Reaching Rose (Hunter Hill University Book 3) (10 page)

I had a feeling, but I'd never say that to her. "I guess...it must be so difficult...to be...."

"To be a teenager who can't move," she finishes my thought.

"Yeah."

"He talks about you all the time now. I'm so happy he has you." She wipes her eyes again. "His other friends...I don't think they know
how
to react."

I nod, understanding completely. I have no clue, myself, how I would act if I had known Johnny before. But I had the good fortune of meeting him after, and so it was easier to not even have to react, but to just...act.

"Let me stop talking. He's so excited to see you. Do you mind though?" She holds out a huge bottle of Purell.

"No, of course not." I take off my sweatshirt, lay it on a bench in the foyer, and lather on the antibacterial hand gel. I rub it up my arms and everything.

"Johnny's in the family room," his mother tells me as she parades me through the kitchen.

"Hey, dude. Is that the way you greet your best friend when he comes to visit?"

Johnny's chair turns and he faces me. "Hey. You made it."

Walking over to him, I purposely knock him on the side of his knee with my hand. "Course I did. How they hangin'?"

"Who the hell knows? I can't stand up to see if they even do," he says jokingly. "So what's goin' on, Benny? Gettin' back in the groove?"

"Eh. No groove to get back into yet. Thinking about traveling with the team to Florida on break, but...that just might bum me out."

"Cause you can't play yet?"

"Yeah."

"I hear ya. Too loudly."

I cringe. "Yeah. I guess you would. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It is what it is. Can't change things."

"I...uh...I thought you...thought you'd...um...get better and shit."

"And shit's more like it."

Sagging into the couch, I let the severity of his depression sink in - he's given up. "Dude." I want to say more, but what? Telling him he might get better are just words that may as well come out of my ass. They mean nothing.

"I'm accepting it," he says, closing his eyes.

We look at each other for a few seconds too long, so we shift our eyes comically, to find someplace else to look.

Then Johnny blurts, "Hey, you got Words With Friends on your phone?"

"Um...no. I can get it, though. Why?"

"Wanna play?"

I must be giving him a blank stare, because he laughs.

"I mean with me. Play it with me. I have it on my iPad and...you wanna play?"

"Sure." I find the app in the app store and start the download. "But...how? How can you..." I point to him in the chair, but I don't finish the sentence.

"With this." He puts his mouth on the second straw-like thing that sticks out from his chair extensions and lifts it up, pointing it at the iPad he has sitting on an electronic tray. The end of the stick has a rubber tip.

"That's some chair," I say, impressed.

"Yeah, and here before this, I only wanted a mere Mustang," he jokes.

I know he's not trying to make me feel guilty for opening my mouth, but I do.

"Hey, don't feel bad. I see it on your face. I gotta make jokes. It's how I cope. And you're allowed to laugh. In fact, I would like it if you would laugh."

I nod, but I drop it and say, "App’s loaded. Now how do I play this shit?"

Johnny laughs and rolls next to me. "They'll give you a bunch of letters and you gotta make a word out of them. Like Scrabble. You ever play Scrabble?"

"Oh yeah."

"Good." He rolls his chair back over to where he was and we play.

"Hey, that ain't a word," I say of the
word ‘djin’
that he just played.

"It took my letters, and it’s fifteen points, so that means it's a word."

"Well I think it's cheating."

"Nope. If it takes the letters, it's not cheating."

Laughing, I call it "...a lame-ass game."

As we get into the comfortable groove of playing Words With Friends and hanging, I decide to bring up Rose.

"John," I start, looking at him while he decides what letters to play, "I was thinking of finding Rose."

He looks up at me, surprised. "Finding?"

"I found out she's in some mental ward in some hospital."

"Mental ward?" With his rubber-tipped stick, he lowers the iPad tray. "Why? What hap..." He stops. It registers. "She can't make jokes."

I shake my head and put down my phone. "No joking."

"She must be really depressed."

Nodding, I agree.

"Then find her."

"Find her?"

"She needs to laugh. Make her laugh, Ben."

"Make her laugh? I'm not that funny."

Johnny cracks up. "Then joke about me. Find
something
funny to talk to her about."

"Funny? You think joking about your situation is funny?"

"Isn't it? Isn't it hilarious that at seventeen, I'm less active than my ninety-two-year-old great-grandmother? That's funny shit, Ben. If you consider cruel irony hilarious." Though his shoulders can't shrug, his eyes do. "What can you do?"

"Is this...all bullshit, John? You can't really be okay with this, are you?"

He looks at me.

Stares at me.

"I'm sorry for being so blunt, I just don't get it."

He finally speaks. "What choice do I have? If I let it get to me, what happens? I end up in a mental ward like that pretty little girl of yours? Shit, I can't even kill myself to escape this."

His eyes start to tear.

My heart starts to break.

"I'm stuck like this with no choice, Ben. So...for my mom's sake, I laugh."

I nod, sadly understanding a little better.

"I'm all she has. Besides her gram. So...I'm gonna be the next Stephen Hawking and make enough money to pay for people to help her. Since I can't."

"Well...you do have a high IQ, right?"

"Damn straight. 156."

"Impressive. And you're still in high school?"

"Mom didn't want me to lose out on a real childhood. I'm in all AP classes though, so...I'm still ahead when I start college."

"Cool."

"If I don't get pneumonia again and die."

"Dude."

"I came close. That's why I couldn't go back to rehab yet. It's gonna take a lot to get my immune system up."

"Shit."

"Yeah." He picks up his straw with his mouth and elevates his iPad. "Let's get back to the game."

We get back to Words With Friends, but my thoughts are swirling all over the place.

Will Johnny really be okay?

Will Rose?

Do I go find her?

Or do I let her be?

In the end, I let her be – for now.

ROSE

Returning to the normal world isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Not that hanging home all day is considered normal for a girl my age. I should be studying or partying or enjoying life in my twenties, I'm told. But I haven't found my bearings yet.

While in the mental ward of the hospital, I did get my breaks to work on my physical disability and I did get fitted for my permanent artificial leg, which I'm wearing right now. It's not as robotic as my metal paper towel holder, so it's prettier to look at. Relatively. It's still not the real thing. But at least I can wear my own shoes with it, and it looks like a real leg. And oh yeah, they fit me for a second leg too. A leg to use when I, believe it or not, dance. That leg's really robotic looking, but it's supposed to be highly effective for dancing. And it does have a petite foot, so it still fits in a ballet shoe.

I know what you're thinking - "You can still dance?"

It turns out, yes, I can. But I haven't tried it yet.

My new therapist, the one for my brain, not my leg, allowed me to go online during some of my sessions and research dancers with amputated legs. During one of my early sessions, Denise asked me what I planned to do about dancing. I looked at her like
she
was the one who'd lost her mind.

"Was that not an appropriate question to ask?" she said in response, as if she couldn't see I only had one functioning leg.

My inclination was to keep staring, but my stomach rumbled with the urge to release a scream. So without raising my voice, I sarcastically pointed out that, "I seem to be missing an essential instrument for dancing."

"I beg to differ."

"How's that?"

"You're a dancer. You don't watch
Dancing with the Stars
?"

I rolled my eyes. Amy Purdy. Holly had brought her up the last time I saw her. "On occasion."

"Have you ever heard of Amy Purdy?"

"Vaguely."

"She was a double amputee. That didn't stop her."

I let that sink in.

"And...I've gone poking around the Internet. There are others."

Really?

"I don't think this is the end of your dancing career, Rose. I believe it's the beginning. A new start...a new challenge. Are you up for the task?"

Was I?

***

After that session, Denise and I spent a lot of time researching dancers with disabilities, and we found that there are actually academies that specialize in dancers with disabilities, including them with their non-disabled dancers.

***

So I'm home now.

It's Halloween.

And I still have disparaging thoughts about myself.

One of them being how fitting this holiday is for a one-legged
Skellington
like me. I don't answer the door for trick-or-treaters. My mother or sisters do that. I stay in my room and read. And answer Holly's texts every now and then.

My mother presented me with a smart phone as a welcome-home gift. She must have told Holly I had a phone again, because all day long she's been texting me. Most of them about how hot Ben Falco is and how he'd be perfect for me. I don't encourage her by agreeing, because I really don't want to talk about him. She can be relentless though. The texts have slowed up tonight, though, because the bar is probably slammed with customers. Part of me wishes I were there. I miss my old life.

It's about eight forty at night when I get a text from an unfamiliar number.

TEXT: Hi, Rose. Thinking about you. Hope everything's cool. *Ben

Ben?

Holly must have given him my number. My mother doesn't even know he exists. I don't think she was paying much attention the day she came into Orange, and we were sitting together.

Do I respond?

I don't know.

I toss the phone onto the bed and open my book, not knowing what to say to him right now. The words on the page of
Gone Girl
run together in one long fuzzy train of letters. Putting it aside, I pick up my phone and stare at Ben's text.

After several long minutes, I text back.

ME: Hi.

I know. Lame. But...
Is everything cool?
Not really.
Did I want to say, "Thanks for thinking of me?"
No.

So...Hi. That's the best I can think of. Maybe I suffered more brain damage than they think.

Right away, I get a text back.

BEN: Hi. :) I'd like to see you soon. Going stir crazy in the house. My mother's driving me nuts.

ME: Oh.

So lame. So lame. So lame.

BEN: Can I visit?

Shit.

I guess I don't text him quickly enough, because I get another ding.

BEN: No pressure. I'll use my imagination to remember your face.

ME: Please don't.

Uh oh. He could take that the wrong way.

BEN: You don't want me to visit?

ME: I don't want you to remember my face.

BEN: It's a beautiful face.

ME: It's a scarred face.

BEN: Scars are beautiful. Especially on you.

ME: I look like Jack Skellington.

BEN: You have a broken mirror. You look like a princess.

ME: Thank you.

BEN: You're welcome.

A few minutes go by and I think we're done texting, so I pick up
Gone Girl
but keep the phone next to me. “My throat was clenching and unclenching like a heart,” is all I keep reading. I can't get to the next sentence, because I'm hoping so much that Ben texts back. Maybe I should just text him and say, "You can come up."

Fortunately, I don't have to make such a ridiculously easy decision that I'm nearly incapable of making, since my phone dings again, and it's Ben.

BEN: So. Is tomorrow good?

ME: To visit?

BEN: No. To fly to Naples.

ME:  lol. Naples? Did you just tell me to go to hell?

BEN: What? No. Why?

ME: Doesn't Finabala or something like that mean go to hell?

BEN: lol. It means go to Naples, yes, which essentially means go to hell. But that is NOT what I said AT ALL. BTW, you know Italian?

ME: Just some bad words.

BEN: I don't believe that. Then again, you are friends with Holly.

ME: Who do you think taught them to me?

BEN: Ah. Anyway, can I visit YOU tomorrow?

ME: Do you know where I live?

BEN: I was hoping you would tell me.

ME: Ok.

BEN: Thank you. Is noon okay?

ME: Yeah. Noon is good.

BEN: Good. Now I just need your address.

ME: 83 Brown Road

BEN: Great. I'll GPS it.

ME: Good luck. It's in the boondocks.

BEN: 83 Brown Road, Boondocks. Got it. ;)

ME: lol

BEN: Goodnight, pretty lady.

ME: Goodnight, Ben.

I set my phone aside, lie down on my pillow, and smile at the ceiling.

Ben wants to see me.

Ben knows what I look like, and he still wants to see me.

I can't keep myself from feeling warm inside, and I fall asleep, for the first time since early June, with a smile on my face.

***

I'm a shattered mess this morning. Everything in my closet is too big, which makes me look even frumpier than I am now, and I can't get my hair to do what I want. My sister Beth is lying on her stomach on my bed, and she's cracking up while I have an adolescent nervous breakdown.

"Calm down, Rose. He obviously already likes you, so don't try so hard."

"Easy for you to say...you don't have a hideous zipper covering the left side of your face."

"Rose. He's seen your scar. Yet he's still coming. He saw you at your worst. Something tells me that you could be wearing a potato sack and have no hair, and he'd still come."

"Right."

"Rose, wear your jeans and your ivory American Eagle sweater. You look nice in ivory."

My stomach hurts. How do I make myself look halfway normal?

"And wear those cute red cowboy boots you have."

"My boots?" I look at her like she's crazy. "I've only ever worn sneakers with this thing."

"They fit the foot to your size, right?"

"Yeah, but those boots were tight to begin with. I don't know if I'd feel comfortable walking in them."

My sister bites her lip and gives me one of those, "I'm sorry" head-tilts. "The sneakers will look cute, too," she says, the sound of her voice indicating she feels bad for bringing it up. "I'm sorry, Rose."

Pulling the sweater out of my antique dresser, I tell her not to worry about it. Then, when I turn and face her, I whip the sweater at her leg. "Get out now. I need to get dressed."

Beth sighs, disappointed at the change. Before my accident, my sisters and I always dressed in front of each other. If one of us was taking a shower and the other had to use the bathroom, we'd just walk in on each other. But now...Mom told them they need to respect my privacy and not walk in on me. I'm just not ready for anyone to see my leg. I can barely look at it myself.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, my chest pounds, and my stomach ties into knots. I try really hard to keep from crying, but I scream for Beth instead.

She comes running into my room, hysterical. "What? What's the matter?"

"My face." I'm holding my face with my fingers, wishing that I could wake up from this pathetic nightmare.

Beth looks at me through the mirror, her hands on my shoulder, and says, "Your face is beautiful, Rose."

"Stop lying. I need you to cover this."

"I'm not lying." She leaves my room and comes back a minute later, holding her makeup pouch and the chair from her room.

She pulls her seat up next to mine, places the makeup pouch down on my vanity, and rummages through it. "I'm not gonna cover it too well, cause that'll just look phony, and he already knows you have the scar."

"So what're you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna lessen it. Take the red out. Downplay it."

"Just make me look like I'm not wearing a Halloween costume."

She slips her fingers through some strands of my hair. "It's not as bad as you're making it out to be, Rose. It really isn't."

Her fingers tap lightly on my cheek as she spreads concealer along my scar.

"Now I'm going to put a light foundation over your whole face to blend it all in."

"Will it be noticeable?"

"The scar or the makeup?"

"Both."

She laughs. "Neither will be," she assures me as she pats loose powder on my cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose.

"Now what're you doing?" I ask as she comes at me with a pencil.

"I just wanna line your eyes."

I back away. "Please don't. I just want the scar covered."

"Okay. But let me do your hair."

"Nothing fancy."

Beth stands, grabs my brush, and runs it through my hair. When she's finished, it's hanging long with a few strands pulled back, hippie-style, and secured in the back with a small butterfly clip.

"You look beautiful, Rose," my sister says from behind me now, staring into the mirror with me.

My hand naturally reaches for the scar, and instead of seeing an ugly red zipper, a flesh-colored scratch sits in its place. "Wow."

"Looks good, right? Now stop touching."