Wesley checked every door at least three times to make sure they were locked. Each window, too. He even triple checked internal camera alerts to make sure no one had entered when he’d taken the trash out. Nothing. The winter storm continued to rage outside. No way anybody would stay out in it. They’d be lucky they didn’t get lost going back wherever they’d come from, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be stupid enough to knock on his door.
He went from room to room and closed all the blinds. No reason to let anyone see in, not when he could see out through the cameras. Not that he could see very far with the snow coming down like it was, but he could see enough.
What to do… What to do…
Think this out logically.
Call the police? And explain what? That he’d found a set of footprints behind his own and never heard anybody there? Sounded a bit like a solid argument for them thinking he casually took drugs before bed. What proof did he have? He hadn’t actually seen an intruder. The lights hadn’t detected motion, and the blizzard just covered up whatever evidence might be there. Super. Fucking super.
Okay, so, what if he simply called in a report about a trespasser being on his property? They’d file an official report with his name on it, and then guess who’d probably receive a telephone call when Wesley’s name appeared during a search? His uncle. Exactly. No good with that either.
Had he imagined it? No way. He knew he could trust his eyes, and his eyes saw a second set of tracks. Not animal prints either. He also hadn’t followed a set of footprints down to the road. The cameras would have caught a critter walking along there, and there hadn’t been any alerts.
At least not earlier.
The lights hadn’t turned on. Why? A glitch? They should have tracked him to the road. The cameras should have tracked him, too, provided they still had power.
Wesley sat down at the computer desk and clicked on one of the desktop icons to take him to the camera website. All footage shot on the cameras remained there for thirty days unless he deleted it. He also had the option of keeping a certain amount of footage in case he ever needed it. He simply had to check what, if anything, the cameras caught.
UNABLE TO ACCESS WEBSITE. CHECK YOUR INTERNET CONNECTION.
The internet was down.
Super. Batting a thousand tonight.
He hated to admit it, but Wesley strongly considered taking a Xanax his doctor back home had prescribed after his mother’s passing and his uncle’s hostilities. The medication would certainly calm him down, but did he really want to risk not being as alert with the possibility of someone still on his property? Probably not.
Instead, he put the kettle on and made himself a cup of hot chocolate, added some marshmallows, and, while the drink cooled down, took a hot shower with the bathroom door wide open. No way would he take any chances not catching someone walking around the inside of the house—his house—even if all the goddamn alarms were on.
Wesley opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas. There, in the front right corner of the drawer, sat a tiny music box. It was in the shape of an old-time gramophone, and there used to be a plastic elbow and horn on top that had long broken off. The box still worked, though. It still played its song. The music box was the one thing he’d been given in memory of GammaGamma. What was it doing there? Hadn’t he packed it on one of boxes marked “Private” still in the garage?
Memories.
He used to play the music box as a child before she passed, and he pulled it out every so often after, too. Always in memory of her, and hearing the music never failed to bring tears to his eyes.
He hadn’t packed the keepsake in with clothes, had he? Wesley felt certain he’d never have made that kind of mistake, not after having gone through his mother’s and grandmother’s things so meticulously.
How odd he’d come upon the box again this night. How odd when he searched for one thing, he’d found another. How odd, especially after seeing those tracks, tracks similar to those GammaGamma would have made behind him like she did when he used to walk with her.
Wesley picked the music box up, felt underneath for the key, and wound it. The Love Theme from Romeo & Juliet sounded throughout the room, and, as always, he felt the tears start falling from his eyes.
“GammaGamma.”
* * * * *
Sleep didn’t come to Wesley until after 3 a.m. That’s when the storm apparently tapered off. The wind stopped blowing, and he imagined the wildlife must have breathed a sigh of relief. Being in the new house didn’t unnerve him so much overall. He was, after all, in his own bed, using his own sheets, in his own clothes and sleeping on his own pillow. Familiarity surrounded him on all sides. Correction. Familiarity surrounded him inside the walls. Outside remained a very different story.
Had someone tried to mess with him, whispering his name? Did his uncle already know where he’d moved? Had his uncle known all along? If someone really had been outside several hours earlier, Wesley secretly hoped the bastard slid on his ass or got lost getting back to wherever they parked their vehicle. Served them right.
He slept a bit, woke up, and glanced over at his clock. 4:04 a.m. There’d be no way he’d get a decent amount of rest, and he could always take a nap later, so why not rouse himself now and make some tea? Plus, he could check to see if the internet was working again so he could check the camera footage.
Gotta see it.
Wesley sat up, swung his legs over onto the floor, stood, and fell right onto the carpet.
Pain!
A stitch in his left side. A hell of a stitch in his left side. Had he injured himself last night and didn’t realize it? He hadn’t fallen, hadn’t slipped, and he also hadn’t slept on just one side of his body last night.
Wesley used the nightstand and the bed to pull himself up, then wobbled to the toilet. The stupid stitch didn’t want to relent, so he figured sitting down might help.
It didn’t.
He tried to pee, only he broke out in a cold sweat instead. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and sitting absolutely wasn’t helping. In fact, the longer he sat, the worse the pain grew.
Wesley stumbled back into the bedroom, put his clothes from the previous night back on, grabbed his cell phone and wallet, and headed out to the living room. Winter coat, gloves, and keys came next, and then he pushed the remote start on the Jeep. Might as well get the heat going now.
His stomach lurched, probably on overload from the pain, and Wesley grabbed the small garbage can close to the door. He barely managed to lift it to his face when he heaved. Very little remained in his stomach from the previous eight hours, but he managed to bring up a few things. Vomiting actually felt better than the pain in his side, and it even managed to dull the agony for a moment.
Wesley grabbed the can and figured he ought to bring it with him just in case. No sense in making a mess all over himself or the inside of his new used vehicle if he didn’t have to. Except…where was he going?
He thumbed the bottom of his phone and swiped for Google Assistant. The internet may still be down, but he at least got a mobile signal from Canada.
“Nearest hospital.”
“Nearest hospital is twenty-four miles away.”
“Fuck.” He touched the “START” button on the screen, slipped his boots on, and stumbled out to the Jeep with the trash can.
How he cleaned off enough of the vehicle, he’d never know. All-wheel drive for getting out to the road might just be the greatest invention since sliced bread.
Twenty-four miles. Twenty-four excruciating, fucking miles. Wesley didn’t have a clue how the hell he managed to do it, but he drove. There was no comfortable position for him no matter how he maneuvered. The stitch in his side radiated the most intense pain he’d ever felt, and that was honestly saying something. There were moments if he could have stopped the vehicle and ripped into his side with his bare fingers, he’d have done it. Screaming at the top of his lungs helped a little. Fortunately, he didn’t vomit again, though that might have lessened the agony for thirty seconds of welcome relief.
If anything could be said to be good about waking up in pain, it was waking at the time Wesley had and the fact there were very few cars in the hospital parking lot. That meant he had a very good chance of being seen quickly and given some fucking pain medication!
Luck ended at the parking lot. He lumbered through the emergency room entrance, clutched his side, and scanned for the registration desk. A nurse appeared to be helping a patient into another room, probably triage. That left one person standing in front of him, someone considerably older looking, and who managed to stand straight and appear not to be in any pain.
Wesley stumbled over to the older man. “Do…do you mind if I go in front of you? I…I’m really in pain.”
“Yes, I mind!” The man tapped his finger on the desk, annunciating every word he spoke. “I was here first.”
Wesley glared. “Why are you here?”
“I haven’t shit in three days,” the older man announced.
Another wave of pain emanated from Wesley’s side, and he nearly collapsed. No, this wasn’t going well. “How old are you?”
“I’m ninety-two years old.”
Stars clouded Wesley’s vision. “You…you’ve shit enough.” He passed out.
* * * * *
Unconsciousness helped. If only they’d been able to keep Wesley unconscious until whatever was wrong with him passed. He woke in a small, private room, still part of the emergency room area. Someone had found his wallet, used it to start the registration process, and then returned it to him once he was awake again. A nurse came in and immediately started with questions he was more than happy to answer. The conversation naturally ended with “A doctor will be in to see you shortly."
Of course the staff had to tell patients that. Words like those gave people hope. The unfortunate truth was that nothing in a hospital ever, ever worked that fast. Ever. Wesley knew. He’d seen it. He’d even said those words to someone or multiple someones during his time working in the hospital back home. They were the lie few people bitched about because nobody wanted to piss a doctor off once they did appear. Patients wanted relief! He wanted relief.
Wesley turned over onto his other side and faced the wall. No matter how much he moved, turned over, sat, laid down…whatever, he couldn’t stay that way for more than a couple of seconds before the pain became unbearable. Nothing helped. Nothing numbed it. Nothing stopped its assault on his body. What the fuck was wrong with him?
The door opened, and he heard footsteps enter the room. He immediately forced himself to stop moving.
Breathe through it. Don’t show pain.
“Mister Taylor? I’m Doctor Matsuda.”
Wesley winced and tried to steady his voice. “It’s Traylor. It’s not a typo.”
“My apologies. I understand you made quite an entrance this morning.” Dr. Matsuda chuckled. “Did you really tell Mister Tyner he’s pooped enough during his ninety-two years?”
“I might have.” Wesley’s side screamed bloody murder at him. He rolled over, tried to find a more comfortable position—extremely unlikely—and faced the doctor. As MDs went, this one looked a little young, at least a couple of years younger than himself. Clearly Asian, hence the last name. Japanese. Had an odd cowlick or two that caused his hair to stand on end in slightly different directions which, given different circumstances, might actually be charming. Warm eyes and a warm smile, too, which probably put patients at ease. Others probably found the man handsome. Others, not Wesley, of course.
“Based on what you described to the nurse, it sounds like you might have”—Dr. Matsuda glanced at Wesley—“green eyes.”
Had they already given Wesley pain medication in his IV without his knowing it that suddenly kicked in and made him a bit loopy?
“What?”
“Sorry.” The doctor frowned, yet continued eyeing him. “Ha…have we met before?”
Wesley winced again. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m having the weirdest sense of déjà vu.” The man shook his head.
“I’m new to the area.” Wesley turned over onto his back. Another second of dulled agony that wouldn’t last.
Dr. Matsuda cleared his throat. “Well, it sounds like you have a kidney stone, but we’re going to take an x-ray just to make sure. I understand you drove yourself here?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone who you want us to reach out to while you’re here?”
That’s the last thing I need. I’ll take the pain before he ever reaches out to someone who knows me.
“Why?” Wesley flinched as another wave of pain ripped through his side. “Do that many people not make it out of here alive from a kidney stone?”
“No. They make it out of here just fine.” The doctor glanced down at a folder in his hands. “I just happened to notice there’s no emergency contact listed.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Wife? Husband? Friend? Neighbor? Family member? Any significant other at all?”
No more questions. Just relief. Please…
“What are you? A dating app?” Wesley snapped.
Dr. Matsuda glanced up from the folder. “Just being thorough.”
“No. No husband. No boyfriend. No significant other.” Had he missed anything? Maybe he needed to clarify anyway. “No anything, okay? I don’t get involved with people.”
“Okay. Fair enough.” Dr. Matsuda poked his head outside, then returned. “Transport hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Anything else?”
“I do have a couple more questions.” The man took a pen out of his coat pocket.
Wesley twisted over onto his stomach and still couldn’t get comfortable. He honestly had no idea which pain felt worse at that point, the probable kidney stone or the doctor’s company.
“Are you taking any prescription or over-the-counter medications?”
“No.”
The doctor scribbled something down. “Any allergies?”
“The usual outdoor things like grass and hay, but no allergies to any medications.”
Scribble. “Food allergies?”
“Not sure if it’s a food allergy, but coconut makes me projectile vomit.”
Another scribble. “Really?”
“Even the smell of it.” Wesley turned over onto his side again.
“Any allergies to medication?”
“I get a little loopy with anesthesia.” Wesley cringed. Bit of an understatement that.
Scribble. “Please define loopy.”
“I just…say things.” He sighed. Things he shouldn’t say. Things he would never admit to. Like the time he’d been put under when he had his wisdom teeth removed as a teenager. Wesley woke and apparently came out to everyone in the room by stating in some detail what he’d like the cute male dental assistant to do to him…repeatedly. If his parents ever wondered why he didn’t date girls before that afternoon, they didn’t have to wonder about it after.
Scribble. “Do you smoke?”
“No.”
Scribble. “Have you ever smoked?”
“No.”
Scribble. “Do you do any recreational drugs?”
“No. Why? Would they help right now? I’d willing to try them.”
Stop being a dick, Wesley. The man is just trying to take your mind off what you’re feeling, plus he doesn’t have any of your history.
Scribble. “Do you drink socially, Wesley?”
“That’s Mister Traylor, Doctor Matsuda. And I’m not social.”
“Do you drink at home by yourself?”
“I have an occasional glass of Moscato.”
Scribble. “What flavor?”
Wesley clenched his teeth. “Are you kidding me with this?”
“Flavor is important. Blueberry? Blackberry? Raspberry? Peach? Mango?”
I want to vomit on him. I’ll feel better about my side for a few seconds and also get him to stop asking me so many questions. Two birds, one splat.
“Blackberry and blueberry.” Wesley turned over onto his other side. Maybe the pain would ebb if he slammed himself down onto the table. “What does my favorite flavor of wine have to do with a kidney stone?”
“I’m trying to take your mind off things while we wait for transport. Once they take you down for an x-ray and we confirm it’s a stone, we’ll be in a better position to figure out how to help you.” Dr. Matsuda poked his head outside again, then returned to Wesley. “So, what nationality is Traylor?”
“I don’t know.” Wesley seethed.
The doctor needs to go away, or at least have the courtesy to die and leave me in peace.
“My last name’s Japanese.”
No, this man will never die. I’m in Hell.
“I didn’t ask.”
“It usually comes up in conversation. I meet someone, and for some reason, they always want to know where I’m from and what my ethnicity is before anything else, even my age. I’m thirty-nine, but that’s not what they want to know. I never understood what my being Japanese has to do with whether or not someone likes me.”
“This is why I hate people.”
“I’m kind of agreeing with you on that one.” Dr. Matsuda agreed far too enthusiastically considering the circumstances. “It should be about chemistry and personality, not ethnicity.”
Jesus wept. Could the doctor have misunderstood him more?
“I meant everybody’s an asshole. That’s why I don’t like people. It doesn’t matter where they’re from.”
The doctor arched his right eyebrow. “That’s not quite where I was going with that.” A knock sounded at the door. “Transport has arrived. Before he takes you, though, you really need to consider trying the mandarin orange Moscato. It’s amazing!”
I wish I had a bottle of it right now to—
Pain flashed through his side like summer lightening, and cut the thought off.
“You’d better pray I don’t receive a survey after my visit,” Wesley growled.
* * * * *
The transporter, who Wesley guessed to be a decade older than himself, guided the gurney along the hallway, warned him of any bumps, and kept him informed of where they were headed. The man went out of his way to keep Wesley informed to put him at ease. A nice touch after the conversation with the doctor.
“You seem to have caught Doctor Matsuda in an unusually talkative mood today,” the transporter remarked.
“He’s normally quiet?” Huh. That seemed odd. Wesley certainly hadn’t gotten that impression at all.
“Well, quieter.” The transporter chuckled. “He tends to be a very private man, and only really ever talks to his friend, Stephen, the head of surgery. I think the doctor has been here four years now and I don’t know any more about him today than I did the day he arrived. I have seen him get flustered once or twice. Well, three times now as of a few minutes ago. That’s when he tends to babble.”
“Why a few minutes ago?” Wesley winced.
“I never would have guessed the doctor drank, let alone has a favorite Moscato like I heard him mention to you.” The man chuckled again. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s great with patients and staff, and people really like him, but there’s a wall there nobody seems to get past. Something about you must have piqued his interest.”
“Swell,” Wesley mumbled. “The one day I need a doctor is the one day he loses it and babbles.”
“And here we are.” The transporter wheeled Wesley into a midsize room with a large table and x-ray machine. “I’ll be leaving you with Joanne here.”
Joanne didn’t smile or even introduce herself. Wesley hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. The transporter raised the gurney to the height of the table, and Wesley scooched over on his own.
“Kidney stone, huh?” Joanne finally spoke while she maneuvered the machine into place. “You like this kind of pain?” Still no smile from her.
“Not really. Does anyone?”
“It’s the closest you and every other man will ever get to feeling what childbirth is like.”
Wesley wasn’t looking for a lesson in the differences between the two sexes, nor did he feel he deserved one. He did need that x-ray, though.
“Stretch out on your back where you are and lie very still,” Joanne directed him.
“I’m having a hard time staying in one place for long.”
“If you want the x-ray, then you’ll stay in place, won’t you?” Joanne headed behind a small wall in the room. “Now imagine willingly doing this three or four times in your life having a baby.”
“Did you have a bad experience or something?” Wesley grumbled. “Because I’m pretty sure I didn’t have anything to do with it, and I’m not responsible for anyone else going through it either!”
* * * * *
“It’s a stone,” Dr. Matsuda announced, staring at the screen on a laptop.
No shit!
“Will it pass?” Wesley moved his arm and allowed a nurse easier access to his IV. Okay, he actually felt better having the stone confirmed. They knew why he had pain now. They just had to fix it. He also surprised himself admitting he preferred the company of Dr. Matsuda to Joanne. Not that it took much.
“It’s a really big stone.”
Or not. Joanne could have given the stone a mean look and it probably would have disintegrated right then and there.
“You’ve got a really big degree,” Wesley countered. This is how a doctor described a problem? “You’re not exactly instilling me with confidence.”
Dr. Matsuda pulled a chair out from the side of the bed and sat down.
“There are a couple ways we deal with kidney stones. As you might imagine, the easier ones typically work better with smaller stones. But what we have here is something considerably larger, so what I’m going to recommend is called a percutaneous nephrolithotomy. If you think it’s difficult saying, try spelling it.” The doctor paused, perhaps in anticipation of giving Wesley time to laugh or at least smile at what must have been an attempt at humor. Nothing. Awkward moment created. The doctor cleared his throat. “The surgeon will make a small incision in your back, place a sheath inside the kidney, and break up the stone. Once the fragments are small enough, he’ll remove them.”
Wesley flinched, and not just because of the pain that continued to wrack his body.
Not my back. That’s where the questions will start.
“I…I live by myself.” Thank God the essentials had been unpacked before he arrived, and he’d gotten everything else done he’d need for a bit. “Am I going to need help?”
“I think you should be okay. If you decide to do this, and I think you should, you’re going to be in a little bit of pain for a couple of days, and you won’t be able to lift anything heavy for a few weeks. That’s the worst of it. That and you’ll probably need to spend the night here.”
An overnight stay? It made sense on one hand, and if it took away the pain… There was no way he could go back home the way he currently felt, and to risk another drive there and back? The choice didn’t seem optimal, but then he really didn’t appear to have a choice.
“When can we do this if I say yes?”
“You happen to be in luck because my friend, Doctor Stephen McDowell, is the head of surgery here and had a cancellation this afternoon. He’s looked at the x-rays, already has the staff available for that time slot, and agreed to do the procedure.”
And now, ladies and gentlemen, the dreaded question.
“Will I be put under?”
“Yes.” Dr. Matsuda nodded, then cocked his head to the side, probably wondering why it might be an issue. “You’re going to feel a lot better after it’s over, and you know what? I’ll even bring you a bottle of that mandarin orange Moscato when you’re off the antibiotics.”
“All right.” Wesley hoped he’d hidden the sound of defeat in his voice, but he doubted it. The whole point of moving away meant lying low and not taking risks. Here he was, a week in, and needing surgery. Not the best way to stay away from any prying eyes.
“Wow.” Dr. Matsuda smiled. “I’d have thought you’d be excited at the idea of a free bottle of wine.”
Wesley ignored what he took to be the doctor attempting to put him at ease. “I’m going to need to add an emergency contact then. Just in case.”
“Friend?”
“Lawyer.”
“Lawyer?”
“Yeah. What’s the worst that can happen?” Wesley whispered. “I don’t wake up? Maybe that’d be a blessing.”
A nurse entered the room holding a syringe. “I’m ready with the pain medication.”
“Wesley—”
“Mister Traylor,” Wesley corrected him. This was going to be a thing between them. Wesley could tell.
“Mister Traylor, we’re going to give you some Dilaudid, which will help you relax and take the edge off the pain.” Dr. Matsuda nodded towards the nurse. “You’re going to feel some—”
“I’ve had Dilaudid before, and morphine.” Wesley closed his eyes, felt the tiny pressure from the medication being pushed through his IV, and then the familiar rush of warmth. The Dilaudid washed over him like a wave of peace and serenity, covering him from head to toe, and indeed taking the edge off. If only life could feel the same way. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. Slow the heart down a bit and let the effects of the medication last longer. That was the trick.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“How do you feel now?” the doctor asked.
Wesley opened his eyes. “The ceiling is crawling.” He closed them again. “Better. Just…better.”
“I’m going to go call Inner Control and have you added to the surgical schedule, okay? I’ll be back shortly.”
No. I don’t want you to go. I’m tired of everyone leaving me. Stop leaving me. Stay because…because…
“You like my eyes,” Wesley mumbled. “They used to tease me about them.” Had he just spoken? He opened his eyes and caught the nurse leaving the room. Dr. Matsuda, however, remained. Wesley closed his eyes again and continued to concentrate on his breathing, going to that place of tranquility, the place where nobody could touch him, and that wouldn’t last very long, but he welcomed the respite anyway. “They hated me for them, but not you. You like them.”
Wesley thought he heard a voice somewhere far back in his consciousness. A soothing voice. Not like some of the voices he’d come to know and fear in his life.
“Yes, I do, Wesley.”
“That’s Mister…” his voice trailed off.