Love Lies Beneath Read online

  The good news is I finally stop, unlike the bastard who ran into me and is still tumbling toward the bottom of the run. The bad news is, when I try to stand I fail the knee test. Strangely, it doesn’t hurt much. But no way can I take a turn. The knee wobbles and pops too easily sideways, its center loose. Ligament tear, for sure.

  I drop onto my butt in the tattered snow. Two boarders stop to check on me. “You okay?”

  “Could you contact ski patrol, please? I’ll need a sled.”

  One guy takes off. His buddy stays with me. “Whoa, that was gnarly, dude.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You cold? You’re shaking.”

  “Not cold. Pissed.” There goes my season, first day out.

  “Don’t blame you. That guy sucked. If you’re warm enough, I’d pack that knee in snow, try to keep it from swelling.”

  “How did you know it’s my knee?”

  “We could see it go from up there, man. But as bad as it is, check that out.” He points to a still figure near the bottom of the slope. Ski patrol is already gathered around him. “That dude took a radical fall, man. It’ll be Care Flight taking him out of here, all the way down to Reno. All you get is a sled and maybe an ambulance to Barton Memorial. Unless you’ve got a ride.”

  “I do, actually, although it’s valet-parked down in the village. My sister can drive me from there, though. Hey, if you happen to see a lady in a ridiculous orange powder suit, would you let her know she can probably find me in first aid later? Tell her to bring me a drink.”

  “Like, coffee or what?”

  “Like whiskey. Neat.”

  He laughs, then reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket. “If you don’t mind risking germs, I’ve got this.” He extracts a metal flask. “Not whiskey. Jäger.”

  The kid doesn’t look too germy. Why not? “You sure?”

  “Hell yeah. Oh, look. Here comes your chariot.”

  I take a big slug of the licorice-flavored liqueur, just as my own personal pair of ski patrolmen arrive. The young one is tall and stocky, the fortyish one built like a miniature mule. It is the ass who gives me an appraising once-over and says, “Been drinking today, have we?”

  I bring my eyes square level with his. “Did you ask the guy who took me out from behind if he’d been drinking today?”

  “It’s hard to question someone who’s unconscious.”

  “Yeah, well, my sitting here with a destroyed knee had nothing to do with me drinking. I never touched a drop before this one, and I kind of feel like I deserve a good belt, considering an out-of-control jerk—who was totally conscious at the time—just annihilated both me and my entire season. Now, you want to do your job, or what?”

  I start to hand over the flask to my boarder buddy, reconsider. “Do you mind?”

  He shrugs. “Help yourself.”

  After a long, slow swallow, I return the flask to its owner. “Many thanks, and thanks for hanging out with me until the inquisition arrived.”

  “Hey, now,” says Tall and Stocky. “I haven’t said a word.”

  “That’s why I like you. Well, that and you’re sort of cute.”

  The guy blushes and starts to ready the sled as the boarder takes off, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll be on the lookout for orange.”

  Nine

  My ride off the mountain is quite a production. The ski patrolmen—tall and stocky Trevor, and miniature-mule Will—forgive my Jägermeister indulgence when they observe the state of my knee. Despite their packing it with snow so quickly, it is ballooning. This, plus its purpling mottle, is all too obvious when Will slices the leg of my ski pants most of the way to my groin.

  He whistles. “I’ve seen some ugly knees in my time. That one is up near the top of my list. Does it hurt?”

  “Oddly, not really.”

  “It’s going to.” He wraps it in cold packs, pulls the remains of my pants leg down over the swollen lump.

  Trevor lifts me easily, lays me flat on the bed of the sled, and secures a blanket over me with a couple of wide tie-downs. “I’ve never been tied up before,” I joke. “Promise this will be fun?”

  Will actually chuckles. “Oh, yeah. The best time you’ll ever have, and all you have to do is lie there. We, on the other hand, have our work cut out for us.”

  They do. Will moves around to the front, where he’ll have to pull once we reach flat terrain. Meanwhile, he steers while Trevor takes the cheater strap at the rear, acting as the brake. Both men snowplow down the steep face, denying their skis—and so, the sled—momentum.

  It still feels fast to me. Air movement stings my eyes. Despite their watering, I’m aware of the stares of those we pass, especially when we reach the landing where lines form for the Sky Express chair. It’s embarrassing, but I understand they can’t help it. It’s like passing a car accident.

  Nothing much to see here, people. The blanket isn’t pulled up over my face. I’m alive and kicking, at least with my left leg. Not sure about the guy who hit me, though. We go past his quiet form at a distance. Ski patrol is keeping everyone back, making room for Care Flight to land so they can load the man into its belly. I can hear the snarl of the helicopter’s approach. The snowboarder was right. I’m glad I’m not leaving the mountain that way.

  Across the flats, we slow significantly, then it’s a short drop to a gentle beginner’s roundabout. It takes almost a half hour to arrive at the first aid station at the top of the gondola. “Don’t weight your right leg,” instructs Will as he and Trevor help me stand. “We’ll get you inside.”

  One arm around each of their necks, I hobble, one-legged, to the door, where a note informs us: Back soon. We push on through, anyway. The stark room is dingy white beneath dim fluorescent lights. “Wow. This place could use a face-lift.”

  “Hey, now,” corrects Trevor. “This here is a state-of-the-art first aid station.”

  The men help me onto a gurney, adjust the back so I can sit up. “I’ll go deal with the sled,” says Will, starting for the door. “Nice skiing with you, ma’am.”

  Ha-ha. Very funny. “You will get the name of the man who ran into me, right?”

  Will stops, turns back toward me. “So you can send him a get-well card?”

  “In case my insurance company needs to get hold of him,” I correct.

  “Standard operating procedure. If they—or you—have any questions, you can always contact the resort’s legal department directly. Which reminds me . . .” He locates a clipboard and pen. “Please fill out this report and give it to the on-duty when he gets back. He’s probably helping out up on the mountain.”

  He exits as Trevor elevates my right leg and places a fresh ice pack on my knee. “How’s that feel?”

  “Useless.”

  “That’s right, and I expect you to keep it that way until someone smarter than me tells you otherwise. Now, is there someone who should be informed about your accident?” He’s just so earnest, I kind of want to kiss him, if only for the shock value.

  “You mean, like my lawyer?”

  “I kind of thought you were a lawyer.” He grins. “But, I meant like your husband. Or a relative.”

  “I’m not married. And the only relative who might care is my sister, who’s here somewhere. I’d call her, but she never takes her cell out on the mountain. Says she wants to disconnect from the real world when she’s skiing.”

  Now he loses his smile. “Did you tell her she’d be a lot safer carrying her phone with her?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Melody maintains a serious list of rules to live by. Besides, her phone is much safer not going out on the mountain with her.”

  Which elicits a nervous laugh. “I hope she skis cautiously, then.”

  “No worries. Mel’s definitely not the out-of-bounds kind of skier. And it would be a cold day in hell before you’d find her limping her way down a Killebrew run.”

  “That’s very good to hear. Now, do you need anything before I go?”
r />   I glance around the room, which is naked except for a miniature desk, two more gurneys (because a first aid station can never have too many), and a door, which probably leads to a bathroom. “Go? As in, you’re leaving me here all alone?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but my job is on the mountain.”

  “But . . . what am I supposed to do?”

  “What am I supposed to do? Stay here and entertain you?”

  I really want to act pissy, but that will definitely get me nowhere, so I’ll attempt “helpless” instead. “No, no. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But could you . . . I mean would you mind . . . I, um, need to use the restroom. Could you possibly help me? Just to the door, I mean. I think I can take it from there.”

  Trevor’s cheeks flush cranberry. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t you just say so to start with?” He whisks me off the gurney as if I am weightless, sets me down just across the bathroom threshold. “Be super careful not to twist that leg sideways, and try not to bend that knee.”

  He shuts the door, and I take my time. He’s given me the excuse, but even if he hadn’t, accomplishing the task is tricky. I manage to keep my right leg mostly extended, but when I sit it does slant toward the floor, flooding the knee with fluid. Suddenly, it hurts, and it hurts a lot. I manage to quell the rising scream, which escapes as a very loud “Jesus!”

  Trevor knocks on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

  Other than the sledgehammer pounding my patella, and the hot drain of blood from my face, everything is just peachy. “F-f-fine,” I manage, flushing the toilet. “Be right there.” I have to talk myself into standing, however.

  By the time I finally manage to zip my pants and wash my hands, I’ve regained a little composure, at least until I turn away from the sink, forgetting my knee just long enough to twist my weighted right leg sideways. The ensuing pop! forces that scream from my mouth after all.

  Trevor flings open the door. “Holy shit! You’re white as an albino’s ghost.” Fascinating colloquialism.

  “Yeah. This thing decided to hurt after all.” I avoid the details. Only an idiot could have forgotten that injury in the space of three minutes. “Could you get me a couple of ibuprofen?”

  He decides to isolate the knee, and by the time he’s finished applying an elastic bandage, the on-duty attendant, Sierra, arrives. She assesses his work, gives an approving nod. “Good job, T. I’ll take it from here.”

  Trevor pats me on the shoulder. “As soon as your sister catches up with you, go straight to the ER, okay?” His newfound concern borders on comical.

  “Cross my heart.” He starts to leave, but I stop him. “Hey, Trevor? Thanks for the expertise. Not to mention the entertainment.”

  It’s after two by the time Melody finally stumbles in, tired from the unaccustomed exercise. I’m sipping hot tea and reading an old Ski magazine, fairly comfortable, or at least as comfortable as I could convince Sierra to make me, with an extra pillow and one of her personal Vicodins.

  “Are you okay?” Mel demands.

  “Most of me. Except my right knee. That is most definitely not okay.”

  “Do you know how scared I was when that guy—who was stoned out of his head, by the way—snowboarded up to tell me you were here?” She storms over to the gurney. “How did he know I was your sister?”

  I tip my hands like a spokesmodel might. “This lovely powder suit is the approximate color of orange marmalade, and designed to conceal every flattering curve so stoned snowboarders won’t be tempted to ravish you.”

  “You. Are. Hilarious.” Mel yanks off her helmet and shakes her head, trying to loosen the sweat-plastered mess beneath it. “Now, don’t you wish you’d been wearing one of these?”

  “One: I don’t think they make helmets for your knees. Two: my head is just fine. And, three: if my hair looked like that, ski patrol wouldn’t have stopped for me.”

  She doesn’t find the joke funny. “Why are you so stubborn? Think of what might have happened. It could have been worse!”

  “Could have been better, too.”

  “Okay, so now what?”

  “I’m told I must go straight to Barton Memorial for a learned opinion.”

  The Tahoe area offers a wide range of outdoor recreations—skiing, biking, hiking, boating, Jet-Skiing, rafting, and even more unusual activities like paragliding and skydiving. So it makes sense that South Lake Tahoe’s small hospital has one of the best orthopedic centers in the country, staffed by doctors well versed in sports medicine. That information came via Sierra, who tells Mel now, “We’ll bring her down the gondola via gurney.”

  I’ve had some time to think about the logistics. “Why don’t you go on ahead, stow your stuff, and have valet bring the Escalade around? The ticket is in my purse. Unless you want to take a couple of more runs first.”

  She gives a “yeah, right” eye roll. “Looks like you just cut our vacation short.”

  “Hey. I prepaid the hotel and bought lift tickets for four days. No matter what’s happened to me, you can still ski. In fact, I expect you to.”

  “We’ll see.” Her voice remains terse, but her expression softens, going all sisterly concerned. “Okay. Catch up to me in valet.”

  As she reaches the door, I call out to her, “Hey, Mel? At least I didn’t hit a tree!”

  Ten

  We pull into Emergency late afternoon. I will say this about Barton Memorial: it’s a beautiful facility, with a rock and pale wood facade that melts into its surroundings. Mel goes inside to request a wheelchair and I sit looking at the forest, which serves as a buffer, both for noise and also for less impressive housing tract views. South Lake Tahoe has taken a lot of time to create its woodsy design, especially with its later redevelopment. It must be nice to live up here, at least in the off-season.

  The ER must not be too busy today because after the initial paperwork I don’t have to wait very long for an exam. A nurse takes my vitals, then hands me over to the on-call doctor, who looks to be around sixteen years old. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says when I eye him suspiciously. “No worries, though. I am an actual certified physician. But even if I wasn’t, I’d say we’d better take X-rays, as well as an MRI.”

  The nurse returns, hands me a hospital gown. “Do you need help putting this on?”

  “I think I can handle it. Should I leave something on under?”

  “Panties only, unless they have anything metal. No metal. No jewelry.” She glances at the five-carat pink diamond engagement ring, now worn on my right hand. “I’ll leave that with your sister if you want.”

  “Please. And since this is going to take a while, would you ask her to go get some other clothes? These pants are trashworthy.”

  “Will do.” She takes my ring, plus a pair of sapphire studs, admiring them noticeably as she leaves. I hope they make it to Melody, but if not, they’re insured.

  I manage to shed what’s left of my clothing in favor of a fashionable pink tent, which sort of ties closed in back. I’m still working on the second bow when someone knocks on the door. “You decent?”

  “Loaded question, one I plead the fifth on. But you can come in.”

  The tech, whose name is Timothy—not Tim—helps me into a wheelchair and escorts me to X-ray. When they finish irradiating me, it’s off to the magnetic resonance imaging machine. I’m glad it’s not my brain they want to look at, as I’d be claustrophobic with my head immobilized inside this behemoth. Instead, Timothy faces me toward it, feet first.

  “Lie back and try to relax,” he says, clamping the top piece of what’s called a knee coil in place. Then hands me a set of earphones. “The machine is loud. What kind of music do you like?”

  “Anything louder than the machine?”

  “Death metal?”

  “Not that loud. Something with a decent beat and lyrics I can decipher.”

  Timothy smiles. “You got it.”

  I’m sort of surprised when it’s country he chooses (he looks more pr
eppie than cowboy), but not totally disappointed. It does fulfill my general request, and I can listen to almost anything for a half hour, which is about how long the procedure takes. When it’s over, Timothy wheels me back to the examination room.

  “Someone will be in to discuss the results in a little while,” he says.

  “Any chance at some pain medication in the meantime?” The Vicodin has vacated my premises.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If my sister’s here, can she keep me company?”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that, too. Meanwhile, here’s something to read.”

  I spend fifteen minutes with a very old People magazine before Melody comes traipsing in, carrying a shopping bag. “I tried to find something loose over the legs, but nothing in your wardrobe fits that description. So I brought a pair of my lounging pants. They might be big in the waist, but we can pin them.” She sits on a wheeled stool, amuses herself, rolling it forward and back. “How are you? Any news?”

  “Nope. Waiting on results. And painkillers.”

  Moments later, Dr. Babyface comes in to address the latter. “I’ll give you a prescription for an opiate, but want you to wean off it and straight onto eight-hundred-milligram ibuprofen as soon as possible. Your file says you drink alcohol daily?”

  I nod. “Pretty much. Unless I don’t feel like it.”

  “I ask, because many pain medications contain acetaminophen, which can cause serious complications in combination with alcohol . . .”

  He goes on about what complications, and what he’ll prescribe instead, et cetera, et cetera. I don’t know exactly what he says because I tune out almost immediately. All I really want is a pill right now. Finally, not quite as if reading my mind, he goes over to a cabinet and finds a sample of something or other, hands it to me with a paper cup of water.

  “That should kick in fairly quickly.”

  “What is it again?”

  “Vicoprofen. Hydrocodone and ibuprofen. Be sure to eat plenty of fruits and vegetables because one of its side effects is constipation . . .” He lists more, but I quit listening at “nausea and vomiting.” I’ll simply refuse them.