by A. J. Pine
I stare at her as if I’ve just met her, because until now I don’t think I ever thought Tracy existed beyond the walls of this hospital. But she’s married and has a schedule she coordinates with her husband, so I’m sure they can do things that don’t involve the hospital. I feel like an idiot, suddenly, for never having asked Tracy anything about herself, for treating her with the same distance I would a lecture hall professor.
“Would you introduce me to your husband and maybe some kids we might see later this week?”
She gets up from the desk and meets me at the door, the mere mention of her husband seeming to broaden an already radiant smile.
“I’ll take you up there now. I have a client coming in soon, but when I’m done, I’ll meet you guys back upstairs and introduce you to some of the patients if Colin hasn’t done so already.”
I smile, happy to see Tracy happy. But part of me wishes she didn’t agree, said she was too busy. It’s not like I didn’t know my rotation schedule, but the reality of what waits for me on the sixth floor—children, their families—it’s almost too much. I’m good with senior citizens or the occasional sports injury. But kids are another story. I doubt I’d be good for patients so young, so vulnerable. And my selfishness rears its ugly head as I tell myself there’s no way they can be good for me. But I follow Tracy, my feet heavy on the stairs, hoping today proves to be a distraction more than anything else. When we get upstairs, Dr. Colin, as he has all the kids call him, finishes up his morning rounds. He’s tall and slender with sandy brown hair cropped short against his head. When he sees Tracy and me waiting at the nurses’ station, his already sweet grin somehow grows exponentially. Without a thought, he leans down and kisses her gently before any sort of verbal greeting.
“Ew, Dr. C. People can see you, you know.”
I look behind us at a girl in a wheelchair. She has the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen matched by a pair of giant dimples. Her almost black hair hangs past her shoulder in a long braid. For someone so young, she is striking, and I can only imagine what her parents will have to deal with in a couple of years when the boys come knocking on her door. None of this, however, eclipses the reason she’s in the chair.
A blanket rests on her lap, below it one foot, covered in a rainbow-striped toe sock, peeks out. Her left foot. Her right leg extends in front of her, ending below the knee. It’s like she’s a drawing, perfect and beautiful in every way, just not entirely complete. Only she used to be, because the leg that ends at the knee is bandaged and taped, the result, most likely, of a recent surgery.
I should be used to this stuff. I’ve taken the requisite anatomy classes. I’ve been interning with patients. But she’s a kid. And she’s staring me down because I’m unintentionally doing the same.
“Dr. C? What’s wrong with your friend?”
Tracy nudges my shoulder, and I look at her and Dr. Colin.
“Regan, this is Dr. Tracy’s intern, Jess. Jess, this is Regan. And I’m Colin.”
I don’t know who to greet first, so I choose Regan. She reaches out her hand but eyes me suspiciously. I reciprocate the gesture and at the same time look over my shoulder to Colin to nod my hello.
Regan lets go of my hand and turns her gaze to Colin and Tracy.
“Does she talk? Because she’s kind of freaking me out.”
Tracy stifles a giggle, and I feel the heat creeping up my neck as my skin threatens to run through all shades of red.
“Yes!” I blurt, with more than enough fervor. “I mean, of course. I talk. It’s nice to meet you, Regan.”
Tracy and Colin breathe a collective sigh of relief.
“I actually need to get back downstairs. Sweetie, you think you can take care of Jess for an hour?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Tracy kisses Colin quickly on the cheek and heads back toward the double-door exit of the pediatric wing.
Regan feigns gagging herself with her finger.
“I swear, no boy is ever getting his sap on like that and calling me sweetie.”
This time a giggle bursts from my lips, and with the wave of laughter, I let go of my apprehension.
“Did you say, Get his sap on?” I ask.
Regan crosses her arms and replies. “Uh, yeah. Dr. T may be Dr. C’s sweetie, but do I look like someone who would answer to that?”
I’ve got to hand it to her. The girl has some sass.
I look behind me to Colin, but he has somehow backed out of the conversation and is consulting with one of the nurses at the station. It’s just me and Regan.
“So, how old are you?”
She does it again, eyes me up and down. I have the urge to check the zipper on my jeans, but there is no way to do so without being entirely obvious, since my T-shirt rests only as low as my hips, and my hoodie is unzipped.
“That’s your question? I’m obviously the first amputee you’ve ever met, and you want to know how old I am?”
It took Zoe at least a month of living with me to start calling me on some of my bullshit, but this girl sizes me up in minutes. There’s something beneath her feisty exterior, though. Something only someone like me, who’s used to hiding, can notice. So I call her bluff.
“Fine,” I say. “Tell me what happened to your leg, and then I’ll ask you how old you are.”
Instead of answering, her hands move to the wheels, and she starts pushing, propelling herself in front of me. Because Dr. C, my babysitter, seems to be busy, I follow Regan as she rounds a corner and pushes through the doorway of a hospital room. Her room.
The walls in the room are blue as sky, with clouds painted close to the ceiling. On the wall opposite the door is a window. The rest of the room is a scene out of Snow White, with a mural of the banished princess in the woods singing to the forest animals.
“Nice room,” I say, standing in the doorway. “You know, if you like getting your sap on.”
With only the hint of a smile, her dimples take over her expression.
“Car accident,” she says. “Other driver fell asleep at the wheel. My parents got pretty banged up, but they’re okay now. The other driver missed a few days of work. I’ve missed almost the first half of eighth grade. I’m thirteen.”
Regan parks herself by the window, and I join her in the small chair that, along with a small coffee table, completes the makeshift sitting area. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better about a shitty situation. Sometimes there is no right thing to say, so I go with silence.
We sit for several minutes, Regan’s eyes focused on her lap and, no doubt, her newly amputated leg. I watch Snow White and imagine her singing to the birds, wondering how she can be so damned happy when a woodsman was ordered to cut her heart out. I vow to convince Zoe to do a dark rewrite of Snow White in graphic novel form. Cartoon Snow needs to get pissed off . . . and maybe even brood.
“How long have you been here, in the hospital?”
She looks out the window before answering.
“From what I hear, a typical amputation wouldn’t have kept me here much more than a week. The accident was in September. Less than twenty-four hours after it happened, I was lucky enough to get an infection that at first postponed the surgery they thought would save my leg. I guess now we’ll never know. I’ve been home and back since, another infection developing after surgery. I think we’re going on two weeks for this stint, but look at me! First day off IV antibiotics, and I’m still here!”
Her mock enthusiasm includes a flourish of jazz hands.
“I’m sorry.” There is nothing else to say, no consolation for what she’s lost.
“My prosthetic is supposed to be ready to go by tomorrow, which means I’m going to be learning how to walk. Again.”
Regan’s words bite, but her veiled expression says she understands the possibilities.
“Hmmm . . . let me see.” I walk to her hospital door, still ajar, and peek in the folder hanging in the door’s file. “Looks like you are scheduled for your first therapy sessi
on tomorrow at three, which means you will be working with yours truly . . . and Tracy.”
Regan rolls to meet me at the door.
“Are you allowed to look at that?”
I shrug. “As of tomorrow, my name will be added to your chart, so we’ll call this a preview.”
In the first round of my internship, I worked with adults, and their injuries or circumstances were all minor compared to Regan, each one working toward full rehabilitation. Regan will walk again. There’s no question if she’s working with Tracy. But she’ll never be as she was before the accident, and I wish I could tell her how much I get that.
“I like your sock,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever said that sentence.”
This gets a smile.
“I know it’s kind of obnoxious, but I figure people are going to be staring at my legs no matter what, so I may as well direct their attention there. Although, once I have to start wearing sensible shoes, it won’t be as fun.”
She puts air quotes around sensible shoes, and I realize talking to her is no different than talking to Zoe other than Regan swears a hell of a lot less. She’s grown up for thirteen, too grown up.
I kick up a foot, showing off a worn black Chuck.
“I don’t know how sensible these are, but if they fall in the realm, we’re going to design you a personal pair.”
“You can do that?”
I pull out my phone and take her to the design website, and Regan claps with delight. She starts scrolling through designs when I hear Tracy in the hall, which means she’s done with her client.
“I’ll be right back, okay?”
Regan nods but doesn’t look up, and I’m happy to have given her a worthy distraction.
Tracy talks to a couple, Regan’s parents, I assume. They’re discussing the procedure for tomorrow’s first session. When Tracy sees me, she waves me over and makes the necessary introductions. Her parents are nervous for their daughter, so I try to comfort them by explaining Regan is excitedly shopping for shoes.
“I’m sure the prosthetic is already fitted for a certain heel height, but maybe a pair of Chucks will work. She can make her own signature design. She seemed really into it when I left the room.”
They both smile and thank me, explaining how standoffish Regan’s been the past week. Regan gets her dimples from her dad. Even with his slight, worried grin, they light up his face in a way the dimple deprived cannot duplicate. Regan’s almost black hair comes from her mom, and I can see she got the best of both sets of genes. Tracy follows them through Regan’s doorway but not before turning back to me and whispering, “Thanks, Jess. Shoes. Who’d have thought something so simple could turn this morning around for her?”
I came here today for myself, mainly to avoid Zoe, the blacked-out calendar, and my own thoughts. But now I want to stay for a different reason entirely. I want to be here for Regan.
“I’m going to head down for some coffee and give Regan some time with her parents. Think maybe if I pop back up in an hour you can give me a preview of what tomorrow will be like? This is my first experience with an amputee.”
Tracy looks at her phone and then back at me.
“Sure. Other than class at three, I’m just finishing paperwork. The client I saw was a last-minute thing.”
Tracy’s smile shows a flash of pity before she covers it up with her business-as-usual expression, and I think how she must see me as pathetic, hanging out in a hospital on a Sunday when I could be doing anything else people with lives do. But I’m not one of those people.
“Okay. I’ll pop back up in an hour. Let Regan know she can hang onto my phone until then.”
Tracy nods and heads into the room with Regan and her parents. I make my way to the elevators, not sure how much I want to sit in the hospital cafeteria on my own when I haven’t done so in over a month.
Thankful for an empty elevator, I press the button for the bottom floor. Then I burrow into the corner, leaning my head back with my eyes shut. When I feel the movement stop and hear the familiar ding, I open my eyes and take a step toward the door. It’s not until it opens I realize the elevator has stopped too soon, that I’m on the fourth floor, the PT floor. But my momentum builds, and when the door slides neatly into its pocket, I’m already halfway out before I plow straight into a solid wall of chest, the person waiting to get on the elevator. Of course, Tracy’s last-minute client. Adam.
15
He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, a perfect statue causing the perfect awkward silence.
I step back into the elevator, feeling the coldness of my anger at last night’s text but at the same time an undeniable warmth just being near him. I do my best to let the cold win.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my words clipped. “I thought this was my floor.”
I huddle back into the corner, my eyes tracing the lines on the tiled floor. Looking at him is too hard. I don’t want to see the anger evident in his eyes. Any look from him other than his trademark wicked grin will undo me, which forces me to an understanding. I have no anger, not for him. I deserve so much more resentment or retaliation from Adam beyond a generic text. I may as well have thrown him out of my apartment on Friday, because letting him leave like he did was just as bad. Maybe worse.
My eyes abandon the tile and trail up his body—green Chucks, black basketball pants, white T-shirt, and gray hoodie. His chocolate eyes meet mine, and his gaze is everything I want mine to be—hard, stoic, nothing.
The silence has gone on long enough. At this point I’ve shifted forward, enough to place my thumb on the Door Open button.
“You could come in,” I start, “or wait an interminable amount of time for the next elevator to arrive.”
I’ve never had to wait more than fifteen seconds for an elevator here, but still, one never can tell. It’s a reflex, to try and make him stay.
He looks up above the door, as if there’s a timetable of elevator arrivals and departures he contemplates. After a few more seconds, or maybe years, of silence, he takes a couple of steps in. It’s only two steps, and as steady as he tries to make them, he can’t hide the limp or the hint of a grimace that accompanies it. His jaw bears the muted yellow of a healing bruise, and I wonder if he told his teammates what happened, that he took a punch for a girl who never deserved his defense.
He stands in the corner opposite me, looking straight ahead.
“You’re back early,” I say.
He offers a slow nod, not to me, but to the closing door in front of him.
“Early enough to see Tracy?” I ask.
“I came back last night.” His voice is even and cool. “Rode back with the trainer and assistant coach who drove separately from the bus.”
His first game back, one where he led his team to victory, and he didn’t stay.
“I don’t get it. You had an amazing game. You didn’t want to celebrate with the team?”
His jaw tightens before he says, “Don’t, Jess. Just don’t.”
The elevator light indicates floor three, floor two, and before the last light flashes, the one that will free him from my presence, I do something either really brilliant or really freaking stupid. I push the emergency stop. We jerk to a halt, and Adam finally looks at me.
“Shit, Jess. What the hell are you doing?”
Panic takes over, answering my own question with really freaking stupid.
“I don’t know!” I yell back at him. “I don’t want you leaving again, not like this.”
His eyes darken, and I’m sure it’s too late for him to forgive me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.
He reaches for the button, and I throw my body in front of the entire panel. Now I can add dramatic and immature to stupid, a perfect trio of behavior I display only when in the presence of Adam Carson.
“It’s a hospital, Jess. They’re not going to take two people stuck in an elevator lightly. Someone’s going to get us out in minutes. Maybe less.�
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“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m going to be quick.” I slide away from the buttons but position myself against the door.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can think of, which is probably not Emergency Stop material, but it’s all I’ve got. “I shouldn’t have flaked and left you alone with Jake that night at the bar without telling you the truth. I shouldn’t have let what happened between us happen, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have let you leave like I did.”
My breathing comes out in shallow spurts, and I wipe my palms on my jeans.
He shakes his head, letting out a harsh laugh, and I brace myself for him to tell me off, to push the button and walk the hell out of here and get as far away from messed-up me as possible.
“Do you want to know why I’m so pissed? Why I had to make sure I wasn’t sending you mixed signals last night after that fucking interview?”
No. Nope. Don’t wanna know. But I nod.
“Because it’s my fault, Jess. I crossed a line, and though you said you were ready for it, I knew deep down you weren’t. You made it clear all you could give me was friendship, and I said I was okay with it because I would have taken that over nothing at all. I wanted to prove to you that you were worth more than whatever it is you got from a guy like Jake. And I blew it. I blew it with a fucking kiss. But all I’ve thought about, Jess, since the first time we sat in the cafeteria and drank shitty coffee, was to kiss you until you knew how much I wanted you. And I don’t mean how someone like Jake wants a girl. I mean like this.”
He places a palm above my heart, and I try to still the hammering in my chest. His head dips down, his slow breaths warming my skin. Just like I felt knowing he was there while I slept, a sense of safety ebbs through me. And I want more.
“And like this,” he continues, sliding his hand up to my neck and reaching for the hair, always in my face. He tucks it softly behind my ear, and everything in me comes alive at his touch.
“All the wacky shit that goes on in here,” he says as his fingers skim my brow, “like actually liking crappy coffee, loving sexy vampires, being clueless enough not to know your roommate has a twin brother, and brave enough to tell me the truth in front of Jake. Shit, Jess. That’s what I want.”