Page 7 of Memories of the Past

“Hell, doc, I don’t know.” I shrugged.

“Well, before you said you were getting them two to three times a week. I gave you enough medication for six months. That was two months ago. How much would you say you had left?” he asked, twirling his pen between his fingers, studying me.

I met his eyes; I needed this medication there was no doubt about it. I let out a breath, “Okay fine, I’m getting them four to five times per week. Sometimes, every day,” I grumbled. “And I’m out of that medication.

“I see. So, they are all this bad then?” he questioned, making notes in my chart. “So bad that you have to turn off the lights?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Some are just worse than others. This is one of the worse than others.” I shrugged.

He sat there scribbling down some notes and then looked up at me. “Would you say it’s worse when you ride?”

I didn’t want to admit it to myself, never mind him, but I nodded. They’d also become worse in the last month, but I wasn’t telling him that. “Yeah, sometimes.”

He opened the folder in front of him and looked down at the papers in front of him, shuffled a couple of them around, and read the one he’d placed on top. Then he looked up and met my eyes. “Well, Thomas, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

I didn’t say anything. I just sat waiting to hear what he was going to say.

“I’m afraid that you are going to have to quit riding.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t quit. Rodeo was all I knew.

“Thomas, you’ve had seven concussions in the past year and a half. I told you one more head injury and I’d pull you. I should have done it months ago. Besides, you’ve got spinal injuries, neck injuries, and with each additional accident, they are getting worse. Each time you get bucked off a bull, you run the risk of being paralyzed. You’ve got a small pharmacy of pills you’ve been prescribed in the last year and a half, and it will only continue to get worse, unless you stop. Now, have you been taking all of the medication as prescribed?”

I looked down to the floor. I’d probably been taking more than I’d been prescribed. I nodded. “I doubt I’d be standing if I wasn’t taking them.” I chuckled.

“Thomas, you’ve got to stop riding. I’m sorry, but your days of rodeo are over. Here is another prescription to help with those headaches. You’re only to take them when your headaches get this bad. I’m going to put a watch on your other scripts as well, make sure you aren’t taking too much.” He held out a prescription for me to take. “Lucky for you, this time there is no sign of concussion or any more damage to your back or neck.”

“Thanks, doc,” I muttered and took the small square of paper and shoved it deep into my pocket, then pulled the door open and made my way down the hall.

* * *

The shrill ring of the phone pulled me from a deep sleep. I reached from the bed without opening my eyes, trying to find the phone. Instead, my hand hit something, and I heard the sound of pills and bottles hitting the floor. I glanced at the clock, the fuzzy green numbers slowly coming into focus. It looked to be only a little past six. Who the hell calls someone that early in the morning?

On a normal day, I would have been up by now, but the last few days I’d been sleeping in. I reached for my glasses, my back aching at the stretch. Then I grabbed the only pill bottle still standing and shook two pain pills into the palm of my hand. I grabbed my glass of water, shoved the pills in my mouth, and drank. I looked to the floor at the hundreds of tiny pills that were now scattered all over the floor, then I grabbed the phone, thankful that the noise had finally stopped.

“What is it?” I barked into the phone, pinching my brow between my thumb and forefinger to take my mind from the headache that had just started.

“Is this Thomas Jenkins?” a woman’s voice poured over the phone.

“Yep, who’s this?”

“Thomas, are you the son of William and Betty Jenkins, the owners of Jenkins Ranch, in Willow Valley?”

I frowned, wondering what this was about. “I am. Who is this? What’s this regarding?”

“Mr. Jenkins, it’s Haley Thomas, with Willow Valley Law. You don’t know me, but I work with Carson Kinley, your father’s attorney. Carson asked me to give you a call. Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Your father passed away on Friday.”

I swallowed hard. Mom had passed away a few years ago, and that had been the last time I’d been home. I’d ridden into town and shown up for the funeral, which had been nothing but a mistake. My father wouldn’t even look at me, let alone speak to me. I’d stayed for the funeral watching from a distance and I left town the following morning, never once looking back.

“I see,” I muttered, dropping my head into my hands.

“Thomas, Carson asked me to arrange a meeting with you in the coming days. There are some things that require attention, and he would like to go over them with you.”

“What sort of things?” I questioned, unsure as to what they could possibly need from me.

“Well, Carson has an entire list of things that he actually needs to go over: their bank accounts, investments, what you’d like to do with the ranch.”

“The ranch?” I questioned. “Why on earth would he want to know what I want to do with the ranch for?”

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