Summer I Found You

by Jolene Perry

  “I might save that one for last.” Way last. Or never. I might be okay with that too.

  Foster just nods. “I’ve never…I mean, I can’t even pretend to be able to understand that, Aidan. You know it’s not your fault, and that—”

  My whole gut seizes up. “No. It’s the fucking bomb’s fault, and whoever left it there.” And he just happened to be standing on the right, instead of me. I pull in a few deep breaths through my nose as unclench the fists I didn’t realize I’d tightened.

  Foster shifts in his chair a few more times. Our waitress brings our burgers, but neither of us speaks. There’s so much. “And the guys. My guys. I know that’s the other thing. It’ll just…I don’t know.”

  “Right now, worry about your guidance counselor appointment, okay? One thing.” One thing. And maybe I’ll find a way to waste some time with Kate along the way.

  “I’m glad you’re staying with us, Aidan.”

  “Yeah, well…” I don’t really have anywhere else to go. “It’s not bad.”

  Foster laughs and for the first time actually relaxes in his seat. “I know it’s not ideal for a nineteen-year-old guy looking to re-start his life, but—”

  “It could be a hell of a lot worse.”

  “It could always be. Doesn’t change what’s happening now.”

  No. It doesn’t. And as hard as it is to believe, it could all be worse. All of it. But it’s not. I feel guilty as hell over it, but at least I have a future. A life to live, to enjoy. It’s that I still have no idea what to do with it.

  “Why do we do this on Saturdays again?” I wince as my therapist pushes my shoulder back as far as he can. He’s this huge black guy, who has muscles that would make most people stand back a step, but talks feelings every time I’m here. Cracks me up.

  “Because you, Aidan, said that you wanted to get a job and go to school and you couldn’t have some stupid therapy schedule mucking that up.” His eyes widen as he messes with me.

  “Right.” I glance up at the TV—History Channel, just like he knows I like. I swear sometimes he’s just sucking up. Fortunately, the small gym he calls his physical therapy office is pretty dead on Saturdays.

  Bradley releases my shoulder, and I see spots the thing hurts so bad.

  “Do you get some sort of thrill out of hurting people like this?” I ask.

  He ignores my comment, like always. “Seeing anyone?”

  “Um…I don’t know.” I scrunch my face up as he pushes forward.

  “You don’t know?” He chuckles. “Relax, Aidan. I’m just trying to keep you stretched out.”

  “We’ve gone out a few times.” Seeing someone feels serious. Like tied in or something. And it’s not that I guess I mind, but it feels forward, final, uncomfortable…“Not really out, out.” I helped her make her boyfriend jealous, ditch school, and she helped me babysit. Suddenly it all seems a bit juvenile.

  “Kissed her yet?” He wags his brows.

  “Dude are you my shrink or are you here to make sure my shoulder doesn’t completely seize up?” I snap. I don’t want to talk about Kate. I don’t want to be in physical therapy. My first thing was to talk to a guidance counselor, but the exhaustion of dealing with all the other crap is fucking, not mucking, it all up.

  “Whoa, Aidan. Just making small talk.” Bradley sits back and forces us to make eye contact. Like we’re all good pals because he’s helping me learn how to live with one arm.

  “Right.” I can’t small talk with anyone. Nothing in my life is small. It’s all huge things—huge decisions, huge consequences.

  “Touchy subject then.” He folds his arms signaling the end of my torture.

  “No,” I snap again.

  “Okay.” But his brows go up, which makes me not believe him, and I suddenly want to call Kate because I need to just hang out. Get away from this list I’m supposed to be doing, because doing things one at a time isn’t going so well for me.

  9

  Kate Walker

  IT’S THE FIRST REAL smile I’ve seen on my sister since arriving.

  “You’re really going to let me cut your hair?” My sister lives to cut hair. Do makeup. Have pretty nails…

  “Well you can’t do any worse than Aidan did.” I shrug. “It’s a mess, and I’d rather not look like a freak, even though it’s Saturday. Also, it does look bad enough that people will believe me when I say it was cut by a one-armed man.” I’m all pleased with myself for making a joke, but it’s Aidan, and he’s not here, so maybe I shouldn’t have.

  “Who’s Aidan?” Deena’s brows come together, and she takes another small bite of dry granola. Gross.

  “Jen’s cousin.” I start to say he picked me up when I skipped school the other day, but Mom and Dad are in the kitchen. “He lost his arm in Afghanistan.”

  “Oh…” Her voice falls into that sickeningly sweet, sad, pity voice that I’m sure he hates as much as I do. “He’s so young.”

  “Nineteen, and pretty awesome to hang out with.” I pull a chair to sit in front of my sister, scissors in hand.

  Now she has that really annoying look on her face that says she knows something I don’t. “You like him. Are you two going out or something?”

  I spin away from her and sit on the chair as I feel my cheeks heat up. “No. I helped him babysit his little brothers and sister, that’s all.”

  Her fingers start running through my hair—surveying the damage. “And how was that?”

  All I can see is Aidan’s snug T-shirt as he walked toward me with his oh-so-perfect smile. “Good.” I clear my throat, trying to recover.

  Deena leans slightly. “Uh…huh…” She’s wearing that really annoying smile again. The one that means I see what’s going on, and you’ll never convince me different.

  Yeah, didn’t fool her any. And this means that maybe I do like him, like him. How crazy is that?

  Deena’s scissors start lightly snipping through my hair, so I concentrate on holding still. No need for me to make it even shorter than it already is.

  “Look. Even if I did like him, it doesn’t matter. Aidan’s probably going through a lot. He’s like, an adult.”

  “You’re nearly eighteen, Kate. And your life this past year hasn’t exactly been peachy.” She leans forward to look me in the eye. Her face turns an odd shade of pale green. “Okay, no leaning.” She takes a few deep breaths as she slowly rises back to standing.

  “Please don’t puke on my hair, okay?” I try to make it sound light, but the thought of it makes me cringe.

  She chuckles once. “We’re not changing the subject. I think you two have more in common than you think you do, and I can tell when my sister likes someone. Also, he lost an arm in something that was probably a lot more tragic than your pass-out and trip to the hospital, but both of you are dealing with new things that’ll affect you forever.”

  Forever.

  There’s that stupid word again. I don’t want forever. The thought of carrying my finger pricker and my shots around for another year make me want to scream, but forever? That stuns me into silence.

  Deena rambles on about how big the baby is now and names that her and Lane are thinking of. I sit and stare at the wall as my hair drops to the floor.

  My least favorite thing: Sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. With Dad. Sucks. I’ll endure the same questions, and the same warnings I always do.

  Okay, well. It would be worse if Mom was here too because she always gets this weird worried-frowny look on her face that kills me.

  I run my hands over my smooth, shiny hair. Why didn’t it look this thick and healthy when it was six inches longer? Seems completely unfair. I catch my reflection in a mirror on the far side of the room and smile. Like a dork. Even my cheekbones look better with my hair this way.

  Who would have thought so much good could come from a wadded up mass of hair, gum, and little-kid sticky fingers?

  The nurse calls me back and we do the routine. Dad’s waits in the exa
m room. The endocrinologist (my diabetes doctor) is a friend of his. Of course.

  Weight. Check.

  Height. Check.

  Do they think I might change that much in two months? Are they worried I might start shrinking?

  Blood sugar even though I showed her the one I did a couple hours ago. Check.

  Frowny face on the nurse. Check.

  Pee in a cup. Make a ridiculous mess. Try not to think about pee on my hands as I scrub. Check.

  Now time to wait for my doctor. Dr. Masen. With my dad. In silence.

  So, my doc isn’t a bad guy as doctors go. But I shouldn’t need to be in here at all, or maybe it’s more that I don’t want to be.

  “Kate, how are we this morning?” He’s older than my dad with white hair, but has more energy.

  “Fine.” I did a great job of making my voice sound all relaxed and good, so that’s nice, but I remember today is one of four visits a year where they have the results of my cellular level screening test, and Mom forgot with the excitement of Deena around. So one thing’s working in my favor today.

  “Fine.” He looks through the notes on his computer, his face turning sterner and his eyes narrowing.

  “Can I see your book?” He holds out his hand, frowning.

  I slowly pull it from my purse and give it to him. The one Mom bought for me. The one she thought would make it more fun because it’s pink, sparkly, and looks like it belongs in an eight-year-old’s Barbie room. He won’t like how up and down my blood sugar has been. It’s sometimes hard after school and stuff. Well, and it’s hard in the morning, even though Mom tries.

  “Are you honest when you write down your levels?” He turns a page, and his eyes don’t meet mine.

  I open my mouth to answer, but close it again. Dad’s eyes are practically drilling holes into my brain right now, but I keep my eyes on Doc. Safer.

  He sighs and hands me my book. “Your book does me no good if you’re not putting the actual numbers in there.”

  Once again I open my mouth to protest, but I really have nothing that’ll change the crappiness of this situation.

  “I got your HbA1C test back. Any guess on where you’re at?” he asks as he leans back.

  Dad’s not doing any of his specialized breaths. Maybe he’s not breathing at all.

  “The cellular level test right?” I ask, even though I know that’s exactly what he’s talking about. I also know where I should be, and where I’m probably not.

  He nods once. “A normal, non-diabetic person would be at about a four point eight, and six point five would be someone I’d consider as being on the edge of out of control with their levels. Care to guess where you fall?”

  My heart starts pounding. “Um…six point five?” And a small smile starts to creep in.

  He frowns further. “An eight, Kate. An eight.”

  Dad pushes out a breath. It’s his hurt-angry-exhausted one. He even rubs his hand over his thinning hair several times as the room sits in gelled silence.

  “Um…” But I have nothing to say. Nothing to add.

  “No reaction from you at all?” Doc’s brows go up.

  “I…” How bad can that be? “Didn’t you tell me that you have patients who go between ten and twelve?”

  The moment the words leave my lips, I know it’s not the right thing to say.

  “Yes. I do.” He goes stoic. “They die much younger than my patients who keep theirs under control. You are very lucky right now in that you’re young, and if you work at it, you could easily be under that six point five mark.”

  I hear Dad sniff and I look over to see his hand over his mouth and him blinking back tears. There’s so many millions of tiny pinpricks in my chest that there’s no way to keep his sadness out. Now I’m blinking back tears.

  This is the whole way-too-real stuff I wanted to disappear with the hospital.

  Die. Early.

  The words stab hard into me bringing all the scared stuff to the surface that I try to keep pushed away.

  “I’m going to recommend an insulin pump again.” His eyes go from me to Dad.

  I clutch my stomach afraid I’ll throw up, and shake my head. “Please no. Please, please. I can’t have that.” I can’t have something practically permanently attached to me, IN me. No way. I know it’s just a tiny little box—some little tiny thing stuck in me, but it’s a little tiny thing stuck in me. All the time.

  No. Way.

  “Kate, please.” Dad turns toward me and it’s completely unfair because he just looks so…sad.

  “One more chance. I’ll do anything.” My breath’s coming more quickly and my eyes go from Dad to doc to Dad. “Please.”

  “Jeremy.” The doctor looks at Dad, and I know he wants him to talk me into it. This is the really, really sucky part about them being friends—on a first-name basis even.

  They lock eyes for a moment and then Dad slumps.

  “Last chance, sweetie. But no more fudging, and you’re going to have to text or call each and every time you check levels and give yourself

  a shot. No late nights. No sleepovers.” Dad seems almost sad about the restrictions, but it doesn’t change the suckiness of the situation. “So, if I don’t want some needle stuck in me twenty-four/ seven, I’m grounded?” That’s exactly what it’s sounding like to me. “Kate.” Doc snaps. His harsh voice silences me. “I’m about to put my nose where it doesn’t belong. Look at your dad.”

  He pauses until I do. Dad’s face is etched with worry. It’s around his eyes and in the way the corners of his mouth are pulled down. Guilt tugs at me, and I hate it.

  “He’s scared to death that you’re going to kill yourself, or do some serious permanent damage because you don’t care enough to be careful here. Don’t turn this around on him.”

  I nod. “Fine. But no stuck-in-me-all-the-time needles. Please.”

  “They’re not needles, they’re—” I hold my hand up. “I know. Doesn’t matter.” He sighs. “This disease isn’t horrible to live with if you just…” But I’m tuned out. Disease. All I picture when I hear that word is rotting bodies, lepers or something. Something eating, chewing away at me. I shudder. “Kate?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” He sighs again, probably knowing that I wasn’t paying attention. “Online groups? Kids your age dealing with the same thing?”

  “Oh…uh…not yet.” What will they be able to tell me that I

  don’t already know?

  We sit in silence, staring, almost like a challenge. Who will speak first?

  “This isn’t going to go away simply because you want it to,” Doc says.

  It might.

  “I know you’re dealing with a lot. A whole new schedule of eating and testing, but it’ll get easier. I promise you there will come a day when you hardly think about it.”

  Yeah. Right.

  “I’d really like to see you connecting with people your own age who are dealing with all the same things.”

  Not likely.

  “I don’t like how much you’re allowing your levels to bounce around. I’m going to be calling your house to make sure that both you and your parents are monitoring you as closely as they need to.” Doc’s eyes go between us again.

  I can feel the really stupid thought coming out of my mouth, and I try to hold it in, but it comes just the same. “They’re already being strict after the whole car thing.”

  “Because we all thought that would help snap you back to the reality where this is a really big deal!” Dad shouts.

  I jump in my chair, and then stare at my feet. “Lecture point made. I’ll be more careful.” Can this meeting please be over?

  “I’m not convinced. Do we need to go over what can happen to you if your body goes into a diabetic coma? Not everyone comes out of those.” Doc’s voice is softer now.

  If I could cover my ears and scream la-la-la-la-la I totally would. But I can’t. I’d really piss him off if I did that. Well, and he’d probably call Mom. I’m lucky she’s no
t in here with me right now because if Dad’s close to tears, Mom would definitely be crying.

  I’m shaking, but trying really hard not to show it.

  “Please do what we’ve asked you to do, Kate. It might seem like a lot, but I promise it’ll help.”

  “Thanks. We done for today?” I ask. Because I really need out.

  “We’re done.”

  Thank God. “Thank you.”

  Dad rests his arm over me, but I still feel like I’m swimming from information overload that I’m wishing to forget. The moment we leave the building he pulls me into a tight hug. “If I could take this from you, I would, Katie. I’m so sorry.”

  Dad almost breaks down the final walls. I know because I can feel tears threatening my eyes again, and I don’t want to think about this. It’s too much. Too real. Too much forever stuff that I can’t imagine having to deal with. And it’s so much easier when he’s mad at me than when he starts to wish as much as I do that it would go away.

  “I’m hungry. Can we go home?” I ask. Anything to avoid Dad’s sorrow.

  Dad let out a breath—a sad one. “Yes, Katie. We can go home.”

  Mom’s in tears after she and Dad talk. She’s berating herself over and over for not being there, for not missing Deena’s appointment in favor of mine. For not looking at her calendar more closely. And the moment they know I’m near, it goes silent, but both their eyes are on me. I’m really going to have to be careful.

  “AJ’s yearly birthday bash is this weekend. You going?” Jen slides her arm through mine as we head up the hallway.

  “I don’t know.” I make a face. “With all my new restrictions, it might be hard.”

  “Your parents trust me. I’ll ask them.” She grins.

  “That’d actually be great.” Anything to give me some space would be great.

  “I bet Aidan would go…” She wiggles her brows.

  My heart jumps, and I want to grab both her shoulders and ask, Do you really think so?

  But I don’t. We keep walking. “Yeah…maybe I’ll ask him.”

  “Maybe you will.” She smirks and gives me a sideways shove into US Government.

  And the second I think I can get away with it, meaning Mr. Decker’s behind his computer, I pull out my phone because sending a text to Aidan about getting together is way better than texting my parents the latest insulin shots and blood sugar numbers.