Chapter 15

Life with Rachael settled down, albeit into a strange world. In this world, I was having frequent and often inventive sex with a teenager who exhibited an unrestrained enjoyment and enthusiasm. In fact, I was having more sex than I’d ever had in my life, and I absolutely loved it. It was illegal, illicit, and utterly intoxicating.

July was passing too fast. I received a phone call from Detective Johnson letting me know charges were dropped after the two young men were threatened with prosecution under the hate crimes law. I’d completely forgotten about them.

I took Rachael on frequent trips to show her the beauty of Arizona. However, she was happiest when she was riding the ATV. She had a passion for it. She didn’t need my company. She’d race off and, by following the sound echoing across the landscape, I could not only tell where she was, but what she was doing; her engine revving hard when she drove fast, suddenly racing when she went airborne, or motoring along going nowhere for the fun of it.

It was one of those days - baking hot, intense sun, arid, and a late afternoon, when things changed.

We were both on ATVs, racing towards the house in a fight to be first. Rachael was edging ahead of me; not hard given her ATV had hardly any weight to carry. Cooling hot wind blew through our open faceplates. The helmet couldn’t mute the roar of the engines.

Perhaps three feet apart, Rachael, up in her seat and leaning forward in excitement, suddenly swerved. The three-foot gap disappeared in the blink of an eye and our wheels touched at just the wrong angle.

The result was immediate and horrific. Rachael’s ATV launched into the air twisting to the right. My ATV bucked up suddenly onto two wheels, leaning precariously to the left before rolling onto its side at speed.

The world dissolved into a twisting, twirling, disorienting miasma of dirt and dust. Stupidly, I held onto the handlebars in the ridiculous hope I might be able to do something, although God knows what.

I hit the dirt hard, my head slamming down, shoulder scrubbing across the ground, shirt ripping. Then the ATV crashed down on my leg and pain erupted; excruciating pain radiating up from my foot, exploding inside me and taking my breath away.

The ATV engine died. Silence arrived. Stars danced in my vision. Dazed and confused, it took a few moments for my brain to kick in. Rachael! Fuck!

The moment I tried to extract my leg from under the ATV, pain lanced through me making me groan aloud, the fog of unconsciousness hovering at the edge of my vision. Breathing deeply, panic increasing, I tried to lift the ATV off me and failed; my position was all wrong. With my free foot, I violently shoved the seat away and another excruciating wave of pain hit me, my trapped leg screaming complaints.

I stopped moving, breathed deeply and shoved my fear for Rachael down. With more control, I tried again, this time carefully pushing the ATV with my free foot. It rose slowly. Gritting my teeth, I pushed harder and it rolled onto all four wheels, my leg released.

I didn’t know if I was bleeding. The boot, very tight on my foot, prevented me from seeing, but it felt like I’d broken something. Moving it hurt but panic returned when I called Rachael’s name and got no answer.

Sitting up, I saw her. She was twenty feet away, sprawled and lifeless with the ATV on its side.

Hauling myself up, I tried a step and fell over, pain slamming into me. Unable to carry my weight, I crawled towards her.

“Rachael! Rachael!”

Panic intensified when she didn’t respond. It took a lifetime to reach her. The first thing I did was check for a pulse. Thank God she had one, steady and strong. Inspecting her, she looked unharmed except for her hand and wrist trapped under the end of the handlebar that speared her.

When I eased the handlebar up, I groaned loudly. Rachael’s wrist had been crushed. She stirred, regained consciousness and, before I could say a word, screamed and passed out.

It took me far too long to make it to the house, my foot exploding with breath-robbing fire as I hopped. Fear gripped me so tightly I thought I was about to have a heart attack. The emergency responders took far too long to arrive. And all I could do was cradle Rachael’s head, wait for her to stir, and listen to her cry of anguish before passing out from pain. I aged ten years before the ambulance siren finally echoed up from the valley.

The Northwest Emergency Center in Vail conducted triage on Rachael. They informed me I had fractured my ankle in two spots and chipped something called the talus bone. They strapped my swollen ankle up tightly and put some plastic, air-inflated, strap-on contraption that supported and cushioned my calf and foot, gave me painkillers, crutches, and told me to keep my leg elevated and weight off it. Four to six weeks and I’d be better.

Rachael wasn’t so lucky. X-rays revealed torn ligaments and extensive broken bones in her wrist which were beyond the capabilities of the staff. She needed a specialist to repair the damage, and soon.

Stabilized, she was immediately transferred to Tucson. I went with her. Rachael, doped up to her eyeballs, kept telling me to stop swaying even though I wasn’t moving. She kept asking me where she was, not remembering my answer.

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I hurt for her every time I looked at her and admonished myself for letting her ride that damned ATV.

The Tucson Medical Center was a bustling, busy hospital. There was an impersonal feel to their efficiency. Admitted, processed, and assigned a room - private at my request, Rachael had blood tests and x-rays repeated. A short consultation with a young doctor and an MRI was ordered.

Thankfully, Rachael was out for most of it and highly drugged when not. It was close to nine at night when Doctor Williams, the bone and ligament surgeon, arrived. I was thankful to see grey hair and bright, intelligent eyes behind tortoise shell glasses. He checked on Rachael and then came over to me.

“Mr. Longstreet?” he asked.

I nodded and struggled up with crutches. He smiled slightly, studied my leg, and extended his hand. I shook it. It was dry and firm.

Before I could get a word out, he lost his smile. His eyes hardened and he became very, very serious. “Here’s the situation. Your granddaughter’s wrist is shattered in several places. Her ligaments have been severed.”

His words stabbed into me.

“I’ve scheduled her for surgery first thing tomorrow morning. The faster we fix the ligaments, the better her chances are for a full recovery. I’ll also reconstruct her wrist bones with pins and screws.”

“So she’ll be okay?” I asked.

“We won’t know for a while. She might have limited use of her hand, or recover fully, or need more surgery. I won’t know until I’ve operated. Either way, she will need extensive rehab therapy.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re worried, but try to keep her spirits up. She’ll do better with a positive attitude.”

I nodded. “Just make her whole, Doctor. Please. Make her whole.”

He nodded and left. I was exhausted and had the hardest part still ahead; calling Cara to tell her. This was not going to help our slowly improving relationship. In fact, it might set it back a bit, I thought.

Good news has no lifespan. It can wait to be delivered and still have the same impact. Bad news can’t. It becomes worse the longer you wait, like bananas, or dead bodies, and eventually, if held back too long, bad news becomes toxic.

Sighing deeply, I went in search of a telephone. I should have brought the cell phone, but at the time, it hadn’t been top of mind.

Two rings and she answered, her voice so familiar.

“Hi, Cara, it’s Dad.”

“Hi, Dad. Has Rachael driven you insane yet?”

“Cara, honey, Rachael’s been in an accident. She’s in the hospital.”

And that was the high point of the conversation. It deteriorated from there, shock followed by concern followed by accusations of neglect. Informing me she’d be out on the first flight, the call ended abruptly.

I was of two minds. I always liked seeing my daughter, but when she was angry, not so much. Running naked in an electrical storm waving a metal cane in the air was more attractive than facing her.

The night passed extremely uncomfortably. My ankle pained me. Seeing Rachael in a hospital bed pained me. Knowing Cara would be arriving pained me.

At six-thirty in the morning Rachael was moved into pre-op. She was in surgery at seven and wasn’t pushed out of the surgical suite until ten-thirty.

Dr. Williams emerged in scrubs and informed me the surgery went very well. His prognosis was for a full recovery with no limitations on hand motion or dexterity, but the rehab would be long and arduous.

Rachael, barely conscious, was wheeled back into her private room. I smiled and kissed her forehead.

She managed to say, “Grandpa,” and slipped back asleep.

Seriously drained, I hunted down a cup of coffee and chucked a crutch away. One would suffice, even if I looked like an unshaven, drunken street bum using it. My shirt was still torn at the shoulder, bandages showing where they’d cleaned the deep grazing.

The trip down the elevator to a coffee shop and back involved several stops to rest. It was on the final stop - on seats in the long hall leading to Rachael’s room, when the elevator door opened and Cara made her entrance.

She looked even more Cara, if that was possible. She’d have been gorgeous if it wasn’t for the stern expression on her face, her lips thin and tight. Her black hair was longer than I remembered; full, thick waves flowing loosely past her shoulders. She had lost weight, even more slender. In black slacks, a cream blouse, and black high heel shoes Cara looked very professional.

She spotted me. Pulling an overnight case behind her, she strode towards me.

“Where is she?” she demanded.

I pointed down the hall. “Room one-oh-three.”

She continued right by me without pausing. To her back, I yelled, “Third on the left.” I added under my breath, “Nice to see you.”

I gave her time to be with Rachael. Opening an amber prescription pill bottle, I popped two painkillers and chased them with coffee. I was exhausted and a bit woozy. I hadn’t eaten in almost forty-eight hours and cat-napped a grand total of two.

Eventually, coffee finished, I levered myself up, wobbled a bit, and took a step towards Rachael’s room.

Cara came steaming towards me, frowning, her remarkable blue eyes flashing icy fire. Before she even reached me she started in on me.

“I sent my daughter to you to get better! Look what you did, Dad!”

This slender, almost five-seven fireball hit me and, already a bit unsteady, I went over backwards to the sound of her yelling, “You broke my baby!”

I went down hard, head smacking into the floor. Stars burst as I heard Cara cry out, “Oh God! Oh God! Dad!”

Consciousness returned. I found Cara on her knees leaning over me and two nurses hovering. Cara’s eyes were soft and full of worry.

“Nice to see you, too,” I said.

Worry vanished from her eyes like a puff of smoke. She glared at me. “What the Hell’s wrong with you?! Since when can I knock you over? You! You’re supposed to be as strong as an ox!”

“It must be the painkillers I’m taking for a fractured ankle, or lack of sleep, or lack of food for almost two days.” I struggled to sit up. “You pick. Any one of them’s good.”

Worry returned. “You broke your ankle?” She glanced down my body. “You broke your ankle!”

She helped me sit up. “Why didn’t you tell me, you stubborn old goat?”

A nurse arrived with a wheelchair.

“I thought the bandages, leg brace, and crutch might have given you a clue,” I said, not surprised she hadn’t noticed. The nurse helped me up and guided me to the wheelchair. She raised my leg and adjusted the support.

“Why were you walking?” Cara asked. “Why are you using one crutch? You should be using two crutches, not one. And you shouldn’t be walking anyway!”

When the nurse started wheeling me away, Cara told her curtly, “I’ll take him. He’s my father.”

She wheeled me towards Rachael’s room. “What did the doctor say?”

“I have a...”

“Not about you! About Rachael.”

I explained the doctor’s assessment in a quiet voice. Cara remained silent - odd for her. She pushed me to the side of Rachael’s bed and moved to the other side, parking her butt on the bed. In a motherly gesture, she brushed a stray lock of hair out of her daughter’s face and tried to curl it behind her ear. Rachael’s hair still had too much character to stay put.

When I finished explaining, Cara looked at me. Her voice low, she told me, “I’ll take her home. The best surgeons in the world are in Los Angeles.”

“She’s already had surgery. From here on in, it’ll be rehab she needs.”

“Then I’ll take her home for rehab,” Cara decided.

“Why don’t we wait until Rachael wakes up. She’s going nowhere until tomorrow.”

Stress caught up with me. I closed my eyes. Cara had hit me once before. Sixteen years old in full revolt, she’d yelled at me, for what, I don’t remember and probably didn’t understand at the time, her eyes spitting blue anger at me. Her right to my chest had carried no weight. It was full of sentiment and fury. I’d been more amused by a five-foot nothing girl taking a slug at me to get how wrong and strange it was for a daughter to strike her father. I was just happy when she returned after disappearing for two days.

What had it been about?

I drifted off to sleep like the old man I was.

Mid-afternoon Rachael was awake, drugged but alert. She was surprised to see her mother and, surprising Cara, told her she was really glad her mother had come, demonstrating affection and hugging her mother tightly.

I asked what had happened on the Yamaha; did she remember?

Cara butted in before Rachael answered. “You let her ride a motorbike? You told me she was in an accident, not that she had one! It’s illegal for her to drive a motorbike!”

“Technically it is, but...”

“There’s no but, Dad. Now she’ll have a police record following her around all her life. She won’t be able to vote and never be able to find a decent job. She’ll end up working at McDonald’s in the drive-thru window, marrying some guy who’s reached the peak of his abilities as the French fry frying guy and...”

Her voice trailed off when Rachael and I laughed.

“It’s okay, Mom. Besides, maybe the French fry guy is cute. And I don’t have a police record. The Yamaha’s an ATV, not a motorbike.”

Turning the conversation back, I asked, “What happened? Why did you swerve so suddenly?”

“The snake. It shocked me.”

Cara let loose again. “You let a snake get to her? What’s the matter with you? You know she’s scared of snakes!”

“Mom!” Rachael cut in. “It’s okay. I was just surprised and swerved. And then I hit Gramps and things got a bit confusing. It was all my fault.”

Somehow, a truce was called. Cara shot suspicious looks at me. We stayed in a nearby hotel overnight, only leaving Rachael when she passed out for the night. Conversation was curt and sparse.

Rachael was released the next morning following another MRI that confirmed her surgery went as expected. She was still doped up on narcotics and happy. Cara drove us home in her rental.

I’ll admit painkillers and worry about Rachael and dealing with a mercurial daughter had distracted me. It had clouded my thinking. It wasn’t until Cara put Rachael to bed and, when we were alone, commented, “You really have had a good impact on Rachael. She’s never made her bed so neatly before,” that reality slapped me up the side of my head.

My heart paused, debating if it wanted to continue beating. Fuck! Rachael hadn’t slept in the guest room in weeks! And then another thought hit me. What if Cara finds out about Rachael and me? Shit!

Displaying a calm I wasn’t feeling, I grunted in response, then asked, “How long are you staying?”

“Four days. By Sunday Rachael should be well enough to travel.”

“I see.” I didn’t argue. Perhaps it was for the best. I was feeling old and exhausted and responsible for Rachael’s condition.

My bed was cold and lonely that night. My sleep was restless. My ankle hurt despite painkillers. I wasn’t in the best of moods when I got up early to make coffee.

Cara, in a large T-shirt she’d obviously slept in, joined me in the kitchen. Sun was just peeking over the Santa Rita Foothills. She inhaled deeply and asked, “Is that coffee I smell?”

I nodded and started to stand. She put her hand on my shoulder and stopped me. “You shouldn’t be standing, Dad. I’ll serve myself.”

She sat at the table, placed her mug down after the first sip, sighing with pleasure, looked at me, and stood.

“You’re supposed to have your leg up,” she told me, pulling a chair out and lifting my leg. Satisfied with her handiwork, she sat again.

It was strange. At thirty-five, Cara was in the prime of her life. She was really quite spectacular looking and in her features I saw Michaela, her mother. The Cara I knew was a fireball in constant motion and crises. The few times I’d visited her in L.A. she’d been working and busy. And Cara had never visited me. She’d never seen this house I’d had designed and built.

Sitting at the table was a relaxed young woman who reminded me of when she was young, before she became a teen and rebelled. Her eyes studied me without the sharpness I’d come to expect. If anything, they were soft and very, very blue.

Then she surprised me again.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“For what?”

“For flying off the handle with you at the hospital. I shouldn’t have, but I was so scared for Rachael. Seeing her in bed like that, my baby hurt, made me want to cry.”

I smiled. “You didn’t cry. You hit me instead.”

Her eyes dropped. “Yeah. Sorry.” Then she looked at me, looked at the two crutches I’d been given, and asked, “How are you going to live alone without being able to get around?”

I shrugged. “I’ll get by.”

She changed the subject, talking about the house, how nice it was despite being in the middle of nowhere. “It suits you,” she observed. “Quiet and isolated.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“You’ve always been isolated and aloof.”

The comment troubled me. I’d been accused of being stoic, laid back, calm, but never isolated and aloof. As I opened my mouth to delve into her comment, Rachael entered the kitchen, disheveled, in her cotton pajamas, her arm cast in a sling.

Cara rose and went to her daughter, giving her a gentle hug. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Okay. My arm hurts.”

Cara tried to fuss, and Rachael resisted. My daughter ignored her and placed pain pills and orange juice on the table, then cereal. She offered me more coffee and asked if I wanted anything to eat. Cara was showing a side to her I hadn’t seen before and I quite liked it.

It didn’t last.

When Cara informed Rachael they’d both be flying home on Sunday, Rachael disagreed.

“I want to stay here with Grandpa. It’s not even August. I have six more weeks of summer, Mom.”

“That’s not possible,” Cara responded. “I need to get you into rehab back home. Besides, Grandpa is in no condition to take care of you.”

Rachael’s dark eyes firmed up. “We’ll be fine! We’ll take care of each other!”

And just like that, peace and loving flew out the window, voices became heated and raised, and yelling filled the kitchen as two stubborn females went at each other. It gave me a glimpse into why there were problems at home. Two opinionated, forceful females clashed.

It ended with Rachael yelling, “You never listen to me!” She left the kitchen.

Cara sat stiffly, anger in her eyes.

“Well, that was interesting,” I observed. “Care to tell me what it was about?”

“You heard her. She doesn’t want to come back to L.A.”

“It wasn’t about Los Angeles, Cara. What was it about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she curtly replied.

“Okay. I think I’ll go and get dressed.”

Using the crutches, I went to Rachael’s room. She was lying back on top of her bed frowning. I closed the door behind me and sat on the side of the bed, putting the crutches aside. Rachael watched me.

I leaned over and kissed her. She sighed and wrapped her good arm around my neck, her soft lips responding.

“It’s horrible not being able to kiss you,” she told me when the kiss ended.

“What gives between you and your mother?” I asked.

Rachael shut down, frowning again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Rachael, honey, I need to understand. I need your help. You may not realize it, but this thing between you two is hurting me.”

“It is? Why?”

“Because the two people I love the most are angry.”

Rachael sighed and relaxed back against the bed headboard. A minute of silence followed. I waited her out.

Then she started talking, and talking, and talking. She told me about Cara’s occasional dating, which Rachael thought was great at first, until she noticed how her mother was being treated. She told me about the last two, how they subtly criticized Cara for the way she dressed, or was a bit late, or not smiling enough. They ordered her around, always doing things they wanted to do, never what Mom wanted, and when she suggested things, they were dismissive, bordering on rude.

Rachael noticed how they suggested her mother could look prettier, try harder, how everything was about them; how Mom was embarrassing them. She talked about the guys being charming at times, then angry, never predictable.

Rachael’s comments sounded familiar. They were the same traits I’d so hated about her boyfriends years ago. Why was my daughter attracted to men like that?

Then Rachael explained how she’d confronted her mother, how it had turned into a fight, yelling, acrimonious and heated, and how Rachael had reacted and called her mother some very unflattering things. Angry, she’d started skipping school, dressing badly, getting her eyebrow pierced. If Mom didn’t care about her opinion, she had no say in how Rachael behaved.

My granddaughter had been punishing her mother.

Thanking her for telling me, I asked that she let me handle it, then, after kissing her again, reminded her, “Be very careful about showing me affection. Who knows what your mother will do if she finds out about us.”

“I know. I’m not stupid, Grandpa.”

The day passed in cordial politeness. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I tried to bring up the subject when Cara and I were sitting alone late at night and was dismissed again.

Friday was the same, except for Rachael hugging me frequently. Her lack of personal contact with her mother was conspicuous.

And then Saturday, all Hell broke loose.

I have no idea how Cara discovered my intimate relationship with her daughter. I don’t know what she saw, or what Rachael might have said in the heat of the moment. What I do know is, early after lunch when I was sitting in the sun on the back courtyard patio, yelling and screaming erupted from the house. This time, I feared physical harm might result judging by the anger in their voices.