by Ginger Scott
“Hi,” I say, smiling back. As much as I wanted to tell Bruce about the ticket, I want to tell Maggie more. She needs hope. But I don’t know what it means. And as much as she needs hope, she also doesn’t need a false promise.
“How’s your dad doing?” she asks, her eyes never once dipping below my chin. It’s different than when other’s try not to look at my prosthetic. I can tell. She’s not avoiding my leg because she’s uncomfortable with my injury; she’s avoiding looking at it because of its connection to her son.
“He’s good. He’s…he’s picking up dinner actually. I should head back. I was just trying to get a good walk in,” I say, repeating the same fib from before.
It takes Maggie a few seconds to react, her thoughts lost and her face drifting into the distance. “Oh, well…please. Come see us again soon? Maybe…dinner or something,” she says.
She squeezes her husband’s arm and heads back down the hallway she came from. Bruce’s eyes follow her until she disappears, his gaze remaining on the empty space she just left.
“She’s struggling,” he says, taking a deep breath. “We all are.”
“Me, too,” I say, the words slipping out. I pull my lips tight and look down at my hands; in this house, it doesn’t feel right to admit to any strife bigger than the one this family is feeling now. They wear the grief like heavy coats, their bodies trudging along and trying to remember how to be normal, but the spirit is dark and blue.
It takes me longer to get to my feet this time, the fatigue setting in and the pain from the long walk there reminding me of the hill I have yet to climb. I follow TK and Levi out through the garage, Bruce a few steps behind me, and the hope that carried me here feels thinner now. I know that ticket—I know it was Wes’s and I know he sent it to me. It’s not something he would share with anyone else. But maybe somehow, it got hung-up in the postal system, lodged in our box, or delivered to the wrong address first. Maybe the timing of it was nothing more than a fluke.
“So these are it?” A heavy voice bellows just out of sight through the garage door. I step forward a little more quickly to see a large man—maybe five or ten years older than Bruce, but so similar to him—sitting in a wheelchair and bending forward to lift one of the boxes onto his lap.
As he bends back up, his eyes stop, catching a glimpse of my leg, and he freezes.
“Ah glad you’re still here. Shawn, I want you to meet someone,” Bruce says, stepping around me. My mind filters through fragments of memories and things Wes told me, rummaging through facts, not sure if I remember them correctly, but my instincts telling me…
“Shawn, this is Josselyn. She was one of Wes’s friends. Still is. Her dad coached all the boys,” Bruce says, stumbling through the introduction, careful to make sure it’s acknowledged that I’m still very much a part of their family and lives. His words are sweet, but I don’t dwell in them long. My ears lock in on the name. Shawn. Shawn. “Joss, Shawn’s my brother. He was Wes’s first caseworker, at the state.”
Yes. I knew it. I knew it the minute I heard the familiar timber of his voice that he was related to Bruce, and my heart told me who he was. This man—this man is Wes’s savior, in every possible way. And he was supposed to be dead.
“Shawn, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking small steps forward and reaching for his hand. He takes my palm in his and covers the top with his other hand, his eyes crinkled with the cautious smile that splays out under his glasses.
“Nice to meet you too, Joss,” he says, looking at me more directly than anyone has in months.
He keeps my hand in his for a few seconds, his eyes studying me, his smirk faint, but there. It’s like a tango, each of us glancing at the other, trying to decide who to trust and what the other knows.
“Shawn is holding onto a few of Wes’s things, just to store. We’re not erasing him or anything. It’s only…”
“I understand. It’s hard to see sometimes,” I say, my eyes lingering on Shawn’s before coming to Bruce as I let go of his brother’s hand. “It must be hard on Maggie.”
He inhales slowly, and holds his mouth in a tight line, nodding as his chin tucks into his chest. “It is,” he concedes.
I look back up to see Shawn now moving down the driveway, TK walking with him carrying the rest of the boxes. I trail behind with Bruce and watch as they load the last items in and help Shawn position his chair on the lift that’s now flattened in the street. With a push of a button, it raises him to the car-floor level and he moves to the open area where he lifts himself from his chair to the swiveling driver’s seat.
TK steps forward to slam the sliding door closed, but Shawn holds up a hand to stop him, then his finger points at me.
“When my doctor said I had to go on disability, and stick to a wheelchair, he told me it meant no more driving,” Shawn says, his finger suddenly pointing down to his seat. “I said bullshit. Don’t let circumstances dictate what you’re capable of. We’re all special in our own way. Wes taught me that.”
I look at him silently and smile with a nod, but my eyes hold his a little longer than the rest of them realize. We are all special. And Wes—he’s special too. You know it. I know it. And he’s alive.
“I’ll remember that,” I say. TK closes the door, but Shawn and I look into each other for another breath before he turns to face the wheel.
“You need a ride home Joss?” Bruce asks. I open my mouth to utter yes, but instead close it, gritting my teeth because I know it’s going to hurt to turn this down—physically hurt. But I do. Because bullshit. Because I can walk home. And I am special too.
“I’m okay. It’s good for me—to set a goal,” I say, one eyebrow lifted at him.
“All right,” he says, the smooth chuckle of his laugh almost stripping the sadness from his eyes for a second. “Well, if you change your mind—call.”
I hold up my phone, waving it once, and I give him a nod. I turn away and begin my much slower trip home, glancing once or twice to see the Stokes family still standing at the end of their driveway, watching over me as long as they can, to make sure I’m okay.
When I turn the block, I pull my phone out and thumb through my texts, settling again on my favorite one from Wes. I start to type several times, quitting each, thinking I’m being far-fetched and ridiculous. Eventually, I figure I have nothing to lose, so I type and send a note to my hero.
Thank you.
I stare at it for a long while, and for the first block I walk, my body tingles with anticipation that I will get some message back. After a while, I tuck my phone in my pocket, pulling it out every minute or two to check again. Each time, my words are the last line typed.
By the time I get to the house, my father is pacing in the driveway. He starts to walk toward me, but when he sees the look of determination on my face, he stops, his hands folded behind his neck as his chest lifts and lowers with heavy breaths.
“I’m sorry. I should have called or texted,” I say when I reach him. He looks down at my leg, his eyes still heavy—he’s worried. “It’s sore. But I wanted…I wanted to know my limits.”
He nods, his brow pinched as his hand comes up to cover his chin. He fidgets in place, exchanging one hand for the other, trying to cover his emotion. But I see it. It’s there. I’m fighting, for the first time in months. It’s all he’s wanted for me.
“Your limits,” he whispers through loose fingers, his breath catching with a cry.
I suck in my bottom lip, nodding, reaching my hand for him to grab my arm, to help me steady myself.
“Turns out, I don’t have any.”
His body shakes with his laugh, a short burst that carries his release.
“Well then. How about I make us something to eat,” he says, arm around my back, my weight relying on him more than I’ve ever let it. My father carries me.
I let him.
“Joss, it’s time.”
My father knocks. The same knock, the same quiet wake-up call. The same pattern we’ve lived morning after mor
ning. Today, though—I’m up. I’m ready.
“Let’s go,” I say, pushing the door the rest of the way. My father lets me pass him in our darkened hallway. The sun is just rising. I’ve been awake for hours. Not from pain. I’ve just been waiting for the day to arrive. I’m ready for it.
I pick up the wrapped half of a sandwich from the counter and glance at my father, standing with his folders and messy briefcase behind me. His smile is subtle. He hides it. It’s part of his technique, not that a parent should have a technique with their child, but he’s been a coach more than he’s been a father, the lines blur. When my father coaches me, and I do something well, he grins, but only on the right side, and only for a blink. It always disappears, sometimes before I catch it, but other times I get a glimpse just before it’s gone.
I saw it just now.
We leave the house, the door slamming heavy behind us, my father’s keys jangling in the lock. He pulls the garage shut and locks it in place while I wait at the passenger door in the driveway. He clicks his key fob, and I get in.
We both devour our sandwiches in the car, but we don’t rush to talk. I’m glad he doesn’t have questions. I don’t have the thoughts formed yet. My mind hasn’t put my priorities in order. But I know what I want. I know what I’m capable of. And it’s a lot.
My father knew too. That’s why he’s been pushing. In his way.
My eyes still scan the landscape. If anything, I think I’ll be doing that more now, now that I know. Wes is somewhere. I’m not sure why he’s hiding, but I trust there’s a good reason. More importantly, my heart trusts that I will see him again. I’ll keep his secret safe—whatever that secret is.
We pull up to the rehabilitation clinic, but before we leave the car, I unbuckle my belt and lean to the side, looking at my father. He takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall from the steering wheel.
“I want it all,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me, but that smile ticks up the right cheek again, sticking around a little longer than before.
“What can Becca do for me?”
I looked Becca Fontaine up late last night. She’s impressive—even for an able-bodied competitor. She’s also incredibly open about dealing with depression and how important it is to have a place to channel your emotions. She channels hers into training others, in between training for her own goals—which she’s achieved in the form of several gold medals. She’s based in Los Angeles, and I also saw that her training rates are by request only. That means she’s expensive.
“She can get you back on the field, at a high level that will make people notice,” my father says, his head falling to the side as his eyes land on me.
“The cost…”
“Is taken care of,” my father stops me before I fully ask. He steps from the car, ending the conversation, but I open the door and pull myself out as quickly as I can.
“Dad, that’s not true, and you know it. We can’t afford this, so how can I help?” I ask. He pauses at the front of the car for a few seconds before leaning back to rest his palm on the hood, his head falling forward.
“Josselyn, I have made mistakes,” he says, a breath of silence before a sad laugh escapes him, his shoulders rising as his head shakes. “Monumental mistakes…that I will probably spend a lifetime trying to correct. And when I die…” he says, turning to face me, his eyes glossy, “I will still come up short with you no matter how hard I work to get back to even. I have failed you. I left you when you needed a father most. I fell into a selfish, dark, demon-kinda hole, and it claws at me still—probably always will. But damn it to hell if I’m going to abandon you again. Not now. No baby girl. Not now.”
I hold his gaze with my own, my lips tingle, my heart affected by his words. I pull my mouth together tightly and breathe in through my nose.
“Is this some twelve-step box you have to check, because I’m pretty sure we still can’t afford this,” I say, making light of the heaviness of our conversation, but also only half kidding.
My father chuckles and steps closer to me.
“No…and yes,” my father says. “I talked this over with Meredith. About how I need to really step up now, and how hard that’s going to be. But we’ll make the money work. There’s more insurance that needs to pay out, and I’m not about to be quiet until you get what you deserve.”
“No, I guess quiet isn’t your thing,” I say through a pointed laugh.
He reaches a hand for mine, and I stretch to him, threading my fingers through his older, callused ones—a touch I haven’t felt since I held his hands when I learned to skate in our driveway as a child.
“Come on; let’s head inside. Becca’s waiting,” he says. My head twitches at his words and my mouth twists in curiosity. He laughs harder, unhooking our hands and sliding his arm around me as we walk slowly to the front door. “I took a gamble that you’d change your mind. I asked her to come back again yesterday.”
“What if I refused to come today?” I ask as he holds the door open for me.
He shrugs.
“Then I’d have her come back the next day until I wore your ass down,” he says. I narrow my eyes on him with a smirk. “Truthfully, I knew you would eventually. You’re a lion.”
“Lioness,” I correct.
“Right…see? Quick to correct me. Always right. Always for the win,” he says, taking in a deep breath as his eyes fall down to my feet and back up to my face again, as if he’s inventorying all of my assets and weaknesses. “Heaven help the soul who gets into a battle with you.”
I roll my eyes and smile, but my expression turns more serious when my father walks on ahead of me, thoughts of Wes weighing heavy inside my heart. I inhale and hold the air in my lungs, spreading his spirit throughout my body. The simple act makes me feel stronger. I can’t wait to tell him what I’ve done—when I’ve made it.
When I’m on top.
Because I will be.
And he’ll be waiting.
Nineteen
Summer’s End
My body is the sheer, physical form of exhaustion. It has been for months, and it is tonight. I’ve been working with Becca for the summer—every day, for three hours a day, sometimes more. She broke me down—beyond my injury and leg—to the core of everything I knew about being an athlete. She fine-tuned me—turning me into something more.
I wouldn’t have seen the text until morning had it not been for the pain. It comes and goes, and I’m learning to tolerate it more—my muscles in other places all working to support things that I can no longer count on physically. But tonight…tonight my body hurt.
That pain is nothing now. It’s barely a memory. It evaporated with the small buzz of my phone in the darkness of my room.
I rolled to my side, reaching for it on the night table, expecting to get some note from Taryn or Kyle about school’s start next week, end-of-the-summer parties, or something like that. But instead, it was the familiar flashing dots indicating that someone was writing—Wes was writing, or at least someone with Wes’s phone.
My last message to him was sent two months ago. Two words: Thank you. I sent it the day I opened the envelope and found the ticket, and I’ve carried that small piece of paper with me for every grueling workout, the failures and missteps during my rehabilitation. I’ve clutched it in my hands through every late-night cry, and I’ve squeezed it in my palm when I learned to run again. That tiny ticket gives me strength when I need it most.
I’m holding it now.
No words were sent this time, at least not yet. The buzz was for a photo. More accurately, a photo of a photo—my photo…of the peony barely blooming at the start of spring. The image that was just sent to me from Wes’s phone is of that picture positioned against the dried and spent bushes of my favorite field. This image is recent—my heart says it was taken hours ago.
Wes is the only one who could have taken it from the classroom—from my display for my presentations. He’s the only one who would know where it belongs, the
setting—the exact spot along the road.
I need to go.
Kyle was awake when I called. He’s been working my shifts along with his at the Gym in an effort to pay the rest of his truck off this summer. I’m going to work there again during the school year, but in the afternoon, and at the front counter. Climbing through the slides is too tricky.
I could hear the question in his voice when I asked him to come to my house, to be quiet when he pulled up, but to leave the motor running. He didn’t ask though—he only said to give him five minutes. It’s been four, and I see his lights at the end of the street.
I’ve walked a few houses away from my own, and Kyle’s brow is wrinkled with his famous worry lines as he slows to the curb. I rush around to the passenger side and get in, closing the door gently.
“I didn’t want to wake my dad up. He’ll ask questions…or worry,” I say, holding a finger up and circling it in the air. “You’re going to need to turn around and leave from that end.”
“Yeah…imagine that…asking questions,” Kyle jokes, pulling on the wheel and flipping a U-turn in the middle of my street. He glances my way when he rights the truck again, twisting his hat backward on his head. I laugh at it because of what it symbolizes. My father is a baseball traditionalist—you don’t wear your hat any way but forward with the brim bent. Kyle’s is always flat, and half the time he flips it around. He started doing it as a way to show his solidarity with me, but over the years, it’s just become habit and our thing. Whenever we’re up to no good, that hat spins around.
Good timing.
“So…do I get to ask any? You know…questions?” he says, his eyes moving from me to the road. He stops at the corner, and I direct him out to the highway.
“Maybe,” I say at first. He raises one brow, glancing at me before turning his eyes back to the roadway. “Okay, probably. And I’ll fill you in later because I’m going to need you for something big...before school starts. But right now, I just need you to drive down Cotton Lane until it turns into the State Route.
