Recovering (4 page)

 
I try some Tai’ Chi to calm myself
down, but my brain is running as fast as a roided-out, supremely pissed hamster
on a wheel. After half an hour I give up on the energy flow and drown my
sorrows the old-fashioned way, with the rest of the beer in the fridge and then
the bottle of Jack I keep hidden in the back of my closet.

 It doesn’t
take much alcohol anymore before things start feeling better and the room
decides to sway, but I figure it won’t hurt anything to keep piling on the
shots. Somewhere along the way it becomes a great idea to strip down to my
boxers and sing the songs on my angel hunting soundtracks at the top of my
lungs. I holler out
Highway to Hell, This is the Danger Zone,
and
Going
the Distance
, among other classics and impress the hell out of my action
figures with my mad dance moves
.
I’m pretty sure they start cheering at
some point.

 
Later on, after the dancing, Sir
Hopsalot and I have a really powerful bro sesh. I basically pour my heart out
to him, and he is just the best listener in the world. Hands-down. Doesn’t
judge, doesn’t talk over me, doesn’t tell me to drink a protein shake. Together
we decide that it is imperative that we follow Maya in the morning and get in
on the mission despite her command. What can they do once I’m already there?

 It all seems
to make perfect, beautiful sense until I wake up the next morning on the floor
still a little drunk but mostly hung over so bad I can hardly move. Then I
remember how pathetic I am and why Maya and Tarren want me nowhere near a gun.

 Life is such
a suckfest sometimes.

***

 Sometime in
the afternoon, I finally sign into
World of Warcraft,
which I haven’t
done since I went down for the count with the whole coma shindig. My Level 80 Rogue,
Apollo, has probably started gnawing off his own leg in boredom.

Over the
years, I’ve developed some pretty tight friendships within the game, and my peeps
often let me drop into their guilds and fight the good fight even though I’m
just a part timer. I’ve practically been a ghost since last year when the angels
hit their Baby Boom and the whole secret-sister-got-turned-into-a-hybrid-angel-whoopsie-daisy
bombshell fell. My WOW buddies have all abandoned me by now, so I just walk
around and kill a few things on my own and pick up a mission or two that I’ll
probably never complete. Then, a little message pops up, alerting me that
WildStarz2346 is on.

 She and I
originally met on SecondLife a couple of years back, but the show is so over on
that site. I brought her over to WOW, and by the looks of her Night Elf Druid, she’s
not doing too bad for herself. Gotta love a girl with big…balance mojo. I find
her avatar and look at those long locks of red hair and svelte figure wrapped
in leather and knee-high boots. 

 I realize
that I want to see her. Not just in the game. I greet her the way I always do.

 
You got a
boyfriend yet?

 L
ong pause on the other end, and I try
to remember the last time I dropped in at her place. It’s been,
crap-ola
,
since before we rescued Maya. I guess in the real world that might come off as
a cold shoulder.

 
Just you
, she writes back.

 Bingo,
Yhatzee and Connect Four!

Mind if I come over?
Might as well get to the point.

 Another
pause. Me feeling more guilty about stagging her for so long.

 I’ve missed you
,
she finally
writes
.

 Me too. I can explain. I’ll be over tonight then.

 
Bring some
whipped cream
. WildStarz
can be a flirt. Must be those big blue eyes and pointed elf ears. Amanda, the
girl behind the elf, is shy as can be. Sweet though. Real sweet.  

 Conveniently,
I’m already packed. I shoulder my duffle bag, as is, and get Sir Hopsalot back
into his carrying case. I put everything into the front seat of Bubba, my Ford
F-150 and give the hood a nice slap for good luck. Bubba’s getting on in years,
and he’s lost a little paint on various misadventures, but the son-of-a-bitch
hasn’t let me down yet. As I pull out of the garage, I take a moment to look up
longingly at my lucky hat, still up in that Satan tree.

Bad idea
going to meet a girl without my lucky hat. I think about giving the tree one
more go, but dismiss it. No need for a repeat performance of yesterday’s
humiliation.

I need to get
strong again. If I were honest with myself, I’d admit I’ve been slacking off on
all the instructions Dr. Lee and Francesca left me about guzzling protein
shakes every few hours, taking a load of vitamins, and focusing on light cardio.
I stare at the hat. Really throw some eye daggers at it. Things are going to
change. I’m all in from this moment on. Ready to pack on some muscles. Woo Amanda
good and hard. Climb that motherfucking tree like a champ and start saving the
holy hell out of the world whether it wants me to or not.

***

 Bubba gets
me to Denver in a couple of hours, and I manage to pound back three protein
shakes on the way.  It’s amazing how many calories I can put down and still
look as weak and skinny as Olive Oil. I hate thinking about that or what
Amanda’s going to see when I knock on her door.

 I like to
bring her a little present every time I see her. Nothing fancy. Just a small
thank you for not changing the locks, and because I have a feeling that she
doesn’t get a lot of visitors. These times when we’re together are special for
me, but I think they’re really special to her.

 I pull into
a little flower shop and greet the shopkeeper, a tiny old lady with hair as white
and fluffy as cotton. Definitely somebody’s adorable grandma, which is my luck,
because I happen to be great with grandmas. A couple of smiles, and a few
“pleases” and “ma’ams” later, and Nancy is hopping all around the place,
pulling out flowers galore for me. She brings back this bouquet filled with
flowers I couldn’t name if my life depended on it, but they’re beautiful.
Citrus orange flowers mix with bright yellow ones and sprigs of white dance around
the sides to set it off. The price tag is $49.99.

 I haven’t
gotten around to telling Tarren yet, but we’re almost completely broke. So, I
pass on the big, beautiful bouquet and go for a handful of lilies instead for
$9.99. Nancy, my new best friend, wraps them up for me, and she does a really
good job, putting a ribbon around them and this nice clear plastic wrap. I know
she’s giving me extra even though I bought about the cheapest thing in the
store.

 While she’s
doing her magic, a man walks into the store hand-in-hand with a little girl.
The girl is stork skinny, all legs and arms topped with wild curly hair. Inside
the store, she immediately pulls out of her father’s grip and starts touching
and tugging on everything. She actually skips. It’s real cute.

 “What do you
think Mom would like?” the dad asks.

 “Uhhhhh,”
the girl says. I can’t tell kid ages at all, but she’s real young, maybe five
or six. “Everything.”

 “Everything,
huh? I don’t think we could fit everything in the car. How about you pick out
one bouquet. Whatever you think is the most beautiful.”

 I make sure
not to stare, since I’m not really looking to come off as a major creep. It’s
just that I like this. Normal people doing normal people stuff. I don’t get
much opportunity to see what the rest of the world is up to with their lives,
so when I do, I try to remember it, especially nice people like this father and
his little girl. Helps sometimes when we’re digging graves in the middle of the
night, checking into another forgettable hotel room, or putting 700 miles under
our tires in a single day.

 I lay the
flowers carefully on the front seat of the truck, pull off a leaf, and tuck it
into Sir Hopsalot’s cage for him to nibble on. Then I stop at WalGreens and buy
a bottle of whipped cream and some condoms. Ribbed for her pleasure. I’m a thoughtful
kind of guy.

 The sun is
just setting when I finally snag an empty parking spot in Amanda’s apartment
complex. I wander around a little until I find her door, the one with the
little bluebird welcome sign on the front. I give the door a solid knock and rock
back and forth on my feet while I wait. I actually feel nervous. That’s never
happened before, not with Amanda. I really am losing my touch. God I need my
lucky hat.

 “Lee!” she
cries happily as the door swings open, and it really is good to see her face
and that big nervous smile putting dimples in both cheeks. Amanda loves the
flowers. The way she cradles them, you’d think they were made out of gold or
something. Course, that’s before she notices Sir Hopsalot, and then he’s the
center of attention. My sidekick is pretty shameless about the whole cock
blocking thing too. Amanda puts him right down in her lap and strokes his fur,
and he just lets her do it. We’re definitely going to have a conversation about
proper wingman behavior at some point in the near future.

 Amanda’s shy
in person. Doesn’t need to be. She’s put on a little more weight since I saw
her last, but she’s still a pretty girl. At least I think so. Her apartment is exactly
as I left it. Same little TV sitting on the way too big media center, same
hand-me-down coffee table, same faint scent of floral perfume.

 It takes her
an hour to finally ask about my appearance, though she’s been giving me strange
eyes since I got here.

 “Cancer,” I
tell her. “Liver.”

 She actually
gasps, and a look of such horror crosses her face that it makes me
uncomfortable. “Lee, oh no!”

 “It’s okay,”
I tell her quickly, “I’m in remission. Docs are hopeful it won’t be back.
Though nothing is sure.” I tack on that last part, because who knows what could
happen in the field. Maybe I’m in the ground next month, and it’d be better if
Amanda thought cancer got me rather than that I just dropped her like last
night’s trash.

 The cancer
bit works wonders. Sir Hopsalot is left out in the cold, and now I’m the one
getting petted. I close my eyes, feel Mandy’s hands on me, and it’s real nice.

***

 Amanda sets
me up on the couch, finds season three of
Battlestar Galatica
on
Netflix, and prepares dinner. I’m not allowed to do anything. I try, but she
knows I couldn’t peel a carrot if I had a gun to my head, and since I’m a
cancer survivor, you know, I get certain bennies.

 I half watch
the show – seen ‘em all at least three times each – and half watch Amanda. The
girl is amazing, like a conductor at the center of an orchestra. Three pans sizzle
on the stove while she mixes something in a bowl and sets it down to chop up
vegetables and sprinkle spices onto a big slab of meat. She doesn’t use the
microwave, not once.

 By the time dinner
is ready, I’ve got a serious case of drool going on. The whole little apartment
smells like the kitchen of a five star restaurant, or at least what I think a
five star restaurant would smell like.  Mandy brings me over to this tiny table
stuffed in the corner of the kitchen where plates and silverware wait for us.
My lilies cluster together in a glass in the center of the table, between a
pair of mismatched candles. She’s even set out wine glasses.

 I wish she
weren’t so nervous though, thinking everything is over cooked or under cooked
or there is a little too much ginger in this or that. I have to keep assuring
her everything is fine, but it’s hard, because I’m stuffing my face like a
maniac. I’m sure it’s delicious, but chewing isn’t so much in my plans.

 I think I
gross Amanda out a little bit.

 “Cancer,” I
mumble through the food, and she breaks out the sad eyes and nods
understandably. Bless cancer.

 We watch two
more episodes of
Battlestar Galactica
. Amanda leans into me, murmuring
how cool it is that my name is Lee, just like the brave, suave, muscled CAG on
the show. Ironic indeed.

 We go to the
bedroom after that. Course I have to run right back out again, because I forgot
the whipped cream in the truck. When I bring it in, Amanda laughs all high and
nervous. Toes are her thing, so I take off her socks, put a dollop of whip
cream on each digit and then suck it off. That really gets her. She throws her
head back and starts groaning. I kiss the tops of her feet and the little bony
bump at her ankles.

 I think
about Francesca, like I always do right before I have sex with Amanda or the
other girls that I’ve picked up in bars and other places around the country.
But I’m not with Francesca tonight. I’m with Amanda. I take Francesca by her
small, warm hands and lead her to the back of my mind. I put her in a lavish
bedroom and lay her out on one of those heart shaped beds with crimson silk
sheets. I leave her a bottle of wine and make sure the Jacuzzi in the center of
the room is going, and then I close the door. I’ll come back another night when
I’m lonely and when it’s not so painful thinking of her taking care of me when
I was in a coma.

 Amanda puts
her hands through my hair.