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by Shari J. Ryan

  We’re both silent while we sip from our cups, using the coffee as an excuse not to speak. “How’s Dad?” I ask.

  She shifts her weight around in her chair, appearing as uncomfortable and awkward as I feel right now. “Not good. Aunt Laney is driving him nuts and he spends most of the day yelling at the insurance company, trying to get things resolved quickly. He’s frustrated. I guess taking his anger out on people makes him feel better, although I’m not sure how.” I nod, because I truly understand this. I won’t bother asking if he wants to see me. I can assume her response based on his absence.

  “How was the funeral?” I ask hesitantly, keeping my eyes locked on the miserable rods puncturing through my skin.

  She pulls in a rigid breath. “It was a beautiful ceremony. The church was full with family and friends, and people we didn’t even know. Tanner was kind enough to do the eulogy. He did such a wonderful job.”

  Tanner. I haven’t heard his name in years. He was Blake’s childhood best friend. They met at the bus stop on their first day of kindergarten and became inseparable. I remember being jealous of their friendship; it was around that time when Blake lost interest in playing with his stupid little sister. They did everything together—sports, overnight camp. They even went to the same college. But Blake moved home to save money after graduation, and Tanner moved away for an executive position at a hotel in Vegas. Even though it’s only six hours from here, they didn’t speak much after that. It happens, I guess. I lost touch with my close high school friends when we all went off to college, and the few friends I made at Northeastern University weren’t worthy of keeping in touch with after graduation. I never had a true best friend. Not like Blake had with Tanner.

  “It was nice of him to do that,” I say, knowing if I weren’t immobile in this bed, I would have insisted on giving the eulogy. I assume most people wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me, though.

  “Tanner is a saint.” Mom clutches her hand around the crucifix dangling from her neck. “Would you believe he took a month sabbatical just to help your Dad and me with whatever we need?”

  “Wow. That’s—that’s very sweet of him.”

  “That boy has always been such a good friend to our family. God bless him.” She looks up toward the ceiling as her eyes film over with tears. She grinds her jaw back and forth and looks back at me. “As a matter of fact, he asked if he could come visit you. I told him I needed to speak with you first.”

  Maybe he’ll come in here and tell me how horrible I am, how this is all my fault, and how I should be suffering more for the pain I’ve inflicted. That might actually make me feel better. I deserve it. “Sure, he can come visit.”

  “I’ll let him know. Visiting hours are eight to four, right?” I want to say, “I don’t know,” because the truth is: no one has come to visit me in the past three weeks. My sarcasm wouldn’t help things.

  “I think so.”

  She looks away from me, finding any other part of the room to look at besides my face. I’m guessing our exchange is over, and I’m assuming I won’t see her again for a while. Regardless of the internal struggle between loving her daughter and hating her for what she’s done, I can’t imagine she’ll end up with the desire to be around me much more than she has been. “I want you to take care of yourself, Felicity. I’ll come visit again soon.” The word soon reminds me how long I’m expected to stay here.

  “Thanks for visiting…and for the coffee. It was nice to see you.” I try to remain strong. I try not to break down in front of her. That would just make this harder for both of us.

  She tosses her empty coffee cup into the small trash bin and pulls the thick strap of her purse up and over her shoulder. I notice as she’s preparing to leave that her blouse isn’t ironed as it would normally be, and her jeans look like she’s worn them a few times since washing them last. She’s not the woman I once knew. It’s evident her grief has taken the place of her usually impeccable appearance.

  When she reaches the doorway of my room, she rests her hand on the wall and turns to face me, as if she wants to say something else. She looks at me for a few seconds then forces a tight-lipped smile, turns and leaves. I assume the silence took the place of I love you, the words she has always said to me when leaving or hanging up after a phone call.

  The pain in my heart is heavy, almost like someone is sitting on my chest, which makes it nearly impossible to breathe. The sensation never eases. Though I can persuade my mind to sometimes think of other things, my body won’t seem to allow me to forget, not even for a second. I’m assuming my heart will always know the truth and it remains in a constant state of pain because of it.

  I lift my headphones to put them back in place, just as a nurse walks in with a tray of breakfast foods. “Good morning, Sunshine. How are we feeling?” She places the tray down and lifts my chart to review what the last nurse has written. Her auburn curls bounce around over her shoulders as her head bobs from side to side, as if she’s read the same thing over and over again. “Okay,” she says, her voice full of exuberance. When she places the clipboard back down, her dusky eyes glance up at me with curiosity. “You had company this morning, I saw. Was she an aunt?”

  Most moms wouldn’t wait three weeks before visiting their critically injured daughter. This is an exception. “It was my mom, actually.” The shocked look I was expecting twists along her face. Her gaze speaks of her disappointment. “Better late than never, I always say.” It’s what people say when they can’t think of a proper response. But I know how lame it sounds.

  I try to close the conversation on this subject, dreading the how does this make you feel? question I keep getting. I wonder if they think I’m suicidal? “So I think the pain meds are wearing off. I’m in a lot more pain today,” I say, looking down at the puffy areas of my leg.

  “It does look like you have a bit more swelling this morning. I’ll see what I can do about the pain. For now, though, eat up. You’ll need your energy to begin physical therapy this morning.” The thought of moving makes me lose my appetite. Have they not taken a look at my leg? How could they possibly expect me to do physical therapy? Doesn’t that involve moving my broken body?

  The nurse sees the apprehension in my eyes. She sits in the chair Mom was just sitting in and holds my hand. “It’ll be okay. They’ll start slow.” Slow or fast, the thought still sickens me to the point of wanting to cry. I’ve never had physical therapy before—never had a need for it. I went twenty-two years without breaking one single bone, not even a toe. I guess everyone’s luck runs out at some point. Mine did, in so many ways.

  I try to eat the few morsels of food I can stomach, but I’m not one to eat when I’m upset. I’m the opposite. My health is pretty much on a downward spiral, heading nowhere good. I push the tray away as an unfamiliar man in scrubs enters my room. I haven’t seen him before. He’s either here to take me to physical therapy or he’s new.

  “Felicity, right?” he asks.

  I clear my throat to answer, but my breath has left me. “Yes,” I whisper. Until now, the nurses have been female with the exception of a male nurse who was old enough to be my grandfather and looked a little like Dan Aykroyd. But this one looks to be about my age, and the word hot doesn’t quite do him justice. I’ve never actually seen a man in real life who could pull off thick black-rimmed glasses, but it’s as if the style was created with his face in mind. For a split second, I forget I’m lying in pajamas with rods lining the outside of my leg from my thigh down to my calf. So attractive. I haven’t even looked in a mirror in three weeks. I’m sure I’m on the verge of horrifying, if I haven’t reached it already.

  “That looks pretty painful,” he says, placing his clipboard down on the table. He moves around to the left side of my bed to get a closer look. He appears intrigued as he inspects the landscape of damage, then looks right at me. His aqua eyes are piercing; they’re like a splatter of colors that blend seamlessly, purposely matched to create the perfect wash of jade, turquo
ise and hazel. His dark lashes accentuate the whites of his eyes. I have to look away to break our stare. But you know that sensation after you close your eyes after staring at something so bright for too long and your mind creates the identical image within the darkness behind your closed lids? I have that.

  His eyes are all I can see now.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. His hand gently rests on my wrist and my eyes snap open. I realize I zoned out while he was looking at me.

  “No. I’m not okay.”

  Anytime I’ve been honest with people about my pain over the past few weeks, they’ve given me their best sympathetic look. Whether it was a detective, a psychiatrist, a doctor or nurse, the looks have been consistent. Everyone feels bad for me, even though they shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be right for me to take sympathy from anyone right now. Killers don’t deserve compassion.

  This one doesn’t glower or curl his bottom lip into a pout. Instead, he unfurls a pretty perfect smile. “So…you know what’s cool about my job?” he asks.

  I don’t even know what his job is, which makes his question hard to answer. “Not a clue.”

  “I get to make people like you okay again.” I want to tell him that my pain is deeper than what he can see, but if he thinks he can fix me, I’ll let him try. “I’m Hayes.” He extends his hand. “I’ll be your physical therapist.”

  And I know in this instant, I will never be the same.

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