Reaching Rose (Hunter Hill University Book 3)

by Grider, J. P.

  He says nothing as we walk together to the dugout. When we sit, he lays both our hands on his lap then holds my hand in both of his. His thumb circles the spot just above my wrist. He keeps his eyes on our hands. "I'm sorry I haven't called."

  "I figured you must have had a good reason."

  He nods, but still keeps his gaze down, his thumb still circling my wrist. His breathing deepens. "I have cancer, Rose."

  Cancer? "Oh my God."

  "My knee." He says, opening his eyes and looking at me. "It was the whole reason I fell in the first place."

  I don't even know what fall he's talking about.

  "When I tore my meniscus. I took a fall during a game that twisted my knee up." He looks down again. "It was the cancer that caused the fall...or however the cancer messed up my knee that caused it." He shrugs. "I thought it was a fluke thing...turns out...it wasn't."

  "Oh my God, Ben, I'm so sorry. What...what do you have to do for it?"

  He hesitates. "Chemo."

  My shoulders sink.

  "That's the good news."

  "What?"

  He shakes his head, and it looks like he's struggling to speak.

  "Will you be okay?"

  He shrugs, looks at me, and says, "I don't know."

  "Ben. You're not gonna..." I can't finish the question. I can't say "die" out loud.

  "Probably not."

  "Ben?"

  "They saw something on the MRI. So then they sent me for a CAT scan, and that resulted in a PET scan. Cute animal names for shitty cancer screenings. Anyway, I have Osteosarcoma. In my knee bone."

  "Your knee?"

  He nods.

  "And chemo will help it?"

  "The chemo's to keep it from coming back."

  "Oh...so...what about...what about what's there now?"

  He sighs. Shrugs. "That's...that's the kicker, because they didn’t catch this earlier, I didn’t have time for chemotherapy before, so...."

  I wait.

  He takes his left hand away and reaches over to place it on my left leg. Her runs his hand slowly up and down my thigh. "I have two options."

  He stops talking again. His hand still grazes my leg while he looks at it.

  I wait.

  He kinda nods before he says, "I have to choose between an operation that will cause complications and infection the rest of my life..." His hand doesn't stop moving along my thigh, his gaze never leaves my leg. "Or...losing the whole thing," he whispers.

  I think I hear what he's saying, but I ask, "The whole knee?"

  He looks up at me and shakes his head. "The whole leg."

  Oh. What do I say to that? I'm sorry doesn't seem enough. Because not only may he lose his leg, he's probably lost the chance to make the Majors. "Oh, Ben. I'm really sorry." Because though it's not the right thing to say, nothing else comes to mind.

  He takes his hand from my leg, turns to face me, but keeps hold of my other hand. "Why'd you stop talking? In rehab. Why didn't you talk at first?"

  I hesitate to answer, because it's hard for me to talk about. I haven't talked about the accident since the mental hospital.

  "Rose...I just told you more today than you've told me ever. I've waited patiently for you to be ready to talk. But...I'm out of time. I don't know how to handle this. It would help if I could hear...well, your story."

  I pull my hand out from his. "Why?"

  "Why?" he asks, his forehead furrowed.

  "Yeah. I don't..."

  "I need to know. To help me. Is that an asshole thing to ask? It looks like I've upset you."

  I shrug. "I can't help you decide, Ben."

  "Why'd you stop talking? Is it that hard? To deal with? I'm confused as hell these days. Did Johnny give up 'cause his dreams were shattered? Because the plans he made for the future ended up pointless?" Ben clasps his hands between his legs and leans on his elbows. He looks down at the ground. "Either decision I make, I'm done. There's no chance for me. My plans, all that time I spent practicing...hour after hour on the mound." He looks up at me, but his elbows are still resting on his thighs. "Pointless."

  I close my eyes. I know exactly what he's talking about. "I don't know why Johnny gave up," I say after a long pause.

  Ben sits up and looks at me for a long time. "I'm thinking of going with option one."

  I have to replay our conversation to remember what option one was. "The surgery that will cause complications and infection?"

  He nods. Doesn't take his eyes off me.

  "Why?" His eyes bore into mine still. He wants my reaction? I'm not sure what he wants. "You don't want to lose your leg." It's not a question. I know he doesn't want to lose his leg. Who would?

  "No."

  That's when I figure out why he's staring into my eyes like that - he's afraid his decision would hurt my feelings. Well...it doesn't. At first. But as I sit there, looking at him, running our conversation through my head, I realize, maybe he really isn't okay with my missing leg. Maybe he does find it unappealing. Maybe...I was right all along and I can't have a relationship with Ben. He'd never see past it. "What are the complications with losing it?" I have to know what's driving his decision.

  Both of our eyes are diverted now. His are cast down, mine are looking at all the baseballs gathered near home plate.

  "Pretty much none, once the initial healing process is over."

  Yes, I know this. Keeping my eyes on the balls, I say, "So you'd rather deal with a lifetime of problems than lose your leg."

  He doesn't respond.

  "So what do you really think about me, Ben?" I ask, this time looking directly at him.

  He whips his head up. "I really like you, Rose. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. This is totally separate. I just..."

  "Don't want to be a gimp like me."

  "No. You're not a gimp. Stop. This isn't about you. It's about me...and how I'm gonna deal with it."

  "But it's about me sorta, because you asked why I stopped talking."

  "So I could know what to expect, I guess. I don't know, Rose." He stands and paces. "You gotta admit, though, your life isn't the same anymore, is it?" He stops, looks at me, and waits for my response.

  I don't give him one.

  "You don't dance anymore."

  "You said no matter what decision you make you can't make it to the Majors, so what's your point?"

  "Holly said you're not the same. You lost confidence."

  "I was in a major accident. It scarred my entire body. That's gonna take a knock on anyone's self-esteem."

  "You won't even go back to school."

  "I am back in school."

  He sits back down next to me. "You are?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh."

  We sit there quietly for a while. I want to walk away, but something's keeping me glued to the bench.

  "Why don't you want to consider amputation?" I whisper. I really need to know.

  After a minute or so, he answers me. "I'm afraid." He looks straight ahead, then at me. His knee is bouncing a mile a minute. "Making the decision to...cut it off...I can't. I almost wish they'd make the decision for me."

  I nod. I get it.

  "It doesn't mean I look at you any less than if you had two full legs. I promise."

  "Don't. Promises. I don't believe them."

  "What? You think I'd lie?"

  "No. No. But...we were promised a future...it was taken away...from all of us. It's not fair."

  "No." He shakes his head. "But...I wouldn't give up on promises. I would never break a promise to you."

  "You didn't show up on Christmas Eve."

  "That was not a promise, Rose. That's not fair," he tells me, sounding a little annoyed. "I never promised."

  "I realize that...but my point is, something horrible came up...and you had to change your plans. I'm not sure what I can count on anymore. Not you, I'm not talking about that, just...you wanna know why I stopped talking?"

  He quirks his lip and nods.
/>   "Because once I uttered a word, it'd make it all real. If I didn't talk, I rationalized that it was all a dream...a nightmare. Most of the time I spent inside my own head...somewhere in the past. There were times I don't think I was even in the present. My mind blocked it all." I take a deep breath and exhale. "Until it couldn't anymore. I guess it was my version of denial - just ignore it and it'll go away. Only...it didn't. And I'm still living this nightmare." I stop to see if he needs to say anything.

  He doesn't.

  "Only now, I've accepted it."

  "You have?"

  "I've accepted that my life has changed. And I'll never dance again. I've accepted that I have to figure out something else to do. I've accepted to not even count on my new plans, because I can get hit by a truck all over again."

  "That's a sad way to live, though, isn't it?"

  "Yes. But I'm sad anyway, so what does it matter?"

  "So...like Johnny, you're just gonna give up." He doesn't ask this, because he knows it's true. Kinda.

  "I'm still here...so...I'm not giving up my existence...just...what I want to do with it."

  "I can't live like that. I can't accept it."

  "So what do you plan to do?" My leg's starting to hurt from sitting so long, so I stand. "God has the final say, so what's the point?"

  "God? What's He have to do with this?"

  "Everything."

  "So...you think no matter what you plan, it doesn't matter, because God will just stamp a null and void stamp across it and say, 'No, Rose, this is your fate.’"

  "Pretty much."

  "What if He's giving us these...challenges to overcome...to learn something from?"

  "What am I learning? What did Johnny learn? That his life was supposed to be better spent in a wheelchair, unable to feed himself? I'm better off limping through life? For what reason?"

  Ben stands and leans against the side wall while I walk off the pain in my knee. "I don't know. I'm not God. But I do know that I've worked too hard for it to be for nothing."

  "Then why opt for option one? I would think a lifetime of complications wouldn't land you a spot in the Majors...but maybe life with a prosthetic would."

  "Yeah. Like it's allowed you to continue to dance?"

  Now I'm mad. "You don't pitch with your freaking leg."

  "And you don't know if you can't dance until you've tried."

  I narrow my eyes at him. Who the hell does he think he is?

  "Worry about your own problems, Ben, and I'll worry about mine."

  I turn around and limp off the field.

  He doesn't call for me to come back. And he doesn't follow me either. But I do feel his eyes on me as I walk away.

  34

  BEN

  "What the fuck have I done?"

  "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I kick the side wall of the dugout.

  "Fuck." I kick it again.

  Then I sit down on the bench, rest my elbows on my legs, and cry.

  I didn't cry when I found out I had cancer and that I may lose a leg.

  I didn't cry when I found out that Johnny lost his will to live.

  These things made me angry and sad, but I didn't cry.

  Watching Rose walk off this field...

  That makes me cry.

  The whole reason I couldn't contact her in the first place was wondering what would happen when I did.

  How could I bemoan the possible amputation of my leg to a girl who's already lost hers?

  How do I tell her that I'd rather risk infection and a lifetime of surgeries than cut off my own leg?

  I can't.

  Because it would end in hurt feelings and heartache.

  Hers and mine.

  Just like it did today.

  I don't continue to throw pitches. I pick up the balls, grab my glove, and walk home. Calling myself an asshole the whole way home.

  "Benito," my mother calls from the kitchen. "That you?"

  "Yeah, Ma." I set my stuff in the back hall and climb up the steps to the kitchen.

  "Did that pretty girl find you?"

  "Yeah. Rose came to the field."

  "You tell her?"

  "Yeah."

  My mother sets a cup of espresso in front of me. "Just made a pot."

  "Thanks."

  "Did you make decision?" My mother just wants this over with. Wants the cancer gone. I do too, but it's not as easy as that.

  "No."

  "Please don't take long to decide."

  "Ma. I just can't just say...I can't. I'm going back to school tomorrow."

  "What? Benny, no."

  "Ma. Give me two weeks. Please. He said I have that long. Two more weeks."

  "Okay, Benny. Two weeks."

  "Thanks."

  Going back to school is futile. I can't finish out the semester and I can't start the season, but I can't stay home. Since I haven't withdrawn yet, why not? I spend the rest of the night surfing the Net. Searching Osteosarcoma. Searching its risks. Searching Rose.

  ***

  I skip Wednesday classes since I don't leave home until eleven, but I do go to practice. Coach knows what's going on with me, and I appreciate that he's promised not to say anything. I'm allowed to play until I can't anymore.

  "Ben. What the fuck? Where you been?" Jax asked.

  "Flu. All better." I hate lying, but I can't tell him.

  "Cool. Now get your ass back on the mound. We need you. We're scrimmaging this weekend."

  "I heard."

  "Season starts in two weeks."

  "Yup."

  "Coach tell you a couple scouts are gonna be at the first game?"

  "No. He didn't."

  "Really?" Jax is surprised. "You'd think he'd tell his star player."

  "You'd think." But I know the real reason he didn't tell me - because it doesn't matter anymore.

  "Hmmm. He probably thinks there's no reason to worry with you. You're ready for the Majors now. You don't even need your senior year."

  I ignore that and get on the mound. Jax jogs off to first base, and we throw the ball to each other until the rest of the team gets in place.

  ***

  The next day in Musicology, before I even find a place to sit, I explain to the professor my absence from the first few sessions. She nods in understanding and as I go to take a seat, I nearly collide with Rose, whose eyes are on the floor.

  "Rose."

  "Ben." She draws out my name, a whisper on her lips.

  We stare at each other a moment, but she breaks it first to find a seat. I sit down next to her.

  "I'm sorry about the other day. I'd like to explain myself...if you'll let me."

  She nods.

  "Can I see you after class?"

  "No. I have to meet with Professor Sherman."

  "Oh."

  I'll have to wait to talk with her, because class has started. Today's topic is music and the emotional voice - how psychologists are using music to elicit underlying emotions and help therapists unleash unconscious elements of human emotions. It's an interesting subject, one I'm sure will come in handy when I'm sitting across from some professional ball player who doesn't know why he's not playing at his full potential...or something like that, but I don't pay much attention. First of all, now that the possibility of never playing in the Majors has become more of a reality than ever, being a sports psychologist seems satirical. Second, all I can think about is the girl sitting next to me, and how I managed to hurt her, when she's the one person I never wanted to hurt.

  After an hour and fifteen minutes of pretending to listen to the professor, I approach Rose at the end of class. I'd love to ask her why she decided to come back to school and what prompted her to take Musicology, but I have to clean up the mess I made first, so I beg for her forgiveness instead.

  "I don't want to hold you up," I say while she slides her books into her bag, "but I really am sorry. I spoke wrong. How my words came out is not how I meant them. You have to forgive me. You just have to."

  "Ben," s
he interrupts my third plea, "it's okay. I forgive you."

  Whew. I feel myself starting to breathe easier. "Thank you. Then can we just...get back to where we were. There's so much to talk about."

  "Ben." She shakes her head. "I don't want to get back to where we were. I'm sorry." She moves to head toward the front of the room.

  "What? Wait. Please."

  She turns toward me.

  "Why?"

  She shakes her head. "I just can't." I receive a sad smile before she walks away.

  "Fuck," I whisper so she can't hear me.

  ***

  I go to practice at three, but I suck. Every single pitch is angry and off mark. I throw my glove across the field and walk off. Twenty minutes into practice.

  35

  ROSE

  "Come with us, Rose," Holly begs.

  "Nah. You two go. I'll be fine."

  "I'd love to get to know you, Rose," Mick says. "Holly talks about you all the time. I'd love to hang with my girlfriend's best friend."

  I smile. "Thanks, Mick. Maybe another time. I'm not really up to it tonight. Thanks, though."

  "You want me to stay home?" Holly asks.

  "No. Go. Really. I have some research to do anyway."

  "All right. Have it your way. I'll be home in the morning. I'm staying at Mick's tonight."

  "Have fun."

  Since no one is home tonight, I bring my laptop into the living room instead of staying in my room like I do most nights. Professor Sherman asked me to do a special assignment on healing the mind through dance. Her asking was not coincidental. Evidently, she'd heard of me and learned of my accident and has been asking my previous professors about me. Originally, I was disappointed that she'd gone through the trouble - it's just another form of staring if you ask me. But she said I'd get extra credit for the class, and she also hoped I'd get something out of it. Professor Sherman was a competitive dancer herself and had heard of me through the dance world. Since my accident, she'd researched dancers with disabilities to learn more. There are tons of us. It's not like I hadn't researched them myself, but it seems such a small percentage make it to competition level...or Broadway. In any event, I agreed to the assignment and thanked her for her concern. I still feel violated in a way, because why does every person who meets me think they can fix me? And why do they assume I need fixing at all?