The Girl I Didn't Marry

by Annabelle Costa

  Intensive care. Nick’s in intensive care. That’s bad, right? I mean, people don’t say, “Jimmy’s doing great! He’s in intensive care!” The fact that he’s in intensive care means he’s not in good shape.

  But I already knew that.

  I take the stairs up to the second floor, following signs through the maze that makes up this hospital. I end up in some sort of locker room on my first attempt, then I turn around and start over again. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be wandering the hospital for the rest of my life when I look up and see Nick’s mother.

  Mrs. Moretti is standing in front of a vending machine. She’s usually very attractive and put together, but right now she’s wearing a wrinkled dress and her bun is coming loose around her face. And she’s not actually trying to buy anything at the vending machine. She’s just staring at it. After a few seconds, she wipes her right eye with the back of her hand.

  “Mrs. Moretti?” I say softly.

  She startles and turns to look at me. Her brown eyes are red and swollen, and for a moment, I’m certain Nick has died. Or at the very least, he’s in terrible shape.

  “I…” I bite my lip. “I’m Jessica. Nick’s… friend.”

  At first, she looks at me blankly. But then her eyes soften in recognition. “Jessie.”

  I nod.

  “Nico talks about you all the time,” she says with that hint of an Italian accent.

  “Oh,” I murmur.

  She furrows her brow. “What happened to your face?”

  I’d been hoping it wasn’t so bad, but based on the reactions I’m getting from everyone here, I was obviously kidding myself. “I’m fine.” I take a deep breath. “How is… Nick doing?”

  She shakes her head, her eyes lifted skyward as they fill with tears. “He is not doing so good, Jessie.”

  It’s like someone punched me in the gut. My knees feel weak and I have to put my hand on the wall to stay on my feet. “Is there… any chance I could see him?”

  “It’s supposed to be family only,” she says quietly. “But… I know he would want to see you very much. Maybe it will help.”

  “He’s awake?”

  She nods.

  If Nick is awake, he can’t be that ill, can he? He’s not in a coma, at least. It sounds like he’s going to pull through. I want to ask more than anything, but I can’t very well ask Mrs. Moretti if her son is going to die.

  Mrs. Moretti leads me through a set of double doors into a quiet unit filled with private rooms. We walk to the end of the hallway until we get to a room with the name “MORETTI” in block letters on the door.

  When I enter the room, I see Nick lying in the bed. He looks like the same handsome Nick that I kissed two days ago, but several shades paler. He’s sleeping, blowing air from between his lips, a two days’ stubble on his chin. I see an IV coming out of his left arm, but that’s the only sign he’s ill.

  “Nico,” Mrs. Moretti says.

  I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll actually wake up as promised. After a second, his head rolls to the side, and his dark eyes crack open. When he sees me standing there, his eyes fly the rest of the way open.

  “Jessie,” he gasps.

  “Nick,” I murmur.

  I glance behind me and see that Mrs. Moretti has slipped out the door to give us privacy. I bend down next to the bed so that I can look into his face. Then I see his expression darken. “What the hell happened to you, Jessie?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” God, he’s the one who was shot. I just have a few bruises. “How are you feeling?”

  Nick takes a shaky breath and winces with pain. “Not great, but… Jessie, was it your dad? Did he do it?”

  “Nick, stop it,” I say. “I’m okay. Really.”

  “It was your dad, wasn’t it?” He rolls his head to stare up at the ceiling. “That asshole hit you. And I’m in here, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” I say, hoping to put an end to this conversation. “I’m just worried about you.”

  He takes another few shallow breaths. “Did… did Ma tell you…?”

  I frown at him. “Tell me what?”

  Nick is quiet. He reaches out and takes my hand in his. Immediately, I get that tingle I always do when he touches me. “Nothing. I’m gonna be fine. It’s just… it’ll take some time to recover.”

  My body floods with relief. After Mrs. Moretti’s tears, I expected… I don’t even know what I expected. Something horrible. But Nick looks… well, tired and pale, but not terminal. He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.

  “Come ‘mere,” Nick says. He reaches out and tugs on my shirt collar. I lean forward to press my lips against his. He doesn’t try to slip me any tongue, which his understandable considering the guy just got shot, but it’s a lovely kiss. It will tide me over until the next time I see him.

  Nick

  When Jessie leaves my hospital room, I know it’s the last time I’m gonna see her for a long time. She doesn’t know it, but I do.

  When I first saw her, I was deliriously happy for about two seconds until I took in the bruises on her face. A split lip. A black eye. Someone gave it to her bad, and I bet my life it was her father. Some kid at school ratted us out to him.

  Seeing Jessie beat up like that might have been the worst moment since I got shot. I wanted to murder her father for doing that to her. But instead, I’m stuck in this bed. I can’t stand up to her father for her—I can’t even fucking stand up.

  The rage and frustration made me want to scream.

  Ma didn’t tell her what happened to me. Jessie has no clue that my legs don’t work right now. I’d like to keep it from her forever, but I know she’ll hear it eventually—I bet Chrissy already heard it from someone who heard it from someone. So fine. I can’t stop that from happening, but as I look at her bruised face and golden hair, I think to myself that there is no way this girl is ever going to see me in a wheelchair. No fucking way. That will never happen.

  So I tried to make that kiss good, because I knew it was the last one for a while. Although I was too weak and tired to make it that good. Anyway, the next time Jessie and I see each other, I’m going to be walking again. It’s a promise I make to myself.

  After Jessie leaves, I start drifting back into sleep. They’ve drugged me up on account of all the pain in my belly and it’s getting late anyway. So I shut my eyes and then I’m out for the count.

  When I wake up again, it’s light out which means it’s gotta be the next day. I vaguely remember getting half woken up a bunch of times during the night, but this time I see something that gets me wide awake.

  Tony is sitting in front of my bed.

  That fucker.

  “Nico,” Tony says in a hoarse voice.

  I roll my head away. I can’t even look at him.

  “You saved my life,” he says. “Those guys were trying to kill me, you know.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say flatly. “I thought they were trying to shower you with bullet-shaped presents.”

  Tony leans forward, buoyed by the fact that I answered him. “Look, you’re going to be okay, Nico,” he says. “You’re going to walk again. I’m not worried at all. Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about. Right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I still didn’t want to get shot.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tony says quietly. His brow furrows and he looks really sad. “This opened my eyes up. I mean, I coulda died the other day. I… I think I’m going to quit hanging around with those guys and start working for Pop.” He frowns. “After all, he’s going to need me this summer since you’re not going to be around.”

  That comment stings. I always work for Pop during the summer. But there’s no way I can go around fixing shit in his buildings if I can’t get out of bed.

  And now Tony’s gonna do it. Before, Pop told Jack that I was gonna be in the charge someday. That I was the one. Except now…

  Shit. I don’t want to th
ink about it.

  “Good,” is all I end up saying.

  Tony smiles. “And then when you come back to work, we’ll be together. It’ll be great.”

  Yeah. Great.

  Pop’s face appears at the door, and I see that Jack Kahn is behind him, although keeping his distance. Technically, it’s family only here, although Jack is close to being family. At first, I think they’re gonna come in, but then Pop just motions to Tony to come out of the room.

  “’Scuse me, Nico,” Tony says to me as he gets up.

  I watch my brother stand up and walk out of the room to talk to our father. I can’t do that anymore. I’m watching everyone who comes in here, at how easy it is for them to walk around. Like it’s nothing. They don’t appreciate it.

  “Tony,” Pop says in a low voice that he don’t think I can hear. “Those kids have split town. You know if they got any relatives not too far away?”

  “Joe got an aunt in Jersey,” Tony says. “Hoboken, I think.”

  “Hoboken,” Pop repeats. “Jack’s got a lead on one of them, but we’re having trouble with the others.”

  Jack says something I can’t make out and my heart speeds up. I got a bad feeling I know what they’re talking about.

  “We’ll find them.” Pop’s voice is a low growl. “And when we do, I’ll get a call in to Eddie. He’ll take care of them.” There’s silence outside the room and then an anguished grunt. It’s a sound I never heard before—the sound of my father crying. “Jack, look what they did to my boy.”

  My own eyes start to tear up. But I choke the tears back. I’m not going to cry.

  Real men don’t cry.

  Except when their son gets shot.

  Chapter 26

  Jessie

  I skip school on Monday and Tuesday. Nick called me on Monday while he knew Dad would be at work, and we talked for a few minutes, but then he got tired and said he had to go. He said that I shouldn’t visit the hospital again because he was too tired for visitors, but that he’d be home soon. I asked him when, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he said.

  Chrissy calls me to tell me the homework assignments. I don’t want her to come over, because even though the bruises are fading, I don’t want the town gossip to know that my father beat me up. She already knows my father can get physical—she’s seen my mom with bruises. Chrissy told me that I should report him. I told her she was being crazy. Report him? To who? And what good would that do me? If Dad got in trouble for hitting me or my mother, that would just make him more angry.

  Chrissy’s got a really nice family, so she doesn’t get it.

  When Dad gets home from work on Tuesday, I’m in my room, doing my homework while listening to music. It’s a Whitney Houston album that I absolutely love. She’s probably my favorite singer of all time. She’s so talented and you know she’s going to be belting out songs till she’s like ninety. I’ve got my Walkman lying on the bed and my headphones in my ears when Dad comes into my bedroom.

  I wish I could still lock my door, but I can’t. The entire opening is splintered and broken from when he kicked it open the other day, so the door barely even closes, much less locks. But it would have been nice if he at least knocked before marching into my room.

  Also, I don’t like the smile on his face.

  “Take those headphones off,” my father snaps at me. “I don’t know how you can concentrate on your studying when you’ve got music blasting in your ears.”

  I obediently remove the headphones. Just a couple more months of this and then I’m gone. And Nick and I can finally be together.

  “I heard about your boyfriend,” Dad says. “How he went and got himself shot.”

  So that explains the smile. He’s here to gloat about Nick getting hurt. Asshole.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Dad snorts. “I’m sure he was just minding his own business, on his way to church, and some people he didn’t even know came out of nowhere and shot him.”

  I don’t say anything. There’s no point.

  “Well, I guess he’s not going to be causing any more trouble, eh?” my father says. “Those days are over for him.”

  I narrow my eyes at my father. “What do you mean? He’s fine. I…”

  I almost told my father that I saw Nick. Good thing I stopped myself. The last thing I want is for my lip to get split open again just when it’s starting to heal.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Dad says.

  I try to push away a sinking feeling in my belly. “What did you hear?”

  My father raises a light brown eyebrow at me. “You didn’t know? Steve downstairs said it looks like the kid got paralyzed. The doctors told his parents he’d never walk again.”

  “That’s not…”

  I’m about to tell my father that it can’t possibly be true. But then I wonder. Is it?

  I remember the way Mrs. Moretti was sobbing in front of the vending machine. The way Nick had trouble when he was trying to sit up in bed. I thought he was just weak from being shot, but maybe that’s not all it was.

  Oh my God.

  My father is watching my face, obviously taking pleasure in my shock. I hate that he’s the one who got to tell me. How come Chrissy didn’t know this? Chrissy knows everything.

  “He’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life.” Dad’s got a big smile on his face now. “He probably won’t even be able to fuck you anymore if he’s paralyzed. Too bad, huh?”

  “Stop it,” I say as the tears jump into my eyes.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being happy when someone gets exactly what they deserve,” Dad says. “And he deserves this.”

  “When I leave here,” I say in a low voice, “I will never come back. Never. Do you hear me?” My voice is shaking now. “You will never see me again.”

  “You’ve always been an ungrateful bitch.” My father shrugs. “Good riddance.”

  Chapter 27

  Nick

  The doctor brought me a brace I’m supposed to wear when I’m sitting up in bed more than forty-five degrees. It’s made of plastic and it’s got two pieces, one that goes on the front, one on the back, and they Velcro together. I feel like a tortoise inside that stupid brace. It’s uncomfortable as hell with all the staples on my belly, but now that they’re letting me eat some meals, I’m sick of trying to keep food down while I’m nearly lying flat on my back.

  I just finished lunch and I’ve still got my brace on when a woman in solid purple scrubs comes into my room pushing a wheelchair. I instinctively cringe.

  “Nicolas?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “My name is Michelle,” she says. Her high ponytail swings behind her head as she talks. “I’m a physical therapist. Your doctor wanted me to come see you and try getting you up and out of bed. So I’m going to do an exam and then we’ll get up.”

  I look down at the wheelchair and my stomach turns. “I don’t feel like doing that. I’m tired.”

  “I know you’ve been through a lot,” she says. “You’re probably still hurting a bunch. But getting you up and moving as soon as possible is the best thing for you. Your blood pressure has stabilized and your incisions are healing well, so Dr. Stark said to get you up.”

  “I’m up already,” I point out.

  “Out of bed,” Michelle clarifies.

  I look at the wheelchair again. The thought of sitting in that thing makes me want to throw up. “Look, Michelle,” I say. “I know you mean well, but I’m not interested in a wheelchair. I’d like to focus on walking only.”

  Michelle frowns at me. “My understanding is you got a complete spinal cord injury. Can you move your legs at all?”

  “No,” I admit.

  It’s not for lack of trying. I spent the better part of two hours yesterday staring at my legs and trying to get them to move.

  “So how will you walk?” Michell
e presses me.

  “Isn’t that what physical therapy is for?”

  “No,” Michelle says. “It’s not. If you can’t move either of your legs at all, then you can’t walk. It doesn’t matter how much therapy we do.”

  “Look.” My voice rises a few notches. “I’m not sitting in that chair. Not now—not ever. So you’re wasting your time unless you want to try walking therapy.”

  Michelle purses her lips together. At first, I think she’s going to march right out of my room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits down in the wheelchair and leans in to look me in the eyes.

  “Nicolas,” she says quietly. “You have to understand that with the kind of injury you have, walking is not a possibility. It will never be a possibility. A wheelchair is the only way you’re going to be able to get around from now on, so the sooner we teach you to use it, the better.”

  I glare at her. “And I say you’re wrong.”

  She sighs. “So there’s no way I can convince you to try sitting in this chair?”

  “No, sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m not giving up on myself.”

  Michelle looks like she’s got more to say, but she doesn’t say it. Instead she takes the chair and leaves the room. I don’t relax and start breathing normal again until she’s completely gone.

  This is gonna happen more and more now. People are going to bring me wheelchairs and insist I try using them. But I know the second I do, that’s giving up. It’s accepting that this is going to be my life now—that I’ll be crippled forever. I won’t do that.

  I reach for the remote to turn on the television, since physical therapy isn’t happening. Before I can get to it, the phone on the table by my bed starts ringing. I reach for it, my fingers falling about an inch short. I grunt in frustration. My lower body has become dead weight, keeping me from reaching stuff anyone else would have no problem picking up from the bed. If I could roll over, I could get to the phone. But I can’t.

  Damn. Maybe I should have done some physical therapy.

  I grab the railing of the bed and use the strength in my arm to pull myself over a couple of inches. It’s not a good angle, but I manage to do it and I grab the phone just as I’m sure it’s going to stop ringing.