Climbing Heartbreak Hill Page 6

  “But you’ve obviously done other marathons since then. You probably ran the Boston one again and zipped right to the top of the hill.”

  Ryan wiped his hand over his face. “How long is this going to take?”

  Tara checked the computer. “I don’t get it. It never takes this long to load. I’ll see what Charles is doing. Maybe his files are lagging, too. We might have to reset the server. Sorry. We’ve never had problems like this.”

  Tara stood and smoothed her skirt. Okay, Boston and marathons, touchy subjects. Well, she didn’t particularly like talking about dance routines and half-time shows anymore either. She walked back to Charles’s door. He was hunched in front of the computer with a stack of files beside him. She didn’t remember bringing them to him and he usually didn’t dig out the prior returns himself. Maybe the spiked heel to the foot had done some good after all. “Are you having computer problems? My computer won’t load anything.”

  Charles shook his head. “Everything’s working fine for me.” As if whatever was going on was all her fault. She sighed and returned to her desk. Ryan slouched in the seat, his left leg straight out.

  “I didn’t mean to pry about the marathon.”

  She could chalk this up to another opportunity blown. No wonder the Ladies couldn't work their magic for her. She had a talent for dousing the relationship before a spark had a chance to flare.

  Charles returned the files to the back room.

  Ryan shifted in his seat and eased his knee into a different position. “Have you ever had a problem like this before?”

  Tara shook her head. “Our system is usually pretty quick. I set up a login for Charles when he arrived. Maybe I did it wrong. I haven’t had to do it very often.”

  “Would you like me to take a look? I have some experience with computer networks and programs.”

  Maybe she hadn’t blown it after all. She couldn’t keep the gratitude and relief out of her voice. “That would be awesome. If it stays like this, I’ll be behind all day. The server is back this way.” Tara stood and headed toward the break room. The server was in a little closet beside the futon. The creak of Ryan’s crutches followed her down the hallway. She pulled open the door to the closet and slid out the keyboard tray. “Here it is.”

  Ryan maneuvered himself in front of the keyboard. He tapped a handful of keys and a login screen appeared. Tara slipped in front of him and typed in the current password. “It changes every two weeks.”

  “Good thinking. Much more difficult to hack.” He navigated to the user administration. “Everything looks fine here. Do you take care of all this?”

  “Not really. I know how to do what I know how to do. I try not to mess with anything else. We have a tech guy who installed everything and he’s good about answering questions, but we haven’t had many problems.”

  Ryan flashed through a few more screens. “The system is well set up. It’s easy to find what I’m looking for.”

  “What are you looking for?” Tara leaned closer to his shoulder. He smelled like fresh air and green, things she wouldn’t be enjoying much of until after the fifteenth.

  A list of file names and numbers flashed across the screen. “These are the server logs. They tell what files have been accessed and when. I’m looking for large files that would cause your server to slow down.”

  Tara recognized the names on the files. “Those are old client returns from last year or before.”

  “The file sizes are pretty small, so it shouldn’t have created a problem.”

  “Could someone have hacked in? There are bank account and social security numbers in those files.” Tara couldn’t imagine what a security breach like that would do to them. No one would have their taxes done here again. She clutched the sleeve of Ryan’s shirt. The warmth of his body through the cotton comforted her even as her pulse pounded in her ears.

  “No. This server isn’t connected to the Internet. No one outside the building could get in. It looks like a lot of files were accessed in a short amount of time and the server couldn’t handle it.”

  Tara heaved a sigh of relief. “Charles was looking for some depreciation schedules. He must have had too many files open at once.”

  “Probably it.” Ryan slid a comforting smile her way and clicked a few more things. “It looks like the system maintenance hasn’t been running the way it should. I could clean it up for you. It would speed things up.”

  Tara debated for a moment. Should she let Ryan into the computer system when she didn’t know what he was doing? “Let me check with Leslie. She may have something lined up with the company we purchased this from. If this is straightened out, we can get back to your return,” she said, reluctant to leave the relative calm of Ryan’s presence.

  They hiked back to her desk. “Here we go,” Tara said. The return popped up on her screen as quickly as it should have. She reviewed the return with Ryan, fixed some transposed numbers and added the return to the queue to be sent out at the end of the day.

  “Your refund should be in your account in two weeks. You said earlier there were deductions you thought your previous accountant had missed. If you bring in those forms and any related receipts, we can see about filing an amended return. Maybe even get you some money back.”

  “That’d be great.” Ryan stood slowly, easing his weight on his bad leg. He took the file Tara handed him.

  “I won’t be able to get to them before the fifteenth, but they aren’t under any deadline anyway. It was good to see you again.” Tara stood also.

  Ryan nodded and headed for the door. His knee must have stiffened while sitting because his steps hitched more than usual. Shouldn’t his walking be improving rather than the other way around?

  Chapter Nine

  Ryan would be thankful when the weather was finally warm enough to wear shorts, so he didn’t have to struggle with his pant leg and his knee brace. He also wouldn’t have to strip into these nasty, gap-backed hospital gowns for every appointment.

  The paper on the exam table crinkled under his boxers every time he moved, but his leg ached less out of the brace. The padded bands around his calf and thigh left red impressions on what used to be muscle. The skin on his left leg had a soft, fleshy look rather than the rigid, muscular appearance he was familiar with. Even his right leg, despite the extra work it did, had a flabbier texture. They didn’t even look like his own legs.

  Maybe Dr. Rose would finally okay him for walking without crutches. He’d been on crutches for six long months. He expected to be walking with a cane at least. Most people were rocking the elliptical six months after surgery.

  There was a soft knock at the door, then it opened. The doctor stepped through in teal scrubs under a lab coat with a tablet computer tucked under his arm. He sat on a wheeled stool and put the tablet across his knees.

  “How’s the recovery going?”

  “Not as quickly as I’d like.” Ryan shifted and the paper crinkled.

  “It never does.” He scooted forward and studied Ryan’s knee. He did a couple of range of motion tests and Ryan winced. The doctor pursed his lips. “Not what I was expecting to see.”

  “What?” Cold froze his veins and he shivered.

  “You shouldn’t have that much pain.” Dr. Rose grabbed the tablet and pulled up Ryan’s chart. He tapped through a couple screens, then scowled. He swiped to another page, then asked, “Did you have an X-ray done today?” When Ryan answered in the affirmative, he stood and kicked the stool back to the counter. “I’ll be right back.”

  Ryan was left in the room with not even the ticking of the clock to mark the passing of time. Every moment felt like twenty. What was the doctor checking? What would he say? Another two weeks on crutches? Three? Was something else wrong?

  Ryan’s armpits screamed at the thought. He tried to talk himself into liking the idea of more recovery, but he couldn’t wrap his head around it. The down time was driving him nuts as it was. He needed running as an outlet for his competitive spirit
and the pedestrian exercises from the physical therapist didn’t cut it. He twisted the paper under his butt until it no longer crinkled. His fingernail found a crack in the padded vinyl and he picked at it, scratching his nail across the tear. His nail caught, then bumped free. Before that stopped distracting him, the doctor returned with his tablet in front of him like a clipboard.

  “I got the new images for your knee sent over.” He hooked the stool with his foot and swung it in front of the exam table. “The good news is that your ACL is healing well. It’s looks exactly as I would expect.”

  Ryan had a brief moment of hope amid his irritation at sitting on a glorified toilet seat cover for the better part of the afternoon, but then Dr. Rose had said good news, implying there was bad news to balance it.

  “However, we can see the extent of the damage to your cartilage better on these.” The doctor shook his head. “Now that the inflammation and swelling has gone down, we get a clearer picture. Your cartilage is almost completely gone.”

  “Cartilage?” The word rolled in Ryan’s stomach like a cheeseburger during a run.

  Dr. Rose turned the tablet toward Ryan. “See here. The cartilage is worn almost completely. There’s no cushion there.”

  Ryan squinted at the black and white X-ray on the screen. The doctor drew his fingers apart and the image enlarged. Black filled the space.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Ryan said. Nor do I know what it means, other than news I don’t want to hear.

  The doctor set the tablet on the counter and picked up a model of a knee joint. “See, this here is your ACL. It stabilizes the knee, especially in side to side motions and direction changes. In most cases, it can be repaired and the patient can return to serious running in about a year.”

  Ryan nodded. The doctor had explained it all before his surgery. Granted, he’d focused on the time-line for when he would be able to walk without crutches and start running rather than the nitty-gritty of his anatomy. Six months to run, a year to be in top shape. He’d spent half the appointment calculating how he’d map out his training and ignoring the surgeon.

  “Inside your knee, cushioning your steps is cartilage.” The doctor shifted his stool to come beside Ryan and turned the model. “Now, here is where the cartilage should be. When it’s not there, you have bone rubbing on bone. Not very comfortable any time you bend your knee.”

  That cheeseburger was morphing into a rancid sandwich on a boat ride. At best, the implications of the doctor’s words were not something Ryan wanted to consider. At any other point in the continuum, they were devastating.

  “What can happen, especially in long distance runners, is that this cartilage or cushion wears away much faster than it should.” The doctor attempted to laugh. “Well, ideally, it should never wear out, but — as in your case — it has worn down to nearly nothing. I imagine your right knee is in similar condition or not far from it.”

  “So what’s this mean? What’s the treatment? How long before I can run again?” Only the last question held any importance. He’d do whatever — therapy, surgery, medication — they put him through to be able to run again.

  Dr. Rose swiped through a couple screens, skimming the information. “As far as pain management goes, ibuprofen as needed. Physical therapy can help strengthen the muscles around the bone, but you will still have the bone on bone contact with every footfall.”

  Okay, he got that. It wasn’t like he had missed the agony of every step. “But what do I need to do to run?”

  He waited to hear about another surgery, another round of physical therapy, another year away from training. None of which he wanted to contemplate, but he would tackle it if it meant another chance at Boston or the Olympic trials.

  The doctor tapped the home button on the tablet and the screen went blank. He studied Ryan until Ryan wondered if they were having a staring contest.

  “I won’t say never because you are young and who knows what medical advances there will be in your life-time, but with the current technology…” He shook his head. “Your best option for even walking without pain is a knee replacement.”

  “And I would be able to run with a new knee?” Ryan interrupted. If he couldn’t do marathons anymore, he’d settle for something shorter. Tune his speed skills and come back as a 10K runner. Or a 5K. He could do the steeplechase. It was only three thousand meters. No, jumping the hurdles wouldn’t be good. But a 5K, he could make that enough.

  “The replacements only last so many steps, so we don’t recommend long distance running. And man, you are only thirty. Under the best circumstances, replacements last about fifteen years. We can do a revision surgery where we replace the replacement. But that surgery is harder to recover from. And, best case scenario, those would wear out when you are sixty. Given how healthy the rest of your body is, you would have a lot of life yet with bad knees.”

  Ryan lifted the offending leg off the paper, and shifted it to the side. The hamburger that had bounced in his stomach earlier smoldered like charcoal and sank deeper in his gut.

  “Running is not an option if you want to walk.” The doctor held Ryan’s gaze again, seeming to wait for some acknowledgment that Ryan understood.

  Never run again.

  The words themselves were comprehensible, but he couldn’t fathom their meaning all together.

  “We’ll hold out as long as we can on the surgery. Until then, we’ll work on pain management and arresting the deterioration.” The doctor kept talking, but Ryan heard little more than droning. He couldn’t focus on anything except the no running part.

  What would he do without being able to run? Who would he be?

  Who would he be?

  The question filled his head, leaving no room for answers.

  Chapter Ten

  After lying in bed tossing and turning for the better part of the night and waking up after short bursts of anxious sleep, he needed to burn off the haze.

  The doctor’s words rattled around in his head. You won’t run again. He couldn’t cement the prognosis into his reality. He tried to travel forward, beyond the agitation, away from the news, but continually circled back to when his next run would be, how he would ease back into training, what race would be his re-entry into competition.

  Then he’d remember.

  He wished the doctor was wrong. A second opinion, that’s what he needed. Another specialist would see it all more optimistically and recommend a treatment. But why wait for two weeks and another terrifying twenty minutes on a crinkling exam table? He could run now. He’d get all the answers he needed.

  A good run would settle his brain. It always did.

  He looked out the window. The cool, damp morning air called to him. He wanted to be enveloped by the light fog with the pound of his footsteps driving out the anger and frustration.

  He donned his favorite T-shirt whose fabric was so worn it was as light as air and laced up his running shoes, reveling in their familiar hug on his feet.

  He abandoned his cane by the garage and hop-stepped down the driveway, anxious to be rid of the lethargy in his unexercised body. At the end of the driveway, the pain and frustration faded away. He was a runner. Alone with his miles.

  His limp-steps to the sidewalk lengthened into a running stride. He moved tentatively, bracing for the pain. As his left foot rolled through the next step, he placed his right foot more confidently. His body remembered, despite the inactivity and the injury. His body remembered what it was meant to do.

  He slid into his normal gait, the easy stretching steps. He felt comfort in the rhythmic movement. There was no pain in his knee.

  He felt like himself for the first time in six months.

  It barely lasted a block. The agony flared like white lightning, slicing from his knee to his hip. Scorching with each footfall, but he focused down the road, willing the pain back to its depths. His mental strength fought but the weakness and pain chomped at his leg with razor-sharp teeth. After ten more steps, his knee cr
umpled, and he skidded into the sidewalk. His body scraped across the cement which skinned his shins, knees, and palms.

  He braced his hands on the ground, closed his eyes, and inched his right foot under his weight. Pushing to a stand, he balanced on his good leg. He eased weight over to his left leg. Touching his toe to the ground, his eyes started watering. He gritted his teeth and settled his weight.

  You won’t run again. The words hurt more than his knee, but he could ignore words. Another deep breath, then he pushed off to run again. His leg collapsed as soon as his weight was on it. He tumbled forward. His chin ground into the cement, jarring his teeth as he came to rest against a crack in the sidewalk. He hit hard enough to rattle his brain and knock some sense into it. This was it. Rock bottom. The doctor was right. If he tried to run, he wouldn’t be able to walk.

  He lay there, letting the air filter back into his lungs and the burn flare on his face. It was early enough that no one else was up to observe his failure.

  He dragged himself to a sitting position and examined the damage. Blood dribbled down his shins and gravel clung to his palms. He brushed the back of his hand across his chin and earned a smear of red across his skin.

  He’d tripped while running before and suffered equally ugly cases of road rash. The humiliation that came with this particular case was a first. Other times, he’d caught himself, rolled, and was back on his feet without losing more than a second or two from his pace. This time he couldn’t get back on his feet. Wasn’t sure how he would get back home. Wasn’t sure about anything.

  He shuffle-scooted to the greening grass, wincing each time he flexed his knee, then collapsed on the neighbor’s yard. He couldn’t even run a block. He’d never run a marathon or a 5K or even a mile again. He rubbed his bloodied hand against his eyes.

  Running was the one thing that made him feel alive, like he was someone special. Now he didn’t even have that.