Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“I already have.”

“So, okay, this PTSD thing.”

“You don’t have to go there, Mr. Nussbaum. I have already stricken Ms. Oppenheimer’s unsubstantiated remarks from the record.”

“Thanks. But let’s say, hypothetically, an emergency-room nurse did wind up with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder right after her best friend in the world was horribly murdered. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this same hypothetical nurse realized what was happening to her and went to her employers to ask for a long-term leave of absence.

“Furthermore, let’s say the folks at, oh, let’s call the hypothetical hospital Mainland Medical, thought so highly of this young trauma nurse that they helped her find a in-house treatment program, which everyone agreed would be kept strictly confidential, thereby putting it under the protection of the federal government’s HIPAA Privacy Rules.

“How could anybody but the hypothetical nurse and her hypothetical doctors even know about this hypothetical incident? Unless, of course, somebody, let’s say another hypothetical doctor, maybe a hypothetical plastic surgeon, whose favorite customer was a hypothetical woman named Mrs. Oppenheimer, violated the young nurse’s privacy rights as stipulated under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996.”

Harvey stops.

The courtroom is stone cold quiet.

“I’m just sayin’, your honor,” he adds with a shrug. “Hypothetically.”

I never take the stand.

Judge Guarnery has no choice but to toss out the temporary restraining order. He totally expunges its existence from Christine’s record. He even suggests that Mrs. Oppenheimer “have a little chat” with her “hypothetical” plastic surgeon friend and advise him to obtain legal counsel, as he could be brought up on charges for his “flagrant violation” of HIPAA regulations.

I guess the whole PTSD deal was one of the things Christine and Harvey Nussbaum chatted about last Saturday after Ceepak and I left the room. Ceepak could relate. When he first came home from the horror show over in Iraq, my partner had been prone to nightmares. Especially when he was awake and someone set off fireworks, like an M-80 tossed into a dumpster.

The second we’re outside the courtroom, Christine jumps into my arms to give me a big hug. Full disclosure? She does, indeed, have a great bod.

“Where’s Mr. Ceepak and his mom? I want to thank them, too!”

“Um, they’re both kind of busy. The Free Fall opens tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

Christine is confused. Can’t blame her. What I just said makes absolutely no sense.

Unless, of course, you know that skeevy Joe Ceepak is coming to town.

Saturday morning, Ceepak and I are off duty but both of us are carrying our sidearms.

We meet in the parking lot that fronts Pier Two, home of the StratosFEAR Free Fall.

“Thank you for doing this with me, Danny,” says Ceepak.

“No problem.” Ceepak doesn’t trust himself to stay calm, cool, and in control when confronting his horrible excuse for a father for the first time in nearly a year. Today, being restrained and dispassionate will be my job.

It’s about 10:30 A.M.

The rides usually open around eleven. Ceepak figures his father, a Sandusky Amusements certified ride operator, will already be on the job, going through his pre-flight checklist.

We walk up the pier, which resembles a carnival midway thirty minutes before they let the suckers in. Blinking signs are flickering to life. Baskets of Oreos and Snickers bars dripping pancake batter are being dunked into bubbling vats of French fryer oil. Fluffy stuffed animals are being hung on pegs-prizes not too many basketball shooters, frog bog boppers, softball-into-a-basket tossers, or balloon poppers will actually take home.

Up ahead, I see the NASA-blue StratosFEAR car rising up its bright white tower. It slips behind the electronic sign spelling out S-t-r-a-t-o-s-FEAR that rings the ride. It creeps, like an extremely slow elevator on a high-rise crane tower, toward the top. Fortunately, the seats are all empty.

When we reach the ride entrance, the car comes sliding down like a shot. The brakes slam on. Fog puffs out. The car glides to the bottom.

“Looking good, Joe!” we hear Bob the manager holler.

“Thanks, Bob.”

And there, sitting in the control booth, is none other than Joseph Ceepak.

I almost don’t recognize him. His wild tangle of greasy hair is neatly trimmed, parted, and combed to one side. His face is shaved clean of the salt-and-pepper stubble I remember. Instead of a sloppy Hawaiian shirt with food stains dribbled down the front, he’s wearing a clean and pressed polo shirt and crisp khaki shorts.

“Johnny?” he says when he sees us staring up at him. “Boyle? Hey, great to see you two.” He squirms around on his stool. “Hey, Bob? Is it okay if I take my five-minute break a little early?”

“Sure, Joe!” Bob calls back. Then he gives us a cheery wave, the kind suburban guys give each other when they’re out mowing their lawns.

Joe Ceepak flicks some switches and hurries down to greet us.

His son’s jaw joint is doing that popping in and out thing it does near his ear whenever he’s trying not to explode.

“My goodness, Johnny. Good to see you, son. Been too long. You too, Boyle. I would’ve called you, but, well, I just got into town last night. They’re putting me up in a motel till I can find an apartment. Had to punch in bright and early this morning.”

And then he stands there, hands on hips, smiling proudly at his son.

Whose eyes are narrowing into slits tighter than window blinds yanked all the way up.

“Why are you here?” Ceepak finally says.

“Didn’t they tell you, Johnny? I’m a factory-trained and certified operator. See, the plant that manufactures these American steel rides is located up in Sandusky, not too far from where I was living after, you know, last summer when, well, I would’ve died if it wasn’t for my jarhead son!”

He actually says the word “jarhead” with some affection. Usually, he sneers it at his son. Says stuff like “you effing jarhead moron.”

Not today. In fact, I have never seen Mr. Ceepak smile so much. And his teeth aren’t the color of brown deli mustard anymore, either.

“You and Boyle here saved my life, Johnny. I’ll never forget that. Cross my heart and hope to spit.”

“Please forgive me, sir, if I doubt your sincerity.”

“Hey, I don’t blame you, Johnny. Goodness, I’d doubt it, too. The way I’ve behaved? Despicable. Heck, I wasn’t much of a dad-to you or Billy. But trust me, Johnny, a man can change. What did Jesus say? ‘There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.’ Well, let me tell you, boys: right now Jesus and his friends are having one heck of a hosanna hollerin’ hootenanny up there in heaven. Come on, son. Rejoice with Jesus. What once was lost now is found.”

“How goes the family reunion?” Manager Bob has ambled over to join us. He’s doing that smile and heel-rocking thing again.

“Peachy,” I say, so Ceepak doesn’t have to speak.

“Apparently,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely skeptical, “my father is a new man.”

“That I am, Johnny boy. Be sure to tell your mother. Hey, maybe the three of us can get together for dinner some night soon. You can come too, Boyle. My treat.”

“That, sir,” says Ceepak, “is never going to happen.”

His father keeps grinning like an idiot. “How’s Adele doing? I bet she misses me.”

“No, sir. She does not.”

“I read about her in the newspaper this morning. They’re calling her Sea Haven’s newest Guardian Angel.”