Chapter 97

After we sneaked out of the hospital under the nose of the paparazzi, the rest of the week was filled with drudgery.

The physical therapist was used to working with collegiate athletes – not a 30-year-old man whose stamina had dwindled from weeks of forced inactivity (that followed two solid months of a schedule that sometimes pushed exercise to the back burner).

I was instructed to work on the treadmill as my pain level permitted for the next few days. He wanted to wait until he could see the damage to my shoulder in person before we started any sort of regimen. Sondra couldn’t come out until Friday afternoon so he agreed to come back out afterward.

I could tell that my expanding waistline and diminishing musculature didn’t impress him. In truth, I wasn’t very impressed myself. I overdid it the first time on the workout machine. I had spent most of the previous month flat on my back (because it was the only way I could lay). The morning after my first treadmill session, my back and legs hurt, too.

Brea’s personality lightened with her time away from hospital – or perhaps she just became immune to our antics.

My mother was right there in the middle of things. Liz’s parents had immediately flown in from Colorado to be by her side (something she only mentioned to me in passing more than a week after I had been released from the hospital) but they had returned to Colorado once it became clear that she was safe (and I was out of danger, I suppose).

They were coming to visit after the West Coast crew arrived. Eric was flying in with everybody else on Friday morning. I was looking forward to seeing my friends again – even though I had spoken to them daily (or in Sarah’s case, several times a day) since I had regained consciousness.

Mom was going to fly back home and host Bev and Mickey. They were going to visit with her in Ohio for a few days before the three of them came to Nashville for a weekend. Then I supposed they were returning to their pot-growing business in Colorado (which was threatening to outpace several of Liz’s holdings in profit ratio for the year). Mickey and Bev had set up the business’s profile to provide almost all their product to medical dispensers rather than the private shops that had cropped up since the legalization. The news that Liz’s parents provided marijuana to doctors barely caused a blip on the scandal radar.

I found myself looking forward to getting to know Liz’s parents better, particularly since much of the private conversation I shared with Liz revolved around the logistics of a wedding.

My mother was taking a week’s break from me. She said it was so I could start the PT without distractions – but I suspected it was because she had never been around me for any longer than a couple weeks at a time in the past 12 years.

The biggest news of the next three days came via Rick.

Liz had decided that her fans needed to know what was happening not only in her personal life (which was still at the top of news on many gossip blogs) but also professionally.

Just after he told the reporters that my health was improving but the prognosis for complete recovery was still “guarded,” he informed them that Liz Larimer had broken all off negotiations with Radio Free Nashville. She would wait out the contractual obligation and begin searching for a new label once that time had passed.

Then he dropped a bombshell that reverberated from Nashville like a boulder dropped into a pond. Liz was taking a sabbatical (length to be determined, but likely to be at least a year) to ensure that the people that had stood between her and danger had ample opportunity to recover and resume their jobs. She promised to keep everybody up to date but asked for everybody’s understanding while she focused on helping me regain my health. She also told the world that I had been opposed to the idea but she was doing it anyway.

I swear to God, the stock market dropped when the news hit the wire service. Liz Larimer had been a constant for 15 years, not only on the country music charts but also as a staple of daily American life.

Liz had a litany of descriptive titles before and after her name. She had sold the most discs of any artist in any genre since the turn of the century; she held the top spot for single downloads in a single day; she had the most downloaded video on the Internet; she topped the Internet search engines’ year-end list six of the past seven years. She was the wealthiest entertainer by far (not only in career earnings but also in yearly income); she was the most recognizable person in America over the past 10 years (and had been eclipsed on the quarterly lists only once – by Osama bin Laden – since 2009).

The news that she was ... going away ... shocked not only the media giants that dissected her every move but small-town residents that took solace or gained inspiration from her words.

I felt like a heel and waited for my descent to the “most despised man in America.”

Once again, the people that looked up to Liz astounded me. They accepted the news with equanimity that I had not foreseen. People in Times Square held up signs on national TV to tell the world they thought Liz had her priorities straight and they would always be her fans. The announcement sent her overnight popularity to almost 95 percent (an unheard of number in public relations). Randi Raver sent a discreet text telling Liz that she understood the need to step away and that RaveLand would be still be there whenever she was ready if she still wanted to go in that direction.

Liz probably could have run for dictator and won in a landslide. The only person with a higher favorability quotient was ... me.

I was praised not only for my actions on the plaza but for engendering the sort of loyalty that would lead a superstar to walk away from her career for a year to make certain that I could offer a high-five with my right arm.

Then Friday came – and I got a look at the carnage that used to be my shoulder for the first time. The doctors had chosen to sedate me prior to removing the cast – which had scared the shit out of me at the time.

Sondra arrived just after the crew from San Diego rolled in. The boys were too scared to even come within 10 feet of me let alone greet me with the exuberance that had become the norm. Instead they huddled beside their mother and father, as far from the one-armed man as the room would permit.

Sarah didn’t take the opportunity to make fun of my new fashions – a shirt with only one sleeve. Susan offered only a sad smile. I got grim nods from Chris and Matt. Eric frowned and shook his head before putting an arm around Rick’s shoulders.

Only Amber seemed unperturbed by the bright green hard-shell covering over my upper arm and the gray sling that encased the majority of the rest of my arm. She managed to get within half the room of me before Susan scooted forward and pulled her daughter backwards.

I was still unsettled by their greeting when Sondra arrived. Unlike most days, Ryan was not in tow. Skye and Jill had been given the day off so the house didn’t seem like a loony bin when the newcomers arrived. So Dom and Brian weren’t around either. Those five at least treated me almost normally.

Sondra took in the faces around her and then winked at me.

“Don’t tell my husband but I’m going to drag Travis to the bedroom,” she said. It didn’t solicit a laugh from anybody but Liz.

Liz told everybody to make themselves at home and started upstairs with us. Sondra blocked her path and shook her head.

“No spectators this time,” she said.

“But...” Liz began.

“This needs to be done in private, Liz,” Sondra said in a softer voice. I think she intended to hide the words from me but I wasn’t that far away. I glanced back and saw Liz nod. Liz saw me and changed her frown into a forced smile.

“Rock her world, stud,” she said.

I didn’t answer as a feeling of dread washed over me. I began to wonder if Rick had overheard some dire prognosis and told everybody but me.

“Is it that bad?” I asked when Sondra closed the door behind her.

“It isn’t going to be pretty,” she said.

“How bad?” I asked. I still had feeling in only in the tips of my thumb and forefinger.

“I guess we’ll see,” Sondra said with a shrug. “I just don’t want you to have to shield your reactions. Liz has seen parts of what you’re about to see. I don’t want you to have to push your reaction down because you’re worried about her. OK?”

I was pondering the answer while Sondra unhooked my sling and slid it off my shoulder and neck. It didn’t occur to me until later that Brea was far more adept at it than the doctor.

“OK, here we go,” Sondra said. “Now, the first thing you’re going to notice is the smell. I’ve done emergency bowel obstructions that didn’t stink as bad as your arm does. Part of it was because you insisted upon wearing a suit on an 80-degree day. Part of it is because your deodorant isn’t very good. The rest of the smell is because there are dead skin cells that haven’t been washed away in three weeks. It stinks, so be ready.”

She was right. I almost gagged when she unfastened the straps that held the shell in place and pulled it open.

I immediately turned my head away and closed my eyes.

“We should have done this near a toilet,” I remarked.

“Probably,” Sondra said with a laugh. I felt her lift my arm outward slightly – and the smell from my underarm actually made the stench worse. I wondered how she could stand to be close to it and turned my head to ask.

The question never got to my lips. I saw my shoulder and immediately lost the thought.

It was a mess. The old faded scar had run from front to back. Now a new one, still purple and angry looking, resided a few centimeters outward from the first one. There was a half-circle cut through what used to be my deltoid muscle.

The muscle had been ravaged far worse than my previous surgery. It was shrunken and misshapen to the point that if I hadn’t known what I was looking at it I would never have known what body part was in front of me.

The inside of my arm had another long scar, this one running from elbow to my armpit. The biceps and triceps muscles were non-existent.

I felt bile rising in my throat and looked away again. My arm looked as though it had been lopped off and replaced with a 12-year-old’s.

“Travis?” Sondra said in a soft voice. “Are you going to be OK?”

I nodded. I usually tried to keep my vanity at a reasonable level. I tried to look nice but I didn’t put a great deal of thought into my appearance. But the shriveled, contorted appendage strapped to my right side disgusted me.

“Travis?” Sondra said again.

“It’s OK,” I said, unconsciously glancing at my left forearm. I had grated at the thought of having cosmetic surgery when I’d been told. But the man had done a fantastic job. Three weeks after he’d done his magic the scarring where the assailant had bitten and clawed through my flesh was minimal.

“We couldn’t do that to your shoulder,” Sondra said, correctly interpreting my thoughts. “In the future, if it becomes an issue, perhaps we can consider it. But for now ... we need to focus our attention on healing your internal injuries. Please accept this as the truth: As bad as it looks on the outside it was twice as bad on the inside. We did what we could do to keep the scarring down but the fact remains that repairing the damage was our first priority. If we had to slice another inch to make that easier, we cut another inch.”

“No, no,” I said, “I understand.”

I was lying through my teeth. I didn’t understand. The first scar was evident but had started to fade within a few weeks. This one gave no indication that it would ever be anything but a garish reminder to everybody of what happened on a day best left forgotten.