Clinic Trials
~~ Ketchum, Idaho, 2063 ~~
"Bye Momma! I love you!" Nicole waved excitedly before turning and bouncing to the line. Heather watched as she went in, then turned and drove her little car to the clinic to get her day started.
"Hey, Heather, you've got a full roster today, enjoy."
"Thanks, Robin," Heather murmured, flicking over her tablet, she took a deep breath and headed for the exam room. The day passed in a steady blur of patients, then she left at four, picking up Nicole and heading for the diner, a quick bite to eat, and then home. Her days were full of work, and her nights, just as they always had been since the breakup were focused on Nicole and her needs. She listened as Nicole told her about her school day, and then told her about one of her classmates having a little brother soon. Heather sighed wistfully, she had wanted more children, but she would be happy with Nicole.
"Mrs. Mitchell said you needed a new husband, I told her she was silly, you didn't have an old husband," Nicole stated stoutly. "Da wasn't your husband." Nicole rolled her eyes, "Besides, she should focus on other people. You're my Mommy."
"That's right," Heather murmured, smiling fondly as she watched Nicole color and she worked on paperwork for the clinic.
Just short of ten miles away, a man sat on his porch in the cool night air, sipping a cup of coffee with a shot of whiskey in it, and stared off into the woods near his small house. His flannel shirt and knit skull cap kept him plenty warm even with his sleeves rolled up. His thick mustache and beard were mostly groomed. In fact, to look at him, one would hardly notice anything amiss until they looked into his eyes. His eyes did not reside in Ketchum, Idaho at the moment. They were almost seven thousand miles away in the mountains of Pakistan watching his squad from Charlie Platoon of Second Battalion, Tenth Mountain Division desperately trying to survive and retreat from a Russian-heavy division in the mountains.
A single tear dripped down his cheek, drying as it went unnoticed. He'd have stayed like that for the next couple of hours if the crackle of a HAM radio from inside his house hadn't snapped him out of his reverie. "Deac. Deac, do you copy? It's Sam." Deacon Grimes blinked, then sighed, taking a sip of his coffee before he got up from the old wooden rocking chair and walked into the house.
Picking up the microphone he lifted it to his lips. "Sam? Deacon. Go ahead." Sam worked at Warm Springs Lodge, a tourist resort.
"Yeah, we've got a couple of younger guests missing. Word is they were going to go off on their own and try one of the unmarked trails and they haven't come back down yet."
"Shit," he said simply. It never failed. At least two or three times in a resort season, someone didn't listen and decided that they were a 'real' skier. They went on one of the unmarked trails, the ones without the lights and the regular sightlines from the lift towers. And then they got lost. They were lucky if they only got lost. "All right. What're their names?"
"Frank and Allison Philips," Sam replied.
"Shit," he said again. So it was a guy trying to impress his girl on top of everything else. Swell. "All right. I'm on it. Spin up an EMT for me, from Saint Luke's all right? Grimes out." he said, putting down the microphone.
"Gotcha covered, Deac," Sam replied before the voice cut off. He walked over to the door and put on his heavy coat, then walked out to his truck. It was a custom rig with extended off-road capability and carried a whole bunch of emergency gear that he hoped he wouldn't have to use. That didn't stop him from having to use it at least once a year, though, it seemed, no matter what he hoped. Starting the ignition, he pulled out and headed up Forest Service Road 227 towards Ketchum proper.
The forest service maintained several off-road trails that their trucks could get through throughout the back of the ski runs. He started driving down them, using the truck's loudspeaker to call for Frank and Allison. He was looking for nearly two hours and it was night by the time he heard their response. He drove as close as he could, then got out, left the car running, and made his way to them. "What happened?" he asked gruffly.
"Fell," Frank said softly, limping slowly. "We were on the side, then something big and yellow ran across the trail, scared the shit out of us. Allison started sliding off the side, I grabbed her, and we both went over the edge."
Deacon nodded, eyeing Frank's leg. No protruding bones; that was a good sign. "All right. I've got a truck about fifty yards that way," he pointed. "We're going to get you two out of here. Equipment?" he asked.
Allison shook her head. "When we fell, we lost our skis and poles. They kept going down the hill..."
Deacon nodded again, moving to duck under Frank's arm on his weak side. "Don't worry about it. Come on. Let's get you two out of here. Did we learn anything?"
"Don't go off marked trails without a guide," Frank said with a nod.
He nodded. "Marked trails are there for a reason. The towers at either end of the ski lift staff watchers with really good scopes. It's their job to make sure that anyone stranded on the slope gets help. If you go off the trail... they can't see you. That's why they check in with everyone staying there at the end of the night. You're not the first. You probably won't be the last," he said as they walked. "You were both really lucky. Learn from this one," he admonished in a low voice.
"Yes, Sir," Allison murmured. "We just... we wanted to ski without the little kids underfoot."
He smiled wryly. "I get it. Next time, check with the lodge. They usually have a few events that are over eighteen only every week for just such a need."
They arrived at his truck and he helped them in, then he turned it around and headed back to the main road before returning to the lodge. Pulling into the main clubhouse, he stopped behind the ambulance that was parked there, then helped them both into the building. Sam was there along with a couple of EMTs. "Doesn't seem to be broken. I'd say a sprain. Maybe a torn ligament." He gestured at Frank. "He's all yours."
The EMTs walked over and helped him to a seat as Deacon walked over to Sam. "You really need to advertise your adult-only activities better. They were trying to avoid rugrats they said."
"Jesus, Deac. We only post signs everywhere..." he gestured around the main room, where signs of the weekly schedule could be seen.
Deacon shrugged. "Maybe neon?" he scoffed before he turned and began walking back to his truck. Half an hour later and he was back at his home, crawling into bed. He closed his eyes to try and go to sleep, but within a few minutes of doing so, he was back in Pakistan, curled up in a ball and sobbing silently.
Several weeks passed and she was handed her tablet, "Thank you, Robin," she murmured scanning through, then paused at an unfamiliar name, "Who is Deacon Grimes?"
"Ahh, he's a special case, he's gone through everyone here at least once. Guess it's your turn," Robin murmured. At Heather's questioning look, she explained. "He's a bit... gruff and scary. He doesn't let anyone in and just kind of lays there, plus trying to massage him is like working on granite."
"Alright..." Heather trailed off, "Well, I guess we'll see what we see. Put him in room ten for me."
Deacon had woken up before dawn that morning, making breakfast and eating it before spending most of the morning thinking about the session he had coming up. He was starting to consider just canceling and giving up. None of the therapists seemed to help. None of them seemed to even want him around. Not that he could blame them, of course, but still...
He took a quick half-hour jog in the cold and the snow to warm and stretch himself before getting in his truck and driving into town at two-thirty. He'd go to his appointment, then to a couple of different stores before heading home to do it again in a week. It wasn't like he had to pay for the appointments. The VA covered it, but it was wasted time.
"Please follow me," Robin said at his arrival, she led him down the hallway to a different room from what he was used to. There was a cross beam with handles over the massage bed. "Heather will be along shortly. You haven't met her yet."
He nodded, not saying anything. When she left, he sighed, and slowly unbuttoned his flannel shirt and set it off to the side before pulling off his boots and jeans, leaving him in his boxers. He slowly climbed onto the table, wincing as he was afraid it would collapse. It didn't, and he settled into position, his face in the cradle, and waited.
It was a few moments later that the scent of vanilla filled his nose, "Hello, Mister Grimes. My name is Heather Smith, I'll be your masseuse today. Do you have a preferred scent?" Her voice was soft and held a slight accent to it, Southern if he wasn't mistaken.
"Not really," he rumbled, with sort of a shrug. "They just always...," he trailed off. No one else had ever asked. They just started trying to massage him.
"Mmm, well currently the smell is vanilla, does it please you?" Her voice continued softly. "I also have lovely sandalwood, citrus or..." she paused, "Well I don't particularly like the smell of spearmint, it always makes me think of toothpaste, so perhaps we avoid that one. Would you like me to hold each scent to your nose so you can decide which you'd prefer?"
"You can just pick...," he replied, confused at why it mattered. He was just going to get sweaty anyway.
"Mmm, very well, I'll stick with the vanilla then. It always makes me think of baking with my Gran. Now, would you prefer quiet? Would you prefer for me to talk and tell you what I'm doing before I do it, or would you prefer for me to simply sing so you can keep track of where I am?"
