His response is immediate. I figured as much.
I bite my lip, trying not to smile as I set the phone aside and gaze out the window.
“Zoey?”
My head lifts and I look around blearily. I must have fallen asleep during the drive, because I see we're parked in the driveway at the house, and my dad has my car door open. I fight back a yawn, and my eyes water. I'd been warned by the doctor that I would likely sleep a lot in the coming weeks as my body heals. Between the pain meds and the anti-depressant my body is still adjusting to, I feel like I'm constantly struggling to stay awake. The tiredness seems to be the only annoying side effect I'm dealing with when it comes to the anti-depressant. Hopefully, my body will adjust soon and it'll go away.
“Ready?” my dad asks lightly.
“No,” I grumble.
My mom peers around my dad's shoulder. “We can always go buy you a wheelchair,” she offers helpfully.
“No point. I'll only be here a week.” Her face falls slightly, and I look away and grab the phone beside me.
The next few minutes are painful as my dad helps me inside the house and to the guest room. By the time I gingerly collapse on the bed, I'm pale and sweat has broken out across my forehead. The area around my incision throbs, and my shoulder is screaming bloody murder.
My mom hovers as my dad sets the TV remote near my hip. “Order whatever you want off of pay-per-view,” he tells me.
“Okay.”
“Are you hungry? I can make you something,” my mom offers.
“No, I just want to sleep,” I say tiredly.
“Okay. Well, if you need anything, just holler,” she insists.
~*~
The next morning, I wake up and realize my bladder is about to explode. I glance at the bathroom, which is about ten feet away. Not that far to the average person, but to a physically challenged person like myself, it looks a mile. My eyes shift back to the open door of the guest room, and I find myself grimacing. My parents insisted on leaving it open so that they could hear me if I call out to them.
I have yet to willingly ask for help. They are usually hovering, constantly asking if I'm hungry, or if I have to use the bathroom. I only used it once last night, and it had been a miserable experience. I really don't want to have to repeat it, but if I don't do something, I'm going to pee my pants. Now I know how Caleb felt cuffed to my bed with a full bladder. No living breathing adult will willingly piss themselves.
I chew my lower lip.
Maybe today will be better than yesterday. I could probably hobble to the bathroom. There are crutches leaning against the far wall, but I won't be able to use them until I can manage to use my injured shoulder.
Hobble it is.
I carefully sit up, trying hard not to move my left shoulder. Sleeping last night had been uncomfortable. No matter what I did, some part of my body hurt. The sudden sound of my stomach growling has me realizing I'm absolutely starved. I think I skipped supper last night, because I don't remember eating. I'd probably slept through the entire evening.
Okay, time to take care of business. I carefully ease my bare legs to the floor. My right leg has a cast on it starting below the knee, while my left one is full of bruises and one ugly looking abrasion where some of the skin has been scraped off. It looks nasty. Caleb had packed a bag full of comfy clothing from my apartment, and he’d given it to my parents before the hospital had released me. I'm currently wearing a tank top and boxer shorts. At least I can move around easily, and they don't hinder my movement.
Very gingerly, I ease myself onto my good foot. My body feels weak, and as I rest my cast on the floor, I wince. Damn this hurts. If it weren't for my shoulder, I'd be able to use crutches, and I wouldn't be in this predicament.
“Zoey!” my mom scolds.
I look up to see her entering the room. I shoot her a stubborn look. “I can do it myself.”
“No, you cannot,” she says in a tone that warns me arguing will get me nowhere. She comes over and gently slips herself beneath my right arm, and I have no choice but to accept her help as I slowly hobble towards the bathroom. By the time I shut myself inside for privacy, I feel like puking.
God, I feel like shit.
I quickly do my business. By the time I'm done, I lean against the wall, and my forehead is damp. My energy has deserted me, and I'm left feeling shaky.
“Zoey?”
“Yeah, Mom. I'm ready,” I say tiredly, and she immediately opens the door. Getting back to bed utterly wipes me out, and I'm relieved once I am flat on my back amongst the pillows.
“Are you ready for some breakfast?” my mom asks as she pulls a sheet up over me.
“I'm starved.”
“I bet. You were pretty out of it last night. I'll be right back with some pancakes.”
“Okay,” I say as I watch her hustle from the room. I feel my eyelids growing heavy, and I begin to mentally curse. Damn it all to hell, I'm hungry!
When I wake up again, I can tell that at least a few hours has passed, thanks to the shift in sunlight that shines through the guest room window. I'm just as hungry as before, if not more. My stomach is going to start eating my lining here pretty soon.
I scan the room, and my eyes roam over all the flowers and balloons that my parents had brought back from the hospital the other day. My eyes rest on the dozen roses in a glass vase on the dresser. A fluffy white teddy bear sits next to it, holding a 'Get Well' balloon. My lips curve. I miss Caleb so much.
“Well, look who's finally awake!” I look up to see my mom grinning from the doorway. “I'll go grab you your lunch before it's lights out again,” she jokes before she disappears.
“I need some caffeine!” I yell after her. I'm sick of sleeping.
A few minutes later she's back with a tray. She sets it down on the bed and helps me adjust my pillows, so I'm sitting up comfortably. When I see the big bowl of soup and the sub sandwich, my mouth waters. A can of soda sits on the tray next to the plate.
“Caleb called last night to check up on you.”
“He did? I didn't hear my phone,” I say as I pick up the spoon and dig into my soup with barely contained relish.
“That's because he called the land-line. He didn't want to disturb you if you were sleeping. He seems like such a wonderful young man,” she says.
I glance at her. “He is.”
“Are you two serious? He seems to care about you very much.”
I don't say anything as I study my soup. In a way, it feels like nothing has changed, and everything is the way it had been. Before Micah died, this is how she was whenever I was sick. Always hovering and trying to make conversation. My lips tighten as I remember days of crying in my room with no one to turn to.
“Nothing has changed, Mom. The only reason I'm here is because the guys wouldn't let me stay with them.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, there's a part of me that wants to take them back. Gone are the days when I enjoy hurting people with angry words. I feel no enjoyment hurting my mom. Just emptiness.
She draws in a sharp breath. “I realize that, Zoey. I...” she sighs and evidently changes her mind about whatever she was going to say. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says lightly before she leaves.
I eat my meal in moody silence. When I'm finished, I carefully nudge the tray off my lap and reach for my phone off the nightstand. I see that one of my parents had shut off my phone last night. I turn it on and see that I have a few missed text messages. I read Ace's first and roll my eyes. Have your parents kicked you out yet? I don't bother replying back. I find a message from both AJ and Jeremy, letting me know that they are thinking of me and to let them know if I need anything. There are a few get well wishes from other friends, and then I see Caleb's message. It was sent two hours ago.
Morning, Sparky. Spoke with Micaela, and she was asking about you. I didn't think it was wise to tell her about the car accident, so I said you fell down the stairs. I hope that's okay. She plans on calling y
ou later after school, so I thought I'd better give you a heads-up.
I quickly type out a message to him. Which stairs did I fall down?
Two minutes later he sends back a message. Apartment stairs. How are you feeling today?
Sore and tired, I send back.
I miss you, is the next message from him.
I miss you, too.
How are things with your parents?
I grimace and type out: They are driving me nuts. You suck for making me stay here.
I'll make it up to you. I promise.
You better.
I'm in class. Text me later if you're not sleeping?
Maybe. I set the phone aside and look around the guest room. I'm bored already. This is going to be a long and miserable week.
Chapter Twenty-one
I feel like I'm going insane! It's been three days since I'd left the hospital, and I'm bored to death and sick of my parents. The need to call Caleb to vent wins out, and I glance at the clock. It's ten at night and it's Thursday. Will he be home or out with friends? I don't doubt his feelings for me, but I do feel jealous that he might be out with the guys, having fun while I feel suffocated by my parents. We've text messaged back and forth on and off, and I've called him a couple times. Not having him around has made me crabby. Our relationship might still be new to some extent, but I've grown accustomed to him being around when I need comfort.
I call his cell and wait as it rings on the other end. Just when I think it'll go to voice mail, I hear him pick up on the other end of the line. “Zoey?” he asks immediately.
“Hey,” I reply lightly.
“I'm glad you called.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I always want to talk to you, Sparky. Hang on a sec.” I hear the rustling sound of fabric and the unmistakable sound of a zipper. A second later he's back on. “Sorry. You caught me as I came out of the shower.”
My hand clenches around the phone as I visualize him standing there, bare chested, and wearing only a pair of jeans. I bet his chest is still damp. I'd give anything to be there right now, licking droplets of water off those edible abs.
“Zoey? You there?”
“Yeah.”
“What's on your mind?”
“Sex,” I say with a longing sigh.
Caleb laughs lowly on the other end. “I thought I was in the dog house and would have to use my hand for a while,” he teases.
I can't help but scowl. “I'll make you pay for sending me home with my parents in other ways.”
“We're going to have some fun with that cast. I'm looking forward to being creative,” he says wickedly.
I groan. “No more sex talk. Not unless you plan on coming to save me from my parents.”
“Not until Monday. How are things going?” he asks, his tone turning serious.
“They are driving me nuts!”
“How so?”
“Caleb, they are always hovering. It's frustrating seeing them act like they used to, the way they were before Micah died. They can't just act like everything is fine and fucking dandy after the past three years. Life doesn't work that way.”
“Tell them that.”
“No way. I'm already about to go nuclear on them. Bring up Micah, and things will get nasty,” I say sourly.
“Maybe that's what they are waiting on,” Caleb points out.
“What?”
“Go nuclear on them. Get it off your chest. None of you can move forward if you can't tell them how you feel.”
“There is no moving forward. They fucked up, and I'm done with them,” I say stubbornly.
“No, you're not,” he says knowingly. “You want to fix things just as badly as they want to. Don’t jump down my throat when I say this, but you’ve been wanting to resolve things with them for a long time. That’s why you keep going to their house when they’re out of town. Even if you hurt them, you’re still connecting with them on some sort of level. You're just scared that perhaps your fears will come true, and you'll learn they deliberately shut you out. I can tell you they didn't, Zoey. They love you. You need to give them a chance to explain themselves.”
“Maybe I don't care about their explanations,” I lie.
He sighs. “We both know that was a load of bull.”
Irritation sweeps through me. “Well, why do I have to be the first one to admit how I feel?”
“Have they tried to talk to you in the past about how things went down after Micah died?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do?”
“I shut them out and walked away,” I grudgingly confess.
“I know you don't want to hear this, but you're going to have to make the first move. They are waiting on you, sweetheart,” he tells me gently.
I reach up and rub my temple with my free hand. The last thing I want to do is talk to my parents about Micah and re-open old wounds. To some extent, I know Caleb is right. A confrontation has been in the works for a very long time. But to do it now, while I am injured and vulnerable...
“Talk to me, Sparky,” Caleb says in my ear.
“Micaela called last night,” I say as I change the topic.
Caleb sighs audibly at my direct aversion of continuing our earlier conversation. “How did it go?” he asks, giving in and dropping the topic.
“She's excited to decorate my cast and lonely as hell,” I say flatly. “She cried last night on the phone. I'm telling you right now, Caleb, that if you don't come up with something to yank her mother's head out of her ass, I will,” I threaten. My protective instincts are in full gear when it comes to that girl.
“I hear you. But you can't be rash about the situation, Zoey. Her predicament is different than yours, and she's only eleven. Let me handle it for now.”
I sigh. “I just want to help.”
“I know, and I love that about you. For now, let's concentrate on you and getting you back to healthy.”
“Can you come by this weekend? Please? I need to see someone else besides my parents.”
“You'll see me on Monday,” Caleb says firmly.
“Caleb, there is no reason you can't come over for dinner or something. I know you're calling my parents every night to check up on me. I bet my mom has invited you over every time she speaks with you,” I say with a knowing scowl. It really grates on my nerves how much those three seem to get along.
“I'm not going to be your excuse to avoid them in their very own home.”
I pull the phone back from my ear and glare at it. “Traitor,” I mutter before I disconnect the call and toss the phone on the nightstand. Caleb hates it when I hang up on him, and I'm betting he's cursing right now. I can't help but smile with amusement as I smother a yawn and settle back against the mattress. Our conversation was coming to an end anyway, and I'm ready to call it a night.
~*~
A person can only watch so many movies. Or send so many text messages before they begin to go nuts. By the time the next evening rolls around, I've had it. I can hear my mom in the kitchen making dinner, and I decide I need some exercise. It still hurts like a bitch to move around, but I've forced myself to start using the right crutch to lean on, so I can hobble to and from the bathroom. I'm hoping by next week, I can use both crutches, because I don't want to miss any more classes. I'm going to be busting my ass in the next few weeks trying to make up what I've missed.
I slowly and painstakingly make my way to the kitchen. Do I really want to spend quality time with my mom? Not really. But the guest room walls are closing in on me, and I need to get out of there for a bit. I find my mom standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Instead of entering the kitchen, I hover in the doorway.
She glances up and catches sight of me. “Honey, you should be in bed. I can get you whatever you need,” she says immediately.
“Why?” I blurt out.
“Why what?” she asks with confusion as she sets the spoon down on the spoon holder.
“Why did we move
two months after Micah died?”
My mom swallows hard as emotions flicker in her eyes. “The memories...”
“Did you ever think that I needed them?” I demand, unable to hold back now that I've started this conversation.
She slowly nods, her gaze focused on me sadly. “We rushed it, Zoey. We know that selling the house so soon was a mistake.”
I wasn't expecting her to admit it. “What about his stuff?” I ask stiffly, scared of the answer.
“Everything is in a storage unit. We could never part with Micah's belongings.”
Relief sweeps through me as I fall silent. An awkward quietness descends on us, and I'm not sure how to finish the rest of the conversation. So much needs to be said, but how do you say it all?
My mom clears her throat. “Supper's almost ready,” she says cautiously.
I stare at her incredulously. “That's it?”
Her mouth opens and she hesitates.
Anger sweeps through me. They've been trying to talk to me for a while, and now she clams up when I'm ready to confront the past? “I am fucking right here!” I yell at her. “I'm right where you want me, three years too late!”
She flinches as if I've physically hit her.
“What's going on?” my dad asks as he rushes into the kitchen, his hazel eyes turning wary as he takes in our expressions.
“You never saw me,” I accuse as I glare at them.
“Zoey—” my dad begins.
“No!” I cut in. “Do you have any idea what I've gone through the past three years? You both shut me out! You grieved together! You sold the house, kept yourself busy with your jobs, and you forgot about me!”
My mom's eyes fill with tears. “We never forgot about you, Zoey. We didn't realize what was happening until it was too late and you were shutting us out.”
I tense up when my dad steps forward, and this causes him to hesitate where he stands. I lean heavily against the crutch as I stare at him accusingly, waiting to hear what he has to say. “There are no rules when it comes to grief, Zoey,” he says to me with grim eyes, and I can see the self-incrimination in their depths. “Everyone grieves differently, and the way we did it was wrong. We're admitting it now.”
Poison Me Sweetly (Long Beach Series Book 1) Page 29