by Ginger Scott
“Okay,” I say to her next question.
I never smile. I don’t make eye contact. For the last twenty hours, I’ve done nothing but stare out the University Hospital window, my eyes searching for something. I’m searching for him.
Several minutes pass. I move for the nurse and her assistant. I do what I need to do so they’ll leave, so I can go home—even though I know I’ll hate it there even more. At least at home I can hide in the familiar.
“I called the Jungle Gym. Kyle said he talked to your boss too. You can take as long as you need. He said he’d hold the job for you,” my father says. Like I’m what? Getting over a fucking cold?
“Call him back and tell him I quit,” I say, my eyes wide on the window. The cars far below weave in a pattern I’ve memorized. It’s the timing of the lights. Six get to turn, twenty get to pass, and then it starts all over again.
“Joss, don’t give up on something. You might want to go back; you loved that job. The psychologist said familiar is good…” my father says. He sounds like a brochure.
“Have they found him yet?” I say, ignoring his plea to keep my shitty job because it’s good for me mentally. The only thing I liked about that job was the boy who gave me a ride home at night. Find him and I’ll go back.
What if they never find him?
“They’re still searching,” my father answers. His response is several seconds late. He doesn’t think they will. He doesn’t know Wes.
“It looks like you get to come home tonight…if they get you through the cast part early enough. Kyle is at the house. So is Conner. They helped move some things around, so you can…”
He doesn’t finish. They moved furniture so I could get to my room in a wheelchair. I logged that part of our conversation with the doctor too. I said crutches were fine, but my father heard it might make it harder for me to learn my center of balance when I get a prosthetic.
“I’m not going to play ever again, you know?” I say, my back still to him. I think it’s more comfortable for him this way too. He never answers me. Maybe he needs to believe that he can make me better—be part of my miracle. I let him.
The sound of the television clicking on drowns out everything else, and I let the white noise of some college basketball game take over for our conversation. Hours pass, and my father and I don’t say another word to each other. He trails behind as I’m wheeled to another room where my cast is set. They want to protect the skin, let it heal without me risking any setbacks or damage to the wound.
I never want to move. I’m not sure how I could do any damage to anything other than my soul, and that’s already gone. Or at least…it’s missing.
When we get back to my room, my things are all packed. There’s a bag on the bed—my duffel from home. My phone is sitting on top of the zipped part. I haven’t looked at it other than once, briefly, to see if any of the hundreds of texts and messages were from Wes. They weren’t.
“I’m leaving now?” I say, my eyes zeroing in on how small my bag is. My things fit in such a small space, and I’m going to another small space, to live a small life.
“Heyyyyy….” Taryn’s voice hums from behind me. My eyes flutter to a close. That’s her awkward hey—the one she spoke when my mom died. She used it the first time I needed stitches, and she was staring at the cut on my chin. She used it the first time I tried cutting a chunk out of my hair in the back because my dad wouldn’t take me to shave it. She’s using it now.
“Hey,” I say back. I almost amuse myself. Almost.
“I packed your things. I told your dad I’d help you get settled in,” she says, shifting to sit in front of me. She perches on the edge of my bed, ready to sprint. I don’t like how everyone feels like they have to catch me. I just want to be left alone.
My mouth is in a straight line, and I don’t have anything to say. The discomfort of the silence grows until she has to stand. She walks behind me, my bag in tow, and someone pushes me in the chair until we stop at my doctor—the one impressed with his cutting-and-sewing job.
“If things heal well, we’re looking at fitting her in two, maybe three months. It’s going to be important that she maintains her strength, and we want to try to keep her off crutches, as much as possible,” the doctor says. He’s not looking at me. He’s speaking to my father.
“Why?” I butt in.
They both turn to me, then to each other. After a few seconds filled with glances that feel like I am only getting part of the story, the doctor sits on the arm of a chair, folding his clipboard to his chest, and begins a lengthy explanation about gait and my ability to return to normal activity more quickly if my center of balance doesn’t get used to depending on my sound limb.
“What’s…normal activity?” I ask. The doctor glances at my father, who chews at his lips and adjusts the way he’s standing.
“Well,” the doctor begins, looking at his hands clasped around his clipboard, his brow pulled forward. “Normal depends on the goals you set for yourself, Josselyn. If you push yourself, there’s no reason you can’t participate in sports again. Maybe in a year or two…”
I knew that’s where this was going. In a year. A year! What good would that do? I can join some rec league in Bakersfield and fill my Tuesday and Thursday nights after class at the community college with some slow-pitch softball league? I’m never playing again. I’m never going to be the girl with the fire again. I’m never going to get a hit off Caitlyn Moore’s fastball and prove myself to college scouts, and my grades are shit. My path ran right into a cliff, and I jumped off.
Now all I’m doing is falling. And Wes isn’t even here to catch me.
“Let’s go,” I say, my eyes focusing on the long hallway before us.
After a few seconds, the doctor stands from the arm of the chair, stepping over to give my father a few more directions, as if he’ll remember any of it. He’s barely learning to take care of himself. Taryn walks alongside me as the nurse begins to push us down the hallway, and when we get to the curb outside the lobby, Taryn waits with me while my father goes to get his car. She doesn’t ask any questions. My friend knows better than that.
The drive home is just as quiet, and I tune her and my father out while they arrange my things. The house looks ridiculous—all of the furniture pushed to the side, making wide paths for me. What’s worse is I feel like I should be able to get up, to be able to stand whenever I want to. I catch myself more than a few times pushing my weight on my arms, lifting to try to reach for something, only to fall back into my seat. I’m trapped; my body is a prison.
After an hour, my father leaves us to go to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions. I stay by my window, wishing it were bigger—higher. I want to go to the river. I want to find him. They say they’re searching, but how is anyone looking—everyone is here. They’ve all been here. And I’ve seen the news. The camera shots are of volunteers and guys in wet suits walking through the area where the bus collapsed upside down into the water. Nobody is looking for Wes. They won’t find him this way.
“Why are they all lying to me?” I ask Taryn.
She’s quiet. I keep my stare on the small, dried dots where the rain hit my window several days ago and left salt deposits behind.
“Tell me, T.”
I hear her move toward my bed, and I finally turn to look at her. Her eyes flit to me, but move away when they meet mine. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s empathy. Whatever it is it has her tongue-tied and our friendship twisted.
“Tell me,” I repeat, my eyes heavy on her, waiting for her to look up. She finally does, and the glassiness is the first sign I’ve seen of anything real and honest in a week.
“The police called off the search two days ago,” she says, her head falling to the side. My heart is ripping open, the tear slow and painful, but not a shock. I think I’ve been ripping it open every day to get used to the pain.
“He’s out there,” I say. Her eyes close and her head falls forward completely.
&nb
sp; “TK and Levi…they keep searching,” she says. She brings an arm up to run along her nose and eyes.
“I want to go there,” I say.
Her body shakes with one short laugh.
“Take me,” I say. Her head shakes with a no.
“Why?” I ask.
Her eyes come up to meet mine, and her lips are tight before she finally speaks. “It won’t do any good, Joss. And how am I going to get you there? How are you going to help look?”
My eyes narrow on her, and she stands, turning her back to me. My eyes fall to my lap, to my one good leg, and I know she’s right. But he’s out there somewhere. He has to be.
“Just…” I swallow hard. “Just drive me through the area. Just once. I need to see it. Please.”
It’s quiet—the only sound her moving a few of my things, hanging shirts that I never bothered to hang before the accident. My gear is still in the bag, piled in the corner, and I turn to see her lift it in her hand, but then she sets it back down.
“Put that away. In the garage,” I say.
She doesn’t look up, but stills, her fingers flexing a few times before she nods and bends to pick up the bag. She leaves my room with it, and I hear the sound that signals the garage door opening and closing, the bats clanking on the floor, my old life being packed away.
When she comes back, she has a harder time looking at me. At first, I almost challenge her, dipping my head with her movement around my room, trying to catch her sightline. After a few minutes, though, I give up and let my eyes go back to the comfortable bliss of searching out my window, staring into the endless sky.
“I have to go,” she says softly. I nod. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll bring your school things. They approved you for home study until you can go back.”
Back. I’m never going back.
I nod again, and after several long, quiet seconds, I hear my door close.
I’m alone.
Eighteen
Three and a half months later
“Joss. It’s time,” my dad says.
It’s the same routine every morning. My father knocks lightly on my door before pushing it open enough to poke his face inside. He tells me it’s time. I ignore him. And we battle it out between both of our obstinacies until I give in and go to rehab, only to fail and have to come back home to homework I don’t understand and a tutor who makes me want to punch him.
His name is Todd. He’s a teacher’s aide. One of those men in their thirties who decided the corporate world was too corrupt, so he wanted to give back, in a meaningful way, by teaching. He would get eaten alive in a classroom. He can barely handle me, and that’s one-on-one, and I can’t run away.
My only solace is that I’m in my final week of school. I will have one science credit to take over the summer—to make up for a failing grade—but that won’t require Todd’s visits or help. I failed because I quit trying mid-semester. One bad test sent my grade below fifty percent. Honestly, it made more sense just to let it ride and retake it over the summer. My dad agreed. Or maybe he has to pick his battles. Either way, I won that round.
I won’t win this one though. I’m too tired to argue this morning. I pull my body up and work my prosthetic on. The process may get faster one day, but I’m still too new at it. I’ve only had the temporary leg for a few weeks. I spend a lot of time with the sock and finding my balance. My walking is still not good. My dad says it’s because I don’t try. I quit arguing with him about that too. It doesn’t do any good.
I make my way slowly down the hall, and he’s already waiting with the door held open, half a peanut-butter sandwich in his mouth and another half wrapped in a paper towel for me to eat in the car.
It’s five in the morning. We go to the rehab center early, so my father can make it to work after. I suppose the hours and my constant needs have had one positive effect—he hasn’t fallen off the wagon. At least, not that I know of. I met Meredith last week. She showed up for dinner and stayed late, talking out in the living room with him until almost midnight. At first, I listened in on their conversation, expecting him to confess cravings or slips he’s had. But there weren’t any confessions. They talked about family, about me when I was younger, and about my progress. I guess he just needed someone other than a bottle to listen.
It takes me a few tries to get into the car. I’m still not great at maneuvering myself. My dad looks away when I move awkwardly. I’m hard to look at.
The rehab center is in the downtown, so my dad and I nibble slowly at our sandwiches, taking up half of the ride there, avoiding conversation. My father moves right into his daily recap of what we did the morning before, and my new goals. I let him talk, but I never react. I just listen, my eyes looking out at the empty streets of downtown Bakersfield as we drive to the clinic.
My eyes are still searching for Wes. But I’m starting to believe I’ll never find him. His family is starting to believe it too.
I made Taryn take me to visit them last week. I’ve seen them one-on-one, when Levi came to visit me with Kyle or when TK was with Taryn, but it was different seeing them in their home. It was so incredibly evident that a piece of them was missing. The home wasn’t the same.
Bruce was warm as always, hugging me, and begging me to stay for dinner. But I couldn’t. One look in his wife’s eyes was all I needed. She was as broken as I was, missing her son. There couldn’t be two of us at that dinner table.
Before I left, Bruce mentioned that they were probably going to go through some of Wes’s things this week. Not to get rid of, but just to put away, so Maggie didn’t have to look at them with any false expectations that Wes would one day return to claim them—that he wouldn’t step through the door and slide out of his shoes and into his favorite sweatshirt. He invited me to come back to take anything I’d like. I couldn’t tell him no, but I didn’t tell him yes.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want the false hope either. Then, there’s another part that wants to keep that hope alive and where it belongs—in Wes’s home, in his room, with his brothers. It feels like we’re picking apart the pieces, like vultures.
“Joss? Ready?” My father’s question startles me from my thoughts.
I nod.
He holds the door of his car open while I find my balance and step out. There’s an older man walking in front of us with his wife. He’s been here at the same time as me for the last week, and I notice he’s making better progress. Then again, he’s trying.
I notice my dad’s eyes on him, and when his gaze moves to me as he holds the door to the center open, I see the judgment. He masks it quickly, but not before a hint of it slips through. I’m not trying hard enough. But I guess I don’t see the point in rushing. What am I rushing to?
We’re past needing to fill out paperwork and formally check in. The therapists all know me. My dad made sure of that too. I wished he hadn’t told them I was an athlete. I’m not. Not anymore. And all he’s done is put high expectations in place that I will never reach.
“Are we ready for the bolster work, Joss?” asks Stephanie, my main therapist. My dad requested her, thinking I’d work better with a woman. Stephanie is peppy, and her lips are always pink with glitter. My dad has no idea who I am at all.
“Sure,” I say, ambling toward the table. I lift myself up and push my hips higher with my hands, lifting my legs while Stephanie slides the round bolster in place for me to complete a series of hip flexers and leg raises. The goal is to strengthen my muscles in other places to improve my gait and let me walk with my prosthesis for longer periods of time. Right now, my legs hurt after a couple hours, especially the stump.
My dad is usually right next to me, coaching me through the exercises. But this morning he steps to the other side of the therapy room. The peace is welcome, and without his watchful eye, I coast through my sets. I’m operating at maybe thirty percent of my normal output, but Stephanie is still clapping and praising every exercise I complete. She’s walking confetti.
I finish my bolster work and push myself to sit while Stephanie puts it away. My eyes catch my father’s across the room. His arms are folded, and he’s talking out of the side of his mouth to a woman next to him. She’s in a black sweat suit, one made for runners. Her hair is dark, long and pulled back tight. Her face is hard, and she doesn’t smile. She stares at me for several seconds, and I look back, daring her to look away. She never does, but she raises her hand, cupping her mouth, whispering something to my dad.
They’re talking about me.
Stephanie helps me to my feet, and I answer a few questions about the fit of my new leg, any trouble I’ve been having with it, any adjustments I might need.
“I don’t really think there’s anything you can do to make it much better than it is now. It sort of is what it is, ya know?” I say, looking at the top of Stephanie’s head while she bends down in front of me and tugs on the socket, feeling around my stump.
“There are plenty of things that can be done,” a woman’s voice says. Her tone isn’t nice, and it causes me to jerk up and meet her hard eyes quickly. “You’re failing yourself, you know.”
I’m a little stunned, as is Stephanie, who stands up quickly and places her small, sparkly body between me and the woman in the dark track suit. It’s like watching a bad guy in a Superman comic have a showdown with a pixie.
“I’m sorry, but our sessions are private, unless the patient approves of you being here,” Stephanie says. I smirk slightly, impressed at her ballsy response. The woman looks to my dad as he steps up, his hand rubbing on the side of his face.
“Actually, it’s okay. This is Becca Fontain. She’s here to work with Joss. Not…not to replace what you do, but just to…supplement it some,” my dad says, barely navigating through hurting my therapist’s feelings.
“I’m sorry?” I say, leaning to the side from behind Stephanie’s big hair. She turns to me, blinking away tears. Apparently, my dad didn’t navigate delicately enough.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, squeezing my shoulder and moving to the back room where I know she’s going to wipe away the evidence of her emotions.
