Exiting the theater, Lila and I spill out on the sidewalk into the brisk September New York evening, my suit jacket doing little against the chill. But for the first time in months, I feel the thrill of anticipation.
Monday can’t come fast enough.
Chapter Four
Good intentions have a nasty habit of crashing headfirst into reality at the worst possible moments. Like when you’re in your apartment, basking in the smug glow of being the loving uncle who takes his niece to the ballet and even signs her up for classes, only to have your phone ring with that haunting tone that signals your life’s about to get complicated.
“Liam, where do I start?” Zoe says when I answer her call. The impending disaster is evident in her clipped voice.
“Let me guess,” I say, settling back into my couch with the resignation of someone who’s become familiar with disappointment. “You’re calling to tell me I’ve somehow screwed up the one thing I managed to do right this week.”
“Lila and I leave New York on Sunday.”
The words knock the wind out of me momentarily. “What do you mean you leave Sunday? Monday is the ballet class.”
“Lila has school, remember? That thing children do Monday through Friday where they learn about the alphabet and numbers? We’re only here through the weekend. Meanwhile she’s telling me how excited she is about this ballet class you said she could go to.”
I stare at my ceiling, watching the shadow of my neighbor’s fire escape create patterns in the afternoon light. Of course. Of course they’re leaving. Because why would anything in my life be simple or convenient?
“So, when you say she’s excited about ballet class…” I start, though I already know where this is going.
“I mean she’s excited about a ballet class she’ll never actually attend because her uncle didn’t bother to ask when we were flying home.”
There’s a special kind of silence that happens when you realize you’ve disappointed a six-year-old who was counting on you. It’s not a great one.
“I could ask if there’s a class that happens earlier during the weekend?” I offer weakly.
“Liam,” Zoe says, her voice a mix of affection and exasperation. “You signed up a six-year-old for a class in a city she doesn’t live in. I don’t think timing is the main issue here.”
After we hang up, I sit there feeling like the human embodiment of good intentions gone wrong. I should call Petra, explain the situation, apologize for committing Lila to something I shouldn’t have committed her to. But I don’t have Petra’s number. So instead, I do what any reasonable guy would do: I avoid the problem and hope it resolves itself.
Later that week, I find myself perched on an examination table in the Sentinels’ training room.
Dr. Connelly strides in, iPad tucked under one arm, lab coat flaring slightly as if the air parts for him. He’s tall and stoop-shouldered with wire-rim glasses that catch the room’s fluorescent lighting, momentarily blinding me. His expression is that carefully neutral mask doctors wear when they’re about to ruin your week in two sentences or less.
“So,” I say, my palms pressed into the crinkling exam paper, trying not to fidget. “What’s the verdict, Dr. Connelly?”
He rolls his stool over to me with the steady economy of someone who’s done this a thousand times. His glasses slide halfway down his nose before he nudges them back into place with a flick.
“The MRI shows there’s still lingering damage to the muscle fibers,” he says, tapping the screen with a long finger, each point sharp and precise. “Specifically in the proximal region near the tendon attachment.”
Proximal region. Tendon attachment.The clinical words rattle around my skull like pucks clanging off the boards.
My leg twitches involuntarily, the rubber therapy sleeve squeezing against my hamstring. I clear my throat. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
Dr. Connelly swivels back toward me, posture straightening. His eyes, cool and steady behind the glasses, hold mine. His tone is gentle, but the words land like body blows.
“It means that while the initial tears have healed,” he says evenly, “the elasticity in your muscle hasn’t fully returned. That stiffness is putting extra strain on your ligaments and tendons, which is why you’re still feeling pain and battling this limited range of motion.”
I feel something deflate inside me—not the quick pop of a burst balloon but the slow, inexorable leak of air from something that’s supposed to stay inflated. My career, my identity, my entire sense of purpose—all of it suddenly feels as fragile as tissue paper in the rain.
“So, what’s the fix? More rehab? Another set of epidurals?”
Dr. Connelly’s mouth twitches. “Rehab and stretching are part of it, yes. But at this point, it’s not just about strength. You need to restore the elasticity of the muscle. Without that, you’re going to keep compensating, which will only lead to further injury in adjacent regions.”
Further injury in adjacent regions.My body has a domino effect of breakdown and compensation. How poetic.
“So, I’m stuck in this cycle unless I turn into a rubber band?” I say, my frustration bleeding through the attempted humor.
