Fighting Our Way

by Abigail Davies

  “Clay wanted me to bring this to you.”

  I try to twist around to see it, but when he sees I’m struggling, he picks it back up and hands it to me.

  The tears of laughter turn to tears of sadness. “He did?” I ask, my voice breaking on the words.

  “Yeah.” I look back up at Tris, taking in the soft smile on his face. “They want to come and vis—”

  “No,” I grind out. “They can’t see me like this.”

  “A—”

  “I mean it, Tris, I don’t want them in this place.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off by handing him back the block of words I used to use every day with the kids.

  He huffs long and slow before leaning back in the seat, spreading his legs out in front of him. When I look back at him, his gray eyes bore into mine, trying to see inside, but it doesn’t matter how hard he tries, he won’t see anything.

  “Nate said you’re still not talking.” He’s silent a beat. “To him.” I shrug, not willing to tell him why I won’t say anything to Nate and why I’m only talking the bare minimum to everyone else. “Don’t push him away, A. I know what it’s like to push away the one person you need the most. Look what happened with me and Harm: I almost lost her for good.”

  I roll my eyes but keep my lips sealed. He waits for me to answer, but when I don’t, he continues. “I’ve never seen Nate like this with anyone. He’s completely besotted with you.” I grit my teeth as he talks like we’re having a normal conversation. “He’s not going to give up on you, you know.”

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath, chanting in my head over and over again not to say a word.

  “He’s gonna be there no matter what, just like all of us are. We—”

  “Stop,” I grind out.

  “—love you, we care about you. We’re not going to turn our backs on you—”

  “You already did!” I shout, my hands forming into fists on top of the hospital blanket. His eyes widen and his head reels back. “You kicked me out of your house; a house that was my home for six years.” I take a breath but it doesn’t make it all the way in. “So don’t you dare sit there and tell me you’re going to be here no matter what.”

  “I’m sorry,” he croaks, but I’m so mad right now that I can’t see the sincerity in his apology. I turn my head away from him, wanting him to leave almost as much as I want to be able to walk away from him. “A, I’m so sorry.” He takes ahold of my fist. “I’ll never forgive myself for not hearing you out and making you leave.” The sound of his voice breaking has tears springing to my eyes again. I tell myself not to look over at him, but some invisible force has me turning my head. “I made a huge mistake, and I don’t blame you if you don’t want to see me. But I’ll still come here and sit in silence with you if that’s what you want, because I love you.”

  I swallow against the lump in my throat. For some reason, when Tris says it, I believe him one hundred percent. It’s not that I don’t believe Nate when he says he’ll be here, but I think I’m more afraid of losing Nate and never having what we had before.

  I nod before lifting my free hand to swipe away the tear slowly rolling down my cheek as he stands up.

  “I love you, too, Tris.”

  He leans forward, planting a kiss on my forehead before pulling back. “Give Nate a break. Talk to him, let him know you’re still in here.” He taps his finger against my temple. “Give him something.”

  “I… I don’t know if I can,” I confess. “What if I let him in but he can’t handle…” I flit my gaze down to my legs. “What if I don’t get the feeling back? What if he can’t handle me never being able to walk again?”

  Tris cups my face with both of his large hands, his gaze boring into me. “He’ll love you with or without your legs. Trust me, Nate is never like this. I’m his best friend, I know these things.”

  I pull in a shaky breath, nodding slightly. “I can’t promise, but I’ll… I’ll try.”

  “Good.” He pulls his hands away from my face and stands up to his full height, doing his suit jacket button up. “I need to head back to work.” He steps around the bed before stopping halfway to the door. He spreads his lips into an easygoing grin before lifting his hand in a wave and pulling open the door, murmuring something to someone outside.

  I keep my gaze focused on the door for several minutes before it opens fully and Nate steps inside, his lips pulled into a grin much the same as Tris left with.

  He rubs his hands together. “I heard it’s red Jell-O in the cafeteria today.”

  I open my mouth to reply to him, set on trying like Tris said. Nate is acting normal, like it doesn’t matter if my body isn’t working like it should be. But one flick of his gaze to my legs has my walls slamming back down and I turn my face away from him, focusing on that goddamn painting once again.

  I listen to my dad and Nate as they discuss the latest baseball score, the sounds of their voices melding together until they almost become one.

  Mom sits by my side, her hands busy as she crochets a blanket for the bottom of my hospital bed to keep my legs warm. “You won’t know when they’re cold,” she told me two days ago when she brought the yarn back to start it.

  For two days it’s felt like I’ve been in a dark hole with no light in sight. The walls are closing in on me, the ceiling getting closer and closer to my head. I can’t keep listening to the same conversations and staring at the same things. Nothing is changing—nothing.

  “Knock knock!” A woman’s chirpy voice sounds through the door before it’s pushed open and her face appears. I don’t move an inch as all conversation stops and everyone’s attention is fully focused on her. “I’m Traci, with an I.” Her deep-red-painted lips lift into a welcoming smile. “I’m your physiotherapist.”

  I blink as she steps forward, my gaze trailing over the navy yoga pants she’s wearing with the same color polo shirt.

  She holds her hand out to me as she comes to a stop next to Mom and Dad. “It’s lovely to meet you, Be—” I snap my mouth open, ready to correct her but she beats me to it. “Sorry... I mean, Amelia.”

  A small smile lifts up the side of my mouth at her correction and I find I have some kind of instant connection with her.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I answer, my voice hoarse and croaky as I ignore the eyes I feel on me. For the last eight weeks I’ve barely spoken to the three people who mean the most to me in this world. In theory, they should be the people I want to talk to, but I don’t.

  Control. It’s all about control. I may not be able to control how or when—or if—my body heals, but I can decide who I will and won’t talk to.

  “Are you ready for your first session?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips. Not once has she acknowledged anyone else in the room.

  When the nurses come in to check my vitals, or doctors come in to tell me what my progress has been—or lack of progress—they always look at my dad, my mom, or Nate.

  For the first time since before the fall, I feel ready to do something other than sit here all day. I find myself nodding and as soon as I do, my dad stands up.

  “Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

  “Nope,” Traci replies, shaking her head and finally turning her dark-blue eyes toward him. “The sooner we start, the better. She’s had her cast off for two weeks, and apart from daily muscle exercises, she hasn’t used many of her muscles. She’s losing strength every day.”

  “I agree,” Nate voices, coming to stand on the other side of me. “You should start as soon as you can.”

  I bite my bottom lip but reach my hand out toward him, thanking him silently for the show of support. His warm hand grasps a hold of mine and he squeezes. My heartbeat goes wild in my chest, my pulse skyrocketing. I haven’t touched him for what feels like a lifetime, and right now, I want to simultaneously let go and hold on tighter.

  The room is silent for several beats before Mom places her crocheting into her bag and
stands up, hooking her arm through Dad’s.

  “Come on, Carl. Let’s go and get some lunch.”

  “Jan—”

  “Let’s go.”

  I turn my head toward them, watching as Mom narrows her eyes and has a silent conversation with Dad.

  He huffs long and low before reaching over and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, pulling back and keeping his gaze connected to mine for a second. Spinning around, he leads Mom out of the room, leaving only me, Nate, and Traci.

  “Right!” She claps her hands and blinds me with her wide smile. “Let’s start with you getting from the bed into a chair.”

  I swallow against the lump forming in my throat, pushing back the tears springing to the surface as she turns around and pushes a wheelchair into the room.

  It feels like this is the start of the end, like somehow if I settle on needing a chair to get around I won’t ever be able to stand on my own again. It’s a tug of war, one I’m losing, the flag almost coming over the line to say I’ve lost the whole game.

  Nate’s hand squeezes mine again and I turn my attention to him, our gazes clashing. He nods his head, whispering, “You can do this, Lia.” With those words, the flag tugs in my direction, giving me more control and a possibility at a win.

  “Okay,” I choke out, taking a deep breath and listening intently as Traci explains what I need to do and where I need to place my hands to push myself up.

  Nate lets go of my hand and steps back when Traci says, “Let’s lower this bed and give it a go.”

  I turn my wide eyes to Nate, looking for some kind of silent comfort, and when he tilts his head in a small nod, I know he’s right here with me.

  The bed lowers right down so it’s at the same level as the chair and Traci hands me the control.

  “Push it up so you’re sitting as straight as you can.” I press the button and wait as it lifts up. “Now place your hands here.” She takes hold of my hands, positioning them where they need to be. “Push down on your palms and shift your torso to the side… That’s it, now lift the leg closest to the chair by placing your hands under your thigh and swing it around before doing the same with the other leg.”

  I move my shaky hands, lifting the blanket and seeing the legs that have been of no use to me for the last eight weeks.

  I stare at them for several seconds, still with a niggling bit of hope they’ll magically start working again.

  Pushing my hands under my thigh just above my knee, I move my leg, hating the sensation of not feeling it on my thigh but being able to feel my leg on the palm of my hand.

  “Well done,” Traci praises, standing close by in case I need support. For the first time in eight weeks I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. My brain automatically wants to place my feet on the floor and push down on them so I’m standing at my full height. But I know I can’t do that, no matter how much I want to and how much my instincts are screaming at me.

  “Now put your hands next to you on the bed. You’re going to push down as much as you can and then swing around to land in the seat of the chair.”

  Hesitating, I chew my bottom lip. “What if I fall?”

  “If I think at any stage that you’ll fall, I’m right here to help. You may not be able to do it properly on the first try: it takes practice to do it seamlessly.”

  Gritting my teeth, I put all of my strength through my arms and into my hands, lifting and swinging. I lose my balance and as soon as Traci’s hands land on my biceps to right me, I feel another pair of hands on my waist from behind. Hands that a few months ago I shivered when they touched me, but right now they make me angry and frustrated.

  “Stop,” I grind out. I pull out of his grip and turn my head to face him. “Leave.”

  “I was just trying to—”

  “Don’t.” I grit my teeth so hard I’m sure I can hear one crack.

  He backs away several steps as Traci says, “Maybe it’s best you leave until we’re finished?”

  Nate doesn’t look away from me as his eyes flash with remorse and he walks around the bed toward the door. The click of it has the breath leaving my body in a whoosh, and when I look up at Traci, she lets go of my arms and gives me a wide smile.

  “Let’s try again.”

  Determined, I try a second time, nearly falling again. For twenty minutes, I keep trying, not able to get the right traction or twist I need before finally making it into the chair.

  It may be a small thing being able to get from the bed to the wheelchair on my own, but for me it’s the start of having my independence back.

  Maybe the chair isn’t the end of something but the start.

  I watch as Amelia hoists herself up, getting stronger day by day. Since the first therapy session four weeks ago when I tried to help I’ve been sitting silently on the sidelines, watching. Her upper body strength is slowly growing with the use of her wheelchair and these sessions, but much to everyone’s dismay, there’s been no progress with the feeling in her legs.

  I can tell she’s growing frustrated, but as everyone keeps reminding her, it’s only been four weeks since she started therapy. But to her it’s four weeks of her life she hasn’t been able to walk or do simple everyday things like getting herself a drink if she’s thirsty.

  It ignites the niggling thought I’ve been toying around with: where is she going to go when she’s eventually discharged from the hospital? Not back to her apartment, that’s for sure.

  I know with every fiber of my being where I want her to go, but apart from the fact I don’t know when that will be, it’s not my decision. But that doesn’t stop me from enquiring on her behalf.

  As Amelia wheels herself out of the room after her session, I stay behind. I know she always likes a moment to herself after them anyway, so she won’t miss me.

  “Traci, can I have a word?” I ask her physiotherapist.

  “Sure.” Her kind smile invites me to talk about whatever I need to.

  “I know you can’t give me a timeframe, but I wanted to talk about the possibility of having Amelia back home for Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s only seven weeks away, I wouldn’t like to say.”

  “What do we need to do to make it happen?”

  She sighs. “At the moment it’s touch and go. She’s still here because she needs to be.”

  “But wouldn’t her being more comfortable in a place where she can maneuver around by herself be better for her?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “And I suppose you have a place in mind?”

  “Actually… I do.”

  She chuckles at the look on my face. “This place would have to be equipped with everything she needs. An elevator or stair lift if there’s stairs, lower beds, lots of space.” I make a mental note as she ticks things off on her fingers. “She’d need a place to continue her therapy and unwind, but all of this will cost money.”

  “Money isn’t an issue,” I reply seriously.

  She nods. “Then I’d suggest getting her a personal physiotherapist.”

  “What about you?”

  She rubs the back of her neck. “I’m employed by the hospital, I don’t do house calls.”

  “But she knows and trusts you.” She seems comfortable with Traci and happy to let her help her in her recovery, I’m not sure how she’d react to someone completely new.

  She sighs. “It’s something I’d definitely be willing to do.” She pauses. “Let me talk to a few people and get back to you.”

  I smile, thinking of the possibility of having Amelia come home with me where she belongs.

  “So, Thanksgiving?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not promising anything. Get everything put into place and then we’ll all talk.”

  “I can’t believe he’s doing this,” I fume to Carl as we load the last of Amelia’s things into my SUV and hers.

  “He’s a businessman,” he says simply as he shuts the trunk of Amelia’s car.

  “Yeah, well he could’ve given
us more than twenty-fours hours.” I shake my head. “Anyway, the quicker we get out of here the better, she’s never coming back here again.”

  He eyes the building one last time. “If I knew my daughter was living in a place like this, I would’ve come and pulled her out of here myself.” Hand on Amelia’s car door, he says, “I’ll follow you.”

  I nod and he climbs into Amelia’s car that’s been sitting there for the last four months. I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen or broken into in a neighborhood like this. When Carl was called as her emergency contact, I was glad to hear the landlord wanted the apartment back.

  I climb into my SUV and drive back to my place to store her stuff there until she’s out, or at least that’s what I told Carl. I’m nervous as hell but I’ve been working my way up to telling him my idea I’ve spoken to Traci about.

  I wanted to make sure it was possible, that Amelia could actually come back to my place and it be safe for her before I talked to her parents. But now’s my chance.

  Carl whistles as he parks in my garage and climbs out of Amelia’s SUV, checking out my cars. “Hell of a collection.”

  I chuckle. “I like cars, have since I was a kid.”

  “Hell of a place you’ve got here, too,” he adds. “How much do you earn again?”

  We both laugh and start unloading the boxes from the cars and taking them into the third guest room, the one closest to mine. My hand brushes over one of the boxes labeled “records” and I call Carl over.

  “What do you think about taking her record player in for her? She could use something other than our voices to listen to.”

  His lips lift into a grin as he pats my shoulder. “You’re a good one, she’ll thank you for that.”

  My stomach dips and I know that it’s now or never. “I want this to be Amelia’s room,” I blurt out.

  His brow raises and he looks around. “What do you mean?”

  “I was talking to Traci a few weeks back about having her home in time for Thanksgiving and—”