The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (17 page)

PART 2 - WATER

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”

Ernest Hemingway ~
A Farewell To Arms

CHAPTER TWELVE

Heartbreak Hotel -LINC

Two months in LA does nothing in solving my headaches. They just keep getting worse. I give up on the idea of forgoing medication—going it alone—and start popping pills more frequently in a fervent search at experiencing some kind of relief from the painful pressure that continuously swirls through my head. Plus, no matter how much water I drink down, the raging thirst still plagues me.

Beau Wilson’s baseball camp only confirms everyone’s worst fear—I’ve lost my edge. Now, we’re all intent on me getting it back.
It is our only focus.

Kimberley’s familiar stilettos can be heard along the linoleum floor as she stalks down the hallway toward my room. She never walks. Not that one. I knew she’d be flying in sometime today. I shouldn’t be surprised she got to Beau Wilson’s camp so fast after her phone call to one of my coaches as soon as she landed at LAX.

Her dolled-up self appears in the my doorway within seconds.

I was supposed to be resting and then expected to go at it again in a couple of hours, but all I’ve done is lay here and contemplate how fucked-up everything is. So Kimberley Powers is a welcome sight because the past eight weeks have been hell. Maybe she can figure all of this out for me.

After all, that’s what friends are for.

“I saw the tail end of your session. Your fastball isn’t fast and your slider is M-I-A.” She gets this vexed look as her lips clamp down in a thin line and she is definitely not happy

She’s worried.

Everyone’s worried.

Welcome to the fucking club.

“But the food’s great here. Thanks for the recap. Anything else?”

I don’t attempt to be charming. Right now, I save every ounce of enthusiasm I can find for appearing positive and completely open to the constant flow of suggestions and just super fantastic advice that everyone else who has been here with me for the past two months has thrown my way.

Kimberley just got here. Some part of me resents her for the late arrival. Where the hell has she been all these weeks while I’ve suffered with overly helpful coaching from just about everyone but the maid around here?

It’s not fair that I resent her for having a life outside of the dark abyss I find myself in. But I can’t throw a baseball. So who cares how she feels?

I can’t throw a baseball.

Where the hell does that leave me?

Nowhere.

The futility tears me up inside where no one can see it.
Failing.
One of my biggest fears seems intent on staying around a long time.
I can’t throw a baseball. Now what?

The contents from my stomach starts to rear up in my throat as the fear gets unleashed.
Holy shit. I can’t throw a baseball.
I sit up quickly to stave off the nausea swinging my feet to the floor.
Steady.
Nap time is clearly over in this little league baseball of a place. No matter that the rest did absolutely nothing for me.

My head still pounds. The pain never rests, not for one second. It’s just this dull ache designated to follow me around wherever I go.

Frustrated, I grab the nearest glass of water, brush the little white pills I set up earlier into my hand, and pop them directly into my mouth before Kimberley has a chance to say something about it.

“Shouldn’t you take it easy on those?” She gets the concerned sisterly look I know too well. Her mouth draws in further at the corners as she eyes the half-empty pill bottle and seems to do an automatic count on how many I’ve taken. Her ever watchful green eyes narrow in on my face and begin to judge me like everyone else does around here.

I glare back at her, hold up my finger and gulp more water to avoid a word exchange for another minute or two. “Back off, Kimmy,” I finally say wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She doesn’t like to be called Kimmy by anyone other than a select few of her closest friends, but I ignore her warning glance and go on. “Besides, they just take the edge off. Nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah. Tell that to the subculture of addicts across America who are addicted to painkillers. You need to be
careful
.”

I sigh big. “Please don’t tell me what to do. My dad is already way over the line with that shit as it is. Oh and as is the
famous Beau Wilson
.” I affect the nasally, southern accent of this place’s owner like a natural.

Kimberley actually laughs and then nods with approval of my impersonation. On my dad and Beau Wilson, we apparently agree. On the pills, probably not so much.

“Obviously, this isn’t working. I think what you need is a break from it all. The experts in baseball and even your prized medical team don’t seem to have all the answers, so I’m here to break you out of this place for the afternoon,” she says in a low voice as if we’re being watched.
Maybe we are.

“We’re going somewhere?” I whisper sounding hopeful like I’m ten or something. “You’d think I would have thought up that idea on my own.”

“Clearly you’re not thinking
clearly
.” She gets this wicked smile at her own redundant turn of phrase and then manages to look amazingly apologetic. “I’m sorry it took so long to get back here. It’s been crazy the past several weeks, and I was really hoping things would come together for you here. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. I have a direct flight to Miami tonight to meet up with Brad. We’re headed to the Caribbean through Christmas. Can you handle another couple of weeks or so before I get back to LA again? Maybe things will come together and finally get easier.”

“Nothing is coming easy. My balance is way off. I can’t even find the strike zone with my eyes open, or a flashlight.” I laugh a little. “We tried that. One night Beau had me pitching in the dark with some glow-in-the-dark baseball. Jesus Christ, Kimberley,
in the dark
. What’s that all about? It’s been a fucking nightmare.” I shake my head side-to-side. “They get these expectant looks like kids pressed up against the window of a candy store, and I wipe it from their faces with every pitch I throw.” I groan and shake my head. “I really don’t know what to do anymore. It’s all fucked up.”

“Where’s your cell phone by the way?” Kimberley asks rolling her eyes at my obvious feel-sorry-for-me speech.

“On the charger. Over there.” I point to the far wall. “My battery ran out. My voicemail is full; I haven’t checked it…in weeks.”

I haven’t checked it since my life went to shit.

I don’t share this with Kimberley.

I don’t fucking care.

“Which explains why you haven’t answered
any
of my calls. No wonder I had to call the field coach.” She shoots me another dirty look.

“You’re resourceful. You figured it out. Look, I’ve been too busy trying to remember how to pitch a baseball and resuscitate my dying career. The hand-wringing around here is mind boggling, and it gets worse with every workout. If I could remember anything, maybe everything would come together for me again, but my brain hurts from trying to remember any of it.”

Kimberley looks sympathetic for about all of ten seconds then she’s shaking her finger at me. “You’re kind of whining, Linc. It’s really
not
attractive. Maybe what you actually need to do is stop trying so hard and focus on something else besides baseball.”

I glance up. “What, did you just say?”

“I said stop trying so hard and focus on something else besides baseball.”

“Kimmy, I say this with as much love as I can muster, fuck off. I’ve got this. On my own. I don’t need you here giving me advice about how many pills I take or when I take them or how to throw a baseball. Back off!”

My headache worsens. I get up and start pacing hoping the movement will cause a different outcome.

Maybe I do need to focus on something else besides baseball. But why would I do that? What else is there?

That girl at the hospital the last night I was there said this too, but why? Why did she say it? And where did she go?
Miss Vanilla and Cloves
disappeared.

Then I checked out.

The headaches continue to rage. Baseball seems to have deserted me. And drugs are good. The summation of my life’s existence right now.

“You okay?” Kimberley’s frowning at me.

My little speech has pissed her off. The weird thing is I do not care. I do not fucking care.

“Never better.”

I stop pacing trying to recall that girl’s face but it fades away from me. The drug starts to kick in. It feels like I’ve drunk about five beers in quick succession. Something I normally would never do, but when the drug kicks in like this, the pain goes away for a little while. I nod at Kimberley even though she hasn’t said anything.

“You sure you’re okay?” Kimberley asks for the what must be the fifth time.

I fill up my glass with more water and drink it down. “Never better.”

My problems with baseball float away from me. Well, everything floats way from me. I beg off from going with Kimberley and tell her I’m too tired to go out.

She looks disappointed but then I sense her relief. She has a flight to catch to the Caribbean with Brad.
She has a life.
She has a career and a free-flowing, positive cash flow.

Right now, I have none of those things. I bought a house for some unknowable reason that has tied up all my available cash. I have a life I don’t remember, and I can’t throw a baseball even if it would save my life or at the very least my career.

I have nothing.

I can’t remember my past.

I can’t fucking see my future.

The anger comes on and I wield it like a lightsaber her way. “Hey, I need to get some rest. I’ve got another practice this afternoon. Rain check. Go catch your flight. I’ll see you at the end of the month. Maybe we can do New Year’s together or something.”

“Are you sure?” She stands in the doorway looking more uncertain and not used to being dismissed like this and definitely not by me from what I
remember
.

“Never better. Stop worrying so fucking much, Kimmy. Just go. I’ve got this.”

“Call me later,” she says while her jaw works double-time.

I know she’s pissed at me for treating her this way.

I don’t care.

“Just go,” I say. “I’ve got another session this afternoon. I’ve got this. Quit with the hand-wringing.” I force myself to smile and keep my temper in check. “I’ll figure it out on my own. Just enjoy the beach and Brad. You got that, Ms. Powers? I mean,
Mrs. Stevenson
. I’ve got to remember you’re married these days. Look, just handle my publicity stuff when it comes up. No interviews for a while. Just let me concentrate on baseball and getting it all back together.”

“I’ll talk to Brad.”

“Yeah,
do
that. Talk to Brad. I’m sure he has
all
the answers.”

“He probably does,” she says knowingly. “Okay, I’ll go. I’ll call you as soon as we land in Miami.”

“No. I got this. Enjoy yourself. Call me a in a few weeks or so. I’ll be fine.” If she’s listening closely enough,
I’ll-be-fine
just became a three-syllable word for Webster’s.

Drugs are good. Drugs alter everything. And everything is good. It is all good.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Paralyzer -LINC

Amy Ransom seemed like a good idea for the first part of the evening. I’d borrowed the keys to my dad’s Range Rover after another disappointing pitching session and decided I’d had enough of Beau Wilson’s brand of baseball and my dad. I lied and told them all I had a physical therapy appointment. I was actually supposed to meet with my speech therapist, the LA one, who seemed to have the only good ideas on how to get my life back on track as it relates to memory strategies, but I blew her off too.