, a second crack was heard, followed by a third and a fourth.

  White lights danced before Tyler’s eyes as he stood with his leg dangling in air, his body unable to process what was going. For several long seconds, he stood motionless, his body contorted like a macabre marionette.

  By the time Curl got to him, the tension of the bands had done their job. They snapped back into shape, bringing with them Tyler’s ankle and slamming into his right knee, the lower half of his leg swinging like a broken twig.

  Not a single sound escaped Tyler as he went limp, his body rendering him unconscious before his brain realized the breadth of what just happened.

  Curl caught him less than a foot from the ground, lowering him face down onto the turf and making no attempt to roll him over or even remove the bands from around his ankles.

  Instead he used his cell-phone to call 911, sat down beside Tyler and wept until the paramedics arrived.

  Chapter Eleven

  Margie pulled her aging Chevy truck up alongside the mailbox and rolled down her window, the engine idling as she kept her foot depressed on the brake. She lowered the mailbox lid and pulled out a small stack of envelopes, knowing in advance that most of them weren’t addressed to her.

  Even months later, a handful of townsfolk still insisted on sending Tyler their handwriting well-wishes on a daily basis.

  With a heavy sigh, Margie tossed the stack down on the bench beat beside her hard hat and lunch pail, pulling up alongside the house. The weariness of the last few months was evident in her movements, weighing her down in everything she did. She wrenched open the front seat of the truck and collected her things, heading for the door. As she approached, she could hear the kitchen phone ringing through the front window.

  “Damnit,” Margie muttered, pushing her way through and shuffling inside. She tossed the mail, hard hat and pail down on the couch as she went, making it to the phone just in time to hear it fall silent.

  “Double damnit,” she said, turning back towards the living room.

  She’d gone no further than a step when the phone erupted again, echoing through the silent house.

  Margie snapped it up after a single ring and pressed it to her cheek. “Yeah?” she answered, agitation in her voice.

  “Ms. Bentley?” a male voice she didn’t recognize asked.

  “Look, I just got home from work and haven’t even thought about dinner yet. Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t interested.”

  “Ms. Bentley, please,” the voice responded in rapid fashion. “I’m sorry to be calling like this, but I assure you I’m not trying to sell you anything. I almost wish that I was to be honest with you.”

  Margie’s breath caught in her chest. Her mind went blank, her body rigid. Unable to formulate a response, she waited in silence for him to continue.

  “This is Dr. Manningham, the orthopedic surgeon here at OTU Hospital. We met a few months back.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Margie whispered.

  Manningham took a long breath. “Again, I am very sorry to be calling like this, but it’s about Tyler.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Earlier today he was rushed to us from across the campus. He had been working out with one of the trainers when the knee gave way.”

  “No,” Margie said, her eyes sliding shut. Already she could hear the impending frustration in her son’s voice, the resentment on his face at the limb that kept betraying him. “Is he okay? Can I talk to him?”

  Another long, drawn-out breath met her year.

  “Ms. Bentley, I’m afraid the answers to those questions are no and no. Right now he’s still in our post-anesthesia ward under a heavy dose of medication. He was unconscious when he arrived here and we’re keeping him that way until at least tomorrow.”

  Margie reached out a hand for the counter, swinging it through the air until it touched Formica. She braced her palm against the cold countertop and used it to steady herself.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “When Tyler came in, his entire left leg from the knee down was disjointed. They came and got me out of surgery when he arrived and by the time I got to him, his foot was twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees.”

  Tears treaded down Margie’s cheeks and dripped onto her faded tan coat, leaving water splotches dotted across her chest.

  “Dr. Manningham, were you able to fix my son’s leg?”

  A full moment of silence passed.

  “And please don’t say you’re sorry again,” Margie added.

  “Ms. Bentley, by the time I get in there, there was nothing left to save,” Manningham said, his voice low and even. “The prosthetic that was used had almost completely disintegrated. Not only was the joint itself ruined, even the synthetic compound it was made of had crumbled to almost nothing.”

  Margie raised her glistening face to the ceiling and attempted to draw in a deep breath. The air sucked through her teeth with the sound of an eerie sob.

  “Once inside, I had to extend the incision much further than anticipated. In the end I went almost clear to his ankle looking for good tissue to try and salvage, but there just wasn’t any. It appeared the joint had been crumbling for some time, tiny bits of the synthetic working themselves free and imbedding in the muscle fibers and capillaries of the lower leg.”

  Manningham paused there for a moment, letting the words soak in.

  In the back of her mind, Margie already knew where the conversation was going. On some level she appreciated Manningham shielding her from the inevitable truth, but on another, maternal, level she had to hear it.

  “Dr. Manningham, what is it you’re trying to tell me right now?”

  The paused lasted a full fifteen seconds.

  “The damage done to both your son’s muscular and vascular systems was extensive. The three bones in his leg, the femur, the tibia, and the fibula, were all severely twisted and splintered as well from the violent nature of the injury.

  “Ms. Bentley, I want you to know that I did everything in my power, but in the end I had no choice but to take your son’s leg.”
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  An anguished moan slid from Marcie’s throat as the phone slid from her hand, clattering against the kitchen tile. She rolled her body forward to grab the countertop with both hands before giving up and allowing her body to drop the ground. There she remained for several long minutes, her sobs reverberating through the house.

  By the time she was done, the front of her coat was soaked as her chin rested on her chest, entire body gasping for air.

  The only thing pulled her from the trance was a small, persistent voice somewhere in the room beside her.

  “Ms. Bentley? Are you there? Ms. Bentley?”

  Margie’s gaze searched the floor for the source of the voice before settling on the phone a few feet away. With great effort she lowered her hands to the floor and crawled to the phone, rolling her entire body flat onto the ground as she picked it up and pressed it to her ear.

  “Dr. Manningham?”

  “Yes Ms. Bentley, I’m still here.”

  “You said he’s still unconscious, right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Anything within my power ma’am.”

  “Leave him there, I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The tears were gone. Margie had no doubt they would be back within seconds of seeing Tyler, and be there for the remainder of her trip, but for the time being they were far away. In their place was a low, even burning of vitriol that far surpassed hatred, moving closer to full-on loathing.

  The no-name gypsy cab driver dropped Margie off in front of the Ohio Tech Hospital mid-afternoon, their entire interaction limited to three words. By the tone of her response, he knew better than to even attempt idle chit chat.

  Margie tossed a twenty over the backseat and stomped her way through the front door of the Ohio Tech University Hospital and into the lobby. A small duffel bag was thrown over her shoulder, swinging free behind her as she walked to the reception desk, almost daring other lobby patrons to get in her way.

  “Yes ma’am, may I help you?” a pretty young blonde asked, her voice bored. On her lap was the latest issue of a celebrity gossip mag, no doubt a sorority girl carrying out work study obligations against her will.

  “Tyler Bentley’s room, please.” The last word was added as an afterthought, Margie forcing herself to aim her venom at those who deserved it.

  The girl rolled her eyes and keyed a few strokes into the computer, pulling back when she read what it said. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Bentley isn’t seeing visitors at this point.” She looked up at Margie and bobbed her head in faux concern. “But we appreciate your concern and will be happy to forward along any messages you wish to leave.”

  Margie placed each of her palms flat on the desk in front of her and leaned in close, letting the girl see her red-rimmed eyes. “Sure, you do that. Tell him his mother is in the lobby.”

  The girl’s eyes grew large as she stared up at Margie, her mouth framed in a circle as she grasped for words that never came to her.

  “Where’s my son?” Margie asked, a malevolent gaze leveled on the girl.

  “Intensive care unit,” she responded, her eyes the size of saucers as she stared up at Margie. “I’m very sorry. Hospital precautions.”

  Margie ignored the apology. “Where is the intensive care unit?”

  “There’s a note here from Dr. Manningham asking we page him as soon as you arrive. Would you like me to do that now?”

  “If that’s what the note says.”

  The blonde didn’t wait for any further response before picking up the phone, hitting a few numbers and setting the receiver down. She fidgeted for ten seconds, avoiding Margie’s gaze at all costs, before the phone rang back and she snatched it up.

  “Front desk.” She paused a moment, listening to the other end. “Yes doctor, she’s standing right here. I’ll send her back.”

  The blonde rose from her chair and pointed down the hall behind her, still avoiding eye contact. “Go to the end of this hallway and turn right. About fifty feet down you’ll see a small lounge. Dr. Manningham will be there in two minutes.”

  Margie murmured a thank you and moved down the hall, leaving the stunned receptionist in her wake. She focused on the far wall, willing herself to keep a level head, and when she reached it took a hard right. She made it only a few steps before a pair of familiar figures emerged in the hallway in front of her.

  Sarconi and Dr. Pinkering stood shoulder to shoulder, Dr. Pinkering with his hands raised in front of him.

  “Ms. Bentley, thank you for coming so soon. Needless to say, this is quite a shock to all—“

  Margie didn’t even break stride. Instead she raised her hands on either side and slammed her palms into each of their shoulders. The shot took them both by surprise, parting them just enough for her to march on without stopping.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I intend to talk to you assholes later.”

  Neither one made any attempt to chase her as she stormed down the hall and found the lounge. Manningham was already there as she arrived, dressed in a tie and white coat, pacing. He stopped as she approached and went to her, hands extended before him.

  “Ms. Bentley, thank you for coming.” He gripped her outstretched hand in both of his and shook it.

  “Thank you for calling.”

  Manningham checked either direction and motioned back the way she had just came. “If you wouldn’t mind, I was hoping we might be able to speak in my office for a few minutes before we do anything.”

  All of the venom she’d felt just a moment before drained from Margie, tears pooling beneath her eyes. For the past twelve hours she’d had a mission driving her forward, but now that she was here, the gravity of the situation was settling in on her.

  “Can I see him first? Please?”

  Manningham studied her for a moment and nodded. “Of course. I apologize for delaying you in the slightest.”

  Without another word, Manningham led her from the lounge and down the hall, hospital personnel parting to let them pass. He lingered for a moment by the elevators before pushing through a door to the stairwell and leading her up two flights.

  The third floor door opened from the stairway into a single large ward. Outfitted in white, with fluorescent overhead lighting, it seemed to embody the word sterile.

  Rows of beds lined either side of the room, most sitting idle and empty. A handful of nurses moved in silence between the few that were occupied, their movements deliberate and subdued.

  Manningham paused inside the door and waited for Margie to enter before closing the door behind them. He motioned to the far side of the room with his head and together they walked the ward in silence.

  Not one of the nurses or their patients so much as glanced their way as they passed.

  A single door sat closed along the wall. Manningham led her to it and pulled it open, motioning for her to enter. “We moved Tyler here so he could rest in peace. The media blitz around here yesterday was pretty intense. Please take your time, I’ll be right outside here whenever you’re ready.”

  Margie nodded as already tears began to spill down her face. “Ready for what?”

  Manningham opened his mouth as if about to speak, but instead closed it and motioned his head towards the door. Margie took the message and stepped inside the semi-darkened room, waiting until the door clicked shut behind her before stepping forward to the bed.

  In front of her Tyler lay on his back sleeping, a breathing tube in his nose and over a dozen different monitors attached to various places. From what little bit of him was exposed, Margie could see skin was ashy, his face sunken in.

  To her horror, it looked like he had lost twenty pounds and aged ten years overnight.

  Worse still were the two lumps descending from his waist towards the end of the bed. The right side was long and uneven, the shadow on the white blanket showing bumps where his knee and foot protruded upwards.

  The left ended well above the knee, the remainder
of the blanket tucked flat and smooth.

  Margie choked back a sob and crept closer, gripping the corner of the crisp white bedding. She closed her eyes as a pair of teardrops slid to her chin and jerked back the blankets, her eyes opening to stare down at the stump of what was once her son’s right leg.

  For the second time in as many days, she fell to the floor and sobbed for several long minutes.

  When she could cry no more, Margie hefted herself to her feet and replaced the blankets. She tucked them back into place and smoothed them down flat, took her son’s hand in her own and stared down at him.

  To the world, he was a twenty-two year old man. To her, he would always be her baby, a gift that came along when she herself was just a kid. More than once she and Tyler had talked about how they grew up together.

  If there had been even a trace of moisture left in her body, Margie would have cried it out that very instant. Instead, she just stood and stared down at her son for almost half an hour before prying herself away and returning to the door.

  She cracked it open just far enough to see Manningham standing in the ward, a second man in a white coat having joined him. The two men stood with their arms folded across their chests, neither one saying anything as they stared back at her.

  Margie nudged the door open and slid through, easing it closed behind her. “So what happens now?”

  Her face was red and swollen and her voice held a small crack in it, but she made no effort to cover either.

  Dr. Manningham drew his lips tight for a moment and stepped forward. “Ms. Bentley, this is Dr. Andrew Gibson, Head of our Anesthesia Department here.”

  Gibson started to extend his hand, but instead retracted it and nodded to her.

  “As I mentioned before, and as I’m sure you could tell, right now Tyler is under heavy sedation. He hasn’t been conscious since the accident, so be forewarned that there’s no way to know how he’ll respond.”

  Margie nodded. “I understand.”

  “An accident like this isn’t life threatening, but it is life altering. Many times the shock of losing a limb is more debilitating than the loss itself. A large part of his recovery will be based on how he responds mentally.”