Bed of Lies (6 page)

Chapter 6

Terrence

T
errence sat alone in the dark in his spacious living room, gazing through one eye at his television, where ESPN played on the flat screen. One leg—the one he had shattered during the accident—was perched on the suede ottoman in front of him. A beer, already warming to room temperature, was in one hand. He absently scratched at his beard with the edge of his remote, careful not to touch his eye patch and the sensitive tissue underneath it.

When a commercial came on the screen, he raised the remote to flip to another channel and gazed at an action movie where the leather-clad hero ran across jungle terrain on two legs.

Two healthy legs
, Terrence noted bitterly.

The hero also had two working eyes, rather than one that had been mutilated and blinded during a car crash.

Terrence had always been vain about his eyes. “They're like drops of liquid caramel,” one of his girlfriends had told him back in college, before bestowing his eyelids with a sultry kiss. But they didn't look like “drops of liquid caramel” anymore. Now the damaged eye beneath his black patch made him shudder with disgust whenever he looked at it. It was red and inflamed tissue, mangled meat that would never serve its purpose again.

The eye and the leg weren't the only things that had changed since the accident. He looked like a completely different person now. Gone was the immaculately dressed, handsome man he once had been, and in his place was a slovenly couch potato.

Terrence hadn't shaved in weeks and now vaguely resembled a crotchety backwoodsman. All he needed was the flannel shirt and ax. He hadn't changed his clothes in days, either; he had been sporting the same stained, wrinkled T-shirt, striped pajama bottoms, and gray terry-cloth bathrobe since Tuesday. He didn't see any reason to change clothes unless it was for the mailman's benefit. That was the only person he had seen in more than a week.

Evan and Paulette had tried to visit, but he had told them he was busy. A few of the women he dated had called in the nearly two months since the accident and asked if they could stop by and play nurse.

“I can wear my French maid costume,” Georgette had cooed over the phone.

But he had refused. He didn't want any of them to see him like this. After a while, the women stopped calling—even Georgette.

That's just fine with me
, he thought before taking a swig from his bottle. He wanted to be alone. That was the reason Terrence hadn't left his condo in days, even though the doctor had encouraged him to walk around and get some fresh air.

“Your leg and arm are healing nicely, but you've still got to work those muscles, Terry,” Dr. Sidda had lectured in his lyrical Hindi accent as he'd lowered his stethoscope from his ears and draped it around his neck two weeks ago. He had stared at Terrence over the plastic rims of glasses that sat on the tip of his aquiline nose. “That is the only way you will regain full use of your limbs. It is how your strength will return, my friend. Have you been doing those exercises the physical therapist showed you?”

Physical therapist
, Terrence had thought with annoyance.
You mean the asshole who kept barking at me, “One more! Two more! You can do it! You can do it!”

Meanwhile sweat had poured from Terrence's brow as he held onto the handlebars in the hospital gym and tried to walk with his busted leg. He had felt like he could collapse at any moment.

Encouragement didn't mean much when your body was this broken, this weakened.

“What's the point? You said yourself that I'd probably always walk with a limp,” Terrence had muttered sullenly to Dr. Sidda as he sat on the examination table. “It doesn't matter how much I hop around with that damn cane, Doc. Nothing is going to change that.”

The doctor had studied him carefully for several seconds before lowering himself onto a rollaway chair at a sleek black desk on the other side of the examination room.

“You still have to try, Terry,” Dr. Sidda had said softly before grabbing a notepad on his desk along with a pen. “And I know someone who might help you. I'm writing you another referral.”

“Please, Doc, don't send me to another damn physical therapist,” Terrence had grumbled. “I hated that shit! That's why I stopped going in the first place.”

Dr. Sidda had scribbled something on the notepad before ripping off a sheet. He had extended the sheet toward Terrence. “It's not a physical therapist.”

Terrence had squinted down at the sheet of paper as he took it out of Dr. Sidda's hand. “Then what's it for?”

“Psychotherapy.”

When Terrence heard the word, he flinched. “You . . . you want me to see a
shrink?”

Dr. Sidda took a deep breath, set down the notepad, and linked his hands in front of him. “Dr. Sweeney comes highly recommended. She specializes in patients like yourself who may be—”

“I don't need a shrink. I'm not crazy!”

“Terry, I don't think you're crazy. But I
do
think you may be dealing with mild depression as a result of your accident.”

“I'm not depressed,” Terrence had argued with tightened lips. His heart had started to thud wildly in his chest. He had balled his fists at his sides. “I'm just pissed off! I'm blind in one eye and I can barely walk! I'm getting fucking sued! If anyone else was going through what I've been going through, they'd be fucking suicidal. But you don't see me climbing up on a chair putting a rope around my neck!”

“And this depression may be your biggest obstacle to making a full recovery,” Dr. Sidda had said, ignoring Terrence's tirade. “The only help I can offer is of a physical nature, but perhaps you need something more than that . . . something deeper.” Dr. Sidda had held up his hand. “Please, just consider it.”

I don't need any goddamn therapist
, Terrence now thought angrily as he reclined on his sofa and a Mediterranean-style house exploded on his television screen. Fireballs silhouetted the action-movie hero, who ran in slow motion.

In all the years that Terrence had lived in the Murdoch household, witnessing his parents' dysfunctional marriage and dealing with his father, who had all the warmth of an arctic iceberg, Terrence hadn't gone to therapy. He had survived and thrived without sitting on any shrink's couch complaining about his problems and his doubts about whether his father had really loved him or any of his other siblings. Terrence Murdoch wasn't a whiner; he handled his shit privately and moved along to the next thing. Terrence saw no reason to see a therapist now. He wasn't depressed; he just wanted to be left alone. Was that so hard for everyone to understand? Besides, black people didn't do therapy.

Suddenly, Terrence heard his doorbell ring. He lowered the remote and beer bottle to a nearby end table and glared at his front door.

“Who the hell is that?” he mumbled aloud before shrugging and deciding to ignore it. He returned his attention to the movie. The doorbell rang again and Terrence started to grumble.

He grabbed the stainless-steel cane that was propped up on the edge of the ottoman and slowly pushed himself to his feet. It was a slow process, crossing the distance of twenty feet between the living room sofa and his front door. He could have made the trek in less than sixty seconds in the old days. That wasn't the case anymore. While he limped toward the front door, his left arm shook with the burden of carrying the weight of his body. The doorbell kept ringing. Hearing that singsong chime over and over again was infuriating.

“I'm coming, goddamnit!” he yelled, breathing heavily.

Finally he reached the front door and practically fell against the wooden slab. He peered through the peephole into the condominium's hallway. When he saw who waited on the other side, he cursed again.

It was his brother, Evan, wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt and khakis, looking concerned as he glanced down at his watch.

I told him I didn't want to see anyone today
, Terrence thought angrily.

Momentarily forgetting his fatigue, he quickly undid the deadbolt and bottom lock. He snatched the door open and glared at his older brother.

Evan's handsome face instantly brightened. “Hey, you're alive! Paulette, Lee, and I were starting to wonder. You didn't return my phone calls.”

“I didn't know that not answering phone calls constituted being dead. Maybe I just didn't want to talk to you.”

Evan nodded, ignoring his brush-off and peered around him at the condo's interior. “Well, I'm here anyway. Can I come inside?”

Terrence groused again before throwing the door open all the way, then he turned around to begin the slow trek back to his sofa.

“Jesus!” Evan exclaimed, shutting the front door behind him. “It smells horrible in here! Like a men's locker room. It looks horrible, too. When's the last time you had this place cleaned?”

Terrence didn't answer, but instead kept walking, finally reaching the edge of the Afghan rug.

“I thought you had a housekeeper,” Evan continued, frowning down at the stack of unopened mail, dirty dishes and glasses, and discarded beer bottles that were piled on the glass coffee table. He glanced around him. “You know, I could recommend one for you if she isn't—”

“I don't need a goddamn maid,” Terrence said as he collapsed onto the sofa and sighed with gratefulness at being back in its warm, reassuring embrace. “I got rid of the one I had. I don't need a new one.”

Evan leaned over and turned on one of the end table lamps, flooding the room with light and making Terrence squint his good eye. Evan's frown deepened. “Why'd you get rid of your housekeeper?”

“Because I don't need one, all right? Besides,” Terrence said, returning his attention to the television screen, “I need to save all the money I can, so I can hand it over to my lawyer and the woman who's suing me.”

Evan sighed as he fell back into one of the armchairs facing the sofa. “Your lawyer told me you haven't been returning his phone calls.”

“You talked to my lawyer?” Terrence asked tightly, eying his brother.

“He can't do his job if you don't work with him.”

“So what?
He went crying to you? What are you, my fucking mother?”

“No, I'm your brother—and I care about you. We
all
care about you.”

Terrence didn't respond. Instead, he raised one of the half-empty beer bottles to his lips.

“Should you be drinking that and taking your painkillers?” Evan asked, now frowning. “I thought you weren't supposed to mix that stuff.”

“Don't worry. I'm off of Vicodin now,
Mom.
” He raised his brows again. “Is that why you're really here? Were you worried that I'd overdosed?”

“I just hate seeing you this way, Terry.”

“Jesus!
What
way?” Terrence shouted, slapping a hand on the sofa armrest. “What are you—”

“When's the last time you've taken a shower?” Evan asked, inclining his head.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“When's the last time you brushed your teeth or shaved?” Evan pointed at Terrence's scraggly beard. “Hell, you could have a family of forest animals living in that thing for all you know!”

“I'm going for a new look,” Terrence mumbled sarcastically, taking another drink.

“You don't leave the house except to go to the doctor or physical therapy and you're not even doing physical therapy anymore! You don't talk to anybody. You just sit in the dark like a mold or a fungus. And when you finally do talk to someone, you fly off the handle! Paulette said you yelled at her yesterday and now you're being pissy with me. I mean . . . I just . . .” Evan paused and took a deep breath. “Look, I'm sorry for what happened to you.”

“I don't want your fuckin' apology,” Terrence said icily, “or your pity.”

“I'm sorry you got banged up and you lost your eye,” Evan continued, undaunted. “But, Terry, honestly, I'm just happy that you're breathing and you're still here with us. We didn't know if you were gonna make it. I'm happy that you're alive!”

“At least
you
are,” Terrence muttered before taking a drink.

Evan closed his eyes. “I hate seeing you this messed up. I hate seeing you this depressed. I know it's hard, but—”

“I'm not . . . fucking . . .
depressed!”
Terrence yelled, pulling back his arm and throwing his bottle at an adjacent wall. Glass exploded everywhere, making Evan jump from his seat, catching both men by surprise.

“Then what the hell would you call that?” Evan asked seconds later, pointing at the oozing stain that was now on the living room wall and pooling on the Brazilian hardwood floor.

“Frustration,” Terrence said through clenched teeth. “I'm frustrated at being stuck in this fucked-up body! I'm angry that even if I wanted to leave the house, I don't want to deal with the looks of pity I see in people's eyes whenever I go into town. You think I don't know what they're thinking, Ev?
Oh, poor Terry Murdoch! He was such a big, handsome guy who had the world at his fingertips. Well, he doesn't have it anymore, does he? He's just a one-eyed cripple. That poor, poor boy! That
loser
!
” He furiously shook his head. “I don't need that shit. I don't want people feeling sorry for me! You included, Ev.”

“So what?
Are you just going to stay hiding in here forever? You're just going to wait until you gain two hundred pounds from all that shit you eat now and die of a heart attack? Or is your plan to drink enough beer and tequila that you die of cirrhosis of the liver first?”