Saving Me

by Sadie Allen

  My dad’s face darkened, and the muscles in his jaw started working.

  A sick sort of satisfaction welled up inside me. I felt the corners of my lips curve upward. I didn’t think I had ever seen anyone put my dad in his place. He relished his role as master of his universe, and I knew it was killing him that he had no control in here.

  I wondered, since his pride was stung, if he would make us leave, but the doctor in front of me was supposed to be one of the best sports injury specialists in the state. It looked like Derek Everly was going to have to stand there and shut up. I had to fight back a giggle.

  “So, Allison, what happened?” asked Dr. Richards.

  I told him everything. I told him about the popping sound my leg had been making for weeks prior to what had happened Tuesday. How it hadn’t felt right, especially before the race. I told him about what had happened as I went over the third hurdle and the utter agony I had felt. And he just listened, nodding after almost everything I said like he knew exactly what I was talking about.

  When I finished, he had me get up and walk—more like hobble—around the examining room while he squatted against the wall and watched.

  “What is this accomplishing?” my dad asked, a petulant edge to his tone.

  “I’m evaluating her injury and range of motion,” Dr. Richards replied, not even looking at my father.

  When he was satisfied, Dr. Richards got up and walked to the exam table.

  “Now, young lady, if you’ll just make your way over here, I’ll help you back up onto the table.”

  I limped over as a constant burning pain shot up the back of my thigh, all the way up to my lower back. When I was close, he practically lifted me onto the table then had me slump forward—evidently slumping your shoulders was a test for nerve damage—and then lie back so he could lift my leg to see how far it would stretch. When I cried out after only lifting it less than halfway up, he gently lowered my leg back down.

  All these things made the previous burn in my leg intensify to a flaming burn. My heartbeat pulsed in my lower butt cheek, sweat dotted my forehead, and I tried to regulate my breathing by taking long, slow inhales and exhales. I knew these were not good things. In fact, I could feel the building tension in the room swirl around me, almost visibly radiating from my father.

  Dr. Richards then helped me turn to lie on my stomach. I dreaded the next set of tests he was going to conduct.

  I tried to get comfortable, but every time I moved, the paper covering the table would make that crinkly-crunchy sound.

  I heard Dr. Richards walk away, and then the sound of the door being opened. I looked over my shoulder to see him poke his head out as he called for Athena.

  “Allison, get still,” my dad snapped.

  I looked in the direction of his voice and saw that he had moved to stand near Mom’s chair.

  She looked up at him, a scowl pinched on her beautiful face as she hissed, “Derek.”

  Athena bustled in with her tablet in hand, interrupting the potential argument.

  Ignoring them, Dr. Richards strolled back to me, saying, “Now, I’m going to look at your injury. I may move your clothing around, but everything will stay covered.”

  I felt him move the hem of my shorts up then prod the area below my butt cheek. I jerked and sucked in a breath as a stab of pain jolted me.

  “Tender there?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  “Athena, mark posterior compartment, biceps femoris.”

  He poked and prodded all around my thigh, my knee, and lower back, finding areas that weren’t as painful but still sore. He had Athena make a note, and then had me lift my foot up so my knee was bent, and proceeded to pull my foot softly by the heel forward. I practically growled in pain as I gave him little resistance.

  He was slowly lowering my foot back down when he asked Athena for the iPad. I closed my eyes and let my forehead drop to the white sanitary paper. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I was almost asleep when he cleared his throat.

  “I just looked over the x-rays from the hospital and can confirm that you had a dislocation. That’ll be sore for a while, but I can infer from everything that it was manipulated back into position correctly.” He looked up from the iPad and gave me a small smile.

  I tried to flip my body back over on my own so I could see him better, but both Athena and my mother hurried over and carefully got me into an upright position.

  Dr. Richards chuckled then continued with his assessment. “Since it was promptly treated, there shouldn’t be any lasting damage. The joint will be weak for a while, and you’ll need to give it and the surrounding muscles adequate time to heal or your risk for another dislocation will significantly increase. For now, you’ll need lots of RICE.”

  “Rice?” I asked in confusion, not seeing how the grain would help a sports injury.

  “Rest, ice, compression, and elevation. R.I.C.E.” He chuckled again, and I felt my cheeks get hot. Duh, I knew that.

  I could feel my dad’s irritated gaze drilling a hole into my head, but I refused to look his way. I already felt stupid enough. I peeked at my mother instead, who was again giving my dad a look. She now held a small notebook and a pencil in her hand, evidently taking notes on the doctor’s orders.

  “Will she be able to compete again this season?” Dad’s hands were out of his pockets and curled into fists at his sides.

  That was the million-dollar question.

  I sucked in a breath and held it while I waited for the doctor to declare my fate. It was like waiting for a judge to pronounce a guilty verdict and the sentencing.

  Dr. Richards cut his eyes back to my dad and answered reluctantly but firmly, “No, most definitely not.”

  The breath that I had been holding seemed to freeze in my chest. The air in the room became stifling from the tension. I could feel the negative emotions rolling off my father in waves.

  Oblivious to the death rays my father was probably shooting him, Dr. Richards turned back to me, his eyes filled with commiseration. “In addition to the dislocation, you’ve strained your hamstring. From my examination, it looks to be a grade two tear, so your leg needs to be kept elevated and ice applied to the bruised area for twenty minutes every two hours for the next forty-eight hours. I’m going to replace the compression bandage with one that will help with the bleeding and swelling before y’all leave.”

  “So, PT can’t get her back on the track by the district meet? I don’t believe that. We’ll get a second—”

  The compassion morphed out of Dr. Richard’s face as he turned and faced off with my dad. His face looked as if it had been chiseled from stone as he said in a cool voice, “You put your daughter back on that track, I’ll call Child Protective Services.”

  “Now, wait a damn min—”

  “No, Mr. Everly, you wait a minute. Seventeen-year-olds do not dislocate their hips. It takes a tremendous amount of force to do so, usually something like a car accident in someone so young. But I believe both her hamstring and her hip were compromised by overstretching and overuse.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Shut up, Derek, and listen to the man! You’re not a doctor!” my mother snapped, her eyes slit as she glared up at my father.

  My mouth dropped open at her unusual show of defiance.

  I looked at my dad and could see the fury written in every line on his face and lit in his burning brown eyes like a blaze. He opened his mouth to reply, but then snapped it shut when Dr. Richards spoke.

  “I’m the best orthopedic surgeon in the state—my clientele proves that. I’ve treated professional athletes and have orchestrated many returns to the sports they’re paid to play. In my expert opinion, she’s done hurdling for the year. That hip is going to take time to heal and her body probably needs the rest.

  “If you put her out there too soon and her hip dislocates again, it could become a chronic problem for the rest of her life. She may even have to have
hip replacement surgery before her fortieth birthday. Your decision could affect her mobility for the rest of her life, her quality of life when her days as a track athlete ends. Now is the time to think about what this could mean for Allison long-term, Mr. Everly.”

  “Fine. Mandy, get whatever else Allison needs. I’ll meet you at the car,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, not even looking at me again as he brushed by Dr. Richards and stormed out. The door practically vibrated from the vicious pull he used to slam it closed.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Richards,” my mother said quietly, her voice sounding far away.

  I felt weird, like my mind couldn’t process what was happening to me. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come out. Not run track ever? That was still a foreign concept, an unknown entity. I was a hurdler. That was me.

  When I had decided to end my life, it was a given I wouldn’t be running again, but hearing it out loud from a doctor seemed to make it more real. Especially now that my demise had been waylaid.

  Official.

  “Allison,” I heard Dr. Richards call.

  I blinked my eyes back into focus and tried to concentrate on what he was telling me.

  “Now, I see you already have a pair of crutches. That’s good. I don’t think you’ll need them for very long. I want to keep you on an anti-inflammatory for a week, so I’ll write you a script for that.”

  He handed me the prescription and, for some reason, that made me feel weirder. No adult had ever let me take charge of anything, even my own care. Everything was either dictated or handled for me. If my dad could arrange it and afford it, he would probably have someone brush my teeth for me every morning and night to ensure I was doing it correctly.

  “I’m also going to call over to Jamie Saunders’ office. She’s a physical therapist my office works with. We’ll get you set up with that over the next few weeks. My receptionist will get you on the schedule to come back and see me a month from now, so I can check your progress. Jenny can also make you an appointment with Jamie if you’d like?”

  I nodded while my mother answered vocally. “Yes, that’d be wonderful. Thank you.”

  He tapped the screen of his iPad, likely making a note, then handed the device to the silent Athena who I had forgotten was even in the room. Then he moved toward the door.

  “Don’t forget, RICE, RICE, baby,” he said in a strange hissing way, followed by funny beat sounds.

  When my mom laughed, I knew he was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Vanilla Ice?” Dr. Richards exclaimed.

  When I shook my head, he clutched his chest and sighed dramatically, which made Mom laugh even more.

  “Now, y’all get out of here before you break my heart even more.”

  Then he was gone.

  The ride back home was somber. Neither of my parents spoke to the other. The tension felt stagnate in the air between them, thick and cloying, making my insides churn. Dad didn’t ask about what Dr. Richards had said after he left, and my mother didn’t tell him.

  Unease slithered over my skin like a snake. I worked on controlling the pain and my unease by counting my breaths. I tried to suck in as much air as I could and expanded my chest until it was almost painful. I then exhaled it through my nose for as long as I could until it felt like my belly was hollow.

  “Don’t we need to stop by the pharmacy?” I asked when we pulled into our driveway. I had forgotten about it until I saw it poking out of the outer pocket of my mother’s purse as she got out of the car. I had handed it to her before I had tried to get off the exam table back at the doctor’s office.

  My dad didn’t say anything. He just got out and slammed the door.

  My mom poked her head back in the car and said, “Just hang tight, and I’ll come around to help you. Don’t worry about the prescription. I’ll get it tomorrow.” She winked. She freaking winked!

  What was going on?

  When we got inside, instead of going straight to my room and wallowing in my bed, my mother parked me on the couch in front of the TV and handed me the remote. She even brought out my pillow from my bed and tucked it under my head then collected all the accent pillows from the furniture in the living room. It took a bit to figure out how to elevate my injured hip and thigh but in the end, we got it to where I could get semi-comfortable. No matter which way I moved, it either hurt or felt awkward.

  “I’ll go get an ice pack so we can start icing.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just fired up Netflix and turned on my favorite show, Gilmore Girls. I wanted to be like Rory. She wasn’t athletic, but she was really smart. Her mom was awesome, and she rarely saw her dad. The only pressures in her life were the ones she placed on herself.

  “Here, lift up a little, honey. I’ll put the ice pack under you.”

  After doing that, she pulled out her phone—I assumed to set the timer for twenty minutes—and then walked back toward the hall. I thought she had gone to the kitchen, but then I heard a door slam from the direction of my father’s office.

  I froze when the yelling started. Then I reached for the remote, paused the television, and strained my ears to listen. I could hear the high-pitched shrieks of my mother and the low-timbered fury of my father’s bellows. However, I couldn’t understand the words because distance and a thick wooden door muffled the sound.

  My mind reeled, and a heavy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. What on earth was going on? They never fought. My mother constantly bowed to the superior knowledge of her husband and made it her purpose in life to accommodate his every whim.

  Finally, it stopped. Neither parent appeared for what felt like forever. The first to emerge was my father with a leather duffle in his hand. His face looked carved from stone, but his eyes were a burning inferno of rage. Fear skittered up my spine, and my limbs turned cold. Then, when he stabbed a finger in my direction, I jumped.

  Through clenched teeth, he growled, “I have to leave for a while, Allison, but you need to remember your place. Just because you’re out for the season doesn’t mean you can start stuffing your face. You may be no good right now, but we need to start thinking about—”

  “Derek!” my mom clipped over him.

  As his eyes moved to her, the look of pure malice that came over his face took my breath away.

  “You need to leave.” She gave him a look I couldn’t read.

  My mouth dropped open when he spun on his heels and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Then my eyes moved back to my mom, who was still standing at the edge of the room, her eyes closed and face pained.

  “W-what’s going on? Where is he going?” Not that I wasn’t happy he was leaving. I was freaking ecstatic, but the whole scene was so bizarre I couldn’t help asking.

  She opened her eyes and rotated her neck to look at me. “He’s going out of town on business.”

  “But—”

  “I should start dinner,” she interrupted, moving toward the kitchen.

  I watched her go, a feeling, more like a knowing, washing over me. Something had changed. Something so huge that I knew my life would never be the same.

  After finishing icing my leg, I hobbled over to a bar stool in our kitchen and watched as my mother jerkily chopped up vegetables and threw them into the salad bowl with more force than was probably necessary. Her face was red, and the lines around her eyes and mouth were tight. She grabbed a cucumber and basically murdered it in front of my eyes. I was entranced as I then watched her stab into a tomato and all the guts shot out.

  Have you ever looked at a knife and wondered: what would happen if you put it to your skin? Would it hurt or, in some sick way, would you find relief? Every time I looked at one, the temptation right at my fingertips, I wondered. However, fear of the pain always prevented me from doing it. Plus, I wasn’t big on blood. The sight of it always made me weak in the knees and bile would rise to my throat. So, I just avoided anything sharp whe
n I was alone. Just in case …

  I shifted my focus to my mother. She was an aging beauty queen and absolutely gorgeous. If Marilyn Monroe had lived to be in her forties, she would have looked like my mother. Platinum blonde hair with an hourglass figure that gave Kim K. a run for her money. She even had a beauty mark near her mouth.

  I wasn’t close to my mother anymore. She had become more like my father’s second-in-command, his mouthpiece when he wasn’t here. The enforcer of rules. However, something had sparked in her today. A new woman had emerged while we were in that doctor’s office.

  “Shut up, Derek, and listen to the man! You’re not a doctor!”

  My phone vibrated on the counter, taking me out of the memory. I looked down to see I had another snap from Miles. I rolled my eyes and ignored it. It was probably another shirtless selfie of him in his bathroom, proclaiming he “wished I was there.” He hadn’t gotten brave enough to send me a D pic yet, but I was nervous that was in my future. I was sure Laura probably had a collection of them.

  “Who was that?” my mom asked as she used those claw-like utensil things to mix up the salad.

  “Miles,” I sighed.

  She ignored the sigh, her eyes lighting up at the mention of Miles. She loved Miles. I would suspect him of sleeping with her, too, if she was married to any other man. I wasn’t the only person my father had clutched in his iron fist. He was just as controlling of her as he was of me. They would have to be awfully creative to be having an affair.

  “Tell him I said hi!”

  “Will do,” I lied, pretending to type him a message.

  “We should have him over for dinner this weekend.”

  “Mmhmm …” I replied, eyes still on my phone. I wasn’t going to invite Miles anywhere.

  I clicked on the snap, just so the alert would go away, and what do you know? Shirtless Miles, but no message this time, just his nipples and that arrogant smirk I had found irresistible once upon a time.

  I eyed the picture dispassionately before it disappeared. He was attractive, but his looks had lost their luster. Why was I with him when there was nothing there? That question was coming up more and more lately.