How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

by Karole Cozzo

  We drive together to Taco Bell. Sam fills me in on the guy she met, we rehash her performance a few times, and we crack up as we imagine the looks on stupid Jamie Lee’s and Mike’s faces. It’s a fun end to the night, but part of me left with Pax, and my mind is hung up on worrying about him.

  * * *

  Pax breaks his promise. He doesn’t call me that night. I stay up late, watching my phone and worrying, but eventually I fall asleep on top of my covers. When I wake up the next morning, I’m horrified anew that not a single missed call or text message has registered on my phone. I try him two times between nine and ten o’clock, but all I get is his voice mail.

  Worried and frustrated and starting to get a little bit scared, I shower quickly and head downstairs. My mom’s in the living room with Emma, who’s practicing piano, the two of them seated side by side on the bench. Remembering her promise that she wouldn’t interfere with my relationship with Pax and trying to be respectful of the whole loss-of-car-privileges thing, I ask if she’ll drive me over to Pax’s house for a few minutes.

  She looks up, and her brows draw together as she assesses my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think he’s really sick,” I say, twisting my hands together. “I just … I just really want to check on him. He’s not answering his phone and … I know I can’t take my car, but…”

  My mom looks at me, then down at Emma, and then back up at me. She purses her lips for a few seconds, then leans forward to flip Emma’s sheet music. “You can take your car,” she says begrudgingly.

  “Thank you.” My words fly out in a rush, and then I’m off and running, heart pounding.

  On my way there, I remind myself that it’s probably not a big deal and that the situation didn’t seem dire last night. In an effort to lessen my worries, I veer off course and stop at the grocery store, satisfied when I find a six-pack of blackcherry Jell-O in the refrigerated section, happy to have something I can take to maybe justify my driving to his house.

  When I get there, I grab the plastic grocery bag, walk up the front steps, and knock softly on the door.

  Mrs. Paxton opens it. An easy smile blooms when she sees me, and her mood seems pleasant and relaxed. My heart rate instantly slows. He must be okay.

  So why didn’t he call me and tell me that?

  “Hi, Mrs. Paxton.” I hold up my grocery-bag offering. “Pax didn’t seem to be feeling very well last night. I just wanted to drop off something for him.” I try a smile. “I know that black-cherry Jell-O is his favorite.”

  Her smile widens. “That’s supersweet of you, Nikki.” Then she pauses, and I can tell she’s hesitating. “He’s pretty wiped out, and to be honest, I don’t even know if he’s awake yet. Let me go check on him.” She steps to the side and ushers me in. “Come in, come in.”

  I wait in the living room as she disappears down the hall. I’m left feeling uncomfortable and unsure, holding my bag of Jell-O.

  Less than a minute later, she quietly closes Pax’s door and tiptoes back down the hall. She points toward the kitchen and gestures with her head for me to join her.

  Once we’re in the kitchen, she shrugs apologetically. “I’m sorry, sweetie. He’s still asleep. Been asleep for almost twelve hours at this point. He crashed last night as soon as he got back. But I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”

  “That’s okay,” I assure her. “It sounds like he needs the rest. He didn’t look good last night.”

  Mrs. Paxton puts her hands on her hips and inhales a slow breath. “He’s a sick pup,” she says. “Sometimes he doesn’t make the best decisions about taking care of himself.”

  My pulse picks up again. “What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?”

  “He will be.” She nods and raises an eyebrow. “But he shouldn’t have gone to his game yesterday, and he probably should have stayed at home last night, too.” She shakes her head. “Matty’s pretty good about accepting his day-to-day limitations, but sometimes he’s too stubborn for his own good. Like, when something flares up that gets in the way of what he wants to do.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you apologizing for?” She gives me a knowing smile. “I highly doubt that he let on that anything was wrong, until it became glaringly obvious.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of how it was,” I acknowledge. I feel the worry pinch my face. “Is he okay? Is it anything serious?”

  “It started out as just a UTI a couple of days ago—pretty common,” she tells me. Then she laughs. “I hope he won’t mind my saying that. I know Matty’s pretty frank about the stuff he deals with.” The laughter fades, and she sighs. “If he’d taken it easy, rested, just kept his feet up and got lots of liquid, the infection would have cleared up quickly. But he didn’t do that, and I think he’s showing some symptoms of hyperreflexia now.”

  “Hyper … what?”

  “His response to an infection is a little wonky because his body’s signals can’t get past the point of his injury to reach his brain and have it process what’s going on. So his blood pressure spikes, and his temperature is all over the place, and his heartbeat’s probably a little out of sync, too. We’ve dealt with it before, and as long as the infection clears up, the other symptoms will go away, but I’m sure he doesn’t feel too well.”

  The image of him wincing beside me in the auditorium keeps flashing through my mind, and I feel so guilty I think I’m going to cry.

  Mrs. Paxton reads my face and puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t feel bad, Nikki. You didn’t know,” she reminds me. “Matty is as stubborn as a mule. It’s how he got so far so fast after the accident, but sometimes that attitude gets in his way, too.”

  I manage a nod but still feel a lump in my throat.

  “His doctor’s been hounding him to get an MRI to take a look at his shoulder, to make sure it’s not a rotator cuff tear, that it’s just something that will heal on its own. He’s being stubborn about that, too.”

  “Wouldn’t he rather make sure? Before it gets any worse?”

  “Matty would rather do anything than get another MRI,” she tells me. “The tight space, being out of his chair and having no control over being able to move…” She pauses, and her features cloud with worry and pain. “It makes him have flashbacks to the accident. MRIs are really traumatic for him, and he has to have them regularly as it is. The idea of another one … He’s fighting it pretty hard.”

  “I wish I could help,” I say a few seconds later.

  She shrugs. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed he comes around. Stops fighting this one, for his own good.” Mrs. Paxton glances at my bag again and brightens. “It was very kind of you to come over. And to bring the Jell-O.” She smiles gently. “I was just about to have some coffee. You want to join me? So you don’t have to turn right around and drive home?”

  It’s a nice offer, and Pax’s mother is so warm and comforting, part of me is reluctant to leave her side. But if I can’t see Pax, if I can’t lay eyes on him and see that he’s okay, I don’t really want to be there. My Pax is so strong and vibrant, and I don’t think I’m really ready to see him any other way.

  I’m pretty sure he won’t want me to see him any other way, either.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Paxton. But I told my mom I wouldn’t be gone long, and I should probably head back.”

  She walks me to the door and tells me she’ll tell Pax I was here and she’ll take him some Jell-O the second he wakes up.

  On the drive home, I keep repeating a silent prayer that he’ll wake up, and come back, very soon.

  Chapter 14

  Pax finally texts me on Sunday afternoon, along with a selfie of him with a Jell-O cup in hand, telling me he’s going to take it easy for a few days and he’ll give me a call when he’s feeling better. Which he does, on Tuesday night.

  “Sorry I was such a buzzkill this weekend.”

  “It’s not something you need to apologize for. I feel bad, like you pushed yourself on Saturday night when you shouldn’t have
.”

  “That was my choice,” he assures me. “I wanted to see you, and I wanted to go to the show.” He pauses, and a long, frustrated sigh reaches me through the phone line. “I hate this shit,” he grumbles. “It breaks my stride.”

  I can’t help smiling at his choice of words, which are so Pax-like. “Well, I’m happy to hear that you’re doing better.”

  “Yeah.” He pauses for a long minute. “I think I’m gonna have to get my shoulder checked out, though. Make sure it’s nothing too serious. They scheduled an MRI for the twenty-ninth.”

  I don’t let on that his mom told me about his fear of the procedure. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed about your shoulder. And that … the MRI isn’t too rough.”

  Pax doesn’t take me up on my subtle invitation to share his fears. He does that guy thing instead, acting tough, acting like the fear doesn’t even exist. “It’s just an MRI,” he says breezily. “I’m not worried.”

  I bite my lip and shake my head.

  “Anyway … this weekend sucked big-time. I hate being sick, hate lying around in my bed. Can we do something fun next weekend?”

  “Did you have something in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Just something that’s not me lying around in my bed.”

  I wouldn’t so much mind lying around in his bed with him, but I understand his desire to get out. Suddenly, I perk up. “Oooh! This is the first weekend of Fall Fest. Did you ever go?”

  It’s the annual fall festival at a local Jersey farm, complete with a pumpkin patch, bonfires, warm apple cider, and hayrides.

  “Yeah, I used to go with my parents, but I haven’t gone in years.”

  “I lurve Fall Fest! I go every year.”

  Pax laughs. “You’re way too excited about this.”

  “This is my favorite time of the year,” I educate him. “Number one, October’s my birthday month.”

  “Oh yeah? When’s your birthday?”

  “The thirtieth. And number two, Halloween is my favorite holiday. I always had the best costumes. Not, like, Party City costumes, but really elaborate costumes that took some thought.”

  One year, I’d insisted my parents let me be a hot dog, but I don’t tell Pax that. My costumes improved after elementary school.

  “No cheap costumes, huh?” he asks.

  “Not my style. No black minidress with a tail pinned to my ass and some ears. No trampy Strawberry Shortcake with striped kneesocks and red high heels. So lame and unoriginal.”

  It was the look my friends had gone with for the past few years, but it bored me.

  “That’s a damn shame,” Pax muses. I can hear him grinning, and there’s a suggestive tone to his voice. “I really, really wouldn’t have minded seeing you dressed up as Slutty Alice in Wonderland. Maybe Slutty Little Red Riding Hood.”

  And with that, I’m fully convinced that Pax has recovered.

  But when I actually lay eyes on him early Saturday evening, I realize that Pax’s spirits may have bounced back more quickly than his physical condition did. His color’s still off, and maybe it’s ridiculous to think he dropped any significant amount of weight in a week’s time, but his cheekbones seem more pronounced.

  He picks me up, and as we drive to the fall festival, I remember what his mom said about his being stubborn and not necessarily making the best decisions when it comes to his health. Maybe tonight’s not such a great idea. We’re going to be outside, and it’s unseasonably cold. I’m bundled up in a red down vest with a scarf wrapped around my neck, and I’m wearing boots.

  “Hey. I know I made a big deal about Fall Fest, but we can do something more low-key if it’s easier. Just watch a movie or something,” I offer gently.

  Pax uses more force than necessary to shift the lever that controls the gas pedal, and his voice is firm. “I watched about twenty movies this week. I’m good with Fall Fest.”

  I don’t press the issue, but at the next light he looks over at me, and the angry set of his jaw softens. “My mom hassled me all week about taking care of myself.” He smiles wanly. “Brought me more hot tea than a guy should ever consume. I just … I don’t need to be treated like an invalid.” He squeezes my arm. “I’m okay. I swear.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I agree reluctantly. Then I try another angle. “Just didn’t want you out of commission for a whole ’nother week when I couldn’t see you.”

  He smiles again, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Not gonna happen. Trust me.”

  It’s a short drive to the farm, and Pax parks the car in an open field that’s been roped off to serve as a parking lot. It’s a distance to the festival attractions, and somewhat of a struggle for him to navigate over the bumpy ground and soft earth between the cornfields. I slow my pace to match his as scores of people pass us, and I try not to let my emotions register on my face, but I’m fighting off a bad feeling about the night.

  The bad feeling is displaced for a minute when the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Fall Fest come into view. Kids are giggling happily while climbing atop huge tractors for photo opportunities and tossing hay about in the “pigpen.” They excitedly call to their parents when they’re convinced they’ve found the biggest pumpkin in the patch to take home. The scent of fried dough is carried through the air from the funnel cake stand, complemented by the warm, cinnamony scent of freshly made apple cider. I see the huge hay bale slide that used to be a favorite of mine, and the creepy corn maze in the distance. A line of people waiting for the hayride snakes around. The sun is setting, and the sky is clear, with early stars peeping through. I inhale a deep breath of cool, clean air and tell myself to relax.

  The cold air doesn’t help much, though. Not as we approach the corn maze and realize that the churned-up ground and the sheer number of kids rushing through it kill the idea that Pax might be able to swing it. Not after we wait in the long hayride line only to learn that there’s no longer a ramp allowing easy access to the wide, open wagon and that there’s no possible way for Pax to get inside.

  He’s a trouper, as always, and if he’s getting frustrated, he doesn’t let on. “Let’s go find a pumpkin. Big one,” he says, grabbing my hand and steering me away from the hayride operator before I can go off on him about the unfairness, and possible illegality, of denying handicapped access in public places. Pax pats his lap. “This chair is equipped to handle some pretty excessive weight. I’ll be your pumpkin mule.”

  I find a smile for him, but I’m still pretty irritated on his behalf.

  After we visit the pumpkin patch and find one we like, we hear an announcement for the final running of the pig races, probably the most notable feature of Fall Fest. Three tiny pigs wear numbered vests for each heat, and people always abandon whatever else they’re doing to cram around the chicken-wire fence and watch the piglets race for Oreo cookies waiting at the end of the course.

  We join the crowds making their way to the “racetrack,” and I’m not shy about throwing a few elbows so that we can actually have a view of the race.

  Pax laughs at me. “Relax, woman. It’s just a pig race.”

  “I’m serious about the pig races.” I grin. “I used to throw a tantrum when I didn’t get to hold the flag to cheer on one of the pigs.”

  “When did this happen?” he asks. “Like, last year?”

  I lean down to kiss him, grabbing his cheeks and smushing them together. “Shut up. No, not last year.”

  Then people find a way to tarnish the damn pig races, too. When a pair of overeager twins almost knock Pax’s chair over in their attempts to wedge themselves against the fence, their mother admonishes them. “Jordan! Jayden!” she hisses furiously. “That poor man is in a wheelchair. That man has a disability! What are you thinking?!”

  She’s loud as hell, and the crowd right around us goes silent, several people turning to stare. The seas part at once, like Pax is some kind of charity case, and the staring continues.

  “Um … it’s cool,” he says awkwardly, to no one
in particular. “Really, the races are for the kids.” He looks up at me and winks. “And Nikki here.”

  But when he thinks I’m not looking anymore, I notice his jaw twitching a little bit. I don’t enjoy the races nearly as much as I expected to.

  After that, I give up on any of the remaining festival activities, and we head over to the fire pit area. Aside from the pig races, it’s probably the best part, anyway. Several fire pits are interspersed around the area, surrounded by low wooden benches perfect for sitting on and warming up. And roasting marshmallows. Upon entering the area, we’re handed long twigs, a small pail of marshmallows to share, and two cups of warm apple cider. The bulk of the crowd hasn’t yet navigated over to the fire pits, and we have our own private bonfire to enjoy for a few minutes.

  Pax wheels up right beside me, and I lean over to rest my head on his shoulder as I hold my twig over the fire, three plump marshmallows speared onto the end. We sit in silence, watching the sparks, enjoying the sound of the crackling fire and the heat it provides. When he shifts to kiss my forehead, I inhale the scent of his skin, a combination of woodsmoke and cool cotton. Something squeezes my heart. I fight to keep the frustrated scowl off my features when I realize I’m feeling sorry for him, something I’m sure he’d absolutely hate. And I don’t want to feel sorry for him, anyway. I just want people not to be assholes.

  Pax doesn’t let on that he’s hung up on any of it, criticizing my roasting technique and taking over the process. Finally I’m able to laugh, letting the heady sugary mix of melted marshmallow and hot cider boost my spirits and energy level. We stay by the fire for a long time, and as people start to gather and fill in around us now that the sun has completely set, I open my mouth to ask Pax if he’s ready to call it a night. There’s still time to go home and curl up on his couch, and that’s where I want to be.

  I nuzzle against his neck. “Ready to go home?” I murmur.

  He answers with a gentle kiss against my temple and a whisper. “Yeah.”

  But before I can stand, someone comes up behind me and covers my eyes with a pair of hands. “Boo!”