“He strangled his wife, then he killed himself. I’m the one who released him.”
Night reappeared, the tunnel delivering them into New Jersey. Doug remained silent, contemplating a course of action. “Invite him over for dinner.”
“Who? Shep? What for?”
“At some point you’re going to have to discharge him, right? Why not ease his transition with a little normalcy? We’ll make him a home-cooked meal, he can play with the kids. Maybe you can even invite your sister over.”
“My sister?”
“Why not? I’m not suggesting you make this a blind date, I just think it would be good for him. Plus, you know how lonely Bridgett has been lately.”
“She’s going through a rough divorce.”
“Exactly my point.”
“No, it would be too weird. Plus, Shep might be offended. He’s still head over heels in love with his wife.”
“So just call it dinner and see what happens.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Now answer my original question: Why Shepherd?”
Leaning over, the brunette laid her head on her husband’s shoulder. “Have you ever met someone who just seemed so needy, so lost, yet at the same time had a personality you couldn’t help but gravitate to. This will sound strange, but being around Shep, it’s like hanging around with an old soul who’s lost on an important journey, and it’s my job to help him as much as I can before he moves on. Does that make any sense?”
“Old soul or new, guys like Shepherd who fought in combat have a tendency to want to self-destruct. I know you’re his doctor, Leigh, but some people just don’t want to be saved.”
December
“In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.”
The funny thing was, he had never liked running. Not in high school when Coach Segal had required it of all his pitchers. Not at Rutgers, when his fiancée was in training for the field hockey team and insisted he join her on those four-mile jaunts around the university golf course. And certainly not when he pitched in the minors.
So why did he like it now?
The Beatles’ “Help!” blasted over the classic rock radio station as the treadmill’s built-in odometer approached the two-mile mark.
He liked it because the challenge made him feel alive again, and any feeling that was different from his usual doom and gloom was a good thing. He liked it because it made him feel less self-destructive, something Dr. Nelson attributed to ‘happy endorphins’ being released in his brain. Most of all, Patrick Shepherd liked to run because running gave his thoughts greater clarity, helping him to remember things. Like that his fiancée forced him to run the golf course back at Rutgers. Like that she, too, was a scholarship athlete. Like…
The song changed. He has not heard the tune in more than a decade, its lyrics prying open yet another sealed memory, the words, sung by the late Jim Morrison, tearing open the fissure in his heart: “Before you slip into unconsciousness, I'd like to have another kiss. Another flashing chance at bliss, another kiss, another kiss…”
The one-arm runner stumbled, his right hand briefly grabbing the support bar before his legs rolled out from under him, and the treadmill spit him out onto the rubber matting.
“The days are bright and filled with pain, enclose me in your gentle rain. The time you ran was too insane, we'll meet again, we'll meet again…”
Patrick rolled over. Nose bleeding, feeling woozy, he leaned against the wall to listen to the rest of The Doors’ song… the painted cinder block identical to the walls in his fiancée’s old college dorm room.
He’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against the dormitory wall. “The Crystal Ship” is playing on the tape deck, the blond coed in the muddied field hockey uniform staring at him from the bed, her hazel green eyes tinged blue with tears.
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t ask me again. If you ask me again, Patrick, I’m going to shove the dipstick up your ass, then we’ll see if you’re pregnant.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not panic just yet. How far along are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a month or two.”
“Shouldn’t you know?”
“Shouldn’t you, Mister ‘We Should Be Safe, You Won’t Be Ovulating for Another Eight Days.’ God, my father’s going to kill me when he finds out.”
“Here’s an idea — let’s not tell him. We take you to the clinic, they do whatever they do, and we get you on the pill.”
She throws one of her field hockey shin pads at his face, hitting him squarely in the nose, drawing blood. “First, abortions cost money, something neither one of us has right now. Second, there’s a baby growing in my belly… our baby. I thought maybe you’d react differently. I thought I was your soul mate?”
“You are. But what about our plans? You wanted to go to grad school, and I still have two more years of eligibility to improve my stock before the amateur draft.”
“I can still finish school.”
“They’ll rescind your scholarship.”
“I’ll redshirt a year.”
“Okay, sure. But seriously… are you really ready to have a kid?”
“I don’t know.” She covers her face, weeping uncontrollably.
Patrick’s dumbfounded, he has never seen her like this. Reaching for her wrist, he guides her down on the tile floor next to him, holding her in his lap as if she were a little girl.
“The Crystal Ship” ends, mockingly yielding to the opening lyrics of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”. And in that singular moment of clarity everything changes for Patrick Ryan Shepherd, the solution suddenly clear, as if his adolescence has just passed the baton of youth into adulthood.
“Okay, here’s another option: You stay in school while I enter next month’s draft. I won’t hire an agent, so I’ll still maintain my amateur status. If I’m drafted, we use the signing bonus to pay for diapers. If I’m not, I finish my junior year and work nights to pay for the kid’s expenses. How’s that sound?”
She stops crying, her face streaked with tears and sweat from the afternoon practice. “You’d really do that?”
“On one condition… marry me.”
“…that was The Doors. This is your station for Classic Rock, the time now is 3:45. Coming up after the break we’ll be playing the Beach Boys—”
The radio is turned off. “Shep, are you okay?”
Patrick glanced up at Dr. Nelson, his nostrils streaked with blood. “I never liked running.”
“I told you not to run so fast, your gait is off-balance. You’ll feel a lot more in control when your prosthetic arm arrives.”