Smoke of Sighs

Chapter 8: Pfund et al., 2013

My head collapses back against the couch and I groan. "My fist is fucking exhausted, man."

He snorts. "Switch hands, dumbass."

"Thanks for the professional opinion, Dr. Reynolds."

"Always available for a consult, Dr. Hall," he replies glibly. "I'm diagnosing you with masturbation-induced tendonitis."

"Fuck you."

I can hear him grinning. "Don't swing that way, but thanks for the offer."

I miss this jackass. "How about you? Met any hot patients?"

I bet he's rolling his eyes. Jokes aside, he's a law-abiding citizen and screwing a patient is probably right up there next to screwing me on his list of never-ever-gonna-fucking-happen.

"Don't even have the time or energy to rip one out myself, brother. On call three nights a week, twelve hour shifts nearly every second day."

No wonder he sounds beat. Doesn't mean I can't still give him shit. "What could they possibly need a psych resident on call for?" I tease drily. "Emergency CBT?"

"You'd be surprised. Paged me down to the ER a few nights ago because this son of a bitch was completely out of his mind. Delirium and freak violence. Apparently stuck a knife through a cop's forearm and didn't even fucking flinch at the taser." I wince. "PCP's making a comeback," he explains.

"Damn. You picked the wrong profession."

"Don't even get me started."

We drink in silence for a bit longer before he says, his voice shifted to soft and serious, "How's Stephen?"

My small smile melts into a hard frown. "Haven't heard from him since early August."

He grunts knowingly. More silence before he asks, "He still using? When you spoke to him last?"

My skin bristles. Jack knows I hate talking about my brother but he brings it up anyways, because he's a nosy shrink and a medical doctor and that combo makes him too fucking curious and concerned about other people's wellbeing. "Oxy, last time I heard."

"Mm." I can picture him scratching his trim brown beard and getting that serious, focused look on his face. Bastard has his bed-side manner down to a science. The considerate, intelligent, compassionate doctor thing. Always gets him laid. "Still up in Fort Mac?"

"As far as I know."

After a moment he quietly says, "They have some great addiction management programs up there, Kayd. Have you tried talking to him about it?"

I press my eyes shut, feeling that familiar sense of claustrophobic dread settle over me. "It's his fourth relapse, Jack. After he nearly killed himself on heroin he promised he'd get clean but he just switched to a different poison." I'm really not in the mood to discuss my older brother's addiction, his trauma, the abuse, his debilitating cycle of accepting and rejecting therapy.

There's only so much caring you can do before the numbness sets in.

I also don't want to confront the possibility that I'm a terrible fucking person so I just say, "I'm waiting for him to reach out but he doesn't, so."