Page 130 of Mangled Memory
“You knew? You’ve known all this time and didn’t bother to tell us?”
“What are you talking about? I discovered it last night, just like you.”
“How could you— Wait. What?” Cian’s anger has fizzled into confusion and taken mine along with it.
“Cian, what are you referring to? I’ve had a hell of a twenty-four hours, and I’d like to avoid another Murphy knock-down drag-out if I can. Three in one day is three too many.”
“I’m talking about you knowing about Ma’s PLS diagnosis three years ago and not having the decency to tell us.”
What the hell?
“Six days, Cian. I learned six days ago just like you. Ayla told me when she got home from your house.”
Home.Home.Ugh, that word.
“Look, you lying piece of shit?—”
I disconnect. I’m not listening to this when it’s not staring me down, like Liam was last night or Ayla did early this morning.
My phone rings and I cycle it off. Fuck this shit.
I’m not surprised when my desk phone rings forty minutes later and my assistant, Sandra, buzzes to tell me I have a guest at the same time my door flies open on its hinges slamming into the wall behind it.
“Cian.” My voice sounds cold, but inside I’m seething. I do not have time for another battle today. Not when my patience is this thin.
The normally calm Murphy is channeling his inner Seamus, red faced and looking… murderous. He stalks my way while reaching into his pocket.
My mind seizes. I remember the burn of a bullet peeling the skin from my body, the rip and tear through muscle and bone, the bite of it flying through an exit allowing the pieces inside of me out. My only thought is duck. I fling the high back chair behind me and hit the floor.
The slap to the desktop and his unbelieving “What the fuck” happen in tandem. He rounds my desk, staring down on me. I wish I were the guy who would puff up my chest in the face of agun. Apparently, I’m the hide-and-seek-shelter guy. Bruise number thirty-seven to my pride is complete.
“What the fuck are you doing down there?” Cian’s face is the picture of bewilderment. He extends a hand and, with my brutalized ego already crushed in humility, I accept.
He steps back, drops into the chair opposite me, and never looks away. We sit in complete silence until he gets up, closes the door, and returns to his chair. “I’ve known you a long time. We don’t always see eye to eye, but I’ve always shown you respect. At first because of my sister. Later, because you earned it.”
He waits for me to say something, but my mouth is dry and adrenaline is screaming through my veins. I need the time to breathe and have my body and mind return to normal function.
“Learning that you knew this whole time about Ma and were helping her… I don’t get it. I respect you doing it. I don’t respect you hiding it.”
I extend a palm out to him. “No clue what you’re talking about, Cian. I learned about Janie a week ago just like you.”
His eyes drop to the paper on my desk and back to me. His jaw goes hard as do his eyes.
Dropping my eyes to the paper, I skim it quickly, before lifting it to devour the words, not once but twice. It’s a recommendation for Janie Murphy to get into a research trial for patients with Primary Lateral Sclerosis at CU-Anschutz. It’s from just under two and half years ago. And it is signed by me, referencing my position on the board at the hospital.
On the third reread, my eyes fall shut, my head drops to the headrest, and my whole world crumbles from below my feet.
37
fish on land
Christian
Lifting the paper between us—the evidence that everything I’ve worked for in life has been reduced to rubble—I offer my friend the truth. “This is the first time I’ve seen this. I’m glad Janie has gotten state of the art care. I’d love to be able to take credit for a gift of this kind of significance, but I can’t. My signature here was forged.”
“But—”
“But what, Cian? I have nothing to gain by denying my involvement in something this critical to your family. The only person who might oppose it is your dad, and that would only be because his pride wouldn’t allow him to receive such a gift.”
