Reaching Rose (Hunter Hill University Book 3) (2 page)

BEN

THREE MONTHS LATER

Next stop. Rehab.

I've spent the last week in the hospital, recovering from meniscus repair surgery, not to be confused with meniscus removal surgery, because the latter, though a much easier surgery with a much quicker recovery, would have a long-term effect on my baseball career. And we do not want to mess with my baseball career. It's been my goal since the first time my uncle put a plastic bat in my hand. I was about two years old, and the minute I swung the bat and hit the huge plastic baseball, watching it fly up high through my backyard, I knew. I knew I wanted to relive that feeling over and over.

And so here I am, recovering from knee repair surgery in order to prolong my impending baseball career. The one that hasn't officially started until I've been recruited by a Major League Baseball team. But that's beside the point, because even if I'm not recruited, my goals lie in baseball anyway - as a sports psychologist.

"Benito?" my mother says in question form in her native Italian accent.

"Yeah?" I ask, staring out the window as the trees pass us by.

"Are you nervous? You quiet."

I shrug, but keep my gaze out the side window. "Not nervous, Ma. Just wish it was over with already. That's all." It's the truth. I want to get back on the field, where I belong. Not in some rehab center making strides just to walk normally again. But it is what it is. At least I should only be there for a few weeks. Coach doesn't want me to take any chances and advised me to stay in an overnight rehab for as long as possible, instead of an outpatient program, which would suit me much better.

"It will go by fast, Benito. You see," she says in her broken English.

"I know, Ma. I know."

"You got your books? I don't want you falling behind in the school." The school - her broken English at work.

"Don't worry, Ma. I'm not going to fall behind. And, yes, I have some books, but I have no classes to study for so they're just general stuff. Baseball and shit."

"Benito," she scolds. "You watcha your language. I don't like it."

"Sorry, Ma."

***

The rehabilitation center is huge. And it doesn't have that sterile hospital feeling. Rather, it has a mood not unlike that of Hunter Hill's rec center. The lobby is inviting, with its motivational framed posters, modern couches, and smiling admissions clerks, one male, one female. Ma and I are greeted by the female first, who introduces herself as Angela and checks me in.

"Have a seat," Angela tells me, "and Lisa will be right in to bring you to your room."

I turn to sit, but behind me, I hear my mother ask, "Lisa? Who is Lisa? She qualified to taka-care of my Benito?"

Dropping my head in mortification, I slink over to the couch, prop up my crutches, and sit, pretending not to have anything to do with my mother, never mind that I was just at the desk with her.

"Yes, Mrs. Falco," Angela says pleasantly. "Lisa is the admissions nurse, and she is more than qualified to take care of your son." Angela looks over my mother's shoulder to wink at me.

I shake my head and laugh. Maybe Angela has experience with overbearing mothers.

"Oh. She's a nurse. That is good. Okay," my mother finishes and turns around.

"Ma? What the hell?"

"Benito. Language."

"Of course everyone here is going to be qualified. They don't hire morons, Ma." I shake my head at my well-meaning mother.

"Benito...do not you talk to me like I'm stupid."

I hang my head low again, this time out of shame. "You're right, Ma. I'm sorry." I don't mean to be impatient with my mother, but it's hard not to be embarrassed when she treats me like a ten-year-old.

Instead of taking a seat, my mother stands; too much energy in her tiny Italian body.

"Ma. Sit," I say, keeping my tone respectful and kind. "When the nurse comes to get us, we'll get up."

She shifts her head from side to side, scuffles a little with her feet, unsure whether she should stay standing or sit next to her youngest child, and then plops herself down next to me. Patting her mid-thigh, I repeat, "I am sorry, Ma. I didn't mean to talk fresh to you. Just a little nervous is all. I'm sorry."

She pats my thigh back. "It's okay, Benny. I'm nervous too. I don't like you being gone for so long."

"It won't be too long. A month tops. Coach wants me a hundred percent before I come back. Besides, I heal quickly, I bet I'm back in two weeks."

"Don't rush it, Benny. Just get better."

A tall pretty woman walks toward us. "Ben Falco?" she asks, holding out her hand in greeting. "I'm Lisa." I grab one of my crutches with my right hand and pull myself up to shake her hand. By the time I get up, she's already shaken my mother's hand and turns back to shake mine. Maybe I should have just greeted her with a handshake before getting up, but the number one rule in our household is respect, and standing up to greet someone shows the other person that he or she is worth your effort. But I'm telling you...it takes a lot of effort these days to do anything having my left leg in a locked knee brace. I'm told they'll unlock it next week, but still, currently, it's a pain in the ass.

As we walk to my room, my duffel strategically hanging from my four fingers as I grip the crutch handle, Lisa points out several of the treatment rooms, which look exactly like the gym at school. The workout equipment is almost identical, save for a few of the pieces. Like the metal parallel bars meant for retraining the newly walking, an apparatus I'm sure I'll be making use of soon.

"Okay, Ben, this is your room," Lisa says of the small room that houses two twin hospital beds. "That other bed there by the window is your roommate Johnny's. He's an eighteen-year-old high school senior. Not in the greatest of situations, but I think the two of you will get along well. We do try to pair roommates of similar age when we can. To make your stay a little more pleasant."

I toss my bag on the empty bed closest to the bathroom, lay my crutches next to the bed and sit. "Thank you," I say to Lisa and look at my mom. "I guess you can go."

"Already?" My mother asks, turning to Lisa for confirmation.

With my mother's head turned away from me, I shake my head, pleading with Lisa to tell my mother she has to go.

Lisa’s mouth strains not to smile conspiratorially as she says, "Well, Mrs. Falco, it'd be best to start Ben on his rehabilitation immediately, but you're welcome to visit during the week."

I sigh, because, knowing my mother, she'll be here every day now. Lisa's right hand turns up as if to say, "Hey, just doing my job."

"Okay, Benny. I guess I’ll get going. Daddy and I will come back tomorrow to see you." My mother leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek.

"Ma, you can wait a week, really. It'll be okay. Just like college. Why take the ride again so soon?"

I look at my mother's pained face.

"Ma. It's just like I'm away at school. You don't get sad when I leave for school. What's up?"

"I don't like seeing you in this hospital." Both her arms are waving in the air as she speaks.

"It's not a hospital, Ma. It's like a gym. You know how much I like the gym. I'm training. I like it here already," I lie. "Please don't worry about me, Ma."

"Mrs. Falco, for many, this center is like a vacation. Ben will be very happy here, I can assure you."

Thankfully, Lisa's reassurance puts a worry-free smile on my mother's face. "Okay." She leans down and kisses me goodbye again. "Love you, Benny-boy."

"Love you too, Ma." A whole bunch.

***

After my mother leaves and Lisa goes over my itinerary for the next three days, I'm introduced to my physical therapist, Craig. A redheaded muscle-bound guy of about thirty, who demands that I sit in a wheelchair to give my good leg a rest.

"But I don't want someone rolling me around," I tell him. "I'm fine with my crutches."

"I get that, Falco, but it's important to keep up your strength for therapy. You'll have time on
both
your legs, don't you worry about that."

"If you insist," I say, none too happy.

"I insist. And I
can
call you Falco, right?"

"Yeah. Everybody does."

"Had a feeling. Anyway, since it's late in the day, we're not going to be doing too much with your leg. We like to keep therapy for earlier in the day, but I do want to show you around and introduce you to your nighttime nurse. Her name's Katrina, you can call her Kat, she's in her forties somewhere, but she's super cool. You'll like her."

"Okay."

Craig wheels me down the hall and I feel like an old man. This sucks. "Yo, you think you can show me how to work this thing on my own?" I ask him halfway down the corridor. "It can't be too hard, can it?"

Craig laughs. "No. It's not hard at all. This is one of the old-fashioned ones. We leave the state-of-the-art stuff for the people who have to sit in their chairs twenty-four hours a day. Just put your hands on this wheel and roll. Hope you’re not afraid of using your arm muscles."

"Nope." I palm the huge rims to either side of me and roll myself down the hall.

"This here is where you'll hang out," he says of the large bright room filled with tables and chairs, leather couches, and several flat screen TVs hanging along the walls. "You can eat your dinner in here each night, or you can stay in your room. You can even ask Kat to have your dinner brought in here so you don't have to carry it yourself. Or...you can just roll it down on your lap."

"Why? I'm not gonna be in this thing every day, am I?"

"No. But at night, for the first week or so, I'd like you to. We're going to be working hard. You'll be beat by the end of the day. No lie, I bet you'll be begging for this thing by tomorrow night."

"Let's hope not," I say in jest.

"Anyway, I'll introduce you to Kat when she's done with her other patient over there. You hungry, you want a snack or something?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Well the fridge is right there." He points to the double-doored stainless steel monstrosity. "There's ice-cream, soda, fruit, whatever you want, just get it."

"So which one's Kat?" I ask, spotting several people in scrubs.

Craig juts his chin in the direction of a dark-haired woman talking to a sullen girl with long hair the color of the red clay pitching mound I can't wait to get back on. "She won't be with her patient long. The girl doesn't talk."

"At all?" I ask, whipping my head around to look up at Craig.

He shakes his head. "Not since she's been here. She came in like that."

"So she's mute?"

"Yup. Probably selective. Word around here is that she has the ability to speak; she just won't."

I take a better look at the girl, from her head to her wheelchair...which is one of those state-of-the-art chairs Craig was talking about. "And she's stuck in that chair all the time?"

The moment I ask, her nurse,
my
nurse, pulls her away from the table and turns her so she's able to look at the TV screen. I draw in an audible breath.

But the nurse quickly gets in the way of my sight of the girl.

"Here comes Kat," Craig says. "Kat, this here is one of your new patients."

"Ah. The ball player. Ben, right?"

"Yes." I look up at my nurse, this time remaining seated while I hold out my hand to greet her.

"Call him Falco," Craig instructs. "Everyone does."

Letting out a tight laugh, I tell her, "You can call me Ben as well. Either works."

"Okay. Ben it is. I'll leave Falco for Craig here."

"So, Ben, did Craig give you the low-down on the fridge and the wi-fi password and..."

I don't hear the rest of what Kat is saying. I can't. Because my mind
and
my eyes are focused on the girl who doesn't talk.

ROSE

He's staring at me too.

They all stare.

That's all they'll ever do.

Stare.

I'm nothing but a freak show for prying eyes.

Like I do all the time now, to avoid the stares, I find a point on a wall in the distance and slip back into a time when I was a complete person. A dancer on her way to her future.

Three months ago, my life was perfect.

"Oh my gosh, Mom, I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe I'm living in New York City on my own." I am just so darn excited to be living in Manhattan for the summer and dancing in a Broadway show. How awesome is that?

"It's a dream come true, baby. I'm so happy for you. But I'm going to miss you." My mother squeezes me outside my new apartment door. "My baby girl is growing up."

I pull away and grab the key that I picked up from the show's production assistant. Unlocking the old doorknob, my hand shakes. I've lived in a dorm before, but never something like this. Never a real apartment...in New York City.
If Holly could see me now. Which reminds me, I
have
to call Holly soon. I promised her.

My first impression of the dark and dank stairwell is not good, but when I open the door to the apartment, it is worse. Until a smiling blond girl peeks out from behind a wooden tri-fold screen. "Rose?" she exclaims, with her hands reaching out as if she wants to hug me.

"Jordan?"

She screams and runs toward me. "Are you as excited as I am?" she asks, wrapping her thin arms around my shoulders.

"Oh yes. If you're thinking, 'pinch me, I must be dreaming,' then I am as excited as you are." I pull away to look at her. Then I look around the room. "This is the whole apartment?"

She laughs. "Yup." Jordan looks at my mother, whose skin looks almost green.

"Mom. It's okay," I tell her, knowing what she must be thinking of the crummy apartment. "We're not even going to be spending much time here."

"It's true," Jordan says with a smile. "We're going to be daaannnnciiinnngg." She does two consecutive twirls when she says the word dancing. Jordan makes this apartment worth it. I can tell we are going to get along great. "Look," she says, calling me over with a finger. "Toilet." She points to a toilet behind that tri-fold screen. "That's where we pee."

My mom groans, but I chuckle. I am so excited that nothing could bring me down now.

"I'm going to run out and get you some groceries, hon. You and Jordan get acquainted." My mother kisses me on the cheek. "Just, if you leave the apartment, please text me, so I can let you know when I'm headed back with the food."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Do you need anything, Jordan?"

"No, I'm good, Mrs?"

"Duncan. But you can call me Sam."

"Thank you, Sam, but I'm good."

"Okay. Be back in a bit," my mother says, skewing her face when she touches the upstairs doorknob. "I'll get you all some anti-bacterial wipes too."

Jordan laughs. "The place is creepy, but isn't it exciting? Have you ever danced on Broadway before?"

"No. Never. I can't even believe I was asked. I'm in Heaven."

"Rose."

I'm in Heaven.

"Rose."

My apartment's slipping away.

"Rose."

I blink my eyes a few times and notice I am now in my room. The room at the rehab center.

"Rose," I hear Kat call out. "Rose, snap out of it. Come on, sweetheart."

I refocus my eyes and see Kat sitting on the edge of my bed right in front of me.

"We gotta get you ready for bed, honey. If you want my help, then we have to do it now."

I don't want her help.

And I don't want to do it myself.

I just...

Don't want to
be
...right now.

She reaches for me under the arm and helps me to my bed, where I sit. I avoid looking down, because that's when my chest hurts the most. "Come on, honey, there's nothing wrong with your arms. I know you can change your own shirt. So let's do it." She tosses my nightgown next to me on the bed.

I ignore her, like I always do. Like I ignore anyone who gives me instructions to do something. I've only been in this rehab center a week, but I know I've already disappointed everyone who's tried to help me. Just like I disappointed the whole staff at the hospital in Manhattan for the last three months. Well, in my defense, I was only conscious through one of those months. What I did prior to that I had no control over. Though, I'm not completely convinced I have all that much control right now. I mean, I feel bad that I just disregard everyone. I don't want to be disrespectful. But my brain won't let me obey. All the doctors say there is nothing wrong with my brain. There was no brain injury due to the accident, and the only reason I was unconscious for two months was because they put me in an induced coma...to help the healing process of the multitude of internal injuries I'd sustained.

But every time I intend to do something for myself, or attempt to speak, I can't. Something holds me back.

I take a deep breath, but that is all I do. So, Kat pulls up on my shirt, lifts my reluctant arms one at a time to free them from the sleeves, and tugs the shirt over my head. Then Kat proceeds to pull the nightgown over my head, not fussing with my bra at all. The morning nurse will wash me in the morning, so Kat will let her worry about that. "Do you want to sleep in your sweatpants, or do you want me to pull them off?" She asks me this every night, and every night I don't answer. I prefer my sweats on, and I think she knows that, so she keeps them on and lets the morning nurse deal with changing my pants and panties the next morning. For that process, I close my eyes and try to slip into my past again, because I just can't bring myself to look at my legs.

Not when one of them is missing below the knee.