Beneath the Scars

“So, I was here,” he continued, “running low on pain meds, and I knew I should be looked at. I called the town doctor and told him I needed a house call, and it needed to be that day. He told me to go to hell.”

“What?”

“I was my, ah, usual, demanding, egotistical self when I called.”

Well, that would explain a lot. I’d heard his demanding tone on more than one occasion.

“He asked if my legs were broken and when I told him no, he wasn’t polite,” Zachary chuckled. “He told me when I could address him civilly to call back, or better yet, get my lazy ass down to his office.”

I tried not to laugh at the image I had of Zachary’s face after being told off by someone. “Oh. What did you do?”

“I hung up and cursed him out. I threw stuff and yelled a lot.”

“Did you feel better?”

“Not really. Plus, I had a mess to clean up.”

“I see.” A small chuckle escaped and Zachary’s lips grazed my hair again.

“A couple days later, when I was getting desperate, I called back and asked, politely, if I could come see him, after hours. He agreed and I went to see him.

“I was a fucking nervous wreck leaving the house. His practice was out back of his house and I sat in my car for a good ten minutes before I went in.” Zachary snorted. “What a cantankerous, grumpy old man he was.” His voice became softer. “One of the best things that’s ever happened to me.”

I captured his hand that was restlessly waving as he spoke and laid it on his chest. “Tell me.”

“He was fine. Didn’t react to my face or comment on it. He checked me out, agreed I needed more medication and sent me on my way. Or at least let me get to the door, before he asked me if I played chess. I told him yes, and he nodded. That was it. I was almost to my car when he came out and informed me he lived alone and spent his evenings sipping whiskey, wishing he still had a chess partner. He pointed to the side door. It’s always open, he’d said. Then he went inside without another word.”

“You went back?”

“Eventually.”

“He counseled you?”

“Doc didn’t believe in fancy shit like counseling. He believed in talking. So we did—sometimes. Sometimes I talked, sometimes he did. Some nights we said nothing and he beat my ass in chess, like he always did. I spent a lot of nights at his kitchen table.”

I ached at the sadness in his voice. The way he spoke, I knew Doc wasn’t around any longer. “Did he pass away?”

“No. He missed his wife, who had passed away a few years before I got here. His daughter lives in Boston and he missed her, too. She wanted him to retire and come live with her, so he did. He left a couple years ago.”

His pain was so evident. I hated the thought he’d been alone for so long. “You miss him.”

Zachary’s voice was quiet. “As gruff as the old guy was, he helped me. He never told me how I should feel or what I should do. He kind of let me talk until I figured it out myself.”

“He was your friend, Zachary.”

He thought about it before nodding. “Yes. Yes, he was.”

“Did he know? What happened, I mean?”

“It took me almost a year to tell him.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me I was right. I was a bastard.”

I gaped up at him, but he didn’t look upset. “He also told me I needed to let it go and move on. I couldn’t change the past, but I could learn from it. He told me I could choose to be different and not be a bastard anymore because I knew better now.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I remember one night, he got angry at me. Told me I needed to stop blaming my parents for everything wrong in my life. He agreed they were terrible parents and lousy human beings, but he pointed out the fact that although they started me on the road, I had been the one driving for a while. I made the decisions. And I could have chosen different.” He exhaled a deep rush of air. “As usual, he was right and I started accepting the blame for my own actions. God, Megan, the man could make me talk about shit I didn’t even realize I was holding in.”

“Do you ever think of contacting them? Your parents, I mean?”

He pulled back, his eyes dark. “No. That part of my past is dead. Doc was right in many ways, but I never want to see them again. Ever. The subject is closed.”

“All right,” I soothed. “I only asked.”

His face softened. “That’s behind me. That whole part of my life is done. Once you’re part of my past, I don’t go back. That will never change for me.”