How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

by Karole Cozzo

  But a minute’s passed and I haven’t answered Sam.

  She turns toward me, the harsh wind blowing her hair across her face. “What’s wrong?”

  What’s wrong is that I’m supposed to be excited. Really, getting out of school early would be reason for excitement in and of itself, and we have tickets to see a superpopular group play at a small venue. But I don’t feel excited. I feel cold, not carefree, even as I stuff my hands into the pockets of my bomber jacket and bury my chin inside the collar.

  I’m way too focused on the date. And the time. What else is going on right now.

  I’ve been trying not to say his name too much to Sam. Trying really hard not to be that girl. But …

  “Pax has to get this MRI today … and … even though he acted like it was no big deal, I know he’s really scared, and I just wish…” My voice wobbles and turns into a whisper. “I wish I could hold his hand.” I swallow over the painful lump in my throat. “I wish he wanted me to.”

  Sam carefully removes a strand of hair that’s gotten stuck to her bright lip gloss. “Well, I mean, do you really believe he doesn’t?”

  I frown toward the ground and consider this. What do I believe, anyway? I know what he said when he took off from the party. But I also know how I’d felt. I know how he’d felt. And nine days have passed since we last spoke, but … my feelings haven’t changed. I’m still angry about how he reacted that night, but that anger is starting to dissipate. The other feelings, the ones that run much deeper … they haven’t started to fade at all.

  After everything happened with my friends, I sort of stopped believing in the endurance of relationships. But now …

  Unable to meet her eye, I admit the truth. “I feel like I should be there.” Guilt washes over me as I say it out loud.

  Sam’s quiet for a minute. “If that’s where you need to be, Nikki, you can go.” Her words come out grudgingly.

  “I know it would be totally uncool to bail, though. I’m just telling you … how I feel.”

  Sam bites on her thumbnail for a minute. She glances over at me a couple of times. Then she blows a huge puff of air through her lips. “No, really, you can go.” Her gaze falls to the ground. “I still feel bad you guys were even at the party in the first place. You said no and I pushed. It sucks that we won’t get to go to the concert, but I sort of owe you on the whole Pax thing.”

  “No, you don’t,” I assure her. But I continue to ponder her offer. I believe things with Sam are in pretty good shape. Things with Pax? Definitely need some work. I glance at my watch. “I don’t even think I would get there in time.” I’m pretty sure he said his appointment is at three. “And what would you do, anyway? Go by yourself?”

  “I’m not gonna go by myself!” She considers a minute. “Tim did say he was bummed there wasn’t an extra ticket.” Sam pulls out her phone. “Maybe I can catch him in time. Meet up with him after school.” She’s already sending the text. “It does suck that there’s usually no chance to see him during the week.” With a hair flip, she reminds me, “This was supposed to be your birthday present, though.”

  “I will consider your extreme understanding and flexibility in the situation present enough.”

  “Yeah well…” she grumbles. “Don’t ever question that I love you.” We watch as her mom’s car pulls into the lot and up to the curb. Sam shuffles down the steps and gestures over her shoulder. “Come on, get in. We’ll drop you where you need to go.”

  I spring into action, following her down the stairs, my heart pounding with renewed purpose and drive. “His appointment’s at the Medical Arts Building, right next to the county hospital.”

  I have to give Sam’s mom directions because she still doesn’t know the area all that well, and we make a few wrong turns along the way. On the bright side, in that time, Tim responds to the impromptu invitation with an enthusiastic yes, which is one thing to feel better about, anyway. By the time we pull into the huge medical complex, it’s already two fifty-four. I start biting my nails, knees bouncing up and down in the backseat. “There it is!” I cry when the tall, narrow Medical Arts Building comes into view. I recognize it, remembering the time Emma broke her wrist and we came here for X-rays.

  Sam’s mom pulls up right in front of the building, and I’m already moving before she puts the car in park. Leaning over the front seat, I squeeze Sam’s hand. “Thank you sooo much, Sam, really. You too, Mrs. Alexander. There’s no way I could have gotten here in time otherwise.”

  “You’re welcome,” she smiles. “And good luck.”

  “Go!” Sam shrieks. She seems to have perked right back up. She raises her hand to her forehead and fires off a quick salute. “Godspeed.”

  “Right.” I open the back door and climb out, waving one final time before turning toward the building. And then I sprint inside.

  I skip the elevator and dash up the stairs to the third floor. I pass all the “-ologies”—endocrinology, gynecology, oncology—and finally make it to the wide doors of the medical-imaging suite at the end of the hall.

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, and throw open the heavy doors.

  The scene inside doesn’t align with my dramatic arrival. It’s quiet, the waiting area dimly lit, with low music playing. And it’s mostly empty. Definitely no Pax. I missed him.

  Feeling defeated, I wonder what I was expecting anyway. I scan the room, unsure of what to do now.

  Then I spot her, at the far end of the waiting room. Mrs. Paxton’s eyes look up from the Real Simple magazine she’s reading. “Nikki?”

  I walk toward her, the surprise in her eyes evident. “What are you doing here?” I look her in the eye another minute and pick up on something else, a level of guardedness, and suddenly I’m pretty sure she knows that there’s been a falling-out between me and her son.

  I turn my head and stare at the bland pastel print hanging on the wall. What am I doing here?

  I’m here because maybe some relationships are damaged beyond repair … and maybe some aren’t. Some things go beyond anger, and sadness, and a fight.

  And I just really want and need to believe that Pax and I are some things.

  The thought causes my throat to tighten. “I … I…” I look her in the eye, pleading. “I just really care about him, ya know?” I whisper.

  She instantly lowers her guard and offers a small, sad smile. “Yeah. I do know.” A few seconds later, she pats the seat beside her. “And you’re welcome to stay if that’s what you want.”

  Relieved, I nod and stoically drop into the seat beside her. My back is stiff, and I stare at the wall.

  She returns to her magazine but a few minutes later pulls a copy of People off the stack beside her and offers it to me. “Magazine?” she asks. “It’s going to be at least an hour.”

  I shake my head and go back to staring at the wall, watching the seconds tick by on the clock. I try not to think about what Pax is going through, what the experience feels like for him. It’s really hard not to, and I start chewing on my nails.

  Mrs. Paxton’s energy is so different from mine. Her body is relaxed, and I think she’s humming along with the soft-rock station playing in the waiting room. “You’re so calm,” I can’t help remarking.

  She turns toward me, eyes clouding with painful memories. “I’ve sat through many much, much worse hours in hospital waiting rooms,” she reminds me. A trembling breath escapes her. “All things considered, this is cake.

  “I’m praying for good results, of course,” she continues. “Pax depends on his shoulders, and if he has to have surgery, he won’t be able to get around. It will be such a hit to his spirit, and I don’t want to see him have to endure that hit. I know he hates the MRI procedure itself—I don’t know if he’s even gotten around to thinking about why we’re here. Worrying about that.”

  I can’t help it, and again I’m envisioning him trapped inside the dark, narrow tube, confined, unable to move. Suffering the residual fear of being tr
apped inside his car after the accident. My knees start shaking again. “Was he … doing okay this afternoon?”

  Mrs. Paxton doesn’t answer for a minute, taking her time to turn the page of her magazine and intently studying a recipe for pesto salmon. “No,” she finally admits. “He was up all night. I finally moved down to the couch so I could keep an eye on him, or at least an ear out. I heard him throwing up a couple of times.”

  Her throat constricts. “Thinks he’s such a toughie. Was trying to act this morning like nothing happened. Like nothing was wrong, even though he was shaking like a leaf in the car on the way here.”

  I have to swallow back the tears that coat my throat.

  Mrs. Paxton gives me a half smile. “I pulled the tech aside and told her to just give him a Xanax to help him relax. I’m not going to let him go through that torture in the name of being macho. I hope he took it, once he knew I wasn’t looking.”

  The heat being pumped into the room is stifling, and when I shrug out of my jacket, Mrs. Paxton comments. “That’s such a pretty shirt.”

  I glance down, having forgotten I’m still in my flashy concert attire. “Thanks. I was supposed to go to this … concert thing today.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “Yeah, um…” I shrug. “My ride left. I came here instead.”

  Mrs. Paxton cocks her head, offers me a warm smile, and lightly squeezes my hand.

  Shaking my head, I mumble, “It was an easy decision.”

  It was an obvious one. Something I hope Pax believes. I’m not giving up things against my will because of him. Sometimes I just want to put him first.

  An hour passes. Pax still does not emerge. I chew off every single nail I have, destroying my purple concert manicure. My knees refuse to stop bouncing. When my stomach starts growling, Mrs. Paxton gets me a Dum Dum from the basket at reception, but it only occupies me for three minutes.

  Finally, at 4:22, the inner doors open slowly and I catch a glimpse of the footrest of his chair.

  I jump to my feet at the same time his mother does, but when she rushes around the corner to meet him, my feet stay rooted to the floor as I remember I don’t have the same permission to approach him as she does. She may have welcomed me here, but that doesn’t mean Pax will.

  Remembering the blank look in his eyes before he turned away from me on the sidewalk after our fight, a knot of fear ties up my stomach. I told him I didn’t want to be friends. And he didn’t fight me on it. Right now we’re not supposed to be anything.

  Mrs. Paxton takes the place of the med tech behind Pax’s chair and slowly inches him forward, as if transporting something fragile. I catch my first glimpse of his face, my first glimpse in over a week, and a sharp pain nearly takes my breath away. It’s not just the longing, the missing. It’s seeing Pax like this.

  He looks like he’s having a hard time keeping his head up, and his eyes are foggy. The purplish half-moons under his eyes confirm his mom’s report of his being up all night. His beautiful red lips look painfully chapped.

  His mom rubs his shoulder. “You okay?”

  He manages a tiny smile for her, even though he can barely keep his eyes open. “Hey, it’s over.” His voice is low, the cadence of his words slow and dysrhythmic. “Can I please go to sleep now?”

  “Of course. Let’s go home.”

  Then she pushes his chair toward the doors, in my direction. She stops a few feet before me, and Pax slowly lifts his head.

  I suck in a breath. I still can’t move.

  Pax’s eyes find mine. He seems to be having a hard time processing the sight of me before him, and his eyes don’t clue me in on his reaction. But at least they don’t seem angry. He continues to look at me, eyelids fluttering, a little confused. “Are you for real?” he whispers.

  I nod, not sure if I can find my voice.

  We stand there in silence until his mom gently asks, “You ready to head out, Nikki?”

  That’s when it occurs to me I don’t have a ride home. I dig my phone out of my bag and hold it up. “I have to call my mom.”

  “We can drop you.”

  I look to Pax. He doesn’t agree or protest, so I nod. “Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  It’s a silent elevator ride, a silent walk across the parking lot. I follow Pax and his mom to her car, and she opens the door to the backseat for him.

  When she reaches for his arm to help him, he shakes his head. “I got this.”

  But he doesn’t have it, not at all. He’s too exhausted, too weak today, and his arms shake uselessly as he tries to lift his body weight out of the chair.

  Mrs. Paxton steadies his right arm with her hand. “Let me help you, baby,” she urges quietly. “Just today.”

  Pax collapses back onto his chair, giving up the fight, just for today. “Yeah, okay, Mom.”

  New wounds announce themselves in my heart as I watch her, as I watch Pax allowing himself not to be strong for once. Mrs. Paxton secures one arm around his back and another under his knees, and then bends to lift him into the car. It hurts, watching this privilege she has, to touch him, to help him. I so desperately want to touch him, to help him, too. It still feels like a part of him belongs to me, even if it doesn’t anymore.

  So when I see her struggle with his weight, I move quickly to his other side and try to mirror her positioning. He angles his face away from me, toward his mother, and I can’t tell if it’s out of embarrassment … or anger. But then in the final second before we heft him into the car, my fingers slip and brush against his. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’m pretty sure I feel his fingers tighten over mine, just for a second.

  As Mrs. Paxton helps him settle into the backseat, I open the front door and climb inside. We pull out of the hospital lot, and it’s less than five minutes later that, after glancing in the rearview mirror, Mrs. Paxton nudges my arm and gestures toward the backseat.

  I turn around. He’s already fast asleep, head back on the seat, lips parted. I can’t help smiling at how peaceful he looks.

  Mrs. Paxton and I speak in whispered tones as I direct her toward my house. She pulls into our crushed-shell driveway and smiles at me. “Thanks for keeping me company today.”

  I glance at her son a final time. He’s still out cold. “No problem.”

  Then I unfasten my seat belt, moving more slowly than necessary, not really wanting to leave the car. I have no idea when, if, another opportunity to be with Pax will present itself. I open the door and climb out slowly, waving a silent good-bye to Mrs. Paxton before forcing myself to turn and walk inside.

  I almost miss the soft words spoken from the backseat. Pax’s eyes are still closed, and he hasn’t moved. But still, he manages to get them out: “Nikki. Thank you.”

  Chapter 17

  Later that night, I’m hard at work on an English essay, or I guess if I’m being honest, hard at work at trying to distract myself from thinking about Pax. The protective, angry shield that went up the night of our fight is gone, with absolutely no hope of surviving after seeing the way he looked today. The hurt is back—routinely squeezing my heart and cramping my stomach—and a bland write-up of The Scarlet Letter is the best thing I can come up with to alleviate the sensation.

  Sam’s not really helping. She’s texting every five minutes so I can “feel like I’m there” at the concert, sending video snippets during favorite songs. When I realize I’ve typed the same sentence three times, I sigh, save my draft a final time, and send it to my desktop printer. It prints out faint and choppy, so I head down to the old hutch in the dining room to get a new ink cartridge.

  Dropping to my knees, I open the cabinet door on the right, where my parents stash extra supplies. When I do so, I’m greeted with a different kind of pain. I’ve forgotten they also stash birthday supplies in this cabinet—extra streamers in girly hues, spare candles, and, worst of all, my birthday letter book.

  Ink cartridge forgotten, I tug at the twelve-by-twelve-inch scrapbook that’s wedge
d in next to Emma’s. Don’t do this, I tell myself, but I stand at the same time, taking the book with me to the dining room table, where I set it down and collapse in a side chair.

  My parents have written me seventeen birthday letters apiece. They are handwritten on pretty scrapbook paper, and even though I try to flip the pages without really seeing, phrases jump out at me, in my father’s handwriting.

  This was our best year yet, princess, wasn’t it?

  I love you and will never stop!

  My heart beams with pride as I consider the young lady you’ve become.

  It’s the last line of his last letter, and when I turn the page, all I find is a blank white one behind it. There is no eighteenth letter. And I highly doubt there will be.

  Tears blur my vision as I stare at the stupid blank space. It’s not like the fact that it’s almost my birthday should make things any worse. Yet as I consider tomorrow, my chin starts to quiver uncontrollably and my throat tightens.

  I hear a noise from the kitchen, and I slam the book shut and slide it under the table. I’m not sure who to expect—my mom’s at the monthly PTO meeting, and Emma’s upstairs in her room. I thought my dad was working in his upstairs office, but a second later he appears in the hallway.

  I stare at him, willing the tears in my eyes not to fall, and he looks back at me, raising his key chain by way of explanation. “Out of eggs,” he tells me.

  Looking down at the tabletop, I nod once. I can feel his eyes on me for several seconds before he turns and leaves.

  When he does, I place the book back on the table and open it to the first page. Year one. For my first birthday, he taped a picture of us to the bottom of his letter. A few seconds later, my head falls into my hands and I start sobbing. Once upon a time, the eggs he’s going to buy might have been to bake a cake, but that’s hardly the case now. Face buried in my hands, I cry and cry, the dam I’ve managed to construct over the past couple of days collapsing and releasing a torrent. Everything’s such a freakin’ mess. No matter what I do, it’s still all messed up.