Don't Read in the Closet volume one (9 page)

Corry shrugged
his shoulders, hunched into his coat against the rain. “Kid, everybody wants
something.”

Jesse grabbed
his gear out of the back seat of his car, changed in the bathroom at the park,
then
started a slow loop on the dirt path. He liked to run
on dirt. He liked the way dirt felt under his feet, warm and easy. At mile one
he put a little more juice into it, waited for the smooth slide of heat into
his muscles, the heat he felt when the blood was pumping strong and all the
pistons were firing. His body was a perfectly functioning machine, kept in
prime condition through hard work, enough sleep, healthy food, and sheer bloody
force of will. Anything less than complete perfection was unacceptable, because
only physical perfection, combined with 200% effort and a smidgeon of good luck
could keep him on top. And he was on top, the undisputed heavyweight champion
of the world. He had another four months to keep it,
then
he’d have to earn it again.

He could feel
it now, heat moving into his thighs, the flush of sweat against his chest, and
he welcomed the cool spring rain against his skin. Just for now, he was as good
as he could be. He would see what this new PT had to say, and then he would
decide if he was going to fight for his title, fight and maybe lose, fight and
get another scar on his brain, or give it up. Give it up, and then what? He
couldn’t even imagine what the rest of his life would look like. Life after
boxing? Impossible. If he ever pictured it, he pictured himself with gray hair,
wearing a cardigan sweater and loose corduroy trousers, maybe bent a little
with arthritis. Reading glasses on his nose.

He was thirty.
Too young to retire and relinquish the title. What was he supposed to do
between thirty and that far-off old man? But the surgeon said there was a scar
on his brain. He’d seen the old boxers hit one time too many, punch drunk,
weaving when they walked like they were on the second day of a three day
bender. No boxer came out of a long career without being hit a couple of times
too many in the face, without a little brain damage. Except current IBF
Heavyweight Champion Triple J Jones, who was known for never taking a fist to
the face—until the sucker-punch to his right eye that had detached the retina
and tore something in his brain.

The Ukrainian
shit-bird who had slipped a punch in under his guard had paid for the crime.
Triple J had
beat
him to a pulp. Jesse knew the guy
wasn’t a match for him, had never been a match for him. He was scrawny, covered
in scars and tattoos, with Soviet stainless steel holding his teeth together.
Just for a moment, at the beginning of the fight, Jesse felt for the guy, so
badly outmatched, and that was the very moment he had thrown the dirty punch.

Corry hadn’t
said anything, but he knew exactly what had happened. When Jesse had come out
of the hospital, he pulled him into the gym, and they sat together on the edge
of the ring. The old gym smelled like foot powder and sweat and the coppery
tinge of blood. “Jesse, comes the time you lose the taste for spilling somebody
else’s blood, you bow out, understand? Don’t let them take it away from you
because you’ve gone soft inside.” He slapped a hand across Jesse’s chest, felt
the muscles hard and smooth as marble. “When you don’t want it anymore, you
give it up. Nobody will look down on you, not after the career you’ve had. Not
unless you start giving it away in the ring.” But that was before he had
started falling, before he started walking into walls, before the world under
his feet started tilting and tossing him on his ass.

Did he still
want it? Oh, hell yeah. He could feel the craving coming up his throat, a flush
of need and want so strong he had to force the feeling down into his chest with
a grunt so he wouldn’t howl like a dog. It was winning. That was all. They
could talk all day about why they did it, but that was just the PR circus. They
did it to win.

A long run, a
couple of hours in the gym working with the bags, and a cool shower, and Jesse
felt like he was ready to take on the world. He pulled on the pants to a track
suit and a tee shirt, ignored his strange craving for French fries, and drove
to the Elks Rehab hospital.

He was directed
to the Balance Disorder Center, a bright, glass-walled room with exercise
equipment, big plastic balls in primary colors, and a mirror along one wall.
There was a man wearing scrubs lifting a stack of blue yoga mats, carrying them
to the corner. A class filed out the door past Jesse, twelve pudgy, elderly men
and women with the hungry look of people who had recently been put on low salt
diets. A couple of them were using canes, and one had a definite list to the
left. He was in the right place.

“Can I help
you?”

The guy was
wearing a badge on his scrub top, but Jesse didn’t look at it. He couldn’t
really look past the blue eyes. Silky black hair fell down over his forehead, a
sweet, straight nose, pretty curved mouth. And those blue eyes smiled up at
him. “I’ve got an appointment at four.”

“Oh, right! The
neurosurgeon called.”

“Dr. Shits.”

The guy laughed
out loud. “Um, that would be Dr. Shutes. Come on in.” He sat down at a desk in
the corner of the big room, gestured Jesse toward one of the chairs. “What can
I do for you?”

He was taken
aback. “Didn’t he tell you what I needed?”

“Yeah, but I’d
like to hear it from you first. What you think is going on and what your main
concern is. What you’re hoping to get from this.”

Jesse looked
around at the glass room. It looked like a giant, very clean kids’ playroom.
Those people who had just left, they looked like they’d had strokes. What was
he doing in this place? “Listen, I don’t think this is gonna work. I’m not….”

“You’re having
balance problems.”

“I fall over.
For no reason. I’ll be walking down the
hall,
suddenly
I’m laying against the wall.
It’s
worse when
something’s moving really fast near me—like another boxer in the ring.”

“You’re a
boxer?”

What?
This guy didn’t even know who he was?
“Yes. I’m a boxer. And I’ve got a very
important boxing match in four months. By that time, I have to stop falling
over. That’s what I’m hoping to get from this.” He could hear himself biting
off the words.

“Can’t you
cancel the match? I saw the MRI. There’s a lesion there. You don’t want another
blow to the head, my friend.”

Jesse stood up.
“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake. If I cancel the match, I’ll lose
my title. I’m the heavyweight champion. Of the world. Thanks for your time.”

He was out the
door and at the elevator when the guy caught up with him, tugged on his sleeve.
“Don’t go. I didn’t even get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Evan Walker.”

Jesse took the
hand the man was holding out to him. “Jesse James Jones. Triple J Jones.”

“Triple J
Jones, the heavyweight champion of the world. What do your friends call you?”

“Jesse.”

“Jesse, can we
try this again?”

Back in the
glass
room,
and Evan pulled his computer monitor
around so Jesse could see the screen. “Here’s your MRI. You have a copy?”

Jesse shook his
head, and Evan printed a copy and handed it to him. “Here’s the bit that matters.
It looks like you took a blow to the head that caused a tiny tear in the dura
of the brain just here.” He drew a rough sketch of a brain on the back of the
report, made a dot. “It’s not bleeding anymore. Now it’s healing, forming scar.
But if you think about the pathways of the nerves in the brain being like
highways, then scar tissue is like an overpass that’s collapsed. Nothing can go
through it.”

“How big is the
scar?”

“Looks like a
millimeter and a half.” He made a small line on the paper. “Tiny.”

“But in
proportion to the rest of the brain?”

“Okay, well,
picture those highways. This is Route 66 through Arizona. Maybe to Flagstaff.”

“Is this what’s
causing the falls?”

“Let me ask you
a couple of questions, okay? Any nausea with the episodes?” Jesse shook his
head no. “Are you dizzy, or do you just fall with no warning?”

“I fall with no
warning.”

“No visual
disturbance?”

Jesse thought
about it. “I had a detached retina that was repaired. A couple of times, I
thought the vision in that eye jittered a bit. You know what I mean? Like, with
really fast movement.”

“Huh. That’s
interesting. When you turn your head from side to side?” Jesse shook his head
no. “Any blows to the ears, punctured eardrums, hearing disturbance, ear
infections?” No again. “Okay, let’s do a Clinical Balance Assessment.”

Evan had him do
a series of postures, holding himself in position with his eyes closed and one
foot raised, or arms out to his sides. “The changes are subtle, compared to the
normal population,” he said. “It’s because you’re an athlete, and already have
such strong control over your body. But I can see what you’re talking about.
It’s not coming from the eyes or ears. It’s an alteration in proprioception.
Your body’s awareness of its position in the world. I think this is caused by
the damage to your brain.”

Jesse felt his
stomach drop down to the floor. “Does that mean there’s nothing…
.
”

Evan smiled,
and Jesse was struck by his pretty face, those clear blue eyes. Just for a
moment, he felt like he was looking into a clear mountain lake, the water just
that color blue, clear and impossibly deep, and he was falling….

Jesse caught
himself, but Evan was quicker, a strong arm around his waist holding him up. “I
can help.”

CHAPTER
TWO

“Let’s do some
body work,” Evan said. “I guess for a professional athlete, the best language
is the body. I’m used to treating people who’ve had strokes. They like to ease
into it a bit, and they’re uncomfortable with their changed bodies. I don’t
think that’s your deal. Okay, two things first. You know that the brain can
heal itself?”

Jesse frowned
at him. “No, I didn’t. I thought once you had damage to your brain, it was
there for good.”

“You usually
can’t get back to where it was before the injury, but healing does take place,
and your brain can make new connections. That’s the important point for you.
Your brain can make new connections that will take over the job of noticing
your body’s sense of its place in the world. So you can balance. No question
you’ll be able to do this. Second, have you ever studied Chinese exercise or
medicine? Tai Chi or Qigong?”

Jesse shook his
head.

“Qi is like
life energy. It’s present in everything, the earth, the sky, rocks,
living
creatures. You can harness the power of this life
energy,
use it to help yourself heal.”

They were
standing on a thin foam mat. Jesse pulled off his shoes, stood opposite Evan.
He was wondering if this Qi force was something he could use in boxing, give
him a little edge of power.

“I’m going to
put a DVD in that shows the basic moves, and you try to follow it. I’ll do the
same moves next to you. Then we’ll do some Integrative Manual Therapy, and that’ll
be enough for today. Sound good?”

Jesse studied
his face. He looked grave, like he wanted to be taken seriously. But he was a
happy guy, and his face looked like it smiled when it wasn’t laughing. Those
blue eyes, they could throw out a mean twinkle. “Is Integrative Manual Therapy
anything like a massage?”

“Not really,
but you can close your eyes and pretend if you want.” There was the grin he was
looking for. “I’m certainly planning to enjoy it. I mean, look at you! It’ll be
like working on Batman. When he’s out of the bat-suit. Stripped down to his
Clark Kent skin.”

“Clark Kent is
Superman. Batman is Bruce Wayne. You don’t know your superheroes, my friend.”

Evan just
grinned at him again, started the DVD playing. “Nope. Now let’s get your Qi
flowing.”

Jesse loved the
Qigong, the liquid movements that almost seemed like a dance. They started with
Swimming Dragon, then Dragon Pearl, and he thought he could feel the energy
between his
hands,
the Qi Evan was talking about. He
blocked everything out, concentrated on his breathing, the movements. He felt
like he was moving through clouds. When the DVD ended, Evan turned to him, a
little chagrin fighting with the smile on his face. “Have you done this
before?”