You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  Disbelief plummeted to my stomach like a weighted balloon. Almost two years had preceded this. Two years. Lexie reached for my shoulder and rested a heavy hand on it.

  Dr. Martinez stepped back toward the door. “There’s a chance you could impress me. You’re young. You have youth juice. With any luck, you’ll heal fast, the swelling will go down, and there will be a very slim chance you can do it. In the meantime, my nurse will get that boot fitted and get you on your way, all right?”

  She left before I could sputter out another denial. I blinked, dazed. How quickly had everything changed? Why was life so transient? Lexie cleared her throat.

  “Chelle?”

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not! I can’t run the marathon. I…”

  “You can run it next year.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Chelle, maybe this is a good thing. You’ve been so focused on this that it’s like … it’s like you can’t see anything else. Maybe this is a good chance to step back and remember how to live your life.”

  Tears filled my eyes. “I’ve been working so hard! I … I can’t just … if I can’t run, what … what am I going to do with my life? With my time? I … I can’t not exercise. I dropped out of college. My job is exercising!”

  Another silence descended on us. The devastation, so swift it took my breath away, tripled in my chest. I sank into it, terrified by its power. What would I have to work for? What was the point? Where would I earn money?

  Without that marathon, who was I?

  A cool blast of air conditioning and the smell of stale pizza hit me in the face when I hobbled into our trailer.

  Lexie lugged my gym bag in behind her, juggling a handful of paperwork, my keys, and a plethora of pills from the pharmacy. A sitcom blared from the other room, welcoming me home.

  “Hey Mom! I'm home," I called. A hand waved over the top of the ratty, mustard-colored couch.

  “Go sit at the table.” Lexie jerked her head toward the old table with one crooked leg and fold-out chairs ringing the sides. “I’ll get your room rearranged a little.”

  “Thanks.”

  The boot weighed my leg down as I attempted—very awkwardly—to coordinate the crutches. A challenge almost as frightening as facing a marathon-free future. My armpits already hurt, and my forearms were tired. I had thought I was in shape, but managing these deaths traps was proving me wrong. Maybe I should have paid more attention to upper-body work.

  I hobbled into the kitchen and sank into a chair, then propped my right leg on the edge of the table. The top of Mom’s head glanced over from where she sat on the couch. A bag of potato chips rustled next to her. In front of her sat a movable table that held her laptop, a mouse, and a 72-oz. soda. She brushed crumbs off her chin and took a sip from her straw. Without looking away from the television, she asked, “Everything all right?”

  “I hurt my ankle.”

  She frowned. “That’s too bad.”

  “No kidding,” I muttered.

  Her hand plunged back into the bag of chips just as Lexie appeared from down the hall.

  “I moved your desk off to the side a little,” she said. “Then it won’t be in the way of your crutches. And I grabbed some extra pillows and blankets to prop your foot up. You’ll probably want to rest in bed for a while.“ Her eyes darted the couch. The corners of her lips turned down, and her voice softened. “Unless you want me to set you up a place out here?”

  “No! I mean … no. Thanks. My room is just fine.”

  Something like relief flickered through her eyes. “Great. Then let’s get you something to eat. You shouldn’t take pain pills on an empty stomach. Trust me. Kenzie tried after her C-section last winter. Wasn’t pretty.”

  She yanked open the fridge and came to a fast stop. Lexie had grown up with me, which meant I shouldn’t still be embarrassed by the sheer amount of food stuffed in there with unusual precision and cleanliness. The fridge was the only part of our trailer that Mom really cared about—evident by the carefully labeled and stacked containers inside.

  Still, the shame burned in the back of my throat. Two gallons of whole milk. A separate chocolate milk. A hidden bag of candy behind mounds of butter. Containers of leftovers stacked high—each labeled with a dry erase marker. Lasagna. Spaghetti and meatballs sweetened with brown sugar. Ravioli. The pasta alone could feed a horde.

  “There should be a couple of salads in there,” I said, clearing my throat. “Off to the right. Maybe behind the milk?”

  Lexie dug around a bag of crescent rolls Mom likely made for breakfast and extracted two ready-made salad containers. We stirred our salads in silence, the tang of vinaigrette filling the air. A couple of ibuprofen at Dr. Martinez’s office had taken the edge off the pain, but the swollen, pulsing feeling in my ankle continued. I managed to swallow a few bites, then set the fork down. Before I could protest, Lexie glared at me.

  “Eat.” Lexie forked a baby tomato into her mouth. “At least finish the salad. Then you can go fall asleep in your room for a little bit, and I won’t tell on you.”

  “Tell on me?”

  “To Bitsy.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, saw the determination that filled her gaze, and decided against it. Wasn’t worth fighting Bitsy. She made Lexie seem like a lamb. Something about being home robbed my appetite. Or was it the reality that I might not run the marathon after so much focus on it? Either way, I could force a few more bites down. Needed to, probably.

  “Fine.”

  The sound of a sitcom filled the silence like a second presence. By the time I choked the rest of the salad down, I did feel slightly better. Although I wouldn't have admitted it to Lexie after our conversation this morning, fatigue from the twelve-miler and the two Zumba classes I'd taught in the morning had caught up with me. Lexie popped open a prescription bottle and handed me two pills.

  “They’ll make you sleepy.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I washed them down with half a bottle of water. Mom changed the channel in the background, the bag of chips rustling again. Lexie gathered our salad bowls and pointed to each pill bottle.

  “Pain medicine. Swelling medicine. I’ll write out a schedule.”

  “I’m not a toddler.”

  “Bitsy insisted.”

  Something cold washed over me. “Bitsy?” I hissed. My eyes narrowed in fury. “You already told Bitsy? Is that what you were doing in the hall at Dr. Martinez’s office?”

  Lexie’s cheeks flushed. “It just sort of happened! You know how she is. It’s like she has a radar for when people need her! Besides, Bradley and I are leaving this weekend. Someone has to take care of you. You have doctor’s appointments.” Her gaze dropped to my boot, then darted back to me. “Are you going to drive yourself?”

  Laughter sounded in the background again. Lexie kept her steady gaze on me, and I wondered how much willpower it required of her not to look at Mom.

  No. I couldn’t get to Dr. Martinez without Bitsy. Mom hadn’t driven in years because she hadn’t fit inside the car in years.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re right.”

  I swallowed the two pills and grabbed the crutches. Bitsy, the self-appointed mom of our support group, the Health and Happiness Society, always planted herself in the middle of our lives even when she wasn’t present or wanted. Still, I couldn’t deny a modicum of relief. With Bitsy on my side, everything would be fine.

  Well, at least not disastrous.

  “Thanks, Lex.”

  She smiled softly. “Anytime.”

  Lexie grabbed my prescriptions and bustled around the kitchen as I worked my way down the hallway, passing the couch where Mom was sprawled in her subtle gray muumuu that hid most of her body. A logo flashed across her computer screen as she moved the mouse around, her gaze flickering from the TV and back to the computer before opening another graphic design contract. I slipped into
my room—there wasn’t much space in a single-wide trailer to hide, so the sound of the television followed me—and sank onto the bed.

  Lexie set three water bottles and my pills on the bedside table, along with an apple and a couple of granola bars. She pulled my cell phone out of her pocket and laid it next to my pillow. My phone charger dangled in her hand.

  “You should probably prop your leg up for a while,” she said. “I think it’s been down too long.”

  “Yeah. I can feel the swelling.”

  “Lay down.”

  Blankets and pillows already sat at the end of the bed, ready for me. Lexie helped me lift the heavy boot onto the pile. Sinking into the mattress and pillows did feel good. By the time Lexie settled me, my leg hovered above my body, an ice pack chilled my skin, and the worst of the pulsing had started to fade. A pile of books and my laptop perched within my reach.

  “You set?” she asked, hands on her hips.

  “Yeah. Thanks Lex. You're a gem. I can’t—”

  She waved a hand. “Stop. We’re besties. This is what we do. I may not live here anymore, but I take care of you.”

  Tears filled my eyes at the reminder, but I blinked them away. Of course I would never make her feel guilty about leaving me, but the pain still swelled in my chest. Rotten timing to lose access to my best friend.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “Thanks. You do.”

  She reached to close my closet door and stopped. Her forehead furrowed. She paused, hand halfway to the door, then stepped closer and reached inside. When she stepped back, she held a familiar purple binder in her hand. My stomach flipped.

  No.

  “Whoa!" She turned to me with bright eyes. “Chelle! Is this what I think it is?”

  “Ah…”

  Magenta pipe cleaners, glitter, and pink construction paper covered the front of a ratty old binder. Lexie and I smiled out from a photograph in the middle of the mess. We’d taken my mom’s old Polaroid camera while dressing up when we were eight and snapped our first selfie. Bright smiles illuminated our chubby, freckled faces.

  "It is!" she squealed, flipping it open with her wrist. "Our old best-friends diary! I had no idea you still had this. Why didn't you tell me? This thing needs to be photographed or preserved before it falls apart. Like in a museum, sister.“

  The diary of our small but happy world together. We were the fat girls. The friends who stuck together through everything. Who had sleepovers with epic treats. Mom always baked several types of cookies for us on those nights. We stayed up all night watching cheesy rom-coms.

  I’d thought I’d hidden it in the crawlspace below the trailer where it could mold and wither. Where had it come from?

  “Where was it?” I asked, my voice raspy.

  “Just right there.” She pointed into the closet. “Sitting on the shelf. It was about to fall off.”

  “Oh.”

  She cracked it open. Panic surged in my chest. That book was filled with memories. Stupid drawings of rainbows and cats. Lists of what our future husbands would look like.

  And pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

  “No!” I called as she reached to turn the next page. “Wait.”

  Lexie paused, forehead ruffled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry. I’m just … I’m really tired. The pain pills must be kicking in. Can we reminisce another time?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Right. Sure. You need to get your rest. Bradley and I plan on being back in two months for my mom’s birthday in August. We’ll do it then.”

  “Sounds good.” I managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  Lexie set the binder next to my bed, propping it against the nightstand. “Here. You can look through it later. I have no doubt it will cheer you up.”

  I managed a smile. “Thanks again, Lex. You really are the best.”

  She grinned and winked. “I know. I’ll try to visit before Bradley and I leave tomorrow, but I make no promises. In the meantime, Bitsy just texted me. She’s coming over tonight, so be prepared for that.”

  She left with a teary hug and resounding promise to call at least four times a day. When the door closed behind her, I stared at the ceiling. The muffled sound of the television rang in the background. Mom chortled. A commercial for razors popped up.

  After Lexie drove away, the couch groaned as Mom stood up. I pictured her shuffling into the kitchen, barely able to move because of her enormous weight and the apron-like stomach that made it difficult to shuffle her legs. Her searching fingers would reach into the cupboard to find more chips. Maybe those pink-and-white sprinkled animal cookies—her favorite. Something about the crunchiness and burst of sweetness, I imagined. Or maybe that’s just what I had loved.

  Next to me, the binder seemed to whisper my name. I reached down, shoved it under the bed, closed my eyes, and sank farther into my pillows with a sleepy yawn. Nothing inside of that binder would cheer me up.

  Nothing short of defeating that marathon would.

  Chapter 2

  The Plan

  That evening, I sat at the desk in my room, my leg propped up on a pillow. Getting there had been a good fifteen-minute adventure, but I’d managed. The light from my computer glowed on my face while I perused a website on upper body workouts. A three-hour nap had restored some of my good humor. Not to mention eased the worst of the pain, even in my sore thighs. Although I couldn’t see anything but my toes thanks to the boot, even they looked a bit purplish.

  A quick tap-tap-tap came on my door, and then it opened a crack. Bitsy’s hazel eyes peered inside.

  “Chelle?”

  “Yeah. Come in.”

  She bustled inside, grocery bags on her arms. She wore a pair of black workout pants and a loose gray t-shirt with Namaste written across the front. Her sandy hair was pulled into a low bun. She pursed her lips and gave me an I’m-on-a-mission expression, holding the bags higher.

  “I come bearing gifts. Groceries, actually.”

  My eyes widened. “No kidding you brought groceries.”

  “I have to mom on you for a little bit, if that’s all right. Yes,” she added, anticipating my question the moment my lips parted. “I have to mom on you. It comes with the territory of being a mom to anyone.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Just some salads and your favorite foods. Lexie said you were out of natural peanut butter and agave and whole wheat bread.”

  “Did she inventory the kitchen?”

  Bitsy turned around to head for the kitchen. “Yep. I told her to. C’mon. I made you dinner. Need help with the crutches?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  She waited at my door to make sure, one eyebrow raised. I slowly brought my leg down, braced myself against the crutches, and stood. I worked my way out into the hall one peg at a time, moving slowly. Mom had disappeared. She always did when Bitsy came around. Another sitcom played out on the screen. Bitsy grabbed the remote and turned it off with a frown. The ensuing silence rang in my ears until I heard the television from Mom’s room seeping under her door. Bitsy headed toward the kitchen with the rustle of grocery bags in her arms.

  “I made your favorite for dinner.” She motioned to the table with a jerk of her head. “Grilled chicken and mashed potatoes.”

  “You’re a saint. I don’t think I’ve taken in enough protein since my run last night.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible for you to take in enough protein ever with the amount you’ve been working out since you started teaching exercise classes.”

  Bitsy set the grocery bags on the table, nudging them around several half-opened twelve-packs of soda, and studied me.

  “Are you still counting calories?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.”

  The truth, at least. I worked out enough that I didn’t have to worry much about my food intake. Living in the midst of dieting hell—or life with my mom—had taught me control.

  Bitsy nodded once and started to unload the gro
ceries while I propped my foot up on a folding chair and glanced at the tinfoil-covered plate.

  “Here.” She tossed me a plastic fork, produced from somewhere within her plaid mom purse. “Get started on that. I’ll grab your pills.”

  My eyes darted to the clock. “Oh yeah. It’s time to take them again.”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I planned it.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “There is no limit to my ability to coordinate. Are the pills in your room?”

  “Yeah.”

  Underneath the foil waited a warm plate of lightly grilled chicken with homemade mashed potatoes. A side of quinoa and creamed spinach sat next to them. The smell drifted into my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. This house rarely saw freshly made vegetables. Mom used to warm up frozen veggies, but I couldn’t remember the last fresh veggie dish she’d ever made.

  “This smells amazing, Bitsy,” I said when she returned. She set two pills and a water bottle in front of me. “Thank you.”

  “Tastes good, too. My girls gobbled it down like I’ve never fed them before. Start eating.”

  She bustled around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, while I dug into the mashed potatoes, enjoying the way they melted on my tongue.

  “So, what now?” she asked over a shoulder, holding a bundle of bananas in one hand. “I’m worried about your marathon obsession.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not an obsession. It’s a goal.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t worry, Bitsy. I was depressed about the sprained ankle at first, but I have a plan now.”

  The rummaging sounds paused. “Oh?”

  “I’ve been doing some research. I think I can still make this happen. Stop. Don’t say anything. Just listen. I’ll be really careful for the next two weeks, and the swelling might go down. I can use that time for core and upper body strength. Maybe even a few things for my thighs, but I’ll evaluate as time goes on. Once the boot comes off, it’ll just be a few weeks, I’m sure. Lots of people have reported progress that fast. I could probably be running again by early July. The marathon is at the end of August. I can still do it.”