Ruin (11 page)

Maybell

“Don’t look back. Just keep looking forward,” the physical therapist says as I struggle to walk on the crutches.

The phrase sounds familiar, and I know exactly why.

It’s what I told myself just minutes before my last dance practice.

Hours before awakening in the hospital.

Minutes and hours that changed my life forever.

I put one crutch in front of the other, trying to keep a steady pace, but every time, I almost tumble over. I’m so bad at determining where to put them before I lift my foot. I never realized how difficult it is to walk with just one leg when you cannot even rely on the other leg to catch you when you fall. It makes you doubt yourself and your own body.

“Just take it easy,” the physical therapist says, laughing a little. “No need to rush.”

“I just want to get on with it,” I say.

“I know you want to learn to walk, but you need to take it slow. Otherwise, you might fall.”

“But I’ve finally gotten the hang of it,” I say, showing off my skills by taking another leap.

I lean against the wall for support as I lose my balance.

“Be careful!” she says, pushing me up into standing position again. “Geez, you’re trying to run off without me, aren’t you?”

I laugh. “My dad always said I was a hot little pepper.”

She shakes her head. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you?”

I laugh. “Yep.”

I’m not going to deny the truth. She doesn’t even know half the weirdness that I am.

“You’re doing great, Maybell!” Alexander shouts from across the hall.

I smile at him and let the physio guide me back to my room. “Keep doing this as much as you can,” she says.

“Can I do this at home too?”

“Of course, you can.”

“Well … how long before I can go home then?” I ask, hoping she might have the answer.

The doctor’s been avoiding the question for days.

“I don’t know …” She scratches the back of her head. “Maybe a few more days. Maybe a week.”

“Aw … But what if I train harder?”

“Don’t overdo it,” she says. “You don’t want to make it worse, now, do you?”

“Yeah, I know …” I nod, a bit disappointed. But I guess there’s no other way than to sit and wait it out. I can’t risk making the injury to my leg even worse than it already is.

“So what now?” I ask.

“We’re finished for today, so you can do whatever you want,” the physical therapist says.

“Oh …” Well, I didn’t expect that.

“You want to continue walking with the crutches, don’t you?” Alexander asks as he peeks around the corner.

I nod at him, but the physical therapist immediately sighs. “Sorry, but I really have to go. I’ve got four other patients waiting for me, and I’m already running late.” She checks her watch.

“No problem. I can help her with it,” Alexander interjects.

I turn my head to him and give him the wide-eyed look.

“What? It’ll be fine,” he says.

“Well, if you really want to …” the physical therapist says.

“If I can, I want to try,” I say.

“Sure then, go ahead.” She shakes my hand. “See you next time, okay? You’re doing great.”

“Thanks,” I say as she leaves.

Alexander stands in the door opening and holds out his hands, beckoning me. “C’mon then.”

“What?”

“Walk.” He grins. Like it’s no big deal.

I make a face. “Like it’s that easy.”

“It’s as easy as you want it to be.” He wriggles his brows the way he always does when he’s challenging me. “Or are you afraid?”

“Pftt … You wish.” I put my one leg forward as well as my crutches and make the step.

“Another one,” he says, taking a step back himself.

I do it again and so does he.

I keep walking after him, taking one step forward as he takes one back.

It’s like a never-ending game to him, but I’m not going to stop waggling until I can slap that damn smirk off his face with one of my crutches.

“You’d better watch out, dude,” I say.

“Or what?” he taunts. “You’re going to run after me?”

“I’m so going to probe your ass with this stick,” I growl, swinging it in front of me.

“Sorry, but my ass is a one-way street,” he muses.

“Tough luck because your ass is mine,” I retort.

“Whoa, this whole conversation just got a whole lot weirder.”

“You think this is weird?” I laugh, not giving a crap. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

I step forward and try to tackle him with my crutch.

He jumps backward. “Hey, be careful there, brittle lady. You might break another bone if you’re not careful.”

“Who are you calling brittle lady, Mr. I-twitch-when-a-girl-touches-my-hand?”

His eyes widen, and red dots appear on his neck again.

Gotcha.

“Yeah, I saw that,” I taunt.

“You didn’t see anything, May,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Oh, so we’re talking nicknames now, are we?” I retort as I take another step toward him. “
Alex
.”

“Anything to get you to shut up and walk,” he quips.

“You just don’t want me to mention the fact that you blushed when I touched you,” I say, stepping even closer.

“Maybe instead of talking, you should spend all of that leftover energy on getting closer to me because you’re never going to catch up this way.”

Determined, I take a bigger leap. “I’ll show you, Alex Wright.”

“C’mon then. Jesus said walk, dammit.”

I laugh as I get near him and try to poke him with my crutch, missing him by a hair.

“Miss!” He sticks out his tongue.

The more I chase after him on my crutches, the less I feel the pain in my leg. “Yeah, you keep outrunning the handicapped girl.”

“I don’t see a handicapped girl.” He raises his brow and shoulders, playing innocent. “Unless you mean that El Handi-chap-o lying in the room next door. She’s a real handful.”

“El Handi-chap-o?” My jaw drops.

Did he just compare me to a Drug Lord?

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” I growl playfully.

I take the farthest step I’ve taken so far, but by blindly falling for my own courage, I forgot one thing—the slippery floor.

One misplaced crutch and there I go.

In a split second, I lose my balance, and I’m headed facefirst for the floor. However, Alexander rushes to me faster than I can call for help, grappling me with both hands as one of the crutches tumbles to the ground. I hover between his arms; my body is completely limp against his as I struggle with the pain.

I inhale a panicked breath as he holds on tight, bringing me back to my feet. But my good foot now feels like it’s sprained, and I can barely stand on it.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Help,” I say. The word has never come out of my mouth this hopelessly.

With some kind of superhuman strength, he manages to hold onto me
and
grab my crutch off the ground, giving it to me so I can hold onto it for support.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I shake my head as he helps me stay upright. “I can’t walk.”

“Hold onto your crutches,” he says with a driven voice.

Suddenly, I’m lifted up into the air.

He’s carrying me … all the way back to my room.

Sweat mingles with tears as he gives all his energy to me, and I don’t understand. He’s not muscular or very fit. This costs him all his strength, all that he has, yet he still does it. The tenacity in his face overwhelms me for a moment as I silently watch him struggle to put me in my bed.

When I’m down, he bends over to take in long, deep breaths.

He’s completely wiped out.

And all because I didn’t stop.

Because I couldn’t see and listen to my own limits.

Because I was stupid, I almost broke my leg again.

“I …” He’s still wheezing, trying to get air into his lungs. “I’m sorry.”

“No …” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

Out of nowhere, he stands up straight and yells. “Yes, it is! It’s
always
my fault!”

The sudden rage in his eyes makes me slam my lips shut and lean back into the pillows.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, and then I watch the regret slowly slip into his eyes.

“I’m …” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to yell. It just … came out.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. And I still think it’s my fault that you almost fell. I pushed you to walk. I told you it would be okay. Just like when I gave my dad a turkey sandwich when I knew damn well it could kill him. I always mess everything up.”

“A turkey sandwich?” I mutter.

“Oh, just ignore me …” he says.

I suck in a breath. His father? It’s the first time he’s ever talked about something so personal. I wonder what it means.

“Tell me about your father.”

He frowns. “You don’t want to know that. Not now.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, biting the insides of my cheek again. “Tell me.”

He swallows and looks away at the window. It takes him a while to start talking again. And I can tell from the way he flicks his fingers along his nails that it’s something important.

Something that may have made him feel like it’s
always
his fault.

***

Alexander

Before

It’s just another ordinary day, like many before.

When do we ever wake up knowing it’s not?

Never.

Are we ever prepared for the impossible?

When the day comes that you’re eating a turkey sandwich while watching TV and, all of the sudden, your dad says, “I don’t feel right.” Something he never said before.

When you look at him and see the pieces of sandwich drop from his mouth as he struggles to breathe. When you see his hand grasp for his chest. When you rush to him and realize the choking sounds have stopped and so has his breathing.

When you see his eyes roll back into his skull.

No one.

No one is ever prepared to be the one to call 911.

Every child is prepped, and so was I. I know which buttons to press, what to say, my address, what happened—my dad is dying. I know exactly what to do.

But I am
not
prepared for this day.

I am the one who sits next to him, holding his limp hand and waiting for the ambulance to come.

The first person who comes through that door I’ve been so desperately gazing at isn’t a paramedic, though. It’s my mom.

The look of terror on her face as she sees my dad on the floor and puke everywhere will stay with me forever.

Fear floods over me as she rushes to his side and asks me what happened.

I explain it in a monotone voice. My tongue feels swollen and my lips completely numb. I don’t know what else to say other than stating all the facts and leaving out the rest.

The turmoil. The screams.

We wait, and it seems like forever until they finally come for him.

They greet my mother and sit down beside my father, unpacking their supplies while ignoring me. I sit back on the floor and watch them tear open his shirt so they can start CPR. All the things I’ve seen on the TV are now happening right in front of me.

By the time they pull out the stretcher and lay him on it, too many minutes have passed.

I watch them lift him up and carry him out of the living room, his body still as lifeless as when he first collapsed. As my mother follows them out the door, they tell me they can only take one person, so I stay behind.

I sit down on the couch, alone, and think of all the ways I could have possibly prevented him from choking. How I could’ve taken his sandwich away or not have given it to him at all. How I could’ve stopped my mom from buying it, or how I could’ve told my dad to exercise more.

And if there was no avoiding his collapse, at least I could’ve learned CPR. How I could have
not
been a failure.

I also think of the last time I saw my father alive.

Eating a sandwich.

Laughing at the game show on TV.

And I realize it may have been the last thing I’ve ever done with him.

***

Maybell

Now

“Oh … wow.” I don’t even know what else to say.

It sounds horrible.

Now, I understand why he’s so upset about seeing me fall. He really does think everything is his fault.

“Fuck,” he growls, jumping up from his seat. “I should
not
have told you that.”

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with what you did, Alex. If things happen, they happen because they must. We don’t have any control over the world.”

“It was wrong!” he yells. “All of it!”

Then he slams his lips together and stares ahead.

He doesn’t say another word before turning around and leaving my room.

The silence is deafening, and I hate it.

I should be checking out my leg, calling the nurse, and making sure that I haven’t broken it again. And I will, in a minute.

However … all I can think about right now is how I hope he’ll return.

I should’ve told him to stay.