Page 17 of Actions and Reactions (All It Takes #5)

Silas

“Can the evaluation wait?” My words are barely audible, even to me, but thankfully we’re in the most silent room in the history of the world after the bombs Vinny dropped, so they obviously have no trouble hearing me.

“Of course,” the female doctor tells me. I can’t remember her name now. “It’s better if we do that when the anesthesia has worn off completely.”

They leave and I stare at the wall in front of my bed.

What I told Vinny was true; I’m tired and I barely feel my body.

Those aren’t stellar conditions to be in to debate with two doctors about my mental health and my need for a fucking evaluation.

And Vinny should fucking know I’m in no condition to have important conversations either. He shouldn’t have brought any of it up... Not that he did, now that I think about it.

I really am fine. Yes, I punched a wall and that was stupid, but I was just really, really mad. How else was I supposed to react when confronted with the cruel reality?

Vinny gave up a few minutes of practice to talk to his cousin, and I’d commit several crimes for a few minutes on an NHL team.

How is that fair?

It isn’t, and life isn’t. I know this. But it was a slap in the face, and he should know better.

He’ll come around, though, and understand why I reacted that way. He has to.

I’m not sure what time—or day for that matter—it is when I open my eyes again, but seeing Mom and Dad sitting next to me has my eyes filling up disturbingly fast.

“He shouldn’t have called you,” I whisper.

Mom shakes her head as she holds my good hand with both of hers.

“Of course he should’ve, and it’s a good thing he did, honey.” Her fingers brushing my hair back from my forehead is one of those things that makes me feel like I’m protected. Like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong .

Dad shatters that.

“What happened, son?”

“I fought a wall, and the wall won,” I tell him with a small smile.

“This isn’t a joke, Silas. You seriously injured yourself.” He definitely doesn’t see the funny side of this.

“Were you drinking, honey?”

“Mom,” I groan and look away from her eyes.

They’re brimming with tears already, and I seriously cannot stand the sound of her voice when she’s crying.

It’s like nails on a chalkboard for me, it’s just wrong , and I’ve already experienced it—and caused it—enough for a lifetime. “No, I wasn’t drinking.”

“Then what were you think?—”

A couple of sharp knocks interrupt Dad’s rant, thankfully.

“Come in,” I shout, just a bit too eagerly, and it’s the doctor from before.

“You look more awake,” she tells me, smiling.

“I do feel better,” I tell her honestly.

“I thought we could do the evaluation now?”

“Yes, sure,” I agree way too easily, because surely that means...

“Great.” She turns to my parents and keeps her smile intact. “I’m afraid I need to ask you to leave.”

“Yes, of course, Dr. Denise. Thank you for making the time to talk to Silas,” Mom says sweetly.

Wait, they already talked to her?

How long have they been here ?

“What time is it?”

“It’s seven a.m.,” Dr. Denise tells me helpfully, then she opens the door for my parents. “Right, how about we start easy?” She sits in the armchair where Mom was, the one Vinny had sat on and held my hand so sweetly.

Not thinking about that now.

“I don’t mind tough questions,” I tell her honestly. Hard work pays off, and I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge.

“All right, then. What happened yesterday evening that made you punch a concrete wall twice, breaking seven bones in your hand and risking permanent nerve damage?”

Okay, maybe I’m not quite prepared for such a tough question.

I take a deep breath and a long moment to think about how I want to answer this. I don’t want her to think Vinny was being a bad person or... insensitive to me , because I don’t think that.

“Especially considering your history,” she adds after a minute. I look up, confused.

“What do you mean, my history?”

“Well, Mr. Jankowski and your parents advised us of your clinical history when they arrived last night, and it says here they repaired your ACL, MCL, they patched up your medial meniscus, and your femur which was broken in two places, but you have some irreparable damage on your femoral nerve and your knee, of course.”

My mouth dries up and I have to swallow hard before even attempting to speak .

“Ye-yeah, that’s right.” God, I fucking hate that I stutter.

“So, knowing what it means to have such injuries, why did you risk it? Why did you punch the wall and not... kick a chair, punch a pillow?”

“I... I don’t know.” And isn’t it a bitch that I actually don’t know? “I didn’t even think about it,” I admit. “I just had to move, to... feel something.”

“All right.” She makes a note of that in her chart and then looks back up at me. “So what happened?”

I give her the cold hard facts, the logical point of view. And then I admit to my anger, and petty or not, my jealousy.

She writes down notes all the while, maintaining eye contact with me in some moments, but she nods along and I think she’s seeing the rational side of things.

I appreciate her even more.

“Got it.” She nods once more. “How do you feel about a lightning round of questions?”

“Lightning round?” I go rigid all over at the thought, and the pain in my hand reminds me I can’t really move it.

“That’s right. I’ll ask questions quickly and I want you to answer with your gut, just the first thing that pops into your brain, yes?”

“Okay.” I think I can do that. I flex my fingers—just on my left hand—and put it beside my hip carefully.

“Ready?” Her smile is kinder this time, not the serene, almost detached one she had before.

“Let’s do it.” I try to smile back.

“When was the last time you thought about the accident? ”

“Today.” Woke up thinking about it, actually.

“Do you think about it every day?”

“I try not to.”

“What do you feel when you think about the accident?”

“Anger and resentment.”

“How many hours do you normally sleep at night?”

“Three or four.” Fuck, I really wish I hadn’t said that . But there’s no time to think.

“Do you have insomnia?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you sleep at all when you do?”

“No.”

“How often does that happen?”

“It’s more recent, I think. It’s happened about once a month in the last year or so.”

“Do you dream?”

“Yes.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Like four times a week.”

“What are they about?”

“I don’t remember. I forget about them as soon as I wake up.”

“Do you wake up from the nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“And can you fall back asleep after?”

“Not usually.”

“When can you? ”

“When I sleep next to Vinny.”

“How often do you talk about hockey?”

“Every day,” I tell her, confused now. “I work for a hockey team.”

“No, I know, but you work in public relations. How often do you discuss the actual game?”

That gives me pause, and I really don’t want to answer that truthfully.

So I lie.

Everyone lies, right?

Vinny said he loved me, and then he didn’t speak to me again for years.

Everyone always said I’d be the best, and I clearly am not.

“Every day,” I repeat, and Dr. Denise doesn’t miss a beat.

“How do you feel when you talk about hockey?”

“Fine.”

“Can you try to name the emotion?”

“Nothing. I feel like . . . it’s my job.”

“Do you feel nothing often?”

“I don’t know if I’d say often.” I shift my weight a little, and spend a few seconds rearranging my right hand on top of the pillow it’s resting on. “I guess I’m just not much of an emotional person.”

“Would you say you’re an angry person?”

“No.”

“An irritable person?”

“No.”

“A happy person?”

“No.”

Fuck.

She doesn’t ask any more questions, just nods and stands.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait,” I cry out. “Just... What’s the result?” I don’t even know if that’s the right question.

“I need to confer with a colleague, but I’ll come by later to talk to you.”

“Okay.” What can I do but accept it? “Have a good day, Dr. Denise,” I think to say before she leaves.

And then my parents are back.

And they’re worried.

And they want me to talk to them.

And I just . . . don’t.

The male doctor from the day before comes by just as I’m getting my lunch.

I throw back my pills and swallow them dry, then take a few gulps of the water bottle they brought me. “Thanks, Kate,” I tell the nurse. She pats my shoulder with a smile and when I look again, Dr. Denise is there too, as well as another woman.

“A full house,” I murmur, trying to defuse the tension I can feel coming from my parents.

“Mr. Wayne?— ”

“Please call me Silas.” I interrupt Dr. Kekoa.

“Silas,” he amends with a nod. “We’d like to talk to you about your prognosis and our recommended treatment moving forward.” There’s a beat of silence and I don’t know why.

“Yeah, sure.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

“We could do it in private,” Dr. Denise says cautiously.

“No, it’s fine.” I wave her off. “They’re my parents.” And I’d like to get this over with, get my schedule for physical therapy or whatever and then get back to work.

“If that’s what you want,” she says softly, and if I’m not mistaken, she looks relieved.

“I’m Dr. Collins, Silas. I operated on your hand alongside Dr. Kekoa, and though we still have to get some imaging done today, I’m optimistic from yesterday’s results after surgery that you won’t sustain any permanent nerve damage to your hands.”

“I—thank you,” I rush to say. Why didn’t I think about that before? Dr. Denise even mentioned it this morning. “That’s a relief.” My thoughts come out on instinct.

“I bet it is,” Dad mutters. I ignore him.

He’s in a foul mood, and though I understand that it comes from a place of love and the fear I’ve brought them, I’m done with it.

Dr. Kekoa goes first, and as expected, he gives me the whole spiel about physical therapy and how if I want to retain full use of my hand—which of course I do—I have to follow the recovery plan to the letter. Which I will.