“You can’t truly appreciate success until you have experienced failure.” ~Troy Dearbourne
Chapter 1
I’LL NEVER WALK AGAIN.
The courtyard before me is scattered with different ones rushing to their next destination; each one going their separate ways to and fro without a care, without thought, taking their freedom for granted.
I envy such people.
What I wouldn't give to relive those days, the days when I had my freedom. If I could go back in time, I would warn myself not to leave. I wouldn't go. I wouldn't get in that car. But I can't. This is who I am now. I'm stuck like this; forever reliving the pain, the shock that day brought to me. Even now, with how much time has passed, I still tremble at the thought of that day and the changes it forced upon me. It haunts me. My eyes are weary; I can hardly hold back the tears that threaten to fall. I didn't just lose my freedom that day, I lost someone, too. I lost a friend. A dear friend.
The rain splatters against the panes of the elongated windows in front of me. The little droplets stick to the glass for a moment, gather into pools, then slide down - my eyes following their movements as the process repeats. The sky is dark and dreary, much like my heart. Distant voices from those just like me echo through my empty mind, but I don't recruit the energy to hear them. I am numb. Numb to the pain. Numb to the people around me. Numb to life.
Is this how my life is to be, forever confined to the space of this chair, like a dog on a short leash? Am I nothing more than a dog, an animal that can't escape the boundaries that encompass her?
I place a hand on the cold wheels and guide myself away from the windows. I must forget that day. But I know that I won't. I can't. The tragedies that unfolded stare at me each day, when I close my eyes, and when I wake. They say there's hope, hope that I might get better, that I might recover, but I know they're just words of hollowed encouragement. I can't blame them, though. What else are they to say?
I maneuver through the brooding halls, avoiding eye contact with those that pass by. I'm not in the mood to chat, though to be fair, I rarely am anymore. I just don't have the heart to engage in a conversation like I once did. It's laughable, really, the person I use to be. It's shameful. My arrogance is to blame. Just seconds before it happened, the two of us were smiling, laughing; blissfully unaware of the horror that lurked around the next minute.
I lurch forward from the stabbing pain the memories give me. Bile burns my throat, but I swallow it back. It takes me a moment to gather myself. I'm suddenly breathless, drained of energy and in desperate need of sleep. But every time I shut my eyes, I'm warped back to that day.
I can still hear her screams.
As I lift my gaze, I notice of few of them staring at me; their faces filled with concern. I hate it when people stare at me. I hate the attention. It makes me feel like I'm different. I am different.
Without further delay, I reach for the wheels again and press on down the hallway and into the library. It'll be quiet there. I yearn for quiet. Once I'm there, I pull a book off a lower shelf and open it to a random page. I'm not actually going to read it. I don't have the desire to read at the moment. I just don't want to be bothered; hoping that if someone sees me with my face buried in a book, they will march on by without so much as a mention of my name.
A woman rolling a metal cart topped with medical supplements jerks it sideways; the wheels screech in protest. The sound startles me. I skittishly jump - well, the half of me that can jump. The sound reminds me of what happened to us that day. How the wheels of the car locked up; the way I struggled to maintain it within the white lines on the road. The asphalt was slick; it had been raining. I remember gripping the steering wheel with every ounce of strength I had, but it ripped its stubborn self from my grasp, propelling us into the base of the tree.
Tears stain the surface of the page. I wipe them, smearing their existence over the inky letters.
There's a gap in my memory as to what all happened next. Maybe it's because I've tried so very hard to forget, or perhaps it's because I'm still trying to run from the reality of it all. Either way, I know it's no dream, or nightmare. This chair is proof, a vile reminder of what happened.
The faint echo of heels clacking against the worn tile floor approaches from behind. I don't bother tearing my gaze from the book. I don't feel like exerting that much energy. "McKenzie, it's time, sweetie." The voice is female, and her tone is filled with a little too much sympathy. It's mother. My shoulder warms at her touch. She seems so tall anymore, but it isn't her that has changed. It's me. "Let's go," her voice barely a whisper, gripping the rubber handles of my chair and guiding me out of the room.
Truth is I don't want to go. I'm not even sure I want to live anymore. Do I even have the right to live after what happened? Regardless of how I feel in the moment, I don't argue with her. I throw the hoodie over my head and drop my chin to my chest, ignoring the ambient voices around me.
Chapter 2
3 Weeks Earlier . . .
My cheeks warm as the sunlight slips through the shades of my window. It's almost dawn, but I have been awake for awhile. I tried many times to fall back to sleep, but I am filled with too much excitement; today is a big day after all. Tomorrow is going to be even bigger.
In the distance, a bell tolls steadily announcing the start of a new day. At this hour, the town's lighthouse is probably shining its beacon for one last revolution before taking its rest. I remember when father took me up there; I was six. I don't think I have ever been so scared in my entire life. We were so far off the ground, the harbor breeze ripping itself through my blonde curls. I felt so free, like I could leap off the railing and take flight.
Voices trickle through the open slit of my window, mixed with the salty air of the harbor. The town is starting to come alive. Even from the curled up position in my bed, I can hear the waves angrily crashing the rocks of the shoreline; a sound I've enjoyed getting used to since moving here to Camden, Maine. I can't believe it's been almost thirteen years. Seems like yesterday we were navigating the moving van onto the gradient driveway for the first time.
Dishware bangs together from beyond my bedroom door. My nose twitches at the sweet smell of chocolate chip pancakes. I throw the covers off me and set my feet on the plush carpet. My toes nearly disappear, sinking deeper into it as I stand. The smell grows more potent as I rush downstairs and into the kitchen. Mother turns her attention away from the stovetop, "Good morning, sweetie."
I reach for the fruit basket, passing over a golden banana and ripe pear before selecting a Granny Smith. "Morning, mom."
Father is already sitting at the family's cherry wood dinette table, the morning's newspaper hiding everything from his eyes down. A porcelain mug filled with coffee, black, is in front of him. The mug has an image of a golfer poised with his club over his shoulder, admiring the shot he'd just taken. It's his favorite mug for whatever reason; he uses it every day. He's always had a love for the game, maybe that's why? I don't really understand the game. He showed me his score card once and it didn't make a bit of sense to me. Just looked like a bunch of numbers within a lot of gridlines. He's asked me to join him out on the course a few times. I told him I would rather whitewash a fence.
"Good morning, daddy." I crouch by his side and press my lips against his left temple.
He yanks the newspaper closed, folding it in a series of quick motions, and lays it on the table. "Good morning, Kenzie." He is already dressed in his usual suit pants and shirt, which is buttoned clear up to his throat; a contemporary looking blue and black striped tie hanging down. "Did you sleep well last night, or were you filled with too much excitement?"
"I slept okay, I guess. Took me awhile before I was able to put my thoughts to rest and shut my eyes."
The sweetness of the apple strikes my taste buds as I take my first bite. August is sitting next to father, his head hung over his Sony PSP. "Hey! You know the rules, no video games before school." It's worth reaching across the table to slap the side of his head, despite the slight sting it leaves on my palm.
My face warms as mother passes by with a steaming plate of pancakes, placing them in the center of the table. "Put the game away and each your breakfast." August yields to her scolding tone, then sticks his tongue out at me. I roll my eyes in response. He can be so annoying sometimes.
There is a wide age gap between the two of us; a ten year gap to be precise. He turned seven last month. The day my parents told me mother was pregnant and that I would soon have a little sibling filled me with two kinds of emotions, one: joy because I could see how happy they were about it, and two: a little mischievous because I would finally have someone to boss around and do my laundry for me. My hopes were ultimately unfulfilled. I can't even get August to did his own laundry let alone mine.
Mother walks back to the pantry to retrieve a bottle of maple syrup. "Are you sure you don't want some pancakes, McKenzie?"
A crunch sounds as I take another bite of apple. "Mom, the Blue Jays' photoshoot is today! There is no way I'm showing up with a stomach full of dough," my words slightly garbled from chewing. "Besides, carbs are a big no-no. I need to be able to fit into my cheer uniform."
August pulls two pancakes off the main plate and drags them onto his own plate, drowning them in maple syrup. He takes a huge chunk and stuffs his face full. About halfway through chewing, he looks up at me and opens his mouth, making stupid noises. I quickly look away, revolted at his juvenile antics. "Ugh! You're so disgusting." He just smiles, clearly pleased with himself.
Mother sits down in the chair next to me, ripping open a packet of coffee sweetener. "McKenzie, August, don't fight please."
"Look at him. He's so . . . so . . . weird! Can we trade him for a puppy? Pleeeeease?" my lips purse into an adorable little pouty face.
"You know very well you aren't responsible enough to care for a dog. And besides, what would we do with your brother?"
I raise my shoulders in a thoughtless shrug. "I dunno. We can ship him to a cow farm or something."
August knocks his silverware against the table with excitement. "Yay! Yay! I wanna go to a cow farm. Cows give chocolate milk."
"Cows don't give chocolate milk, doofus! You need chocolate syrup to get chocolate milk."
"Well, my cows would give me chocolate milk because I would pet them, and play with them, and sing to them, and hug them . . ." He drones on. I quickly lose interest and tune him out.
"How's your case coming, daddy?"
He sprinkles his fried eggs with salt. "Not so good, honey," a quick sigh follows his words. "My client is being accused of robbing a gas station downtown. New evidence came to light that certainly supports such accusations."
"Oh, wow! That's terrible. Did he do it?"
"I don't believe so, which is why I'm doing everything I can for him." He stabs the egg with his fork.
"What will happen to him if he's found guilty?"
"If my client is convicted, he will most likely be sentenced to prison for seven to eight years."
"Seven to eight years!" Mother frowns at my sudden increase in tone. August merely giggles. "I can't even begin to imagine being held in the same tiny room for that long. I barely survived the twenty minute commute on the elementary bus."
Father is a criminal defense attorney. I don't really know the in-depth specifics of his job, basically just what I see on TV, which is mostly just a bunch of fluff and propaganda for television's sake. Bad guy commits crime, police arrest him, bad guy calls lawyer, trial commences sometime thereafter, lawyer pleads on his client's behalf, the jury then decides bad guy's fate. All I know is that he works long hours. He leaves for work around the same time August and I leave for school and sometimes doesn't come home until late that evening. August sees him less than I do. He has to go to bed at ten o' clock sharp. I, being the mature, responsible adult that I am, do not have a bedtime.
Mother speaks from behind her coffee mug, "That's why your father and I tell the both of you to stay in school," she pauses for a sip. "Which reminds me, don't you think you two should be getting ready? The bus will be here soon."
August chugs the last of his orange juice. "I'm ready," wiping his mouth with the back of his black and yellow checkered sleeve.
I shove my chair away from the table, the wooden legs screeching against the tile floor, and throw what's left of the apple in the trash can. "I'm taking the Benz to school."
Father drops his chin slightly, gazing past his reading glasses to look at me. "Wear your seat belt, young lady," his voice stern and direct. "And use your blinkers when turning, and don't forget to engage the parking brake before you get out, and—"
"Dad. I'm seventeen. I'm not a little kid anymore. Just relax. I'll be fine." He lectures me as if it's my first time behind the wheel. True, I've only had my license for three months, but that doesn't mean I'm not qualified or knowledgeable about driving. I'm practically a pro.
He removes his reading glasses from his nose and stuffs them in his breast pocket. "You're right. It's just hard to see my little girl all grown up. It seems like yesterday you were just in diapers." He chuckles. "I would take you out on the course. You would sit on my lap and pretend you were driving the golf cart."
"Dad!" my tone clearly implies I don't want to partake in his reminiscent moment. "Keys. Give. Now." The keys clink together as they slide from his hand to mine. "Thanks!" I throw my arms around him, then head for the stairs just as mother calls for me.
"Oh, McKenzie, we decided to have a cookout tomorrow after your graduation ceremony. Why don't you invite some of your friends?"
My heartbeat quickens. "Sounds great!"
August swings his backpack over his shoulder. "You're gonna invite Xander, aren't you?" making kissing noises with his lips.
"You better watch it you little brat! You might wake up one day to find you were shipped to Indonesia in your sleep."
"I would find my way home," his toothy smile displaying his confidence.
"You don't even know how to spell Indonesia let alone find your way home from there."
"I do, too!" He looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, "I-N-D-O-N . . ." slowly trailing off from there.
"Mmm hmm. Told ya!"
The school bus' brakes hiss as it pulls up at the end of the street. "Whatever, sis. But at least I would have cows to give me chocolate milk," he slams the front door behind him before I have a chance to say anything more.
"He's gotta be the stupidest seven year old on the planet."
Mother is still seated at the dining room table, finishing her coffee. She watches August through the dining room window, ensuring he makes it on the bus safely, the same routine she does every morning. "Don't be mean to your brother, McKenzie. He's only in the second grade after all."
"Ugh. Whatever." I sprint up the stairs to my bedroom.
Little brothers are so annoying. I often wonder what life would be like as an only child. Bet it would be nice. Sometimes when I see a star dash across the night sky, I'm tempted to wish that August would just disappear. Okay, not disappear as such, like to not see him ever again. I'm not that cruel. More like a scenario where we rent him on the weekends and ship him off to grandma's during the week or something. Besides, I've seen too many movies where someone wishes their sibling never existed. They usually have to go through a weird chain of events to try to remedy the issue before their sibling is permanently erased and their own timeline altered forever.
I thrust open the glass doors of my closet. It's huge and filled with a broad range of stylish name brand clothes. When we were house shopping, father asked mother and I what we wanted most in a new home. Mother said she wanted a safe neighborhood to raise me - not knowing August would come into our lives later on. However, I told him a closet th
at would satisfy the Queen of England was a must for me. Hey, a girl's gotta have room for her fleet of shoes.
My style is somewhat retro, yet spunky. I like Converse shoes. A lot. I have twenty-three pairs, all in different colors. When father has to go away on a business trip, he always brings me and August something back. August requests something different each time. I'm more traditional: shoes. The first time he went away on business, father brought back a remote control helicopter for August and my very first pair of fifties Converse All-Stars. They're bright red and even have my name embroidered on the toes. I've kept them in pristine condition; only wash them by hand and with no abrasive cleaners. August lost his helicopter long ago, however. I'm pretty sure I laughed when it happened. He and father were flying it over The Bluff one time and it drifted out of signal range, plummeting nearly eighty feet to a rocky death.
I sift through the rack, sliding the hangers down the metal bar with a disapproving eye. I want something different. Today is a really big day. It's the last day of school. Ever. And I want to look uber fabulous, not that I don't always look fabulous, because I do of course.
Time is elapsing. We don't live far from school, but I always like to get there early, if nothing else than to see Xander pull up on his street bike. I don't know what kind it is, but he looks incredible while on it. And the way he shakes his surfer's haircut around after removing his helmet gives me chills just thinking about it. I'm anxiously waiting for the day when he asks me to hop on the back and takes me for a ride. He's my soul mate, I just know it. I want to get married on a hill in Ireland, encompassed by rolling valleys and flowing rivers, beneath the blue sky and the birds, surrounded by a few close friends and of course family, and then honeymoon in Rome, Italy. Which reminds me, the annual county dance, Hollywood Ending, is coming up. I so hope Xander doesn't already have someone he's going with.
I settle on a graphic-T, which has a picture of the school's rock band: The Mirroring Manics on the front, a pair of white washed ripped jeans, and a pair of lime green Converse All-Stars. Downstairs, I hear the front door open then close immediately thereafter; father must be heading to work.
Paraplegic Page 1
