Anything but Ordinary (3 page)

s our car wheelchair accessible?”

Bryce sat between her parents in Dr. Warren’s dusty, fake plant–filled office. She wore jeans and a tank top, as she had for the past week, to make it very clear that she would no longer be needing a hospital gown. She would no longer need to take her clothes on and off for stethoscopes, wires taped to her chest, and fMRI scans. It had been two months since she had opened her eyes in April, and she was ready to go home.

Bryce’s mother rubbed her daughter’s back absently as she looked at one of Bryce’s used copies of
OK!
The thrill of old magazines had faded fast, and Bryce had moved on to crossword puzzles. She greeted Carter every day with the challenge to find a three-letter word for
fasten metal teeth
or to fill in the blank of
1970s Scorsese thriller, ___ Driver
. Because his head was filled with the Latin names for diseases, Carter was pretty miserable at pop culture. Bryce wasn’t great either, but thanks to her dad’s various collections, she was a whiz at most movies and music made before 1980.

Her mom looked up at Bryce’s question and sighed. “No, it’s not. It’s just an SUV.” After a moment, she said sweetly, “When it’s time, we’ll get one of those vans for you.”

Bryce wanted to scream,
It
is
time!
but instead settled on, “I won’t need a wheelchair soon.”

Her father looked at his watch and made a noise of approval on the other side of her. Bryce could smell his aftershave. “Thatta girl. Did you read those articles about core strength I printed for you?”

“Yeah,” Bryce said excitedly. “I’ve been doing the medicine ball twists, they’ve got me sore, but that’s always a good thing, you know?”

He moved to the edge of his generic waiting room chair, like he was poolside at a meet. “I bought this DVD, too, about plyometrics. Maybe you can use the bars. Work on your quick-twitch muscles.”

In the first couple of weeks, Bryce and her dad had been hard-pressed to find things to talk about. While her mother fussed over things like getting Bryce a proper haircut, her dad just stared around the room. But then he attended one of her physical therapy sessions, and by the end of the forty-five minutes, he was informing the trainer about the best way to strengthen Bryce’s genetically weak ankles. Maybe the world thought Bryce’s insanely fast recovery was a miracle, but Bryce liked to think it was also the work of Coach Mike Graham.

Dr. Warren entered, her short gray hair in sweaty clumps, her white coat folded over her arm. “It’s hot out there,” she said.

Bryce cracked her knuckles and gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Sorry,” the doctor said, nodding hello to Bryce’s parents and settling behind the desk. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

Bryce moved her wheelchair back so she could stretch out her legs on the carpet
.

“Bryce?” Bryce’s mother touched her elbow lightly.

“I’m great.” Bryce gestured to her straight legs. “I feel like I’ve been doing pretty good.”

“You’ve been doing excellently. Your patterns are relatively normal, save a few glitches.”

Her father jumped in with pride in his voice. “She was standing up and sitting down at her evening session yesterday. No help from anyone. She even took a step on her own.”

“I think I’m going to walk without assistance pretty soon,” Bryce said.

Dr. Warren raised her thin eyebrows. “That’s a lofty goal.”

“I agree,” her mother said, her eyes meeting Bryce’s dad’s. Bryce’s mother turned coolly to Dr. Warren. “I think my husband forgets that she isn’t his little workhorse anymore.”

“It’s her goal, not mine,” he said quietly. “She wouldn’t rest if I asked her to.”

“He’s right,” Bryce let out. She felt her mother stiffen beside her, but she had to say it.

Her mother tucked her blond shaggy hair behind her ears and folded her hands over her khaki Bermuda shorts. “Dr. Warren, I think I am completely justified in wanting to keep my daughter’s recovery slow and steady. There are risks, are there not?”

Bryce rolled her eyes.

“There are risks, yes. We’ll get to them momentarily.…” Dr. Warren said, shuffling the contents of Bryce’s file. Then she looked up. “Tell me, Bryce. How’s your memory?”

Bryce’s heart began to beat faster, and she felt her face get hot. Her mother’s gaze hit her from her left, her father’s eyes from her right.

“Bryce, how is your memory?” Dr. Warren asked again.

“F-fine,” she stammered.

Her memory was more than fine. Her vision was, too, but Bryce didn’t know how to talk about that. It had to just be a side effect from her eyes being closed for so long. She looked at a planted tree in a corner of the office, noticing each vein crisscrossing the dark leaves. She could trace the green veins back, through the flesh of the leaf, to where the branch split the bark open. She shouldn’t be able to see it like that all the way from her chair, as if the tree were under a microscope. Bryce tore her eyes away, focusing instead on the doctor, but it was no use. The wooden patterns on Dr. Warren’s desk were impossibly clear. She should tell them. But what if they thought something else was wrong? Her mouth went dry.

Dr. Warren furrowed her brow and leaned forward again. “Bryce, you’re giving real short answers here. I don’t want to have to keep telling you this, but it is very, very important you tell me every detail of your progress.”

“I am.”

“You’ve experienced nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing at all?”

Bryce opened her mouth, then closed it. She envisioned the endless rounds of tests, the wires taped to her forehead, the incessant beeping of monitors following her every move, her every thought. Bryce shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I am trying just as hard as you to make this—”

Bryce crossed her arms. “You guys have been watching me for years. What else do you need?”

“They’re just doing their job, honey,” her father said calmly.

Dr. Warren leaned back in her chair, sighing. “We’re not inside your head, Bryce. We can monitor and record all we want, but we can’t explain what your brain has done to wake itself up. It’s very…complicated.”

“What’s so complicated?” Bryce asked with disbelief. “I’m awake! The end!”

“Your brain was most likely aroused by some sort of stimulus. Or rather, some sort of reception of outside information that it perceived as stimulus. Any stimulus that’s strong enough to bring you out of a coma puts you at risk for seizure, aneurysm, stroke. If we don’t know exactly what areas of your brain are being used, we are not going to know what to do when it…” Dr. Warren trailed off. Bryce swallowed but did not look away. “
If
it functions abnormally one day,” she finished, her tone more measured.

“Do you understand what she’s saying?” Her mother turned to Bryce.

“My brain’s been normal since the minute I woke up,” Bryce said stiffly, ignoring her mother. “I don’t know what else I can do to convince you guys.”

Bryce’s mother took her hand. She put her face close to Bryce’s so Bryce couldn’t ignore her. “Baby, this is for you, this isn’t for me.” She squeezed her hand hard. “Of course I want you to come home. But you heard what could happen.”

Bryce looked into her mother’s blue eyes filling with tears. She felt her gut wrench.

“I’ve been awake for two months, and we still don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t really see the point of me being here if we’re just going to sit around not knowing. Why can’t we ‘not know’ at home, where I’m happy?”

Dr. Warren cut in. “The more we observe, the more we know. We can’t observe you there.”

Bryce had to laugh. “That’s kind of the point.”

Dr. Warren shook her head.

Her father cleared his throat, glancing at his wife then back to the doctor. “For the record, I also think Bryce should stay, and she knows that.”

Bryce put her head in her hands.

“But—” he said quickly. Bryce looked up. “I can assure you, if you do release Bryce like she wants, we will be dedicated to her recovery to the utmost degree. We will be vigilant about her medication and her training.”

Dr. Warren smiled wryly. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Please.” Bryce snatched the file off the desk and flipped through the pages. “You have enough. Please. I have to see if I can get back to normal.”

“Well.” She held out her hand for Bryce’s file. Bryce handed it back to her. “I can’t say we didn’t anticipate this. You’ve been asking to go home every day since you woke up.” She looked at Bryce. “If you decide to discharge, there’s nothing I can do. You’re legally an adult. But as your doctor I am telling you, as I have told you numerous times, it’s in your best interest to stay.”

Bryce’s heart beat wildly now.
If you decide to discharge
was a phrase she had never heard before. The words lingered, hanging in the air.

Before Dr. Warren could clarify, Bryce sputtered, “I decide to discharge!”

Dr. Warren smiled. “It doesn’t quite work like that.” Her seriousness returned. “Your condition is stable, but there’s no way we will let you leave without maintaining an attentive record of how you’re doing. I will expect you to come in for evaluations.”

“Fair enough.” Bryce suppressed a smile and shrugged.

“Well, then. Let’s pull up the paperwork.” Dr. Warren held the door open for Bryce’s parents, her father loping behind her mother.

While her parents got the car, Bryce wheeled to the front desk. Her legs were twitching with impatience as Dr. Warren wrote out prescriptions and schedules.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. She turned to see Carter, who was wearing an enormous backpack. He smiled wide at her, his eyes crinkling in the corners. Freckles dotted his cheeks.

“Guess what?” Bryce almost shouted. Before he could say “What?” she squealed, “I’m going home!”

“Oh,” he said, looking surprised. “Right now?”

“Right now. I don’t even have to wait for a van. My parents are going to try to fit my chair in the back of their SUV.”

“Well, hot damn,” he said, feeling for the pen he always kept behind his ear. He looked a little crestfallen but managed a smile. “The neurology wing is going to be so boring without anyone demanding obscure trivia from me.”

“You’re not going home for summer break?”

“Ha,” he let out. “No such thing as summer break in med school.”

“Sorry,” Bryce said, smiling. “But at least everyone is going to get their lunch faster.”

He hesitated for a moment, then ripped off a corner of the sign-in paper and scrawled his number on it. “In case you ever need anything. Five-letter word for
underneath
or whatever.”

“Below.” Bryce smiled.

“Give your parents my best.”

“There they are,” Bryce said as a large black vehicle pulled up in front of the outpatient doors.

Carter got behind her, pushing Bryce across the lobby. Since she’d gained the strength to use her chair, Bryce had dismissed anyone who wanted to wheel her around like an infant. But Carter had done it without a word, and though she could hear his sneakers padding across the floor, he seemed to barely be there.

The midmorning light swept in through the automatic doors, opening and closing for people coming and going. Bryce put her feet on the rests of her chair, and let herself enjoy the sensation of being led into the sun.

ryce sat back in her seat as the sycamore trees whizzed by the windows of the SUV. Each tree and house and lamppost left a swirl of color as they drove past, like the trail of a painter’s brush. She looked away, trying to savor the feeling of coming home. Though she’d never admit it, she was tired. Tired of the fuss it took to do anything besides sleep, tired of the smell and taste of antibacterial everything, of being surrounded by stainless steel.

The buildings of Nashville had scattered to make way for rolling pasture that rose up before Bryce’s eyes like bread baking, and she felt the road change from pavement to gravel under the tires. They were in her neighborhood. She couldn’t wait to collapse on the giant corduroy couch in her living room and drink some lemonade out of the plastic Vanderbilt cups that passed for stemware at the Grahams’.

The car finally slowed, and Bryce’s vision was filled with her big blue house, the stone pathway up to the door seeming to float in the lawn like lilypads. It was beautiful and different in her new way of seeing, but just that it was still there was enough. Her father set up the wheelchair near the curb. Sydney stood outside the door in bare feet and an enormous T-shirt with the Muppets on it, looking half asleep.

“Sydney!” her father called. “Take Bryce to her room. We’ll go get everything set up inside.”

Sydney latched on to the chair and wheeled Bryce down the hill in the back of her house, toward the pool and the basement entrance.
Bryce’s
entrance.

Bryce’s room was the only bedroom downstairs, and on summer days she would leave the sliding doors open and blast her pump-up playlist from the speakers in the common room. She and Greg and Gabby would practice on the high dive, or take turns pushing each other into the water. Bryce smiled to herself. Her dad was always at the office, but when her mom was home, she would play Queen albums out of courtesy.
For god’s sake,
her mom would say if hip-hop entered the mix, coming around the side of the house, her pale knees streaked with dirt under her gardening apron,
at least pick
something I can sing along to.

Bryce couldn’t wait to see the bright blue of the pool. She had grown up as comfortable in the water as she was on land; before long, she was happiest in the air, the emerald lawns spilling out around her for miles. But as they came down the hill, she grimaced. The pool was full of bugs and sticks and leaves. The high dive was encrusted with dirt.

“There,” Sydney said as they reached the back entrance.

“I’m so glad to be home,” Bryce sighed, but as they wheeled through the sliding doors, she gasped.

The floor was covered in bright white tile, and the only places to sit were long, boxy shapes near the wall. In the corner sat a large black rectangle, hardly a chair, and where the antique grandfather clock had once been were vivid red platforms topped by black and white sculptures. Bryce felt like she was in the lobby of a trendy hotel.

“What…happened?” she stammered.

There was a moment of silence before Sydney looked up from her phone. “Oh, yeah, it’s really different, I bet,” she said, barely glancing at Bryce.

Bryce rolled forward, but it was not onto the rust-colored shag carpet. There were none of the tables with bowls of hard candy on them, or the vases of dried flowers she and Sydney picked for her mother when they were kids. This was not her basement.

“I wish someone had said something.” Bryce took a deep breath, wheeled across the tile, and reached to open the door to her room.

The light was the same, hazed a little bit by the plants in the window wells. Dust swirled in the soft beams pouring in. Her trophies were gone from the dresser, and they’d taken down her John Wayne posters. A little part of Bryce expected her bed to be unmade like she’d left it. Her jeans to be on the floor. Her dirty dishes stacked on her dresser.

There was noise from upstairs—her parents were starting dinner. Bryce looked at her sister standing near the closet, turquoise fingernails tapping on her phone. “Well, at least there are no weird statues in here,” Bryce sighed.

“Right?” said Sydney. She put away her phone as Bryce wheeled back toward the door. “Hang on,” she said.

Bryce stopped.

“I just want to say this while Mom and Dad aren’t, you know, hovering.” Sydney looked down at her feet, twisting her shirt in her hands. “I’m sorry I was drunk when you woke up.”

Bryce almost wanted to laugh at how much like the old Sydney she looked just then. Like she was being forced to apologize for biting her sister.

“It’s okay, Syd.” She tried to smile reassuringly. “How often do you go out like that, anyway?” Bryce asked. She wondered every time she saw the dark circles around her sister’s eyes, or smelled her smoky clothes when she entered a room. What was Sydney doing? Who were her friends?

“Oh god, not you too.” Sydney stiffened. “I didn’t know you were going to wake up that night, okay?”

“Chill, Syd. I was just wondering.”

“Well, it’s none of your business, pastor.”

The look in Sydney’s eyes told Bryce it was time to let it go. But who
was
this person gazing coldly back at her? She flashed back to the girl who had come home crying from her first middle school dance, the silky dress they had picked out together wrinkled, the mascara she’d “borrowed” from Bryce smeared. Bryce remembered stroking her soft hair as Syd explained, between sobs, how the boy she liked didn’t want to dance with her. That felt like just a few weeks ago. Now Syd’s face was hard. She didn’t look like a girl who cried anymore.

“Hey, listen—” Bryce was going to ask her sister if they could just start over. Things had been off between them ever since she woke up. But Sydney had already turned back to her phone, making her way to the stairs.

“Look, I appreciate your concern and all,” Sydney said, taking the steps two at a time. “But I don’t need someone else telling me everything I do is wrong.”

Bryce wheeled around the front hall upstairs, feeling like a stranger. Like she should ask her mother for a tour, or something. Before, family photos had dotted the long entryway, as if introducing the house’s residents in grand fashion as you entered. But the photos now sat on a circular table hidden in the corner. She wondered if anyone ever looked at them anymore. Her eyes landed on a familiar shot: a picture of her at her first diving meet when she was seven, her hair tucked beneath a cap and goggles, her father and mother hunched down next to her, beaming in matching T-shirts. But most of the photos were new. Sydney with braces, Sydney at the wheel of the van, and another that made her stomach drop—the three of them looking pale and cold, standing outside of the hospital with a Christmas wreath. Their faces were drawn and tired.

The sitting room, too, had been sleekly remodeled, modern paintings made of streaks and dots hanging where the old paintings of Mississippi barges had been. Only the den had remained the same. She touched the ratty orange sofa with a sense of comfort. She opened the top drawer of her father’s desk, where he always kept the plans for the two-seater plane that he had been working on for years. They were there, rumpled from having been unfolded and folded a million times. And there was the small TV, a stack of DVDs on top of it. She and her dad would hole up here, watching tape together. She moved toward the pile of Vanderbilt diving-highlight DVDs, and paused. The last DVD was dated four years ago. She held it in her hand, a hard knot forming in her stomach. Why was there nothing more recent?

She didn’t want to know, but she was afraid that she already did. It was a relief when her mom called her to dinner.

In the kitchen, the Grahams sat facing each other on black, hard-backed chairs, eating Bolognese off of oversized white plates. The plates were so big, the food looked like dabs of paint.

“This isn’t bad, Beth. You haven’t made it this way in forever,” her father said.

“Maybe because we ate takeout every night for the last five years,” Sydney murmured, rolling her eyes.

“Mmm, gotta carbo-load,” Bryce said, ignoring her sister. “Just like before a meet. I’m going to walk tomorrow.”

“Bry,” her mother warned. “You’ve had a lot of excitement, you don’t want to push it.”

“Sure she does,” her dad chirped. Her mother stopped chewing. “Well, that’s why she’s progressing, Beth. Because she knows how to train properly.”

Her mother gave a fake laugh. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’re an expert in physical therapy.”

“Unlike you, I’m trying to encourage—”

“I’m done,” Sydney interrupted, taking her napkin from her lap. “I have to go.”

“No, you don’t,” her mother responded firmly. “You’re grounded.”

“Mom,” Sydney said with a condescending smile, “we did the family dinner. Let’s not try the whole punishment thing.” And with that, she was gone.

Bryce looked at Sydney’s empty place, her food untouched. The front door closed, and her parents continued to eat. Bryce opened her mouth to say something, but what?

“So…” She swallowed a forkful of pasta. “I went into the den before dinner. Are you going to tell me why the last highlight DVD in there is from four years ago?” Over the last couple of months, when her father came to her hospital room from work in the evenings, she had grilled him about how the season went, how his recruits were looking, how Vanderbilt had placed in their conference. But he had always changed the subject.

Bryce’s father sighed and put down his fork. “I stopped coaching, Bry.”

She thought of her dad’s office in the Vanderbilt athletic department, where she’d spent so much of her childhood. The walls were so covered by Sydney’s art and Bryce’s newspaper clippings that the paint was barely visible. Bryce would sit in the swivel chair while he was at practice, eating granola bars and playing games on his computer. Then when she made the Junior Olympic team, he let her practice with the college divers. They would sit for hours after everyone else had gone home, watching tape, pointing out the good and the bad as Bryce iced her legs and braided her long, wet hair. She tried to imagine it now, filled with someone else’s kid’s drawings.

“It was…too much…after your accident, Bryce. I hope you understand.”

“But you’re still wearing Vanderbilt stuff—”