Double Team
Chapter 231
“The only people who can have normal are the ones unaffected by all the fucked-up shit that happens around them.”
—Ilona Andrews, Magic Slays
I WOULD LIKE to have gone home and gone to bed. Kissed my wives and let sleep erase the events of the past three days. Of course, that wasn’t to be. Em was at the airport to pick up Donna, Nanette, Cindy, and our instruments and luggage. I got a kiss. Rachel and I loaded into another medi-cab and went straight to Johns Hopkins where I was admitted.
And honestly? By the time I actually got to a bed, I was exhausted and in pain. I was thankful to be in a hospital when they started a morphine drip in my arm. I know a doctor came in as I was being settled and introduced himself, but I don’t remember who he was. He talked to Rachel while I waited for the drip to cut into the pain and let me sleep.
As I faded in and out of sleep over the next twenty-four hours, I discovered a second pain point. Not only did my shoulder hurt, but my biceps burned like fire. Oh, yes. I’d been told I was hit a second time by O’Neil’s bullet. That one passed straight through the flesh of my biceps. It was cleaned and stitched. It would heal much faster than my shoulder. But it still hurt like hell.
Each of my wives took a turn sitting with me in the hospital. There were expressions of love, concern, and horror on their faces as they kissed me and said they were glad I was home. But the truth was, we had all just come face to face with the knowledge we were not invulnerable. We could all die and we’d chosen a kind of public path that made us—or I had chosen a public path that made me—a central target in a high-stakes political gambit.
1 March 2023
Writing left-handed sucks. I won’t get much out of these chicken scratches. Today, they’ll be doing scans and x-rays to create the pattern for my replacement parts. Most of what has gone on this week has been making sure the wound is stabilized and there is no unnoticed damage. My fingers still move, though moving them right now sends shockwaves of pain up my arm. Still, that’s a hopeful sign.
I’m worried. When we all stood before the judge in Boston and agreed to become one plural domestic partnership, no one said anything about ‘until death do us part.’ But it was on all our minds. That’s what a marriage is, right? We didn’t recite the words but we’d said them often enough to each other. ‘To love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, until death do us part.’ But seven of twelve of us were teenagers. And even my oldest wife was only forty-five. For all of us, death seems like a remote possibility we’ll have to deal with in fifty or sixty years. Until then, live long and prosper.
Now it’s a present reality and we’re all having to deal with the idea that we could lose each other at any time. The change from looking at your lover as strong and vibrant and able to care for you to looking at your lover as fragile and easily broken or lost, is unsettling. I think some of my wives are considering whether it would be better not to be in a relationship that could end so dramatically and finally.
I know they’re considering it because I’m considering it. It’s so selfish of me to expose them to this level of hurt and sorrow.
They brought my new shoulder blade in to show me the day after they took all the scans and x-rays. Dr. Mapplethorpe, my surgeon for the shoulder replacement, was as excited as a three-year-old to show me the replacement part. It looked pretty much like a bone he’d taken off one of those skeletons that hang in some doctors’ offices.
“It’s a HAP-polymer composite that performs well within the parameters of natural bone,” he said. I’d somehow assumed they were just going to do a titanium joint replacement but he was showing me a replacement for the entire scapula. “Bone is primarily composed of the mineral hydroxyapatite and collagen. That’s the HAP part of the composite. The polymers are rod-based and are lined up in crisscrossing layers. Think of them like the lattice of bars that go into reinforced concrete.”
“How did you manage to carve one of these so fast?” I asked. “It looks so natural and smooth. It must have taken hours!”
“It did take hours, but not of carving. After we got the pattern for your scapula from the images yesterday, we fed it into a 3D printer and this took about two hours to print. Then we put it through another few hours of testing and fine-tuning with sandpaper.”
Shit! I remembered back when some in the engineering field poo-pooed the idea of printed circuit boards instead of soldered. I wondered how many doctors laughed at the idea of printing bones.
There were still some pieces to be completed. The layer of cartilage between the humeral head and the scapula called the glenoid would be fabricated from a type of plastic. Surgery was scheduled for Monday the sixth. I don’t know what I was thinking, but the incision and surgery would be on my back.
After surgery and basic healing, I’d be in physical therapy for the next six months. Damn! Since I woke up in this body, it seems I’ve spent a third of my life in physical therapy.
“Can you stand one more visitor?” Will Forsythe asked from my door Saturday morning.
“My first who isn’t a wife or hospital staffer,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I assumed others would have visited you by now,” Will said.
“I think they assumed it would be crowded. I have notes and flowers from Jo and Simon and from Dr. D. My parents are coming in tomorrow afternoon so they’ll be here before surgery and for a few days after. It’s been quite a shock for them,” I said.
“It’s been a shock for all of us,” Will said. “Even after the convention center bombing, we didn’t take the risk of an attempt on your life seriously enough. We kept thinking things were better now. And by we, I guess I mean me. I’m sorry, Jacob.”
“Everyone has his own life to live.”
“Yes. Well, I thought I’d bring you some news that might brighten your day a bit. Carson O’Neil is not likely to ever see the light of day as a free man again. Like most people in that situation, he’d already assumed he was going to die after killing you and your wives.”
“I can’t believe he felt we were so dangerous to RSI that he’d kill us over it.”
“It was more personal than that. He blamed you for his fall from grace, as it were. When you released the video of him threatening you in Louisville, RSI did fire him and China deported him. Not far, mind you. He was only sent to Korea. And he had enough resources, legitimate and criminal, that he personally funded the bombing of the convention center. He was a rising star on the international business scene coordinating the activities of a dozen RSI subsidiaries until that video was released.”
“How does an American rise that high in a Chinese organization?” I asked.
“Well, a number of the subsidiaries are based in the US and Europe. Those are not places that readily welcome Chinese executives giving them direction. O’Neil was the white face RSI put forth while, in reality, he was a puppet. Still, the special prosecutor’s office is now pumping him for information regarding the activities of ‘his’ subsidiaries in government bribes and contracts,” Will said.
“I detect a downside.”
“Having O’Neil taking the brunt of the blame, distances RSI and the Chinese government from the investigation. Their behavior in regards to your wounding and their grave loss of face has painted an aura of innocence around the conglomerate. If they defend themselves strictly on the basis of standard business practices, it will be very difficult to prosecute them.”
I sighed. I had just enough morphine coursing through my veins that I couldn’t bring myself to care more than that. I think Will could see I wasn’t all there.
“Jacob, we try not to advertise how close a relationship the Office of Civilian Service has with the President. But I spoke to her after this incident and she asked me to please convey her sympathy and support. Of course, we are all hoping you have a full recovery, but we’re all practical as well. It will be at least six months before you can return to deputation work and that is the most optimistic projection for your healing and ability to play the guitar. The President has suggested that you might consider an invitation to join the White House National Service Internship program. You needn’t reply now or in the near future. Let’s see how your recovery goes. But that is a very generous offer, directly from the President of the United States.”
He stood and made a little effort to wish me well in surgery. When he left, I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting the fact soak in that I might not ever play the guitar again. Or at least not perform. Could I make the adjustment to join the White House staff? What about supporting Cindy? In fact, all my pod was focused on the National Service deputation work and several had re-upped for extended terms based on us staying together in the service.
Staring at the ceiling, I felt a tear trickle out of my eye and down my face toward my ear.
Fuck!
The mythical wake-up blowjob can be a startling event if taken literally. I jumped, twisted my right arm, and screamed in pain. Going to sleep under the influence of drugs and waking up under the influence of a wet mouth and tongue is disorienting at best and Dana scrambled out from under my sheet apologizing non-stop.
Our apologies overlapped each other until we both ended up laughing and she hushed my mouth with a deep kiss.
“I saw the video last Sunday and wanted to rush to you,” she said. “But the damn floods in Georgia have had us literally up to our necks in alligators.”
“I didn’t know where you were deployed right now. How is it going down there?”
“Oh, much better now that the waters have started to recede. As long as we don’t get hit by another big storm, we’re past the worst of it. The flash floods came on so fast that a lot of people never evacuated and many of those who did were trapped someplace along a road. Derek’s and Lance’s teams were focused on evac. My team was on the ground searching out people who were trapped.”
“It’s good to see you, partner.”
“I saw from the latest video that you still keep your emergency pack with you. I’m glad Nanette knew where to find your zip ties,” she said. I nodded toward a corner of my hospital room where the red and yellow pack sat. “You know, you might consider rejoining the team when you recover. Seems that survival, search, and rescue are safer than playing music in a theater.”
“It’s an intriguing thought, but so far I don’t even know how much use of my arm I’ll have. I guess I signed something that allows them to use an experimental procedure.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s not unusual to graft artificial bone onto existing natural bone. They’re going to replace an entire bone in my skeleton. That means not just healing the graft, but reattaching tendons and ligaments and making sure the various vessels that feed the bone are sealed. I’ll either make some form of a complete recovery, or I’ll lose the use of my arm entirely.”
“Shit, Jake. What are you going to do?”
“Wait and see. Right now, that’s all I can do. You know me. Just a bundle of patience waiting for the next six months to be past so I can decide what to do next.”
“I wanted to come and see you. Brittany agreed to leave us alone for a while. Would you like me to finish what I started?”
“You don’t have to do that, Dana.”
“Not the question I asked. Would you like it?”
Well of course I would! And of course, I did.
Mom and Dad got in about three in the afternoon. We’d talked every day since the shooting, so they were all up to date on what was happening. Mom had been ready to drive to Texas and take me back to Indiana so she could sit by my bed. Wiser heads prevailed and they agreed to come out for the surgery and a few days after to assure themselves I would live.
Mom wanted to see the wound, go over the whole story, watch the video, and was ready to go to Texas to interview the suspect. I know that’s just the way she is. She wants to do something about it. Fix it. And I—totally ignoring what it would do to the family—nearly got myself killed.
Dad pulled a chair up close to the bed and took my hand. That’s all. He just held it. I was sure I saw moisture in his eyes, but the tears never fell. He just held my hand.
I could feel what he was going through. I’d held Peyton’s hand in that pile of rubble while she passed. His youngest child. My baby sister. And now Dad had nearly lost his second child. I’m sure that was what spurred Mom to her nearly manic state of making sure everything was ready for the surgery. I still felt the loss of Pey and sometimes I was sure I heard her voice in my head, telling me to hang on, to turn, to stop. But being able to fathom the intensity of losing your child… I just couldn’t begin to imagine it.
I heard a story years ago about a woman who had twelve children. Five had died before age two. The lesson she took away was not to get too attached. I look at my Mom and Dad, Em, my wives, even Remas and Dana, and I ask myself what life would be worth without those attachments. What we felt… what I felt even when I thought of Pey… was the joy they bring to our lives and without the attachment how bleak the world would be.
I regained consciousness, coming out of the general anesthesia in the recovery room. I don’t remember much about it. I was checked over, asked some questions, and moved to my room where I promptly went back to sleep.
I woke again to very soft flute music playing nearby. I came up to full consciousness like one of those Indian snakes being charmed from its basket by a flute. I smiled. My partner, Cindy, was playing for me. Such beautiful crystal tones. I recognized the blissful transport of Syrinx summoning me to meet my new life with an artificial shoulder.
“He’s awake,” Rachel said. “How are you, love?”
“Mmm. Thirsty?” I managed. My tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of my mouth. Rachel held an ice cube to my lips and I sucked on it greedily. Beyond her, I could see Mom and Dad, Cindy, and Beca. I wondered how they decided who would be in the room when I woke up.
“You made it,” Mom sighed. “Welcome back.”
Beca replaced Rachel with the ice and kissed my forehead.
“I love you,” she said. I nodded, still collecting my thoughts from the bizarre after-anesthetic dreams I’d had. Cindy managed to reach my hand and stroke it softly.
“Hey, Piper. That’s a beautiful flute. Got your replacement already, huh?”
“Jacob, it’s a Zauberflüte. A magic flute. It’s unbelievable. Look!” She held the beautiful instrument out toward me all silver and gold.
“Whoa! That’s beautiful. Gold valves?”
“Jacob, this flute is platinum with gold valves. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.”
“Platinum? Sounds expensive.”
“I don’t know the exact numbers. Dr. Donahue called me to her office last night and said my ‘benefactor’ asked only that I not use it as a club. Unless your life was in danger.”
“A benefactor gave this to you?” I asked. I wondered if it also came from RSI.
“Jacob, a flute like this is probably worth $80,000. Is it okay for me to accept it?”
“It didn’t come with any stipulations?”
“No. But Dr. D says I’m being temporarily reassigned,” Cindy said casting her eyes down. “Just until you are well. I’m to rehearse and play with the Young America Orchestra until we find out if… well…”
“If I can play the guitar again,” I finished for her. “We’ll see, little love. You know that even if I can’t I’ll be there for you.”
Once they determined that the new bone wasn’t going to break loose and float around or something, they wasted no time in getting me out of the hospital.
“Attaching muscle to bone is a very difficult process,” Dr. Mapplethorpe explained. “Rather than trying to cement soft tissue to an artificial structure, the technique we used was to cut into the bone itself at the attachment point and cement that to the prosthetic. So, technically, it is a bone graft rather than a complete replacement. The polymer structure is cemented to natural bone with the muscle attachment intact. As a result, now that the bone graft itself is set, the muscles are able to hold everything in place. We have a very specific physical therapy program that you will begin immediately. In the first week, we’ll x-ray repeatedly to be sure nothing has broken loose or shifted away from its proper place.”
“Thank you, doctor. What’s the prognosis for being able to play again?”
“I would say it is good. I understand you are experiencing pain when you flex those fingers, but that is a result of upper muscle distress, not a result of injury to the fingers or their nerves. Exercise. Follow your physical therapy. An occupational therapist will work on your fine motor coordination. In a few weeks, we should have a good basis for determining if you’ve lost any finger response.”
Home. Thursday, everyone took the afternoon off work so the whole family, including Mom and Dad, would be present for my arrival. I was a little nervous as I looked around when walking to the door. A hospital gives one a sense—perhaps a false sense—of security. I’m in a hospital where people are taking care of me and nothing bad can get to me. Coming home, I was vulnerable. The President’s daughter lived next door, supposedly so there would be extra protection nearby. But one of her secret service agents had been the very boss who had engineered my kidnapping and the bombing of the convention center.
The man in the blue suit, O’Neil, had just walked backstage at our venue and followed us into the dressing room to kill us. What would stop someone like him from walking into our home in DC?
My mates showed the strain as well. We had security and alarms but our house was no fortress. Still, each one took a turn sitting alone with me in the master bedroom, kissing and reassuring me that they were okay and loved me. I did my best to reassure them, as well.
Healing. It wasn’t just a physical process. I’d been shot at pointblank range by a man whose intention was to kill me. I thought about getting a gun for protection, but I hadn’t even had the basic firearms training that was part of the service’s basic training camp. There’d never been time. I knew Rachel had a handgun and I suspected Livy did as well. Maybe I’d just get her to give me some instruction.
And really, what good would a firearm have done me in Texas? Did I think even in my fantasies that I could have drawn and fired a gun before I was cut down? I’d taken the course of action that was necessary. Having a gun would have been a distraction. But my head wouldn’t leave it alone. I’d seen the video. Ninety seconds from the time he closed the door until it was all over. I replayed it in my head a hundred times… a thousand. I searched for any response that would have turned out better. There wasn’t one. But my head played the scene over again anyway.
My beloved Rachel joined me in bed. I had limited mobility in my shoulder now, but not enough to be an active participant in making love. Still, she did the work and held my eyes as we talked and she moved on my shaft. The release we found came with tears and the knowledge we were bound more closely than ever in taking care of each other and our family.
End Part XVIII
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