Paralyzed (3 page)

Outside, I waited by the bus stop. I knew which route to take to get home but now I wished I had let Mom pick me up. I needed to talk to her, to somebody.

As the bus rumbled down Commercial toward my neighborhood, I thought
about what had occurred in the icu ward. It seemed like a bad dream. Had Nate Brown's mother really screamed at me and told me to get out of the hospital?

Her words had hurt. Although every-body else had reassured me that what had happened to Nate wasn't my fault, I was suddenly convinced she was right. I mean, it was me who had collided with Nate. Had it been something I had done that had left him lying in a hospital bed? Did he have tubes sticking out of him like the man I had seen in the elevator? Had I somehow turned my hip into his head?

And what was it that his mom had said? That I had danced around after Nate got hurt? That's probably what it had looked like to her. But I had only been celebrating the interception. I hadn't known Nate was injured. I wouldn't have danced around if I had known.

An urge to study the video of the hit came over me. I had to see whether there was something I could have done—or not
done—that would have protected Nate. I made a quick decision and got out at the next stop.

It was only a couple of blocks back to the corner of Ambassador and Commercial. From there, it was a ten-minute walk to Lincoln High. If my hunch was right, Coach Clark would still be there.

The coach's office was located right beside the locker room, at the far end of the Lincoln gym. I was relieved to see through the window that he was sitting at his desk, going over playbooks.

I knocked on the door. Coach Clark looked up, surprised to see me. “Hey, Reggie,” he said. “Come on in. Sit down.”

I pulled up the chair across from the coach's desk. Now I was nervous. I wasn't exactly sure why.

“What's up?” he said.

“I need to ask you a favor. I was wondering if I could borrow the video from last night's game.”

Coach Clark wrinkled his forehead and squinted. “Why would you want that? There's barely any game to look at.”

“I need it. To take another look...” The words caught in the back of my throat and I couldn't finish my sentence.

“I think I know what this is all about,” Coach Clark said. “But I'm not going to give you that tape, Reggie.”

“Why not?”

“Because there's nothing to see on it. Nate Brown hit you with his helmet. It was a dangerous hit. It wouldn't have mattered who he ran into. He might as well have been hitting a side of beef.”

I nodded. Inside, I wasn't so sure I agreed.

“But I think it might make me feel better about it,” I pleaded. “I mean, if I looked at it again, I could be sure.”

“Or you could stare at it all night and see things that just aren't there,” the coach countered. “Sorry, Reggie. But that's not healthy.”

“I went to see him today,” I said.

“You mean Nate Brown?”

“Yeah. But I couldn't...I wasn't family so they wouldn't let me in.”

“That's pretty standard,” Coach said. “In a few days, maybe you and the other co-captains will be able to go in and visit.”

Again, I nodded. I didn't tell the coach about my run-in with Nate's mother. I was ashamed of it. I had done something to upset somebody whose world was already crashing down around her.

“I guess I'll see you later then,” I said to the coach.

“Okay, Reggie,” he replied. “Listen, try to enjoy the rest of the weekend. Don't let this bother you. I've already told you this, but I'll tell you again: It wasn't your fault.”

Once again, those four words. The way coach said them made it seem so simple.

By the time I got home, it was nearly 5:00
PM
. The sun was beginning to set behind the
houses on our street. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. Mom was standing by the stove, watching over a stir-fry. Dad was making a salad.

“Reggie,” Mom said. “We were starting to get worried about you. How did it go at the hospital?”

“Not great,” I said, slumping into a chair beside Dad. “Horrible, in fact.”

Mom turned down the stove. Dad put down his knife. “How is Nate?” Mom said.

“I don't really know,” I replied. I could feel the tears rising again. “They wouldn't let me see him. I'm not family.”

“Don't take it personally, Reggie,” Dad said. “I think that's pretty standard for the hospital.”

I was sobbing now. Mom and Dad looked at each other, bewildered. “Reggie, what's wrong?” Mom said, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“Nate's mom,” I said. “She yelled at me. She kicked me out of the hospital. It was messed up.”

Dad looked at Mom. “I knew we should have gone in with him,” he said. “Tell us exactly what happened, Reggie.”

In a couple of emotional minutes, I spilled it all. How Mrs. Brown wouldn't listen to why I was there. How she accused me of hurting her son and of celebrating afterward.

Mom and Dad were both quiet for several seconds. Finally Mom spoke. “I'm sorry that happened,” she said. “You didn't deserve that. Reggie, sometimes stress does strange things to people. If it was you lying there in a hospital bed, I'm not sure I would be acting rationally, either. I'm sure when things settle down she'll feel differently.”

I wasn't so sure. I had seen the hatred in her eyes. I had felt the sting of her accusations. I had never felt so loathed.

“I'm going to bed,” I said.

“Bed?” Dad said. “Supper's in a couple of minutes.”

“I'm not really hungry,” I said. “And it's been a crappy day.”

I climbed the stairs to my room, closed the door behind me and flopped down on my bed. Outside, another group of geese honked their way past our house. I was too tired to get up and check them out.

Nothing that happened on Sunday made me feel much better than I had the day before. I was still stinging from my experience with Mrs. Brown. I was still really worried about Nate's condition. What if he never walked again?

I woke up early Monday morning with a good idea. I could ask Jeff's dad if he knew how Nate was doing. I knew he sometimes
worked on call at Gower General. He'd probably already checked up on Nate.

I tracked down Jeff at lunchtime. He was in the cafeteria, about to launch himself into a huge piece of pepperoni pizza.

“Yeah, I can ask him,” Jeff said after I'd put the suggestion to him. “But why don't you come over after practice and ask him yourself? You can stay for supper.”

It sounded like a good idea to me. I'd forgotten all about practice until Jeff reminded me. In fact, I realized that I hadn't thought too much about football all weekend.

Unlike Saturday's light session, we wore full gear for our Monday afternoon practice. As I pulled on my pads, I realized it was the first time I had geared up since the incident with Nate Brown.

For the first half hour, we did calisthenics and conditioning drills. Then everybody on the team ran through receiving and defensive coverage drills to warm up the quarterbacks' arms. I made a couple
of nice shoestring catches off throws by Lance Turner, a co-captain with me and our starting quarterback. “You got some hands, boy,” Turner joked. “We have to get you playing on the right side of the ball.”

Once the preliminaries were out of the way, Coach Molloy took the defense to one side of the field. Coach Clark gathered the offensive players on the other.

“We're going to run live plays now, boys,” Coach Clark said. “We didn't get to hit or block much on Friday, so we'll work on some of that today to make up for it. Hit hard and clean, just like it was a game.”

Normally, I loved anything in practice that simulated real game action—especially when the linebackers got a chance to hit. All of us who played defense felt that our Lincoln receivers and running backs were a pretty cocky bunch. This was a rare opportunity to bring them down a notch or two.

But by now I was already counting the minutes until this practice would be over.

I was waiting for the chance to ask Dr. Stevens if Nate Brown was doing any better.

I did my best to concentrate on each play, though. Coach Molloy had no patience for guys who didn't pay attention or give a full effort. Three plays in, I saw Dexter Bart, our starting fullback, bursting through the middle of our defensive line. I drew a bead on him and prepared to bring him down with a tackle.

It should have been a routine play. But something happened. Not physically, but mentally. I moved in to tackle Bart, but for some reason, I couldn't do it. My legs suddenly went weak. I lunged at him and missed badly. Dexter easily sidestepped me and carried on down the field.

I heard the shrill whistle. I knew it was Coach Molloy. “Just what the heck was that exactly?” he yelled at me. “Reggie, I've seen better tackle attempts from the junior girls' volleyball team.”

My ears burned, but I knew I deserved the criticism. I didn't understand why, but at the last second, I hadn't been able to hit Dexter.

As practice continued, I managed to at least make contact with the next few ball carriers that ventured into my zone. But I wasn't tackling with anywhere near my normal power. “Didn't you get enough food today, Reggie?” Coach Molloy said. “Better eat your Wheaties tomorrow, son. We got Franklin this Friday. Those boys can run.”

Coach Molloy was referring to the Franklin Demons, one of the better teams in the city prep league. Franklin was always one of the toughest games on Lincoln's schedule. We'd have to be in top form to beat them. Right now, I didn't feel anywhere near top form.

“Sorry,” I replied to Coach Molloy. “I just don't have any energy today. Maybe I've got the flu.”

I was lying. There was nothing wrong with my energy level. I just didn't feel like hitting anybody. Not after what had happened to Nate Brown.

I kept it to myself. I didn't want to say anything to the coaches about how I was feeling. Middle linebackers were supposed to hit, and hit hard. If I didn't do that, I knew I wouldn't be starting for the Lincoln Lions for long.

“You still coming over?” Jeff Stevens called to me across the crowded smelly locker room.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied.

We walked together toward Jeff's house.

“Coach says we'll be making up that game against Milbury sometime this season,” Jeff said as we walked along.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“I think we would have won it Friday if we'd finished.”

“Probably,” I said.

Jeff shook his head in exasperation. “What's wrong with you, dude?” he said. “You barely hit anybody in practice today, and now all I get is one-word answers. What's up?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess the thing with Nate has me freaked out.”

“Why?” Jeff said, shaking his head again. “It was the kid's own fault, just like Coach said. You didn't have anything to do with it, except that you were there.”

“If I tell you something, can you keep it to yourself?” I asked.

Jeff nodded. I lowered my voice even though nobody else was around. I told him about going to the hospital the day before and about how Nate's mom had gone ballistic on me.

“That's harsh,” Jeff said, his eyes widening. “But she probably didn't mean it. She must be pretty messed up right now.”

We had reached Jeff's house, a sprawling, white, two-story home set back on about
an acre of property. When I came here, I always felt as though I was visiting the White House. Jeff's house was so much bigger and more impressive than ours.

As usual, Jeff and I went around the side of the house and into the backyard. The kidney-shaped swimming pool sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Jeff's mom was lying in a recliner near the far end of the pool, reading a book. She waved us over.

“Reggie came over to talk to Dad,” Jeff said. “Can he stay for supper?”

“Sure,” replied his Mom. “We're having hamburgers, as soon as I fire up the barbecue.”

“We can do that,” Jeff said.

Jeff and I pulled the cover off the barbecue. Within a few seconds, he had it lit and warming up. When it was hot enough, his mom tossed on six burgers—two each for me and Jeff. In a few minutes, the aroma coming off the grill was heavenly.

“Smells great,” Dr. Stevens said as he entered the backyard. “Hey, Reggie. How are you doing?”

“I'm okay,” I lied. “I came over today to talk to you about something, though.”

I was sure Dr. Stevens could sense the urgency in my voice. “Sure, Reggie. No problem. Let's sit down.”

Jeff had gone inside, and his mom was tending to the barbecue. “So, what is it?” Dr. Stevens said. “Got an injury you want to talk about?”

“No,” I replied. “It's not about me. It's about Nate Brown, the kid who got hurt Friday night. I was wondering if you knew how he was doing.”

Dr. Stevens's broad face grew more serious. His eyes narrowed beneath bushy gray-flecked brows. “I was in to see him this morning, as a matter of fact,” he said. “What can I tell you?”

“He's still in the hospital, then?” I said. I had secretly hoped that Nate had been released. Part of me had even been wishfully
thinking that he might be back at football practice with Milbury today.

“I'm afraid so,” Dr. Stevens said. “It looks like he's going to be in Gower for a while yet.”

I gulped. We had been beating around the bush. It was time to ask the question I had been wondering all weekend.

“What's wrong with him? I mean, is he going to be okay eventually?”

“Well, Reggie, it's a little too early to tell,” Dr. Stevens said. “He has swelling on his spinal column as a result of the collision. Sometimes when that happens, it can cause paralysis. That's what Nate has now. He has no movement or feeling from his waist down.”