The Off Season

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  It wasn't just flowers either. All Win's buddies from the team and from school, friends from his business classes, wanted to come by. Which is what friends do, and any person in their right mind would want to see them. But Win made it pretty clear that he wouldn't tolerate one second of friendship, which broke my heart a little bit—I mean, it would have broken my heart if I'd had any heart still left to break. Instead Charlie got stuck telling all of them, as nicely as he could I'm sure, that Win just wanted to be alone.

  Reporters kept trying to get to Win too. There was no way I was going to say one word to those bums, not after People, and it wasn't like Win was itching for a press conference. Charlie did a super job, saying we'd talk when we were ready but that right now we needed our privacy. And reporters are just like little kids quarreling—if you don't talk back eventually they give up. Although I was always careful to leave the hospital by a back entrance in case someone was waiting with a couple questions, or a camera, which I would have broken, so they're lucky they weren't.

  One thing I did do, once I got to know the nurses, was sign their People magazines. Which they were very nice about, and some of them actually went out and hunted down extra copies even though the issue had changed. Now I felt a bit stupid getting so upset about that article considering what I was grappling with now. And to tell you the truth, the picture actually wasn't so bad, in a girl-in-sports-bra way. At least I wasn't cross-eyed, which I'm so good at whenever there's a camera around.

  The nurses were great, maybe because they'd seen how cute Bill is but I don't think so. They didn't seem to mind when Win ignored them or told them to leave. They said that was just part of their job, which I really appreciated, and a couple times I almost said something sharp to Win about how he could thank them just once for keeping him alive. But that was the whole point, I think. He didn't want to be alive.

  Which Dr. Rosenberger and the psychia-lady and Mom and Dad and I got to talk about the day before Win got transferred to rehab—that rehab hospital in Minnesota the doctor had recommended—that Win didn't want to be alive anymore.

  I couldn't help but point out that it's hard to kill yourself when you can't move.

  "You'd be surprised," Dr. Rosenberger said really quietly, which set Mom crying and me kicking myself for opening my big fat mouth.

  It turns out rehab is just like football—although he didn't put it like that, I added that now—in that a huge part is mental, and if you've got a good attitude you're going to do a lot better. He had books on people with SCI who ride horses and run marathons—or roll them, I guess—and do pretty much everything except walk on the moon. I couldn't read them, though, because the contrast between those folks and Win depressed me too much. And Dr. Rosenberger said people who want to die get their way sooner or later. Like this cow we had once with really bad ankles, although I just added that too. Dr. Rosenberger doesn't know about her.

  Then Mom said it was killing her not to be with her son, and she had to come out, just to be with him as he flew back if nothing else.

  "Linda, I completely understand," Dr. Rosenberger said. "But it's more important that you be at the rehab hospital, get oriented before he arrives. That will really help get him stabilized."

  Which even she agreed was a good idea, and I was at least tactful enough not to say that "stabilized" was a total joke because Win was so far from being stable.

  We flew back to our own time zone on a private medical jet, paid for by the university or someone that definitely wasn't us, a nurse working on Win full-time as I sat watching. I couldn't help but think how much this must be costing, and how much the farm could use that money in a hundred different ways. Not that I wanted anything less for Win—it wasn't that at all—but still, it's hard not to notice the contrast between us skimping along on nothing, and this. It makes you think.

  Mom and Dad had driven over from Red Bend that morning, Dad leaving the cows with those two nice farmers and watching through his rearview mirror the whole way out, I'm sure. Mom rode lying down in the back of the Caravan but she was still on painkillers so I don't think it bothered her too much, she was so anxious to see Win. The university had found them a little apartment near the hospital that some charity offers to families like ours. Once Mom was established in the rehab hospital and the little apartment, taking over the mothering responsibilities from me, Dad would return to the farm. Then we would all take turns helping Mom out.

  Bill came as well. He'd gone back to school for a few days and had even suited up for the game on Saturday, though he didn't play because he'd missed so many practices. At least people applauded when he came on the field, because of Win and all.

  They were there when we got to our floor, all three of them. I was in the back of the elevator as the nurse and orderly rolled out Win, still pretty sedated from the trip, and I could see the shock on Mom and Dad's faces as they realized for the first time just how bad off he was.

  "Oh, baby," Mom said, her whole face collapsing.

  Win had his eyes closed although I couldn't believe he was asleep. But I just explained to Mom and Dad everything the nurses were doing as we followed them into the room, what all the equipment was and what the beeping meant, all of us ignoring the real issue, that Win was lying there with a broken neck not even acknowledging his parents.

  There was a conference scheduled with his new doctors and nurses and physical therapy folks, the PTs, to fill Mom and Dad in on everything. Mom asked if I wanted to be there, but from the way she sounded—I don't want to put words in her mouth or anything, maybe she was just tired and hurting from her back—well, I couldn't help but think that maybe she felt Win's not talking was my fault. Or not my fault but that she'd do a better job, being his mom and all. Which I was absolutely ready to agree with, every bit. So I said I didn't think I'd be much help in that meeting and maybe I better just head home. And I grabbed my dirty clothes and toothbrush and deodorant and hit the road back to Red Bend. Dad was hoping I'd get there in time for evening milking with the farmers, and Mom was hoping I could make Curtis dinner, but frankly I didn't care about either of those things. I just wanted to be gone.

  19. Even More Family Trouble

  I SPENT THE FIRST HALF-HOUR in the Caravan screaming, trying to get out my frustration at how awful this whole thing was, every single part and every single person. It was such a great sound after all those days of silence and whispering and tiptoeing around. Then, pretty hoarse, I called Brian.

  Brian and I had talked almost every day I was in seattle. sometimes he'd just tell me about his day, how football was going, which I have to say I felt a bit different about now because of Win getting injured and also because my life was so far from being in the sunshine working out. Although Hawley and Red Bend were tied for first and it looked like they might actually meet in the playoffs. I couldn't help but notice that in the end my separated shoulder didn't even matter seeing as I still would have had to quit football because of Win. Although you have to stop those what-if thoughts before they take over your brain.

  Other times I'd go through my day, doing my best not to complain, though given the situation it was hard not to. Brian couldn't have been more sympathetic. He'd agree that it sounded tough, and tell me I was doing as good a job as anyone (which apparently Mom didn't agree with, but so what), and that these things take time. And say how much people in school were talking about Win, and how impressed everyone was that I was helping him. Even Brian's friends—his jerk friends, although he didn't call them that and I didn't point it out—said I was pretty amazing to be doing something like this. Which I have to admit helped a bit, hearing that.

  He had even offered to drive over and meet me at the rehab hospital. Which was incredibly great of him but I said no, because I didn't want him seeing Win for one thing, and because it looked like I'd be heading home soon, and now I was. I took the Caravan, seeing as Mom and Dad didn't need a car because they were close enough to the hospital to walk, and I sure couldn't walk to Red Bend. />
  "Can we get together tonight?" I asked Brian now, so desperate for some company that wasn't in hospital clothes.

  "Aw, I've got this calculus exam—my mom'll kill me if I leave the house."

  I grinned. "How can she kill you if you're gone?"

  Brian laughed. "Psychic death rays, duh. But how about tomorrow, right after practice?"

  Which sounded great to me, and then he had to go study calculus, and I was grateful that at least I didn't have to do that, and I called Amber. Who I'd been talking to as well, only she wasn't as great as Brian because she kept getting mad at Win. And then I'd have to defend him, and get off the phone feeling twice as guilty about not being nicer about him. So instead we'd talk about her job search, and how annoying it was to sleep on a foldout bed at Dale's friend's apartment, and whether she should go to beauty school.

  That's what we talked about now, beauty school and haircutting and how she'd love to put highlights in my hair if I'd let her, which I said I would once she learned how, and for long stretches of that conversation I'd forget that Amber wasn't in Red Bend anymore, and it wasn't until after my cell phone died that I remembered she was gone.

  I got home in time for milking even though those two farmers were okay without me, hurrah. The farm looked so rusty and grimy and broken down, such a contrast to the shiny hospital rooms and the Wrights' brand new house. It was like a slap in the face, a fresh one, about our lack of money. Although at least those two nice farmers were working for free.

  At dinner Curtis hardly said a word. "So, how's school?" I asked finally

  He jumped. "Nothing. Um, Mr. Larson's mom died."

  "Oh." I didn't know Mr. Larson had a mom—still had one, I mean. Curtis didn't say anything more. He didn't even ask about Win, which was good because I was sick of talking about it. He just slunk off to his room looking worried as I tried to find space for the leftovers in the fridge between all the casseroles people had been bringing, and then I took a long bath, which I don't normally do but it was pretty much heaven after all that hospital air, and went to bed knowing that tomorrow I'd have a big day of rest, no milking or school, or going into town to get stared at. Besides, after missing a week of school—because that's how long I'd been gone, which seems amazing since I felt like I'd been gone years and years, but it turned out they moved Win to rehab only eight days after his injury—well, it wasn't like one more day was going to make much difference one way or the other. Instead I'd sleep in and enjoy a little bit of my own personal time zone.

  I even brought Smut up with me because I'd missed her as much as anything, even more than she missed me, which is saying something, and she was thrilled to be on my bed enjoying my own personal time zone with me.

  I didn't set the alarm of course, but I heard Curtis get up. Even though he was tiptoeing around, I still woke up because of my early-morning genes and all. He must have heard me rustling because he hollered, "Don't worry! I'm okay," which was really great of him, and I settled back with Smut, listening to the farmers' trucks arrive to milk, which was like a lullaby putting me to sleep.

  Smut woke me a few hours later needing to go out, and I brought coffee to the farmers, who were just finishing up, and they were just as grateful for the coffee as I was for them. Walking back to the house, something seemed off somehow, and then I realized: the pickup was missing. It's usually parked right next to the barn door, under a bit of overhang so you won't get wet, but there wasn't anything there at the moment but gravel and some dead weeds.

  No wonder Curtis didn't want me getting up with him, not if I'd catch him taking the pickup to school. Which is just a teensy bit of a bad idea seeing as Curtis is only fourteen. Jeez, I'm home for less than a day and already he's pulling stuff he'd never do with Mom and Dad around. But just because he hates riding the bus doesn't mean he can take the pickup, which I might need for one thing, not to mention it's completely illegal. Sure, we know a couple Red Bend cops from the Jorgensens' picnic but he'd still get a warning at least if he got caught.

  I thought about this, making myself a big non-hospital-food breakfast. I even thought about calling the school, or driving down there, but that would just make things worse. Better to talk it out over dinner, let him know I wasn't going to put up with that sort of behavior no matter how much the bus sucks. Besides, starting tomorrow I'd be driving him to school again when I bit the bullet and went back myself. So I just left the dishes piled up in the sink because who was going to complain about it, and instead I went out and shot some hoops.

  Holding that basketball ... wow, it felt good. Not in a Brian-Nelson's-back-muscles kind of way, but not that far off. It's a pretty great rush, sinking a three-pointer. Which I did once and then my shoulder gave a twinge because it turns out that shooting really aggravates a mostly healed Type I separation.

  So even though that twinge was super tiny, I decided not to push things seeing as basketball season was starting soon, and instead I did a whole bunch of shooting with my left hand. Which was fun too, because of all the Horse I'd played—this game where you take turns shooting tough shots, and I used to play left-handed with Curtis when he was little to make it more fair—and also I had this art teacher once who said that drawing with your other hand "opens your mind," though I'm so bad at art that she could have opened my mind with a backhoe and it wouldn't have helped. But maybe shooting left-handed opened my mind a bit. Who knows. It opened it enough that I actually started thinking that maybe going back to school wouldn't be so bad, not if I could play basketball. Then I remembered how Brian and I were getting together after football practice, and that opened my mind even more.

  Just then the phone rang, and I got it just in time. It was Curtis. "Hey," he whispered, sounding worse than panicked. "Could you—could you give me a jump?"

  Which was just great. Curtis takes the pickup and of course the battery dies. "Couldn't you ask someone there?" I asked.

  There was a long silence. No, Curtis couldn't. He can't talk in the best of situations. Plus he was underage. If word got out...

  I sighed. "Okay. Where are you?" So much for my big mind-opening day of rest.

  Another long silence. Curtis mumbled something. He tried again. "Eau Claire."

  "Eau Claire? You're kidding."

  "I—I've got the address." I could hear him speaking to someone else—a girl.

  "Who's that with you?" I asked.

  "Um, Sarah. Listen, the address is—"

  "You're with Sarah? You drove the pickup to Eau Claire with Sarah Zorn?"

  "The address is..." He gave me a street I'd never heard of, of course, and a number, and I wrote them down but I sure didn't register them because I was so in shock.

  I was in shock for a big chunk of the drive too, heading to Eau Claire at eighty miles an hour so my little brother wouldn't get arrested for cutting school and driving underage. Then the shock kind of wore off enough for me to get angry. To get furious. What the heck was he thinking? Taking the pickup to school, that's understandable—once. But joy riding to a city two hours away, cutting school with your girlfriend? Plus stealing a truck—is it stealing when the truck belongs to your dad? Is it stealing when the truck is dead?

  Damn. Even Bill wouldn't have pulled a stunt like this, not in eighth grade. Curtis had always seemed so levelheaded. Weird as heck, yeah, with his skull collection and his chess-playing girlfriend, but I never would have thought he'd do this. Curtis hadn't really gotten in trouble for sleeping over at Sarah's. I guess Mom figured her blowing her back out was punishment enough—it sure seemed like it was. But I guess not, not if Curtis was now doing something ten times worse. Only I couldn't even call Mom to tell her what had happened, ask her what to do because, duh, I'd forgotten my cell phone. Left it on the counter charging, which was incredibly brilliant but it's not like I didn't have a number of other things on my mind as I was racing out of the house, things about my little brother the felon.

  I got to Eau Claire at last, and then I had to ask a guy at the g
as station for directions, which he didn't know although you'd think gas station guys would, but a guy filling up his car helped me out, and then I had to stop this lady walking her dog and ask again—both times just about dying because asking for directions isn't one of my greatest skills—and finally I got to the street number Curtis had said, but I must have written it down wrong or he said it wrong, which was more likely, because it was a huge middle school. Which is not where most kids go joy riding to, right?

  Only there was the pickup, sticking out like a sore thumb on the side of the road. Right next to a no parking—fire lane sign. Another law he'd broken. And Curtis wasn't anywhere in sight.

  I was so furious that I almost blew out the Caravan's tires, I backed into the curb so hard turning around. I got the jumper cables out of the truck because it's not like this is the first time the battery died, and got it jumped all by myself, not a soul in sight and me with steam coming out of my ears, I was so angry. At least the truck started right up. And at least there was a note under the windshield saying the battery was dead and they were waiting for a jump. In girl handwriting—probably Sarah. Who also wasn't around, not that I'd been counting on her help, but still.

  I couldn't believe Curtis. Could not believe him. To call me on my big day of rest, make me drive all the way to Eau Claire, and then not even wait for me? Maybe he was hiding somewhere, like I was in the mood for that. He certainly wasn't in the parking lot, though if he had been, wandering around slashing tires, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised.

  Just then someone walked out of the building, and all this noise poured out of the gym—you could tell it was a gym just from the way it was shaped—and I raced up and grabbed the door before it shut. Maybe Curtis was in there. In fact, he'd be pretty lucky if he was in the gym because that meant I couldn't kill him, not until we got outside.