This I Know

by Holly Ryan

  My therapist, Amy, is young. That surprised me. She can’t be much older than me, and I figured this job required lots of schooling and stuff. But maybe I’m wrong. She’s nice, and she lets me take a break every fifteen minutes, but every exercise she has me do hurts so bad. But I’ll be the first to admit I’ve never been the most patient or pain-tolerant person, so keeping that in the back of my mind, I’ve pushed on. As if I’ve had a choice.

  One thing we’ve been working on is getting myself dressed around my injuries. Specifically, my leg injury. That’s the thing that causes me the most problems. Go figure … a dancer, struggling with her leg. I’m a walking, talking cliché, a cheesy soon-to-be inspirational story that everyone will hear about and look up to, and then thank God it wasn’t them.

  Getting dressed is an even bigger challenge than I thought it would be. Most days, my leg doesn’t cooperate, and I specifically told the nurse I didn’t want help today. If I’m getting out of here soon, I need to do this on my own.

  I lay out my clothes for the day and peel my pajamas off, letting them fall to the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and extend my leg as far as it will go, straight out in front of me. That hurts. It’s tricky negotiating the fabric over certain areas, but after some slow work I manage to pull on my favorite top (easy) and my most comfortable, loose sweat pants (hard).

  I lean back on the bed, exhausted and resting my weight on my arms, but I’m glad I got that done on my own. Yesterday I ended up having to call a nurse in to help me with the press of a button. She came, and I felt embarrassed as hell getting stripped and re-dressed in front of her … just like all the other times I’ve had to give in to the help.

  I’m not going to lie to myself – it was because my sweats were so loose and easy to manipulate that it worked out today. I know that, and I don’t care. Now, more than ever, I love my sweatpants. I love their bagginess, the way they hang so imperfectly around my lower body. In recovery, it feels better to hide my leg in whatever way possible.

  I lift the bottom of the wide pant leg and run my fingers over one of my remaining scars. It’s about four inches long and comes to an end with a good-sized dent in my skin where I’m forever missing a chunk of flesh. Most of this is the result of the emergency surgery they rushed me into when I first arrived. They tried to make it look as “normal” as possible, I was told, but their focus was on restoring health and function first, beauty second. I touch it, caressing it back and forth as though it’ll help me get a better picture of New Me. It looks pretty bad, but the scar itself doesn’t hurt.

  The pain is another beast altogether. That comes from down deep, somewhere invisible within my leg. It’s a combination of stiffness, pain, and flat-out injury, as I’m still on the cusp of full surgery recovery.

  My mom was the first to bring up the idea of reconstructive surgery. She did it delicately, as though I was a fragile bird, but it really isn’t that bad. She was just trying to put my mind at ease, and now I know there’s an option out there if I decide I need it later on. She’ll pay for it, she said. She didn’t need to bother, though – I’m still at that point where the shock and I’m just grateful to be alive.

  I re-cover my leg. Then I pick up the latest book I’m reading, a love story by one of my favorite authors, and I bundle myself with the thin hospital covers. By the time Mara arrives, I’m well into the fourth chapter.

  “Knock, knock,” she hums as she appears in the doorway.

  I love that she doesn’t wait for an invitation; she just walks in. I close my book and jump up as well as I can and make my way over to her. She hugs me, balancing something in one hand. It feels good to hug her. She’s warm, and the feel of her reminds me of home. Whenever I get visitors, they always bring with them the feeling that my life is slowly but surely returning to normal.

  To make matters even better, she holds out a plate stuffed full of homemade cookies, wrapped carefully in Saran and topped with a bow.

  And the fact that my visitors usually bring something tasty always helps.

  “Oh, my God,” I say. “These look amazing,” I take the heavy thing in my hands. It has to weigh four pounds. Only Mara would bring me four pounds of cookies. I place it on the dresser, recognizing the square white plate as one from her familiar home.

  Normalcy.

  I love it.

  Mara hops up onto my bed, making herself at home.

  “This won’t be my home much longer,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “Of course it won’t,” she says. “You’re almost ready to leave, right?”

  I nod. “Eat some of these with me.”

  “They’re for you.” She touches her stomach. “I had a few while they were cooking.”

  I peel back the plastic wrap and take two, holding one out for her. “There’s no way I can eat all these.”

  She takes it, knowing I’ll win in the end. “This bed isn’t very comfortable.” She strokes the mattress. “How did you survive here for so long?”

  “I know.” I bite into the cookie. It’s peanut butter chocolate chip, and it’s absolutely delicious. “And I don’t know how I survived. Another miracle, I guess.”

  “I guess.” She swings her legs back and forth, looking down the cookie in her hand. “Your mom said you’re doing better.”

  A pause.

  “Are you?”

  I give a shrug. “Sure. Slowly but surely. You know how it goes.”

  “I was worried about you, you know.” Her eyes are full of care and concern.

  “Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about anymore, Mar.” I give her a reassuring grin. “I’m fine. And I’m happy to be going home.”

  “Are you going to miss this place?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Not at all.”

  We’re both eating our cookies, sitting together in comfortable silence when I dare to say, “How’s Cole?”

  She stops chewing and looks at me, her mouth hanging open. “You did not just ask me that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The shock on her face is obvious. “Avery, I can’t believe you sometimes. Everyone knows what he did to you that night. How he kicked you out of the car and left you there, right in the middle of the street. And then this happened to you.” She gestures around us, as if I need yet another reminder of the situation I’ve been in the last few months. “I don’t know how he is, and even if I did I probably wouldn’t tell you.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m absorbing her words, trying to process them.

  Mara goes on: “You can’t blame me for not wanting to talk about him.”

  Finally, I purse my lips. “It wasn’t in the middle of the street. And so what, we had a fight. All couples fight. It’s not like it was his fault this happened to me.”

  “It kind of was, Avery.”

  She sounds mad, and I hate it when she gets mad. Her getting mad means that no matter what, I’ll have no say in the matter. Mara’s mind has always been her own, un-persuaded by anyone else.

  She scoots closer to me. “He pretty much caused this whole thing. I mean, think about it. If Cole hadn’t been such a royal jackass, none of this would have happened. It wouldn’t. For Christ’s sake, he was the prime suspect until the police finally caught the real guy. Which, by the way, you’re lucky they did so fast.” She shifts her body, squirming. “I can’t even stand to look at him in the hall.”

  “So, he’s back at school after this?”

  “Of course he is. He never left.” She looks at me, dumbstruck. “Did he even come to see you?”

  I get her point, but she doesn’t have to be so blunt about it. “No,” I say.

  “Did he even call?”

  “No.” I’m shriveling inside.

  “Exactly.”

  I slump back against my pillows. Mara follows. Our bodies sink right through the cheap fluff and hit the wall. We look at each other, and Mara smiles at me.

  “Look, Avery. I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to se
e you get hurt anymore.” She pretends to punch my shoulder. “You know that’s why I’m so hard on you.”

  I take her hand. “I know. Thanks, Mar.”

  She adjusts her position, trying to get comfortable. “This place is really bad,” she says, laughing.

  I understand everything Mara said, but there isn’t much time to think about it before I have to leave for my appointment. So we say our quick goodbyes and make plans for her to spend the night before I have to start school again.

  And now here I am, in this horrible place known as the hospital’s physical therapy center. Today I’m completely alone, with only the company of the young receptionist, who’s busy typing away behind her desk. The waiting room is like a cube, a small room with only a couple of chairs, some inspirational quotes here and there, and a magazine to keep me occupied. As I wait for Amy, I stare blankly at the dry erase schedule plastered to the wall that’s hanging in public view, right above the head of the receptionist. I move my eyes down the list. There it is, in bold lettering next to my scheduled time: my name, Avery Dylan.

  The receptionist glances up at me. Her eyes meet mine for a split second and I look away.

  That proves that I’m next. It also proves that I am, in fact, sick, I’m injured, I’m in need of healing. As if I ever really doubted it, and in case I forgot ... there it is.

  Tomorrow is my last day in the hospital, and although I’ll still have to return for physical therapy, I’m determined to fix this all as soon as possible. My goal has always been to walk out of this place on my own two feet. So far, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.

  And that’s depressing.

  In the middle of my self pity, my therapist appears through a side door.

  “Avery?” she says, her voice high and perky. The smile on her face is wide, and I try to return some of her upbeat attitude.

  I wheel myself past her and we go straight into our normal routine.

  Everything’s harder today. I try to push past the discomfort, the stiffness in my muscles and the weakness and fatigue that’s running through my entire body, and that works for a little while. We’ve been working on my leg the most, since that was where the worst of my injuries were, and that’s been the hardest thing to overcome.

  I was shot once in the upper leg, and I don’t remember any of it because I was struck over the head beforehand. How no one managed to hear the massive sound of a gunshot echo through that empty street is beyond me.

  “You’re doing great, Avery.”

  Amy always says that. The first few times, I actually believed her. It made me feel motivated. Now, I know she must be lying. Because in reality, I’m doing bad. I mean, really bad.

  Okay. Maybe I’m being dramatic. I am doing a little better than when I first arrived, of course; my body has healed itself a little. But I’m not happy with where I’m at. I still can’t get out of my wheelchair without help, and when I try to walk I can’t do much more than take a single step without something or someone to lean on. My leg is just too angry.

  That’s how I like to describe my leg: it’s mad at me. My leg is pissy. My leg hates me. My leg has an attitude, and it isn’t afraid to hold a grudge. It’s mad at me for allowing it to be injured, and it’s not going to allow me to walk until it just so happens to be in the right mood. And until then, the best I can do is try. Because it’s all up to my stupid leg. At least, that’s what it feels like.

  Amy told me that’s silly. She says I’m in control, and that my leg has to listen to me. And at first I believed that, too. But your beliefs change quickly in situations like this, after so much trying.

  “That’s enough for today, Avery,” she says as she helps me sit down into the wheelchair. She smiles when I’m all settled, then picks up her clipboard. “I heard you’re going home.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I’m rolling up my sleeves.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Good.”

  I try to smile back at her, but I feel fake. It’s not all good. For one, I won’t be walking out of here like I’d hoped. And two, I told my mom from the beginning that I wouldn’t be going back to school in a wheelchair. So there’s some drama waiting to happen. My mom was upset at first; she wanted me to be strong, push past everything and not care about what other people thought of me. But it’s not about that. It’s about wanting to return to my old life, the life of giggly, carefree Avery Dylan who loved to dance and stay up late. I don’t want this life to become me, functioning in a wheelchair. Not when I’m only eighteen.

  Amy places her hand on mine and I stop moving. She looks into my eyes. “We’ll still meet for a while. You’ll have me.”

  Is she sensing some kind of despair?

  I press my lips together and nod. “I know. Thanks, Amy.” I have a feeling this is more for her benefit than mine.

  She gives me a pat and stands up. I think I see a glistening in her eyes. “Well, there you go. In the meantime, keep up with your exercises. Okay?”

  “Wait here, honey.” My mom steps out of the hospital room in a hurry, only taking her keys and leaving her purse.

  She’s going to get our car, the big, handicap-accessible mini-van we’ve rented in order to get me home, and she’s leaving me here.

  She sticks her head back through the door, the keys jingling in her hand. “I’ll help you pack when I get back. You don’t need to do anything.” She pulls her head back, disappearing.

  The hospital is quiet today. In the minute since she’s left, I’ve seen one person pass by the frosted glass wall of my room. I can’t sit here. I start to gather my things the best I can. I’m antsy, and I figure I might as well make myself productive instead of wasting time.

  I check out the work we have ahead of us. Not much. This whole time, I’ve been telling my mom not to bring things from my room at home to my room at the hospital in an attempt to stop the inevitable seeping of Old Avery into Hospital Avery. I didn’t want to make myself at home here. That’s dangerous. So because of that, I now don’t have many possessions to pack up, which translates to less required movement for me. What’s my mom talking about? I can do this. I fold a few pieces of clothing and pile them into my open suitcase. I grab for the pile of get-well cards, a few silly letters from Mara among them that I love so much, and a picture frame that I’ve kept sitting next to my bed this hold time.

  I take it in my hands and pause. It’s a photo of my dad and me. I’m there, about nine years old, at the end of the school year celebrating my third grade graduation. He looks silly and carefree, like he usually did in those days. His tall stature cowers over me, his long arm wrapped around my shoulder, drawing me in. This was before he passed away. My arm is slung around his waist and I look deliriously happy.

  I hug the picture against my chest. Then I slip it carefully into my suitcase between a few articles of soft clothing. I touch the area in a moment of silent prayer before turning away toward the rest of my things.

  It only takes a few minutes to pack the rest of my belongings, and now I’m left with nothing to do but wait for my mom to get back with the van. I take one more look around, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. My eyes scan the room and land on my bed. My pillow. I go over to it and lift it up. I almost forgot my journal. I the small, pink notebook and the pen lying beside it and bring it back to my wheelchair. Since I have some time, I might as well write one last entry before I leave this place for good.

  November 23

  I saw him again last night. It wasn’t too late, maybe only 7 o’clock, but nurse Nancy gave me an earlier dose of my medication than she usually does and I really needed to sleep it off. I hate how that stuff makes me feel. It makes me tired and brain-dead. Anyway, I thought about it, and I don’t think he’s real. I’m pretty sure he’s a guardian angel or something. Maybe he was sent to take care of me. I’m not sure I even believe in that stuff, though. I’m probably just hoping, making something up like our Psychology classes have taught us our brains love
to do. So really, I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  I read over what I just wrote. God, my brain really is still not with it.

  I’m resting my eyes when I hear a tapping on the door. It’s my mom. That’s one thing I’ve appreciated during my stay – how respectful everyone is of your privacy. No one, not even your mother, dares to barge into a private hospital room unannounced. It’s one of the benefits of being a sick person (the only one, perhaps), and it’s totally underrated.

  She stops in front of me, out of breath. “The van’s ready.” She looks around at the packing I’ve done. “And it looks like you are, too.”

  “I couldn’t sit still.”

  She laughs. “I figured you wouldn’t. I was just being nice.”

  She reaches for my duffle and in one swift motion, hauls it over her shoulder. I’m immediately jealous of her strength.

  I tuck my journal away with the same carefulness as I had the photo, then zip up the suitcase. I hoist it onto my lap.

  “Say goodbye to this place,” she says. She’s carrying her purse on one arm, a few grocery bags full of snacks and other miscellaneous items on the other, which look to be weighing her down, and now she’s got my heavy duffle.

  “Want some help?” I offer.

  “I’ve got it. You make sure we haven’t missed anything, will you?” And she leaves me.

  I do just that. I wheel myself around the small room one last time, opening and closing the dresser drawers as a precaution and checking that there’s no crumpled, hidden clothes stuffed under the bed. I’m about to head to the van when something catches my eye. On the floor, near my bed, at the base of the nightstand, lies a sparkle of color. I move closer and pick it up. It’s a small pressed flower, purple with delicate yellow stripes. It’s so dry that it looks as though it should break from being held, but it looks like it’s been pressed expertly and it’s surprisingly durable.