Page 10 of Room 1017

She finally reappeared. “Okay, so your freezer is now full of oven-ready meals. All you have to do is stick them in the oven at 425 for 45 minutes. Think you can handle that?” I hated that she had to ask, but I was still sagging in relief that I didn’t have to cook anything.

I nodded. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”

Amy hesitated, and for one awful moment, I thought she might try to invite herself to stay. At last, though, she seemed to come to a decision. “You’ll call if you need me?” she asked, her brown eyes soft with sympathy.

“Uh-huh.”Please leave.

“Okay, then… I guess I’ll go.” On the way to the door, she stopped to pull back the curtains and cranked the front window open. “You should get some fresh air in here,” she said, glancing around the room.

I gave her a tight smile. “Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks.”Leave, leave, leave, I chanted in my head, hoping she might hear me.

Either way, she got the hint that it was time to go, so she said a final goodbye, and at long last, I was alone for the first time in a week.

First things first, I popped the lid off the Percocet and swallowed two dry. Then, I carefully rolled myself up to standing. I knew if I stayed where I was, this was where I would sleep as soon as the painkillers kicked in.

Glaring at the walker, I made a conscious decision to leave it right where it was.I’m not a grandpa yet, I snarled to myself. By the time I’d worked my way down the hall to my bedroom, though, I’d managed to hit my shoulder into the corner of the wall, cursed a blue streak that expanded my vocabulary, and knocked over a lamp, leaving myself a mess I had zero intention of ever cleaning up. But at least I made it!

I couldn’t even be bothered to go through all the hassle of taking off my clothes or shoes, just crawled carefully into bed and closed my eyes. My bed embraced me like a warm hug, made all the warmer as the drugs began to take effect. My thoughts blurred as the pain ebbed, and as darkness finally pulled me under, I welcomed the sweet relief.

Casey had promised me a new beginning, but this certainly felt more like the end.

6

Casey

Isighed,staringoutthe window at the clinic’s empty parking lot. I really thought he would show up today. This was the second appointment Peter had missed. And it wasn’t like he called to cancel either. Nope, a straight no-show, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to take two seconds out of his wallowing to call.

I’d called him after the first one and left a message with his new appointment date, and even though he hadn’t called back, I’d held the slot for him just in case. I always let the first one slide. There were a lot of reasons why someone might miss an appointment. Maybe he just forgot, that was the most likely. Or maybe he was stuck in traffic and his cell phone died, or… Or maybe he was in the hospital again, with an infection, and was too sick to call.

But then I thought of that look in his eyes, of the closed-off alpha who was hurting inside—and not just physically. Depression toyed with us all at some point in our lives, but Peter had the look of a man who was fully in its thrall. So, of course, even as I tried to be annoyed that a patient had skipped an appointment without calling—again—the little voice in my head whispered of all the worst-case scenarios. Worry had my guts tied into intricate knots, halfway to being an afghan.

It reminded me of my mom after her car accident. Angry, depressed, so close to giving up. It had been terrifying to watch her sink further into a pit of absolute despair, without even a glimmer of hope. Recovery for her hadn’t had the same possibilities. I’d felt so helpless, just as I did now, though back then, I’d only been a child, and now, I had the ability to do something about it.

But the thing was, my mom had always had me to take care of. It gave her a purpose, a reason to keep going. But what did Peter have? Was he so depressed that he might’ve done something to harm himself? Someone would’ve told me if he was dead… right?

My heart skipped a beat in my chest, my breath hitching at the thought of Peter dead. I was so close to giving him a chance at a new life, at getting a chance to prove that things would get better, only to have that stolen from me?

As my throat tightened, my feet carried me down the clinic hall toward the office. I found Cliff hunched over his keyboard, trying to work the month’s schedule, his face tight, and I tried to look casual as I sat at my desk across from him. I pulled out Peter’s file and dialed his phone number from the clinic phone.

My blood was rushing in my ears, my heart in my throat, as I listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. If he answered now, I would likely tear into him, but that was the hoped-for outcome. Instead, the ringing clicked over to voicemail, but instead of giving me the option to leave a message, the recorded voice told me his inbox was full.

“Shit,” I snapped, slamming the receiver down.

Cliff’s eyebrows hiked up his forehead. “Problem?”

Rubbing at my eyes, I took a long, slow breath. “Peter Brown’s a no-show.”

“Again?” He didn’t sound mad either, and creases formed at the corners of his eyes which I recognized as his own form of concern.

I tapped my fingers on my desktop for a second then pushed back from my desk. “I’m gonna take off early since he was my last appointment.”

“Sure, of course,” Cliff said, nodding. He didn’t ask if I was going to stop by Peter’s house to check on him because he knew me too well. He also didn’t bother telling me to be careful because it was a given.

I quickly got Peter’s address, as well as his emergency contact info, from his file before grabbing my bag and heading for my car, struggling to keep my pace casual. This was absolutely crossing a line. If I was so worried, I could just as easily call the police and request a wellness check. Or just call his emergency contact and ask them if they’d heard from him. But I would be the first to admit that I had some unresolved issues myself. I had a bit of a hero complex, I supposed. I wanted to believe that everyone could be saved, and just maybe,Imight have the right words to help him find his way out of the darkness.

Following the GPS directions, I pulled into the driveway of a modest brick-face bungalow, a temporary ramp built over half the stairs. The last of the snow had long melted now, and the lawn was a gnarled mess of dead grass and last year’s fallen leaves, the hopeful new green sprigs doing their best to push through. I watched the house for a moment, expecting the twitch of a curtain perhaps, but there was no sign of life. The windows were dark, mail spilling from the overfilled mailbox.

Oh gods, I was going to barf.

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