Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) (23 page)

Seventy-two hours later, Alex hobbled out of the hospital with a three-day growth of beard, a dead cell phone, and a psychiatrist referral along with a prescription for Zoloft. The doctor would do a more thorough evaluation and determine whether depression was the culprit or he’d had a “modern mental health crisis,” what they used to call a nervous breakdown. He hailed a cab, grateful to return home, to his own bed. To the simple comfort of a cup of tea. His throat was still sore, and the awful black void lurked on the fringes of his consciousness. He grappled with the persistent inability to feel something, anything, but he was willing to keep an open mind about treatment.

His first appointment progressed as expected. Alex remembered what Jacob had told him, and honesty was of course in his own best interest. Dr. Reese could help him banish the void. She was kinder than he’d expected, with warm and compassionate brown eyes. Not jaded like the hospital workers, who had to deal with hundreds of people both in acute crisis like he had been and those who were fishing for attention. Maybe she hadn’t been doing it long enough. He guessed she was in her late thirties at most.

The clinical interview took an hour and a half, the seventy-three-question behavioral inventory another hour or so. In the interim before his next appointment, he increased his workout schedule as much as his body could tolerate and attended PT, but there was little else to fill the time. Sleep. Answering emails and voice mails. Obligatory social media updates full of happy bullshit to pacify his fans. Long, barren stretches of nothingness, though Jacob called often and visited when his scheduled permitted. Alex could not bring himself to watch hockey. Sometimes he wondered what Stephanie was doing, who she was with.

That following Monday, he arrived at Dr. Reese’s office ten minutes early. Despite the April chill, he was sweating. He sat in a chair with worn upholstery outside her door and waited for her to open it.

“Good morning, Aleksandr,” she said when she did. “Come on in.”

They sat across from each other by the picture windows. She kept staring at him in silence. Reading his body language, assessing him in ways the interview and inventory could not. “Would you prefer to be called something else? A nickname?”

He avoided eye contact. “Sasha is fine.”

“This is a safe place, Sasha. I’m not here to judge you but to help you, and everything you say is in confidence.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He drummed his fingers on the chair’s arms.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little. Maybe.” He needed a cigarette. “So what’s the deal?”

Dr. Reese smiled. “It’s common for people to go many years without a proper diagnosis. In your case, much of your behavior may have seemed normal to you, and the media attention fed it.”

“There
is
something wrong with me, then.” With it came an odd sense of relief, a light shining on that forbidden room in his psyche. “Is it serious?”

“Given what you told me in the interview and your answers on the inventory, there’s a strong indication you have bipolar type two disorder. The difference between it and type one is that type two manifests with more frequent, more intense depressive episodes, a milder form of mania called hypomania, and shorter ‘normal’ periods. You express your hypomanic episodes not through euphoria but through inflated self-esteem, irritability, hypersexuality, and a drive to achieve. Unfortunately, type two is associated with a greater risk of suicidal thoughts and behaviors than type one or even clinical depression.”

She must be mistaken. He could not have this disgrace upon him, this weakness. His parents were good people who had raised him well. “Are you sure?”

“I know it can a difficult thing to accept, and my patients’ first instinct is often to hide it from their loved ones.”

And he would have to. He had failed in character and in his soul. He had disgraced the Volynsky name. All the crazy shit he’d done. Done because he was literally crazy.

“What’s going through your mind right now, Sasha?”

He pressed one knuckle after another into the palm of his opposite hand, lightening the tension with each crack. “I’ve dishonored my family,” he said, laying his hands in his lap.

“How so?”

“Mental illness is a defect of personality. A deficiency.” He obliged himself to look at her, and now humiliation jabbed at him because he was acting like the ignorant Russian immigrant she surely believed him to be. One distrustful of formal medicine, who thought sickness was caused by lack of warm clothes or poor eating and who treated illness with steam baths and sunlight. Things like addiction and mental illness, when not remedied with imprisonment, were often handled through hypnosis and other techniques the West had repudiated decades ago. He despaired of his motherland ever shaking off the aftereffects of the communist-capitalist culture wars, and that they could infect him after the better part of eight years in America. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s not your fault, Sasha, and you did nothing to deserve it. This is a combination of genetics, environmental stressors, and a neurotransmitter imbalance. But being bipolar won’t prevent you from living a normal life.”

You tell my family that.
As far as he was concerned, they need never know.

“However, I want to address the fact substance abuse is also very common with this disorder. You mentioned you recently started using cocaine again, and you’re a moderately heavy drinker.”

“I haven’t touched coke since before I went to the hospital.” His skin crawled with more humiliation at the recollection. “And yeah, I like to drink.”

“What if we channeled that impulse into something more constructive? Rather than focus on the things you’ve lost, what do you enjoy that you haven’t had time to pursue while you played hockey? What are some things you’d like to do?”

He looked out the window and said nothing for many minutes. Whatever. He could afford the extra time. “I used to play the piano. And sing. My mother teaches music. Sometimes I still sing, like karaoke and stuff.”

“How long has it been since you played?”

“Ten years, almost.”

“How do you think you would feel if you started playing piano again?”

He examined his hands, the crooked fingers. Hands that could finesse a stick, could move a puck in ways guaranteeing a spot on the nightly highlight reel. Elegant hands for a man of his size, long-fingered like his mother’s.

“I think people would laugh at me.”

“Because they only know you as a hockey player?”

“I have a certain…image. Which is apparently from being bipolar.” He rubbed his forehead. His head ached, as if his brain were trying to escape the confines of his skull.

“And now that you can’t play hockey anymore, now that you know why the image exists in the first place, how do you feel about shaping a different one for yourself?”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Then let’s find him. But this has to be for you, Sasha, not for anyone else. This is your chance to be who
you
want to be. The person that makes
you
happy.”

“This is a lot to absorb.”

“I know. But your illness won’t define you if you don’t let it. You’re a bright young man with your whole future ahead of you.” Dr. Reese scribbled something, then tore the sheet from her prescription pad and handed it to him. “For now, I’d like to get you started on lithium and Latuda and see how you respond. They’ll take a few weeks to reach full effect, but I think you’ll do well. With antipsychotics like Latuda, there’s a risk for metabolic syndrome and tardive dyskinesia, so visit your doctor regularly. Let them know immediately if you develop grimacing, lip-smacking, or other movements you can’t control.”

“Okay.” An antipsychotic. Crazy people took those.

“In the meantime, we’ll work on cognitive behavioral therapy to help you learn coping mechanisms for managing your stressors and symptoms. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean…thank you for helping me.” Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not very good at this.”

“You’re in a dark place right now, but there’s a way out, even if you can’t see it yet. Don’t give up on yourself, Sasha.”

“Thank you. Again.” He rose from the chair, gathered his crutches, and shook her hand. “I’ll see you next week.”

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket as he was unlocking the door to his condo. He cradled it between his neck and shoulder and hoped he wouldn’t drop the crutches while he finagled the keys. “Hi, Danny. What’s up?”

“I’m hearing Emporio Armani is eyeballing you for a photo shoot for their men’s underwear line.”

“You have got to be joking.” David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo had done it, but footballers and hockey players were different animals.

“They like what they’ve seen in
People
and
Sports Illustrated
. This is why you need me, you know. These companies will be flocking to you for modeling gigs. You’re what, only twenty-six next month? Besides, I heard about your ESPN shoot. No problem showing off your dick to the crew, huh? Dolce & Gabbana should be in touch any day.”

He snorted. “I don’t care who sees my dick. I’m European. I have no shame.” He pushed the door open and proceeded to his teakettle. You could take the boy out of Russia…“But why me?”

“Why you? When did you get so goddamned modest? Listen, you know I’m a happily married man, but I’m just saying, if I was gay, I wouldn’t throw you out of my bed.”

Alex laughed and not because he was supposed to, though he feared he might crack open. His scar would split in half and bisect his entire face, revealing the terrible thing dwelling beneath.

“Anyway, this isn’t even why I called. I got a request from someone representing the family of a boy with a medulloblastoma.”

“A what?”

“A malignant brain tumor.”

“Oh.” The cup of Russian Caravan had lost its importance.

“Anyway, he’s a huge fan, but he’s taken a turn for the worse. The cancer was caught late to begin with, and it’s spread. They’re not sure he’ll make it to the end of the month. I know you’re on bed rest, but can you get out there?”

Out there.
“You mean…Buffalo.”

It was better if she didn’t know.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No problem. Let me pack and get some stuff together for him. I’ll catch a flight tonight and meet the family in the morning.”

A keyboard clacked in the background. “Excellent. I’m emailing you all the info now.”

“Danny, when I get back, I need to talk to you about something.”

“You sound serious, kiddo. Everything okay?”

“I think it will be, but some stuff has happened recently, and you should know.”

“Yeah, we’ll talk for sure. Call me when you get home, all right?”

“Will do.”

Alex booked a flight and a room so he could grab at least a few hours’ sleep. He hopped into the closet with his overnight bag and tossed in a polo shirt and a pair of jeans on top of his socks and underwear. Stored in boxes in the back of the closet lay all the merchandise he’d acquired as both a Gladiator and an Earthquake. Bobbleheads, jerseys, photos, player pucks with his face on them, anything onto which they could slap his name or image. He picked one of each, all Gladiators. In the guest room, he signed each of them and stuffed them into the bag. He’d done plenty of charity work with both teams, had spent time with sick kids. They were expected to at least once a week. This was, however, the first request from Buffalo since his trade.

His brain unleashed a deluge of unwelcome intrusions. He took one pill from each prescription he’d gotten filled on the way home and decided he had time for a cup of tea after all.

What if he ran into her? Buffalo was a small city. He wasn’t hard to spot.

He blew out a breath. He wasn’t ready. The tape holding him together was already losing its adhesion. She would not be prepared to see him like this. Brittle, broken. Not the man she’d loved, and a man he despised.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Stephanie

Whether Stephanie’s mother was overmedicated or had ceased to care about anything sometime after the divorce, the result was the same. “Your father died this morning,” she informed Stephanie in a dull voice. The call did not go on much longer.

She dialed the number Matt had given her if she needed to call. She waited for the tears to come. They did not.

“Matt. Hi. I know it’s early there. I’m sorry.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Listen, I’ll handle the funeral and the house. Get here when you can.”

“Are you sure, Steph? Can you have Alex meet you there or something?”

“Um…” She sniffed. Now the tears, for the altogether wrong reason. “No.”

“Oh God. That’s why you left Seattle, isn’t it? I figured you just got a better job—”

“It’s fine, Matt. It’s been three months. I’m just having a hard time letting go. Again.” She wiped her eyes.

“Steph, you know you didn’t do anything to deserve what Dad did, right? It wasn’t your fault.”

Difficult to believe while your father was manhandling you in more ways than one. When in your most formative years you had been assured you would never amount to anything and had better find a man to take care of you, except you would never find that, either, because no man wanted a woman who looked and acted like a dyke. “Thanks, Matt.”

“I’m going to let my supervisor know I have a family emergency, and I’ll try to get the next flight out. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too, sis.”

She called to arrange for removal of her father’s body from the hospital and to pick up his belongings. The rest—the real estate agent, the haul-away of the house’s contents, the funeral arrangements—would have to wait until she arrived. She booked the next flight to LA, which gave her a few hours to pack and get to the airport. Seven hours in the air. Too much time to think, and not just about Dad. Memories linked by inextricable woe. The two men whose betrayals of her cut too deep to heal, whether she forgave them or not.

She tried to sleep, and when that didn’t work, she took advantage of the airline’s Wi-Fi. The trade deadline had passed a month ago, and playoffs began in a week. The Gladiators had squeaked into a wild-card spot, perhaps only to prove they were still a playoff-caliber team despite the glaring hole in their offense and leadership group. No one expected them to make it past the first round. The Earthquakes, meanwhile, had been unable to rebound from the loss of Alex. They had gone into freefall in January and ended the season with the second-worst record in the league. They’d get great draft picks, but Coach’s job was on the line and so was the GM’s. She could almost picture Alex sitting in his room, cackling and rubbing his hands together like some silent-film villain, continuing to manipulate the Earthquakes’ future behind the scenes. Spreading his misery around.

Until the headline on every sports website rammed her heart into her throat.
‘Hockey Star Aleksandr Volynsky Spotted Leaving Hospital’
,
and a single horrid picture of him on crutches, with a bandaged arm and hand, several days of beard growth, and a haunted, distant look in his eyes.

Seattle Earthquakes’ left-winger Aleksandr Volynsky emerged from Swedish Medical Center last Friday, though sources have been unable to confirm the cause of his stay. The twenty-five-year-old superstar, recovering from a career-threatening injury, appeared haggard as he left the hospital alone and entered a cab.

Seattle Earthquakes management has not issued a statement nor responded to rumors that Volynsky was under psychiatric care, though accusations of substance abuse have dogged Volynsky for several years. Hospital officials refuse to offer any information, citing HIPAA laws, fueling further speculation that Volynsky was seeking treatment for alcohol addiction.

“Fucking vultures,” she muttered.
Of course he wouldn’t tell her. She had forfeited her right to that information, to show concern after she had chosen to walk away. Caring was easy from a distance. She had to invest nothing.
But for the rest of the flight, she kept the phone in her hand, heartsick that they’d already grown so far apart he did not want her to know he might need her.

***

Aleksandr

“Fuck.
Fuck!
Why the fuck is this all over the internet?” Alex paced the kitchen, as best as one could with a walking boot, waiting for his tea to brew. He needed more than tea. He needed a goddamned drink, but that was no longer an option.

“Because you’re Aleksandr Volynsky. Listen, we’ve done everything we can to keep this out of the news, but someone saw you leaving the hospital. You know these scumbags. They get a scoop and they’re hiding out in the bushes. No one knows why you were there.”

“
Yob tvoyu mat′!
Jacob, I have to fix this!” Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “Ah,
govno
. What the fuck am I going to do?”

“Best thing to do, in my opinion? Nothing. Do not engage. For all they know, you were visiting someone. Doing charity work. It’s all speculation on their part.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“You’ve spent your whole career dealing with the media, with the intrusions into your life. You know what they want. Don’t give it to them. Lay low. Do your weekly social media updates like you have been and don’t even mention it. Make them question whether it was even you they saw.”

“I’m a six-foot-five Russian on crutches. There’s no mistaking me for anyone else.”

“Fine. Still, my previous point remains. They have no idea why you were there, so fuck ’em. You let it go, the whole thing dies in a couple of days. So calm down, all right? You think she saw it, don’t you?”

Alex slumped against the counter. “She’ll hate me, Jacob. If there was any chance for us, I blew it.”

“You don’t know that until you talk to her. So get your shit together and get your ass out there, okay?”

“Thanks, Jacob. For everything.”

“You’re gonna be okay, Sasha.”

He thought, in a brief and strange moment of reflection, that might be true. Someday.

***

Stephanie

Stephanie parked the rental car on the street and walked through the front gate up the concrete steps to her father’s Craftsman in Montecito Heights. Her mother had not asked for the house in the divorce. She located the spare key under a decorative rock beside the steps and let herself into the small living room. A white-brick fireplace dominated the space, which flowed into the dining room. Three of the bedrooms, including Stephanie’s old one, were located on that floor as well. The master bedroom, main bathroom, and office were downstairs. Beyond the kitchen’s French doors lay the fenced-in yard and the graves of the few pets she’d had as a child until, faced with another animal’s death on her conscience when it had annoyed her father enough—neck snapped, shot with his Glock 19—she’d chosen loneliness.

She surveyed the bedroom in which she’d grown up. The same full-size bed with the red duvet and pillowcases, the same embossed glass table lamp, the posters on the walls, and the relics of a child she’d ceased to be at seventeen. The LED chandelier above the bed, the tubes of which created an effect like fireflies winking on and off in the darkness. The only light source that first time after the prom, when her parents had gone away for the weekend to try salvaging their marriage and she had invited Alex over. He’d told his host family he was staying with a friend from the hockey team. They had neglected to ask which one.

That was when it must have happened. How stupid had they been to think she wouldn’t get pregnant? Or too in love to consider the consequences.

They’d gotten out of bed only to eat and use the bathroom. In their underwear, they cooked simple things, grilled cheese sandwiches or frozen pizza, whatever didn’t take too much time away from exploring each other. Alex was learning how to pace himself. And, being seventeen-year-old athletes, they’d had all the stamina in the world. Their bodies conveyed everything Alex, especially, found difficult to do with words.

Stephanie flopped onto the bed and dug out the card from her bag. The edges were starting to wear and rub away. She’d meant to put it in the wooden memory box she’d bought after the first day of school her junior year. The one she had vowed to throw away or burn or something, and with it every memento of Alex.

Thank you for making my wishes come true.

She hadn’t responded to either his birthday card or his note. She had avoided all contact since his last phone call, when she’d dropped the bomb she had moved away. He ought to know what had happened, though. Let him revel in it. She pulled out her phone to text him.

Stephanie: Dad died this morning
.
In LA now.

Minutes ticked by. She couldn’t hold it against him if he chose not to respond.

Alex: Are you ok?

She was not okay, not by a long shot, the reasons so mixed up in her head she grew dizzy.

Stephanie: I don’t know. Taking care of house and funeral. Too busy to think about it yet.

Alex: I’m sorry you have to go thru this.

No matter how she longed for his voice, she wouldn’t call. Being in her father’s house churned up too many bad memories that did not need further resuscitation. A hornet’s nest of them already whirred around in her head.

Stephanie:
Are you doing ok?

A longer hesitation preceded his response, though Alex was rarely without words. Maybe he didn’t feel like texting. Her, in particular. How many times did she have to play knife to his wound before he grew tired of bleeding?

Alex: A lot happening right now. Mostly not good. Personal stuff.

“Personal stuff.” What did that mean?

Alex: Gotta go. Flight is about to board.

Stephanie: Thought you were on bed rest.

Alex: Sick fan in Buffalo. Was worried I might run into you.

Stephanie: Worried?

Alex: Wrong word. Scared? But you’re in LA anyway. Take care Steph.

He was going to be in town, and he’d planned to avoid her. Not even a polite chat over coffee. It didn’t matter she was in LA; he hadn’t known until then.

He’d have some time on the plane before takeoff. If he answered. Prompted by unease, she took a deep breath and tapped the icon. Her insides churned. The room spun. The phone rang three times before a tentative “hello?” greeted her.

The words hitched in her throat. Tears splashed her cheeks.

“Stephanie?”

“I’m sorry, Alex, I—”

“Are you crying?” His voice was that of someone barely maintaining. His accent had thickened, as though speaking English was too great an endeavor to sustain much longer.

“I just…You didn’t sound all right, and I…”

A deep, sad sigh. “I can’t talk about it right now. And you don’t sound ready to talk, either.”

“Why were you in the hospital?”

“I have to go. We’re about to take off. I’ll be back in Seattle on Wednesday morning, if…Well, maybe it’s best we don’t. For now.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked, though she wasn’t sure for what. Everything, maybe.

“Steph, I am so ashamed of the things I said to you. Of so many things. I-I’m not ready for this. I thought I would be, but…”

She pressed a hand to her mouth before her whimpers became full-blown sobs.

He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry,
milaya
.
Do svidaniya.
”

Please
,
please don’t hang up.
But she had lost the ability to speak.

She dropped the now-silent phone on the bed and seized the lamp on the dresser, yanked until the plug sparked and popped free of the outlet before she hurled it with a scream against the door. How dare her father die without giving her the opportunity to vent her rage, to hurt him the way he had hurt her with words that left permanent bruises on the inside? And how dare Alex rebuff her again after all he had said and done?

The colored glass exploded into dozens of shards and left a cavity in the wood. And Stephanie, clutching at her hair, sank to the floor in a howling, breathless heap.