“Oh,” I say. “My mom isn’t actually my mom, but I call her that.”
It’s more than I’ve ever said to anyone about being adopted, even Carolina. I touch my face, as if I’m wondering how this is the same Mickey who makes friends on the field but can’t seem to find things to say in the hallway. I’m never guilty of oversharing, unless I’m talking to Carolina about that underwear you can menstruate in, which might be my new religion. I’m about to ask Josie if she has a pair when I realize I must be high to even consider it.
She’s moved again, anyway. Off the couch and over to the end table next to Edith’s chair, where her purse sits. Josie waves her hand in front of Edith’s face, and when she doesn’t react, motions to me to be quiet as she reaches into Edith’s purse and pulls out an orange bottle.
“So you’re like her granddaughter, but the one that steals from her while she’s asleep?”
“Yep,” Josie says. “Go ahead and tell me you’ve never stolen anything.”
I don’t.
“Uh-huh.” She tips a single pill into her palm and hands the bottle over to me. “Besides, she’s like my grandma, but the one who would totally tell me she deserves to be stolen from if she’s stupid enough to leave pills out of the safe when there are two junkies in the house.”
“One junkie,” I correct.
“Yeah, you’re here for the green beans. I forgot.” I don’t argue with her, instead proving my point by putting the cap back on the bottle. Josie rolls her eyes.
“They’re only 20s, anyway. Just topping myself off.”
I check the label. She’s right. It’s a bottle of 20 milligrams of Oxy, prescribed to Betsy Vellon.
“Who is Betsy Vellon?”
“One of the ladies from the senior center,” Josie explains, curling up opposite me with a throw pillow.
I remember the van I saw in Dr. Ferriman’s parking lot, the frail woman Edith was leading down the hallway there. “She drives for them, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, that’s her job.” Josie puts air quotes around the last word.
“Job,” I echo back at her, with my own quotes. “What do you mean?”
“The county doesn’t pay Edes shit,” Josie says. “So she supplements her income with the old people’s meds. Betsy’s got rheumatoid arthritis, Ruth has something going on with her nerves, and Helen . . . I don’t remember what Helen had.”
“Had?” I ask. “Helen’s dead?”
“Yep,” Josie says, unconcerned.
“Wait, what was Helen’s last name?”
“I don’t know,” Josie says, stretching her legs out to rest in my lap. I tap her foot a little harder than necessary.
“Did it start with a W?”
“Maybe, yeah. Why?”
“I think I have her walker,” I say. And Josie, who was almost asleep, bursts out laughing, kicking me a little in her convulsion. Enough to ping my hip and send a splinter of pain into the happy cocoon I formed around myself.
“To Helen,” Josie says, reaching for her glass, which still has a small pool of alcohol in it. “I can honestly say I miss her. She got 80s refilled, no questions asked.”
“So why again does Edith have everyone else’s meds?”
“A lot of them don’t actually need them, or don’t like using them. They just want to get out of the house, even if it is only going to the doctor again,” Josie says, settling back into the pillow fort she’s built for herself. “Medicaid pays for the prescription, Edith gives them half the street value in cash, drives them to their appointments, and takes them to McDonald’s after. Everybody gets drugs. Everybody makes money. Everybody eats french fries. Not a bad scam.”
“Guess not,” I have to agree as I get up to put the pills back in Edith’s purse. It’s the same one I remember from the parking lot at Dr. Ferriman’s, with the three blond kids staring out from the plastic slots on the sides.
“You could almost pass as her actual granddaughter,” I tell Josie when I sit back down. She moves her feet for me, then puts them back on my lap, as natural as can be. “Do you know them?”
“No,” Josie says, suddenly serious. “They’re dead.”
“What? No way.” I look back over at Edith’s purse, as if the posed, stolen moments of their small faces can argue in their own defense.
“House fire,” Josie says, her eyelids slipping shut. “Edith’s only son. His whole family. Poof. Gone.”
“Jesus,” I say quietly.
“Apparently he was not there,” Josie says, her voice somehow tight even as she slides into sleep. I let her go all the way under before I get up and go back to the purse, uncapping the bottle silently and going to the sink for a quick sip of water.
All my life people have told me how strong I am, like it’s the best thing I’ve got to offer. I know they mean it in all the ways—physically, emotionally, mentally—and I am. But I’m also tired, worn out from hurting and being expected to come out on top of everything—even a car crash. I’m exhausted in all the ways I’m supposed to be strong, so I take comfort in the last 20 as it wraps me up, warm and comforting, happy to be taken care of for once.
Sometimes it’s so damn nice to not have to be Mickey Catalan.
Chapter Twenty
lie: an intentional violation of truth; an untruth spoken with the intention to deceive
I wake up with my legs tangled in Josie’s, unsure where I am or why it’s so damn hard to wake up. I feel sluggish and heavy, everything in me insisting that it’s perfectly fine to go back to sleep. But my buzzing phone says otherwise, and I cringe when I see that I’ve missed two calls from my mom, and a text from Carolina that just says ?????
“Shit,” I say, sitting up too quickly. My head feels like it’s moving forward even when I know it’s stopped, and I stumble to my feet. I wish I had my crutches, or even Helen W., not because I’m in pain, but because my legs aren’t all the way awake. Or my brain isn’t. Or both.
Edith had put the blinds down last night, muttering something about nosy neighbors. I spread them with my fingers now, reeling back from the sunlight that’s so bright it’s painful.
“Shit,” I say again when I check the time.
It’s one in the afternoon, and I’m sure that my believable fib to Mom about spending the night at a friend’s just got stretched too far. Edith and Josie are both happily curled up with pillows and blankets, oblivious to my exit. I call Carolina and put her on speaker the second I’m behind the wheel, her voice rising accusatorily from my cup holder.
“Where are you even at right now?” she asks as soon as she picks up.
“I was at a friend’s,” I tell her, which isn’t exactly a lie.
“Your mom thought that friend was me,” Carolina says. “I covered for you, but you weren’t with the Bellas or Lydia either. I checked. So either you suddenly sprouted a social life or something’s up.”
“Maybe I did,” I snap. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yeah,” Carolina says flatly.
Fair enough.
“I was with a friend,” I insist. “She goes to Baylor Springs.”
“Fancy.”
“I met her in physical therapy.” I don’t think about the fact that the only thing Josie Addison is in danger of breaking is a nail.
“’Kay,” Carolina concedes. “But next time give your mom the details. I don’t want to lie to her again.”
“My bad,” I tell her.
“She cool?”
“My mom?”
“This chick. What sport she play?”
I blank. I can’t picture Josie playing anything other than beer pong. “She wrecked her bike,” I say. “Screwed up her wrist.”
“She sounds like fun. We should hang out.” I’m pretty sure Carolina’s dry sarcasm is at work, but I can’t be sure after the adrenaline push my heart just gave at the thought of Josie casually inviting Carolina to pop an 80, and then Carolina informing Josie that she’s weak.
“Ha,” I say, hopi
ng she doesn’t push it. “I don’t think you two have a lot in common.”
Which is an understatement.
“All right, later,” Carolina says, hanging up.
I’m about to stop her, about to ask if she thinks that the car crash was my fault, that her best friend is the reason why she has to worry about losing a free ride to a D1 school if she’s not up to snuff in time for the season. But she’s already gone, and I don’t know if it’s a conversation you have over the phone, anyway. It’s not a conversation I know how to have face-to-face, either.
I pull into my driveway, inspecting the story I fed Carolina for cracks, to see if it will stand up to a mom inspection. It should, technically. I never specified that I was staying with Carolina, and if she covered for me I should be in the clear this time. I’ll have to introduce the idea of Josie as a fellow therapy patient to Mom, who will probably be thrilled that I’m meeting new people.
As I lock my car door, I realize that if I’m already thinking about last night as this time, that means I’m going to do it again. I think about laughing with Josie, how her shiny facade slipped for a moment while she talked about Edith’s grandchildren. And Edith herself, filling her house with people she can care for, luring us there with cookies, and OxyContin. I think about the warm feeling that enveloped me there, like the sun beating down on the softball field, but coming from the inside, like maybe I belonged there with them, too.
I’m down with that.
Mom’s at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee when I walk in. She glances up, dark circles under her eyes.
“Rough one?” I ask.
“Fairly,” she admits. “Baby and mother both okay, though. So, in the end, a good day. How’s Carolina doing?”
“Good,” I tell her, pretty sure it’s the right answer. “We lifted together yesterday and she did arms, I did legs.”
“Was that smart?”
“We went light, Mom.”
She gives me a hard look over what I know is a cold cup of coffee, and I wonder how much she’s buying of what I’m selling.
“Seriously, I feel good.”
“You look good,” Mom admits, resting her chin in her hands. “You’re barely limping.”
“I know, right?”
“Well . . .” She gets up, begins clearing her space. “You’ve only got one more therapy session scheduled. If you think . . .”
“I think that’ll do it,” I say quickly, both because I know it’s not cheap, and because I worry that my miraculous delivery from pain might raise some eyebrows.
“Coach Mattix called,” Mom says from the sink, raising her voice over the water as she rinses her cup. “She asked if she could stop by next week, said she’d like to come over and talk before conditioning starts.”
“Right,” I say, wondering if Coach knows I’m doing leg workouts, and what she thinks of that.
“I know Ferriman cleared you for it, but Mickey . . .”
“Don’t, Mom,” I warn her. “I’ve been walking without the crutches and I feel fine. I started lifting with Carolina, and I’ve got two weeks before conditioning starts. I’ve got time to ease into it. I can do this, Mom.”
“I know you can, Mickey. Ferriman wouldn’t have cleared you otherwise. But he’s not the one that has to watch you stop a ball moving sixty-five miles an hour.”
“Seventy,” I correct her. “Carolina was up to seventy at the end of last season.”
“A lot’s happened since then,” Mom says quietly.
“We’re ready,” I snap at her. “Both of us are.”
I slam my door just to prove there’s nothing wrong with my arms either, and fall onto my bed. My hip lets me know I shouldn’t have gone up the stairs so fast, so I dig into the bag of Ronald Wagner’s pills, which is stuck under my mattress. Ten minutes later I’m warm and drowsy, pain no longer a problem.
My only issue is time.
Chapter Twenty-One
scar: a mark in the skin made by a wound, remaining after the wound has healed
Coach Mattix is a zero-fucks-given, all-bullshit-off-the-table type of coach.
She’s made me—and everyone else on the team—cry on more than one occasion, but the school has always had her back. The fact that she also coaches the girls’ basketball team and they fill the gym—and therefore the athletic association’s cash box—probably has something to do with it.
Mom and Dad have never had a problem with her style, but I haven’t ever given them reason to, either. I know Mattix is hard on us, but we’re tough as a result. I might not like it when she’s screaming at me for screwing up, but it does ensure that I don’t make the same mistake twice. People who do that aren’t on the team.
One of Coach’s favorite sayings is that scar tissue is stronger than skin, and anybody who makes it to twenty without a mark on them isn’t trying hard enough. I’ve tried—and it shows. She can tell the stories behind most of my scars as well as I can, and with as much pride. We’re cut from the same cloth, no doubt—and I don’t think she’d be impressed with my newfound shortcut through pain.
I spend extra time in the hot shower after an afternoon nap, trying to dispel the last of the fog from my head. I dig into my hip, like a warning to my screws to behave in front of Coach. I’m gaining muscle, can barely get down to them, but I think I can detect one head, pushing out farther than the others. The old bruise from all my digging is still there, deep in my tissue. I give it a nudge, letting it know I’m still here, too.
I’ve got a towel in my hair and am headed to my room when Mom yells up the stairs that I’ve got a visitor. I change fast, my hair a tangled mess that hangs down my back and leaves a wet spot on my shirt. But I don’t take the time to brush it out or put it up. Coach is here, and she’s waiting. I hurry downstairs as quick as I can, to find her at the sofa, accepting a steaming cup of coffee from Mom.
“You’re moving well,” she says, eyes already dissecting my gait as I cross the room, checking to see if my weight is distributed evenly or if I’m favoring my bad leg.
“Therapy has been awesome,” I tell her. “And I’ve been lifting.”
“I heard,” she says, and I can’t tell from her tone whether she approves. I should’ve known that the boys’ basketball coach would’ve told her as much. Carolina has sworn for months now that they share more than stats with each other, but nobody has the guts to ask either one of them.
“I’m just going to jump right in,” Coach says, talking to me instead of Mom. “You know I want you behind the plate for the first pitch. You’re the best catcher I’ve got and you’ve got a chemistry with Carolina that nobody else does.”
“Yep,” I say. “And I swear to you I’m—”
Coach holds up her hand to stop me. And I stop. It’s like running bases.
“But,” she says, and my stomach drops; the only thing preventing it from falling right down to my feet are the tips of the three screws that hold my body together. I feel the blood leave my face, and Mom puts her hand on my knee.
“But,” Coach goes on. “You were in an accident, Mickey. You sustained a serious injury.”
I think of a Barbie leg, snapping away from the body, a hole in her plasticized hip where the peg goes, how she pops back together and functions just the same. Well, almost. I bet that Barbie comes apart a little more easily every time.
“My point is, no one would think less of you if you needed to sit a few games out at the start of the season.”
“Sit a few games out?” I repeat it, in shock, like Coach just told me to execute a puppy.
“Mickey, I know what this means to you and—”
“I’m fine,” I say, interrupting Coach. Which is something you do not do.
“I understand, but Nikki showed promise in the summer leagues as an eighth grader. If we put her back there for some of the weaker teams at the beginning—”
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Nikki is capable. I’m better.”
Coach is quiet for a sec
ond, a little muscle at the edge of her mouth jumping as she decides whether to let me have it for cutting her off not once but twice. She looks to my mom.
“You’ve got a say in this, too,” she says. “This is your daughter’s health.”
“It is,” Mom says, taking a deep breath. “But it’s her body. Nobody knows how she feels besides Mickey. If she says she’s ready, then she is.”
I relax a little, realizing that I wasn’t sure if Mom would back me.
“All right.” Coach stands, not even feigning interest in the coffee Mom gave her. She came here to talk to me about softball, and now that conversation is over. We follow her to the door.
“You’ve said you’re ready, and I believe you,” Coach says as she leaves. “But two weeks from now, you’re going to have to show me.”
“I will,” I tell her, chin out.
“’Kay,” is all she says.
Later, I try to convince myself that she didn’t notice how stiff my right leg was when I got up from the couch. That Coach didn’t see the shift of my hips as I put all my weight on my left leg at the door, something that has become more of a habit than anything. One I’m going to have to break.
Just like a Barbie leg.
Chapter Twenty-Two
team: a number of persons banded together for a common endeavor, or to compete in a contest
When conditioning starts the only thing I allow myself to be is a softball player.
I am not someone who was in an accident. I am not a person recovering from an injury. I am not a girl who has upped her Oxy over the last two weeks in order to calm the anxious voices and quell the tide of anxiety as each day got me closer to this, my day of reckoning.
All I am today is an athlete.
I see it in the other girls’ faces in the hall, a stony preparation with tiny fissures where our doubts go. The ones who don’t play basketball have the most cracks in their composure, and the one-sport athletes who have let themselves be lazy in the off-season. And then there’s me, the girl who had crutches in January and today claims she will be running two miles.
Heroine Page 9
