by Nicky James
Had the sun crested the horizon already without my knowledge?
Addison must have taken my preoccupation with the window as a hint. She left the pill cup on my adjustable bedside table and shuffled toward it before drawing the curtains aside. Her reassuring smile dimpled her cheeks and crinkled her dainty little nose, but it was also full of sympathy, an expression I was getting tired of seeing on everyone who walked through the door.
“The sun is rising.”
“Already?” I still couldn’t fathom how so many hours had flashed by without my having noticed them.
“Already. How’s your pain level this morning?”
Lingering a minute more on the monochrome world taking shape outside the window, I sighed. Always the same questions. Weren’t they tired of getting the same answers? Because I was tired of giving them.
Shifting around to face her, I scooched higher on the bed, grimacing at the ever-present ache in my right leg.
“It’s been worse.”
“That’s not an answer, Gray.” She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my upper arm and focused on the machine as she continued. “If you need more pain meds, you should just ask for them.”
And admit how weak I’ve become? No thanks. I’ll suffer.
“The physiotherapist will be coming by a bit later than usual this morning. He is going to start going over the exercises to prepare you for a temporary prosthesis, I think. Until the doctor gives the go ahead, you won’t be fitted for one, but it’s a start, right? Your wound needs to be more healed first. Probably next week, if the doctor gives you the green light.”
Yay me! I bit back my sarcastic comment and fixed a less than genuine smile on my face as the machine released its death grip on my arm with a hiss of air. Christian, the in-hospital physiotherapist, had been coming twice a day since the day after surgery to help me learn how to get around and do basic things that had never challenged me before. Like getting to the bathroom and dressing. It had been humiliating at first, but the guy was incredibly nice and hadn’t once made me feel like an invalid.
Blood pressure complete, Addison performed her other routine checks before handing me the cup of pills and a small glass of water. I tossed them back and returned the cup to the table.
“I’ll fill your water jug in just a few minutes. Do you need to use the washroom before I go?”
Because heaven forbid I try to do that unassisted.
“I’m all right.”
I made a point of not asking Addison specifically for help. Besides, my parents would be there when visiting hours began at eight, and I was more comfortable leaning on my dad than on the dainty nurse who probably couldn’t catch me if I toppled. I glared at the portable wheelchair in the corner, hating its very existence.
“Okay, I’ll be back with the water. Once I’m done with my initial rounds, I’ll come check your incision and change your bandage.”
Nodding, I twisted again to see the time. Seven thirty. Flopping back on my pillows, I pinched fingers in my eyes and groaned. She’d been in here twenty minutes, but it’d felt like five. How did that happen? Breathing evenly, I suppressed the budding panic trying to grow. Once my heart calmed, I opened my eyes and rose the back of my bed so I was more upright.
Removing my covers again, I scratched the exposed skin above the bandage. My parents had brought me pajama bottoms and T-shirts the previous week, so I didn’t have to wear the horrible fitting hospital gowns any longer. Mom had helped me roll the material on the right side so I didn’t have to wrestle with the fabric dangling loose, and the nurses could get at my bandage if needed.
I felt more human—or mostly.
Digging my nails under the edge of the bandage, I growled at the lack of relief. Over the past week, the itching was like nothing I could describe. Painful in its own way because I couldn’t alleviate it no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes, it itched where I didn’t even have a limb anymore. How did that even work? How fair was that?
The doctor had explained post-amputation pain and discomfort many times. Something about a miscommunication in the brain and spinal cord. Apparently, they were convinced I still had a whole leg, despite the missing neuron signals, and therefore they hadn’t rewired themselves properly and might never. I was sure I could convince my brain that part of me was gone with sheer willpower, but I couldn’t. Shooting pain stabbed down my leg sometimes. Right to my non-existent toes. It ached, cramped, throbbed, and burned. On occasion, it went numb, but even that was an unpleasant feeling. It reminded me too much of when I’d been lying trapped.
I’d been told those symptoms could lessen over time, but many would stick around indefinitely.
Another rap sounded at the door, and I jerked my head up as I whipped my sheet over my lap. Embarrassment over my appearance still raged strong, even with the two people barreling through my door who’d raised me and dealt with every challenge a kid could throw at them.
“Hi, baby.” Mom rushed over and wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me close and kissing my temple like she hadn’t been there every day since receiving the phone call about my accident.
“Hi, Mom.” I squeezed her back, smiling at my dad over her shoulder.
He carried a tray of coffees and a brown paper bag I knew was filled with breakfast sandwiches from a local shop.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Mom pulled back and held my cheeks, examining me with worry marring her brow. “You’re not sleeping. Look at these bags under your eyes.”
I patted her hand and worked at bringing a stronger smile to my face. “I’m okay, really.”
Her exhaustion mirrored my own. Sleeping in a hotel and sitting by my bedside for nearly two weeks was too much for her and my dad. I was certain I’d given them both more gray hairs in twelve days.
“Morning,” Dad said as he twisted a paper cup from the holder and placed it on my bedside table among the two vases of wilting flowers I’d received from my co-workers.
Not a huge man of affection, Dad shifted Mom out of the way to pat my shoulder. The concern in his eyes was just as intense as my mother’s, he just showed it differently.
In his mid-sixties, Dad had been blessed with thick mahogany hair that seemed resistant to aging. Apart from the few wisps of silver at his temples, his short cut was rich as ever. I’d inherited many of his features; his six feet of height, broad shoulders, olive skin tone, hair color, deep-set brown eyes, and obstinacy. Also, his penchant for spicy foods. Even with old age knocking at his door, he was as fit as he’d been ten years ago.
Mom was opposite. Short, a little rounder in the face and middle, hair so white it didn’t leave a single trace of its once golden blonde, green eyes, and kindness often attributed to grandmothers—of which she wasn’t and may never be.
Unfortunately, as much as my parents had wished for a house full of kids, I’d been their only blessing. And only because of a last-ditch effort at in vitro fertilization in 1987 when it was still a relatively new thing, less than a decade into existence.
I squeezed Dad’s hand as Mom pulled over the chairs from where they’d been pushed against a far wall. Stealing a glance at the time, I cringed at the thirty minutes I’d lost while tending to an invisible itch I couldn’t reach.
How did the minutes fall away without my noticing them?
“I was talking to the doctor in the hallway. He said you might be discharged in the next few days,” Mom explained. “I know you don’t want to, but I think you should let your dad and I fly you home. You can stay with us for a while. I don’t see as you have too many options. You certainly can’t go back to the house, and you’ll need assistance.”
As kindly as she delivered the news, it cut deep. Thirty years old and I suddenly couldn’t fend for myself any longer. I could barely take a piss without supervision, never mind a shower. But what other choice did I have?
“I don’t know. My insurance will cover somewhere to live. My doctor is here, physio, my job. They’re… I’m sup
posed to be talking to Christian about a temporary prosthesis today. I can’t just leave.”
“Gray, honey, you won’t be returning to work for a long time. We can find a doctor and a new physiotherapist back home. They can transfer your files. Besides, until you learn to be more mobile and independent, it’s too much of a risk being by yourself. What if something happened?”
The general buzz of hospital noises followed my mother’s plea. Beeping machines, clattering of carts and beds being rolled down the hallway, the droning intercom asking Dr. Peters to report to room 327, and the clock above my bed ticking louder than it all. Dad shuffled on his chair, pretending to be transfixed by the flap on his coffee lid.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
What I wanted to suggest was for someone to take me out back and shoot me, but somehow I didn’t think I’d come across as funny. Probably because I half meant it. They already had me meet twice with a psychiatrist because something about being at high risk for depression, PTSD, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t want to think about what came next. Focusing too eagerly on my future brought back the panic.
How long until I could return to work? Weeks? Months? Years? Never? When would I walk again? How long until I could piss standing up without the threat of falling over? Would I ever drive? Run on the treadmill?
I reached for my coffee and pulled back the tab to slow the spiraling of questions before they sucked me under. It’d been happening too often. Soon I’d be asking myself how long until lunch, until my next dose of pain meds, until Christian came to help me limp around.
What time was it now? I resisted checking, but the clock ticked louder, taunting me as though it knew I was fighting its pull.
Fuck it!
Before sipping the steaming liquid, I craned my neck and peeked at the clock. Eight twenty-five.
Eight twenty-five!
“We brought bagels today,” Dad said, the brown bag crinkling as he unfolded the top and pulled them out. “Thought you might be sick of wraps and muffins.”
“Anything is better than the hospital crap. Thank you.”
“Oh!” Mom jumped out of her seat and plunked her purse on the end of the bed before digging through it. “We got your phone back. The insurance folks went by the house to get an estimate of damage and your dad and I met them there. Only the back half is deemed unsafe, so your dad was able to go and get your phone for you like you wanted.” She unearthed it with a grin followed by a newly packaged charging cord. “Here you go.”
I set my coffee and breakfast down and accepted the offering. “Thanks. I’m almost afraid to turn it on.”
After the storm had taken out the giant oak tree in my backyard and it had landed on the house, collapsing the rear wall and a support beam under the main floor, trapping me in the sub-basement, I had been certain I was going to die. That had all happened on a Sunday night. Work missed me on Monday, calling to inquire about my absence, but they got no answer—obviously—since my phone was nowhere within reach. On Tuesday, they’d done the same thing. It wasn’t until Wednesday with no reply or phone call from me that they’d begun to worry and expanded their inquiries. It wasn’t like me to fall off the grid, so they’d sent a co-worker to my house to check up on me.
Nearly sixty hours trapped under my house before search and rescue had been called in to help dig me out.
With no concept of time, I hadn’t had a clue how long I’d been trapped. I had no recollection of them finding me, digging me out, or the ambulance ride to the hospital. My leg never had a prayer. It had been crushed. My only chance of survival was removing it. The doctor had explained something about crush-syndrome and elevated levels of toxins in the body that would have killed me otherwise. It was all very technical. Maybe if I hadn’t been groggy with massive amounts of painkillers running through my system after surgery, I might have understood better. All I knew was I lived, and I’d had my leg removed below the knee on the right side. That shit didn’t grow back. I was crippled for life.
Dad helped me run the charge cord to the outlet, and once I powered on my phone, the messages just kept coming through, pinging and pinging and pinging. I silenced it and set it on the bedside table with a sad chuckle. All of a sudden I was famous.
“Guess I’ll have something to do later.”
“Here, eat.”
Mom handed me my bagel which she’d unwrapped, and she placed a neatly folded napkin on my lap to catch crumbs. It took everything in me not to bark at her about treating me like a child. She couldn’t help herself. Recent events aside, I would always be her little boy, and she would always harbor the urge to coddle me.
We ate in silence. I’d seen my parents more in the past two weeks than I had in two years. Not that I was complaining. I’d just run out of stuff to talk about that didn’t center around the destruction of my house, my leg, or my future. Spending every day inside the same four walls of my hospital room with the same two people was driving me to the brink of madness. It was probably why I found myself so obsessed with time. What else was there for me to focus on?
“Your dad and I were discussing how we could clear out his office on the main level of the house for you if you wanted to come home. That way, you wouldn’t be challenged with stairs all the—”
“Vivian, Gray needs time to consider our offer. Don’t hound the boy,” Dad interrupted.
“I’m not hounding. I’m just telling him the plan in case he was worried about putting us out or having to climb all those stairs to his old room.”
“Mom, let me think, okay? I appreciate the offer, I just… don’t know.”
She sighed and returned to eating. I finished my bagel and crumpled the wrapper, leaving it on the tray beside my bed. My coffee had cooled enough to drink, and I savored the rich Columbian blend before dashing a quick look at the clock.
As I was turned, a forceful knock sounded at the open door to my room, so I shifted back to see who’d arrived.
Over the past twelve days, numerous people from work and my local gym had paid a visit, expressing their condolences and offering well wishes, but those had died down.
It was none of them. And when I registered who it was, the darkness that had settled inside me over the past twelve days shifted a little, letting in some much-needed light.
The worried face glancing uncertainly into the room belonged to my lifelong best friend, Beckett O’Keefe. For the first time in twelve days, a smile bloomed across my face.
“Beck! Fuck, man, get your ass in here.”
My mother tsked before slapping my arm. “Language, Grayson.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Beck inched his way into the room, his gaze dodging more than once to my bed and the sheet covering my bottom half before he smiled at my parents and offered a hand to my father.
“Mr. Brooks. Long time no see.”
“Beckett.” My father rose and shook his hand before pulling him in for a half-hug, back slap. “Good to see you again, son. It’s been too many years. Behaving I hope.”
Beck waved him off with a laugh. “Pff, always.”
“Grayson said you were out of town.”
“I was… I…” His gaze shifted to me then to my lower half then to my father as he tried to hide his discomfort. “I heard what happened.”
I knew the news would travel to him eventually. In twelve days, I hadn’t made an effort to contact him, because I didn’t know what to say. He’d been away for work, and I figured I’d take time to adjust to the idea of what I’d gone through before I faced my best friend and his reaction.
“Have a seat,” Dad said. “Vivian and I are gonna head out for a bit. We’ll be back in a few hours, son.”
My mom scrambled to her feet and hugged Beck with all the love I knew she carried for him. All our growing up, she’d been more of a mother to Beck than his own.
Beck’s parents put the D in dysfunctional. As a child, he’d spent a lot of time at my house when his own parents weren’t around—which
was often. Instead of complaining about the extra mouth to feed, my parents embraced Beck and treated him like their own.
“Good to see you, Mrs. Brooks.”
“Since when did you stop calling me Mom? Knock that off.”
Beck chuckled and kissed the top of her head before releasing her. “Sorry. It’s been a long time. It felt weird.”
“Oh, stop. You’re as much my boy as this one. Now keep an eye on him, will you? He’s a stubborn idiot and is too proud to buzz a nurse when he has to pee.”
“Mom!”
“Vivian, leave the boys alone. They’ll be fine.”
She tsked and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “We’ll be back in a bit.”
I wanted to tell them I was fine and they didn’t need to hang out, but it would only serve to hurt their feelings. Besides, they’d flown from Winnipeg to be with me. A whole province away. They were sleeping in a hotel which I knew wasn’t good for my mom’s back since she needed her special mattress to keep her arthritic pain managed. The least I could do was enjoy their company and let them distract my racing thoughts.
“Don’t rush,” I said instead.
Once they were gone, Beckett sat in the chair my mother had vacated—the one closer to the bedside—one hand covering his mouth, head shaking, and a shimmer of moisture glazing over his hazel eyes.
“Fuck man, I just got back into town. I heard what happened. I… fuck! Gray, I don’t even know what to say.”
Chapter Two
Beckett
I stared at my best friend, completely lost for words. He looked worn out. Dark bruises circled his eyes, and there was an underlying sadness weaved into his smile that made it less than genuine. Scanning his body, yet doing my best not to stare at where I knew they’d amputated, I took him all in.
His dark hair was cut short, as always, but mussed up, probably from sleep and being hospital bound. His muddy brown eyes were hazy and lacked their usual radiance, and his skin was pallid. Had he lost weight? Probably. At least his parents had been kind enough to bring him proper pajamas.
