The Losers. David Eddings
him a speculative look. “I’m going to give this to you straight, Rafe. I think we know each other well enough for that.”
“Okay,” Raphael replied, “what is it?”
“It’s your mother, Rafe.”
“Mom?”
“She’s always been a delicate woman, you know, and I’m afraid all of this has been too much for her—your father’s death, your accident, all of it. She’s a little—well—disoriented. Her doctors say
that she’ll come out of it eventually, but it’s going to take time.”
“I’d better go home. I can get around now—a little. I’ll see if they’ll discharge me.”
“Uh—that’s going to be a problem, Rafe. You see, what’s happened is that your mother has—well, sort of retreated. I mean, she’s not catatonic or anything, but it’s just that in her mind none of this has really happened. As far as she’s concerned, your father’s away on a business trip, and you’re off at college. She’s perfectly happy—talks about you both all the time. The doctors think that it might be best to keep her that way for the time being. If you came back with your—on crutches, that is—she’d have to face things she’s just not ready to come to grips with yet.”
“I see.”
“I hate to have to be the one to tell you, but it’s better coming from me than from somebody else. Just give her a little time, that’s all. Write to her from time to time—that sort of thing. I’ll keep you posted on her progress.”
“Thanks for telling me, Uncle Harry.”
“That’s what family is for. If you’re not too tired, there are a couple of other things I need to discuss with you.” “I’m fine,” Raphael told him.
“Okay, Rafe.” Uncle Harry opened his briefcase. “Financially you’re pretty well off.” “Sir?”
“You’ll have a fairly comfortable income. Edgar—your father—had a number of insurance policies. Edgar was always very interested in insurance.”
“He was a careful man.”
“That he was, Rafe. That he was. The policies will cover all your medical expenses here and give you an income besides—not very big, actually. Walking-around money is about all. You’ll also be receiving Social Security disability benefits.”
“I’ve never had a job, Uncle Harry—not a real one. I’m not eligible for Social Security.”
“You worked for four summers at the mill back in Port Angeles.”
“That wasn’t a real job, Uncle Harry. The owner hired me because of my father—and because I was a football player.”
“They withheld Social Security from your check, didn’t they?” “Yes.”
“Then you’re entitled. Don’t rush out and make any down payments on any castles, though. What’s really got you set up is the settlement you got from the railroad.”
“Settlement? What settlement?”
“I told you about that the last time I was here. I had you sign some papers, remember?”
“To be honest with you, Uncle Harry, there are some big gaps in what I remember. The painkillers sort of erase things.”
“I suppose they do at that. Well, to cut it short, the railroad’s insurance company got in touch with me not long after your accident. They made an offer.”
“What for? It was my fault. I was drunk and driving too fast. It wasn’t the train’s fault.”
“You don’t necessarily have to make an issue of that, Rafe—not that it really matters now, I guess. The railroad didn’t want a messy court case. Jurors in this part of the country are a little unpredictable where railroads are concerned. It’s cheaper in the long run for the railroad to make an offer in any case where there are personal injuries. Those ten-million-dollar judgments really bite into company profits. Anyway, you’ll be getting a monthly check from them. I still wouldn’t get my heart set on any castles, though. If you don’t go hog-wild, you’ll get by okay. I’ll put the money—your settlement, your insurance, and your Social Security check all in the bank back home for you. You remember Anderson, don’t you?”
“The banker?”
“Right. He remembers you from the football field, and he’ll take care of everything for you. You’ll be getting a check every month. I put a few thousand in the hospital safe for you.”
“A few thousand?”
“You’re going to have unusual expenses when you leave the hospital, Raphael. I don’t want you to run short. I’m afraid you’ll find out just how little it is when you get out on the street. You’re set financially, so you can just relax until you get back on your feet again.” Harry stopped abruptly and looked away. “I’m sorry, but you know what I mean.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll need your signature on a few things,” his uncle went on. “Power of attorney for you and your mother—that kind ofthing. That way you can concentrate on getting well and just leave everything else up to me. Okay?”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Quillian,” Raphael said to his therapist a few days later while resting on his crutches.
“What is it, Taylor?” the balding man in the wheelchair asked him.
“Did you have any problems with all the drugs they give us?” “Jesus Christ, Taylor! I’ve got a broken back. Of course I had a problem with drugs. I fought drugs for five years.” “How did you beat it?”
“Beat it? Beat it, boy?” Quillian exploded. “You never beat it. Sometimes—even now—I’d give my soul for one of those shots you get every other hour.”
“All right, then. How did you stop?”
“How? You just stop, boy. You just stop. You just don’t take any more.”
“All right,” Raphael said. “I can do that if I have to. Now, when do I get my wooden leg?”
Quillian looked at him. “What?”
“My peg leg? Whatever the hell you call it?”
“Prosthesis, Taylor. The word is prosthesis. Haven’t you talked with your doctor yet?”
“He’s too busy. Is there something else I’m supposed to know?”
Quillian looked away for a moment, then looked back, his face angry. “Dammit,” he swore. “I’m not supposed to get mixed up in this.” He spun his wheelchair away and rolled across the room to a file cabinet. “Come over here, Taylor.” He jerked open a cabinet drawer and leafed through until he found a large brown envelope.
Raphael crutched across the room, his movements smoother now.
“Over to the viewer,” Quillian said harshly, wheeled, and snapped the switch on the fluorescent viewer. He stuck an X-ray picture on the plate.
“What’s that?” Raphael asked.
“That’s you, Taylor. That’s what’s left of you. Full front, lower segment. You don’t have a left hip socket. The left side of your pelvis is shattered. There’s no way that side of you could support your weight. There won’t be any prosthesis for you, Taylor. You’re on crutches for the rest of your life, boy. You might as well get that down in your mind.”
Raphael stood on his crutches, looking at the X ray. “All right. I can live with that if I have to.”
“You still want to try to get off the dope?”
“Yes.”