Torch

by Roxie Noir

  As bad as Jackson is, it’s pretty much a miracle that he’s alive. Somehow, when Crash ran over him, he only kicked in his ribs, puncturing his lung, and broke every bone in his right leg. If Crash had stepped on Jackson, he’d probably be dead.

  He’s in a bad, bad way, but he’s alive.

  I still haven’t heard back from Erica, my editor at Sports Weekly. She’s probably got bigger things to worry about, though maybe not. I called Bruce this afternoon and gave him the vague updates, and he didn’t say anything about it either.

  I hope it worked. I hope I’m not blacklisted from all photography forever, but right now, I don’t even care. I know I will when I wake up tomorrow, but right now, I can only feel two things.

  One is glad that Jackson’s alive, and that he’s going to be some version of okay.

  The other is tired.

  I brush my teeth and fall into the bed, where I sleep for almost twelve hours.

  Jackson’s still out of it. He manages not to tell me anything else about his dick in front of his parents, but he doesn’t always make a lot of sense.

  I split my day between holding his hand in the ICU and editing photos downstairs in the hospital cafeteria. They’re due to Erica before I leave Vegas, and I just want to get this finished with.

  “You missed the nurse,” Jackson says the next time I head upstairs to see him. “She says I’m great.”

  “She said everything was going as well as could be hoped for,” his mom says.

  “Spoilsport,” Jackson says, but he’s smiling.

  I stay there until he falls asleep again, and then his mom nods her head outside and I follow her.

  “What did she really say?” I whisper.

  She rubs her eyes.

  “They’re taking the chest tube from the punctured lung out tomorrow,” she says. “But they need to monitor that for a few more days at least, along with the bruising to his organs, and he can’t really move his neck at all right now. He’s gotta have another surgery on his leg. He’ll be here for another week, maybe two.”

  Shit.

  “Okay,” I say.

  She puts a hand on mine.

  “I want you to go back to New York,” she says. Her voice is low, but firm, and my eyes widen.

  I thought we were getting along.

  “You need to go back,” she says. “I know you have a life, and a job, and you have to pay your bills, and you’re not doing any of that staying here and watching him sleep.”

  “I can’t just leave,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “That’s why I’m telling you to leave,” she says, her voice gentler. “Because I know you don’t want to, but you need to. Go live your life, and come visit in six weeks when he’s not high out of his damn mind. You can’t do anything here besides make your own life harder.”

  It makes sense, and I know she’s right. I still hate it, though.

  “What happens after the two weeks?” I ask.

  She sighs.

  “He comes and lives with us until he recovers,” she says, crossing her arms and looking into his hospital room. “And, if my prayers get answered, he doesn’t go right back to riding. He’s at least out for this season.”

  I want to ask what then, but I don’t think she knows, either. We still don’t know how long he’ll be in a wheelchair, or whether he’ll need crutches or a cane forever, and figuring those things out is more important than are we gonna move somewhere and live together.

  I swallow and push my hand through my hair.

  “I’ll go back,” I say. “You have to promise to keep me updated.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. Then she smiles. “I like you better than Cassie, anyway. She was kind of dumb.”

  I send the photos in and all I hear from Erica is Thanks, these look good. Which is at least nicer than it has to be. Bruce calls and tells me that he talked to her, and she’s pissed, but loves the pictures. He doesn’t exactly say it, but I think he talked her down. I think I owe Bruce pretty big.

  I read all the rodeo news and blogs and websites. Jackson’s fall is huge news, and the World Championship organizers are giving press-friendly updates, but I’m nowhere to be found.

  It seems like some of Jackson’s luck might have rubbed off on me.

  My plane leaves at an ungodly hour in the morning, so my last night in Vegas I’m curled up next to Jackson in an arm chair, his hand in mine. They’re slowly scaling back the morphine, so he’s stopped nodding off mid-sentence, though he’s not one hundred percent lucid yet.

  His black eye and split lip look better, though they’re not gone. He can move his arms okay, and the tube that was sticking out of his chest is gone.

  I’ve got a couple minutes before visiting hours end, and there’s some game show on TV.

  “Sorry I ruined Vegas,” he says. His voice is still low and slurry, but at least he’s mostly making sense now.

  “We still managed to have some fun,” I say. The rail on this side of his bed is lowered, so I’m sitting in the chair resting my head on the pillow next to his.

  “Then I’m sorry we didn’t have more,” he says.

  I put the fingers of my other hand on his shoulder, lightly. I can feel the muscle there through his ugly hospital gown, and he looks over at me.

  His eyes haven’t changed. The way he looks at me is just as wicked as ever.

  “I’m gonna visit Wyoming next month,” I say. “Think you can be in good enough shape for some fun then?”

  “Well, now I’m inspired,” he says, and grins.

  Then he gasps, and I sit bolt upright.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, but Jackson’s just making a face.

  “My dick still works,” he says, grimacing.

  I realize he’s got an erection with a catheter in.

  “Think about a kitten!” I say.

  Jackson takes a deep breath, and then another. After a few moments, his face relaxes.

  “Maybe it’s not all bad that you’re leaving,” he says, his eyes still closed.

  I just start laughing.

  “I don’t think anyone believes I’m your sister, by the way,” I say.

  “You’re just a very touchy, devoted sister who doesn’t look like the rest of her family at all,” he says. “Who also does a lot of inappropriate kissing.”

  “Don’t think about that too much, though,” I tease, running a hand through his hair.

  “Kittens,” he says. “Thinking about kittens.”

  We go silent for a moment.

  “I’ll miss you,” I say.

  “Not as much as I’ll miss you,” he says. Then he turns his head toward me as much as he can, which is a fraction of an inch.

  “Lula-Mae, am I awake?” he asks.

  “I think so,” I say. “Unless I’m a sea cucumber. Then you’re probably having a morphine dream.”

  “I love you,” he says. “I tried to tell you a couple times but I think I was asleep.”

  Suddenly my eyes are full of tears and I feel like something’s wrapped itself around my throat. I swallow hard, trying to force the lump away.

  “That wasn’t supposed to make you cry,” he whispers.

  “It’s not you, it’s everything,” I say, and even my whisper-voice is shaking. “I hate seeing you like this and I hate leaving you here like this and I was trying really hard to act okay.”

  “I’m gonna be fine,” he says.

  But what if you’re not? I think, but I don’t say it out loud.

  A nurse steps into the room and gives us a quick glance.

  “Visiting hours are over,” she says, and then leaves again, and I bury my face in my hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He puts his hand over one of mine and pulls it to his mouth as I’m sniffling, doing my best not to start sobbing in front of someone who has way more reason than me to cry right now.

  Then he kisses my hand and I fucking lose it. I put my head down on my arm and just sob. I feel like s
omehow, I’ve failed him completely, because he’s still here and still in terrible condition and I’m just going home like nothing’s wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper again, because I can’t even find words for how bad this feels, and because I really, really didn’t want to have a sobbing breakdown like this in front of him.

  Jackson just holds my hand tight. After a while, I finally stop sobbing and then I’m just sniffling. Regular crying.

  “I didn’t want to put you through this,” he whispers. “Watching you cry is the worst part of everything.”

  I sniffle and half-laugh, and it comes out like a weird snort.

  “Only because you’re still on drugs,” I say. “Just wait until they pull you off the painkillers.”

  “Lula-Mae, I did this to myself,” he murmurs. “And you’ve got things to do besides listen to me babble about people with fish heads while I’m half awake.”

  I swallow.

  “You’re not abandoning me,” he says. “You have your own life.”

  I just nod, trying not to cry again.

  “I should go,” I whisper. “They’re gonna kick me out.”

  I lean over again and kiss him one more time, slowly, with tongue, and I wrap both of my hands around his.

  “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll be fine, Lula-Mae.”

  “I’ll see you in Wyoming,” I say.

  I squeeze his hand one more time, and then I leave. I walk down the hospital hallway and take deep gulps of air and try to focus on the future, on what I need to do between now and my plane taking off.

  I’m almost at the exit when I realize I forgot to do something, and I stop in my tracks.

  Then I turn around and power-walk back toward Jackson’s room. A nurse looks up, annoyed.

  “Sorry, I forgot my phone,” I say, smiling as brightly as I can. I probably look insane, but I don’t care.

  When I open the door to Jackson’s room, the lights are low.

  “I’m not in Wyoming yet,” he says.

  I take his hand and bend over his bed and kiss him again.

  “I love you too,” I say.

  He smiles.

  “You come back to tell me that?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I already knew,” he says.

  “I wanted to say it out loud,” I say.

  At the door, someone clears her throat.

  “Wyoming,” I whisper.

  Then I kiss him again and leave.

  29

  Jackson

  After Mae leaves, the days kind of blend together. My bruises fade. I can move body parts — my arms, my left leg — without it feeling like a giant is pulling me apart limb from limb.

  Mae calls me. I call her. I’m not the best conversationalist, but just hearing her voice makes me feel better, every single time.

  I can tell she’s worried. She’s worried about me, and she’s worried for herself, that she totally blew her cover when I got hurt, and now no one will ever hire her again. She tries not to say anything about it, but I hear it in her voice, and I feel terrible.

  We were so close to getting away with it.

  In a week, they move me out of the ICU. My hospital room fills up with flowers, from friends, from fans. ESPN sends a huge bouquet, and so do Ford and Stetson. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s probably a good sign.

  My doctors decide I’m in good enough shape for more surgery. I’ve got a hairline fracture in my right femur — my thighbone — and they can’t let that go for much longer without fixing it, which involves inserting a titanium rod lengthwise through the bone. While they’re in there, they want to screw my kneecap back together and probably put a plate on it for good measure.

  The good news is that even though I also broke both bones in my shin, those just need to be set properly and put in a cast.

  Mae calls the night before the surgery. There’s street sounds behind her, and I imagine her walking from her subway stop to her house. She sent me a video once of the walk, so now I know what it looks like.

  “You walking home?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I got a three-day gig for an ad agency. Today I was shooting ice skaters at the Rockefeller Center. But I got good news.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  A nurse walks in and fiddles with the machine to my left, the one that shows my blood pressure and stuff.

  “The Atlantic wants to send me to Mexico for Christmas,” she says. “There’s this village somewhere outside Mexico City where everyone works for the whole month of December to make the whole square this elaborate, immersive nativity scene, and people flock from everywhere to see it.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and think.

  “I’ve heard of the Atlantic,” I say. “That’s a big deal, right?”

  She laughs.

  “It’s a really big deal,” she says, and suddenly I can hear the relief and happiness in her voice.

  I didn’t ruin her life. I start laughing, even though it hurts my ribs.

  “I think I might have gotten your luck,” she says, quietly. “Sports Weekly told my agent they’re never hiring me again, but I think I’m gonna be okay.”

  “That makes two of us, then,” I say.

  The surgery is first thing in the morning. Before I go in, I get a text from Mae. It’s a picture of people ice skating under a massive Christmas tree as it snows.

  Mae: This is what I’m doing today while you get a metal rod put through your thigh bone.

  Me: In eight hours I’ll be more metal than man.

  Mae: Good luck. I love you. Tell your mom to keep me updated.

  When I’m on the table, the anesthesiologist puts the IV in and tells me to count backward from one hundred. This time I fight it and force myself to keep my eyes open for as long as I can, because suddenly I don’t want to go under, I want to stay here. I still only make it to ninety-four.

  I dream that I’m skating and it’s snowing. I’m in a city I don’t recognize. Probably New York, but I’ve never been to New York, so my subconscious gets it wrong. There’s no one else there, but I can skate down streets, past shops, across a bridge and look down at a river. It’s beautiful, even if it’s lonely. I think about jumping into the water, but I skate on instead.

  “Another four or five weeks, at least,” my mom is saying. “After that, they might be able to put him in a walking cast instead of a wheelchair, but they don’t know the exact timeline for that yet.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. I’m staring at the ceiling. I still feel a little like it’s snowing on my skin, and I’m not completely sure that this is real, either.

  “The MRI is in two days,” my mom says.

  It is?

  I wonder if I can move my fingers or the toes on my left foot. I try, but I can’t tell if it’s working, because I still sort of feel like I’m moving on ice skates even though I’m conscious and in this room.

  “Oh, he’s awake,” my mom says, and holds out the phone.

  I try to take it, but can’t quite manage it. My mom holds the phone to my ear.

  “Mae?” I say. My voice comes out a rough whisper, and I swallow.

  She laughs.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “I’m part robot,” I say.

  A couple days before I get to go home, they take the catheter out. Most of the IVs are gone. I’m still on antibiotics and blood thinners and a bunch of other things, but they finally trust me to pee on my own.

  At first, a nurse has to help me get into the wheelchair. But I’ve made friends, sort of, with one of the male nurses on the floor, and he’s nice enough to help me practice over and over until I can do it on my own.

  The instant he’s gone, I wheel myself into my bathroom. Hospital rooms are pretty much public. The door’s always open, and I don’t think anyone has ever knocked, so the bathroom is pretty much it in terms of privacy.

  It’s five here, so it’s eight in New York. Mae’s probably off work b
y now.

  I’m rock hard before I even maneuver the bathroom door shut and lock it. I’ve spent a week and a half doing my best not to get an erection, so it’s not exactly surprising that my dick already feels like it might explode.

  I wrap my fist around the base, take a picture, and send it to Mae. I try not to get my IVs in the frame.

  Then I take a deep breath and hope she’s not at work.

  It takes about thirty seconds before my phone rings, and I grin.

  “It’s definitely working,” she says, sounding a little breathless. “Nice wheelchair.”

  “See anything else that interests you?” I ask.

  She laughs, and I can hear people talking in the background.

  “It’s like Niagara Falls over here,” she murmurs.

  “That bad?”

  “That good. I’m not even the one who’s been deprived.”

  I raise my eyebrows, my hand on my cock.

  “No?”

  “Your present’s been put to good use,” she says, background noise still behind her voice.

  “You didn’t tell me,” I say.

  “I’m telling you now that you’re in good enough shape to do something about it,” she says.

  I groan into the phone.

  “I pretend it’s you, but it’s a bad substitute,” she whispers. “There’s only so much a toy can do.”

  “What’s missing?” I ask. I’m stroking myself slow, trying to last more than a minute, but it’s not going well.

  “From the toy?” she asks, her voice low, almost a purr. “It doesn’t have a tongue. It doesn’t wink at me. It’s never texted me dirty pictures while I’m running errands.”

  I chuckle.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No, you’re not,” she says.

  I hear a door shut, and suddenly the background noise is almost gone. Mae exhales.

  “If I were there I’d be on my knees with your cock in my mouth,” she says, a new note of urgency in her voice. “Still sorry you called?”