LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
And just like that I don't know what to say. For the first time I'm able to consider the possibility of someone else's feelings, if only for an instant, and it hits me that there are two people lost in this nightmare. Two people searching. Hoping. Unwilling to believe. Afraid of what might happen if they do.
"How long am I going to be here?"
"I don't know. Another three weeks, maybe more."
"Three weeks?"
"You just emerged from a coma. You're still in critical condition. You're still in ICU. With such a significant head injury the doctors want to make sure that it's safe to release you."
"And my leg?"
"They operated on it, set the bones and inserted a metal rod through the center of you tibia. That's why you were in so much pain last night. Dr. John Abraham is the orthopedic surgeon who performed the procedure. He was here earlier this morning. He checked on you while you were still asleep."
I close my eyes. Exhale. That inbounds steal and reverse dunk against the Tar Heels seems like a lifetime ago, if it ever happened at all. The young black man with the once-in-a-generation gift is nowhere to be found. Replaced by an old, critically injured white man who played college hoops at a school nobody has heard of, in the middle of who knows where. I wonder how much the Celtics are going to pay a player like that?
"Three weeks..."
"I know a compound fracture sounds bad, and I can only imagine how it feels right now, but it could have been worse. The cabin of the Honda held up reasonably well on impact. You could have lost the leg."
"So what did he say? When can I walk?"
"You've got six-to-twelve weeks of non-weight bearing activity ahead of you, according to Dr. Abraham." She says this and shoots me a mischievously playful look. "But you'll be able to move around on crutches, so don't think you're getting out of doing your chores, Mister."
For the first time I smile. It isn't much of one, but considering the circumstances it's a welcome change. If only I meant it.
"Right. The chores."
Emily leans over the bed and hugs me gently. Our cheeks touch, and I can feel the warmth of her skin against mine. Her breath rolls over my right shoulder. Caresses it. The scent of her perfume makes me think of garden roses. I reach out and hold her, my weak arms trembling as they find the small of her back. I'm afraid to close my eyes, afraid to let go. I fight against the sharp pain that burns my chest with every breath. I hold her until my body gives way, exhausted, and then I lay there motionless, breathing hard, while she holds my bruised right hand and sobs uncontrollably.
~ ~ ~
"You have two broken ribs," she says, finally releasing me. She takes back her hand and wipes her eyes. "That's why you're hurting so badly there."
My teeth clench. It feels like I'm being stabbed with a knife every time I inhale.
"Anything else I don't know about?"
She shakes her head. "Other than that, you're as fit as a fiddle."
"What?"
"That's an expression your father used to say."
"What do you mean, used to say?"
"He passed away from cancer four years ago. His name was Tom. He was 65."
"And my mother?"
"She died when you were thirteen - complications following back surgery. Septic shock."
"And now this. Looks like we're not the luckiest people I know - or should I say, don't know."
"Jason, that's awful."
I glance over at the mobile table - there's a white plastic cup with a blue lid and a thick, ribbed straw. I think about Lefty's practices, how hard he made us run, how good the water tasted after suicides. My mouth had been dry then, but I don't think his worst practice has anything on how I feel right now.
"Can I have some water to drink?"
"No, but I'll be right back," Emily says, grabbing the cup. "There's an ice machine on the other end of the hallway. Doctor Abraham said that you're allowed to suck on ice now."
She disappears through the entranceway. My eyes go straight to the telephone, which is also sitting on the table. It's only four feet from the bed but it might as well be a million miles away. I think about that Wilson football again. I think about how it had sailed over my head that day, and how it had come to a rest on that frozen lake. At least back then I could do something stupid like take a dare and trudge out on the ice to retrieve the ball. At least that much was in my control. Not here. Here I'm flat on my back, my shattered leg suspended in the air, making it impossible to move.
An elderly couple walks past my entranceway, pausing to look into the room for a familiar face. She's holding a small flower arrangement, he's holding a thick novel by an author I don't recognize. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J. K. Rowling. The old man looks at me, but I have no clue if I'm supposed to know him. How could I?
I can't - but I do remember The Talisman.
The novel by Stephen King and Peter Straub jumps into my mind, triggered by the book-toting old man standing outside my door. I'd read that book last summer while staying on campus to help with Lefty's annual basketball camp. Couldn't put it down, read it front to back in three days. Jack Sawyer is the main character, a twelve year old boy who finds a crystal called "The Talisman". In the book there is a parallel world to earth called the "Territories", and individuals on earth have "twinners" in this alternate universe. Twinners' births, deaths and other major life events are usually paralleled by their counterpart in the Territories. Twinners can also flip, inhabiting the body of their alternate universe's analog.
Maybe Jason Schuler is your twinner, a voice in the back of my mind adds. Maybe you flip-flopped places with him when you overdosed on cocaine. Maybe he's out there somewhere right now, in your body, finding out what it's like to be an elite athlete on the verge of making millions.
