by B. E. Baker
I cry out and hands press against my shoulders.
I want to go back to the utter darkness where nothing hurt, and no one was telling me to open my eyes and stare into the blazing light of the sun.
“Brekka?” A hand squeezes mine. “Brekka, it’s me.”
I know the voice somehow, but my head feels like it’s full of pudding. Why do I know the voice? I swim through the pudding toward the movement, the light, and the beeping.
“Ouch,” I moan.
“She’s awake,” the voice I know says. “Brekka’s awake.”
Brekka. That’s me. I blink and blink and blink, but there’s so much light and my eyes burn, and my back screams at me, and my throat feels raw, like someone cheese-grated it.
“I’m so happy to see your beautiful face,” the voice says. “How do you feel?”
Like I’ve been swimming in Jello and someone threw vodka in my eyes, you idiot. Like I’m impaled on a spike through my spine.
At least my legs don’t hurt.
“The surgery was long, but it’s over.”
A surgery. I had some kind of surgery. That’s why I’m here. That’s why my back hurts. Is it why my legs don’t hurt? I try to wiggle my toes and I can’t. My heart rate accelerates and the machine starts beeping loudly. Much louder than before.
“It’s okay, Brekka, I promise. Calm down. Dr. Anthony said you’d be a little out of it as the drugs wear off, but they’ve cleared you, and you’re stable.”
“My feet,” I croak.
My fingers tingle and my head weighs three hundred pounds, and my back’s throbbing, but I can’t move my feet. Nothing else is quite as pressing as that. I open my mouth.
“You don’t need to talk. Your throat probably hurts from the intubation. It’s fine. We can talk as much as you want later. I’m here for you.”
I open my eyes again with real intent this time. I need to see what’s going on around me.
A face swims in front of me, a face I know as well as my own. “Trig.” I finally tie a name to the voice and the face. “You’re here.”
He squeezes my tingly fingers. “Of course I am. I’d never miss something like this, never. I’m always here for you, now, forever. No matter what.”
“Look at this reading here,” someone behind Trig says.
He turns to see whether she’s talking to us and I gasp. His eye is swollen and puffy and the side of his face is bright purple.
“What happened?” I rasp. “Your face!”
“Oh, nothing,” he says. “A little misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“You look awful.” I cough. “Did you do that to make me feel better about my surgery?”
Regret fills his face. “Brekka, I can’t even tell you—we don’t have time to talk about it now. But we do need to talk. I’ve been stupid.”
I reach for his face, the uninjured side. “I love you, Trig. You’re my best friend, always.”
For some reason that makes him cry. Big, fat, messy tears, and then he winces, like crying hurts his face. “You’re my best friend too, forever. I would never hurt you on purpose.”
I struggle to push myself up, to sit, but people converge on me from every direction, hands pushing me back down, mouths clucking, and other people shushing. An older nurse with a severe frown ushers Trig from the room and someone else pushes some buttons.
They must have pushed some kind of medicine into my IV, because I flop back to the bed like a marionette with cut strings and everything goes extremely hazy. Someone wheels me into another room a few moments later with much less noise, lower light, and only one tiny beep every few seconds. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A few moments later, the same stern woman who shooed everyone away, including Trig, returns with my brother in tow.
“Don’t forget,” she whispers to him loudly, “you agreed to keep her calm.”
He nods and sits on a chair next to my bed. He reaches for me and then freezes and drops his hand back into his lap.
“My surgery didn’t go well.” I’m not asking. I can tell from the expression on his face.
“They won’t know how it went for at least twenty-four hours. They’ll let you recover and then begin a series of tests.” His voice is flat.
“But those are a formality.” My voice sounds angry. Which is strange. I don’t feel angry.
“Dr. Anthony said you had more scar cells than he expected based on the scans.”
I turn to look at the wall, but it’s completely bare, and utterly boring. Which is exactly what I need to focus on tonight. A blank wall. That’s how I feel. Like I’m a hollowed out bowl, empty, alone, and useless. Suddenly I’m spiraling, and I don’t know how to stop it. My face crumples and I begin to weep silently.
I may never pee on my own again. I may not ever feel my stupid, weak, disappointing toes again. Having intermittent feeling didn’t seem like a big deal yesterday, but now, the idea of never feeling a single thing below my waist guts me. I’ll never ever feel Rob touch my feet, or grab my knees, probably. Which is a stupid thing to think at all, because now I’ll never be anything to Rob. Even the best doctors in the country couldn’t fix me.
I’m Humpty Dumpty.
I’m so tired of being freaking Humpty Dumpty. I hate my life, my half-life. Work, work, work. That’s all I’m good for anymore. And suddenly, out of the blue, I hate the idea of working ever again. I hate the idea of that being the only way I’ll ever add value. I never wanted it, I never asked for it, and yet somehow, here I am.
I am my mother.
Trig’s body sinks next to me and his arm wraps around my shoulders, which makes me cry harder.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize I was making you feel like you weren’t perfect and amazing and magnificent. You are. You impress and shock and inspire me every day.”
I turn my head and sob into the fabric covering his shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Trig. You’re the one person who has never let me down, never. You’re always here. The only one who’s always here for me, no matter how pathetic I am.” Even when I’m a failure and I can’t even do surgery right. Even when nothing in the world can glue me back into something worthwhile.
He mumbles something I can’t understand.
My head is clearing, my eyes work fine now, and I can move my head and shoulders without pain. I wonder if my ears are inexplicably on the fritz. “Trig, I can’t hear you.”
He clears his throat. “I said someone else was here for you, too.”
I scowl at him. “Did you tell Mom? You promised not to tell her.”
He shakes his head. “No, not Mom.”
I groan. “Oh my gosh, Dad is worse. He’s going to order me a pony or something and march it right into the hospital. Or dump a hundred boxes of bon bons into this room. He truly believes French chocolate fixes everything.”
“I could totally go for an eclair right now,” Trig says. “Oh, or some macarons!”
I drop my head back against the pillows. Dad’s always got good intentions, but he’s like a kid in a candy store with an unlimited black Am Ex. “I can’t handle him. Please don’t let him in here, at least not until tomorrow.”
“I didn’t tell Dad.”
I turn toward Trig again. “If Geo’s here, she can come inside. I thought you said she was working.”
Trig won’t meet my eyes. “It’s not Geo.”
“Who else is here? Just tell me.” I’m suddenly exhausted. It feels like laying here on a hospital bed is too much work. Breathing in and out, and interacting and thinking, it’s all so very difficult.
“I might have accidentally mentioned to Rob that you were having surgery, and—”
“Rob’s here?” I slap Trig, which I guess means I’ve got complete control of my arms, even if I didn’t mean to do it. “Why are you just now mentioning this? Where is he?”
Oh, please God, do not let him see me like this. Please.
“He left, right after he gave me this bla
ck eye.”
I close my eyes and count to ten. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to do, but everyone says to do it when you’re upset. Now I feel exactly the same as before I counted, except I feel a little silly for expecting something that stupid to work. Should I do it again? Or count higher, maybe?
“Say something,” Trig says.
“Like what?” I ask. “I’ve been counting in my head. I’d love to shove you off the bed, or give you a matching black eye, but I don’t feel up to either one of those things right now.”
“Why are you mad at me, exactly?” he asks.
“Why am I mad? Let’s see. First you tell Rob I’m doing a surgery he was dead set against, and then you don’t confess to me that you told him, and then he flies out here while I’m at my absolute worst and waits with you in the waiting room, punching you for unknown reasons, and then you don’t mention any of that to me, and simply drop this bomb as soon as it’s too late for me to decide what I want to do about it.”
“Wait, he was dead set—”
“No,” I say. “You don’t get to talk yet. I’m not done, because I still don’t know where he is, or why he punched my loud-mouthed brother. You tell me my boyfriend’s here, and then give me no details that matter.”
Trig’s jaw drops and his eyes bug out of his head. “He’s actually your boyfriend?”
He kissed me. A lot of times. We text daily. He calls me before he goes to bed at night. I smile every time I hear from him, even if it’s a stupid text. And most of all, he’s been sitting in a waiting room in New York City for who knows how long because he knew I was in a surgery he didn’t want me to have. “I think maybe he is, yeah. Wait, did he fly here with you?”
Trig shakes his head. “No, he flew commercial.”
I close my eyes. He bought a ticket and flew commercial, and then took a cab at who knows what time in the morning. And then he gave Trig a black eye. “Why’d he hit you?”
Trig scowls and then winces. I’m guessing that frowning like that pulls on some sensitive skin. Rob really belted him good. I hope it’s healed up before the wedding. There’s a month. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope. Either way, Geo’s going to be pissed.
“Are you ever going to tell me?”
“We might have had a disagreement when the doctor told us your surgery probably wouldn’t result in any improvement to your condition.”
I can imagine Rob, roaring at Trig like a lion, calling him selfish or something like it, I’m sure. It makes me smile, because I’m a complete hot mess. In almost twenty-eight years, no guy has ever punched anyone or done anything even remotely similar because of me. I know that’s a stupid thing to smile about. But I love the idea that he’s so worked up over something that he feels he needs to defend me.
Officially, I’m outraged, of course. “What a Neanderthal,” I say. “I’m so mad.” He did admit he was old fashioned to me. He apologized for it, I think.
Trig frowns again, and winces. He’s not really learning quick on this one. “So you’re really mad at him?” Trig asks.
“Don’t I sound mad?”
He shakes his head, “Not really, no.” He grunts. “You can’t possibly condone violence, and against your only brother, of all people.”
“What exactly did you say to him?” I ask.
Trig looks at his hands and mumbles again, which is how I know he’s feeling guilty.
“Can’t hear you.”
“I said, it wasn’t as much about what I said. It’s more what I was doing. I may have been looking at times we could schedule you for a follow-up.”
My face blanks, but my heart breaks. “Your wedding is in a month. You wanted me to have another surgery before then?”
Trig’s hands ball up in the sheet on my bed. “No, I don’t know. I don’t want you to do anything, not anymore.”
I’m so confused.
“I was so encouraged,” he says. “I was so … hopeful. I’ve felt like I ruined your life ever since the car crash, and there was nothing I could do about it, no way for me to fix it. No way to take back my mistake. Nothing I could do. I felt helpless, as paralyzed as you were, but in a different way.” His eyes meet mine. “Can you understand what I’m saying at all?”
I nod. Of course I understand. Poor Trig. He makes mistakes a lot, but he always does anything and everything he can to make them right, up to and including giving away several billion dollars, all without ever looking back. He has a heart as big as New York City, or Texas, or even China. But he’s not always the best at thinking things through. And personal introspection is practically his kryptonite.
He closes his eyes. “I guess when you said you’d do this, and they have that kid who is walking again, Brekka. I guess my hopes might have flown a little too close to the sun.”
“You want what I have always wanted,” I say. “A rewind button. Or a reset button.”
He nods. “I want it for you so badly. I want you to be able to go back in time and live your dreams. I want the Olympic Gold medals and the media coverage and the accolades. I want you to dance at my wedding, and then at yours. I want the sun and the moon and the stars for you,” Trig says. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I laugh. The sun, the moon and the stars, that’s all. It’s such a Trig thing to say. He just wants every single thing in the world, plus a cherry on top, pretty please. But at the end of the day, he’d have settled for me being able to walk again.
So would I.
And now I’m just hoping I won’t be wearing an adult diaper tomorrow. A tear trails down my cheek. I’m so stupid.
A knock at the door sends my heart racing. Is it Rob? Is he here? I wipe at my face frantically, and my fingers fumble for my drape to make sure I’m covered, then fly to my hair. What does it look like? A bird’s nest, I’m sure. Oh, gosh, this is a nightmare.
“Delivery,” a man’s voice says.
Not Rob’s voice.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful. So why does my heart feel broken, like I was promised a bowl of ice cream and I got unsalted, mushy peas instead?
The man sets a huge vase of flowers on the counter against the wall. Birds of paradise. Most people send roses, or carnations, or lilies. I’ve never seen anyone send birds of paradise. The man then hands me a white box with a card poking out of the top.
“Who sent these?” Trig asks.
The man shrugs and heads for the door.
“It’s probably from Dad,” I say.
Trig reaches for the box. “Want me to open it?”
My hands are shaking. I should pass it off and let Trig manage it, but I shake my head as the delivery guy walks out. “I can get it.”
My fingers open the box, the card falling to the bed and then sliding further down and dropping to the floor. I swear under my breath. Trig climbs off the bed to retrieve it. I open the box while I’m waiting.
It’s the cutest little red crab stuffed animal I’ve ever seen. It almost looks like it’s winking at me, its red pincers chubby and cartoon-esque. Trig hands me the card.
My fingers feel like sausages, but I finally open it.
Brekka,
I’m sure you’re crabby with me right now. I shouldn’t have punched your brother in the face. I hope you can forgive me. Heaven help me, but I’m still so mad at him, I don’t really care whether he ever does.
I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me or not. I figured it was safer to send a stuffed emissary than to show up without an invitation to a hospital bed. If you want a hug from me, he can give you one, and if you don’t, you can throw it in the trash can as hard as you want to without injuring anyone else. The birds of paradise are because you’re the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen, and the most unique too. You don’t need to be like anyone else to be breathtaking, and you’ve stolen my breath since the moment you shoved your way past my frightening secretary and into my office.
I have an ulterior motive for my choice of gift. It’s a reminder of our last dat
e and an invitation to another rendezvous at the beach. I know you’ll need time to recover, and I’ll give you all the space you want, but I am counting the minutes until I can see you again. And I want to be your date to Trig and Geo’s wedding, if I’m still invited, that is.
Yours longingly,
Rob
I hug the crab against me and wish I was hugging the man instead. But if he’d come himself, I’d have been a bundle of nerves. He’s probably right. I’d have been edgy and felt stupidly self-conscious. Better he sent an adorable emissary.
One glance at Trig tells me it was smart of Rob not to come back quite so soon. Still, it means a lot he came and sat here for the entire thing.
“Rob,” Trig says.
I nod.
“That guy is a plague.”
“He’s not.”
Trig circles the bed and sits in the chair. “You really like him.”
I nod. “I do like him. I thought maybe I’d ruined everything, but he followed me, even here. He always does just the right thing.”
“He’s all wrong for you, though.”
I roll to one side, my heart in my throat. I’ve thought it a dozen times, but hearing Trig say it hurts. “Why exactly do you say that?”
He holds up his index finger. “He’s never been to college. He has no education, and no degree.”
I clench my fists. “What do you care? You’re such a snob.”
“He’s a former Marine.”
“How is that a bad thing?” I huff. “I’m impressed by that.”
“He broke his back, too.”
My heart lurches. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“He could have issues from it later on in life. You don’t know.”
“Again, so what? I have issues now. You didn’t date Geo because she was a promising horse to bet money on or to breed. You didn’t have her genetically tested. Her mom’s got Alzheimer’s. What if she passes that gene along to your kids, or gets it herself?”
