Push Girl: A Novel

by Chelsie Hill

  My eyes closed.

  I don’t remember going to dance class for the first time, but it was a story my mother loved to tell. She brought me to the intro class for kids at the studio, and I knew the minute I walked in there, at five years old, that it was my new home. I’ve seen the pictures; I wore a pink leotard and pink tights and tiny pink ballet slippers and my blond hair knotted tightly on the top of my head, secured with a pink ribbon. Mom told me she thought I would be scared. Every time she dropped me off at kindergarten, I cried until I saw Amanda, who was my best friend and attached at my hip from day one, so she thought my reaction to dance class would be more of the same. But instead, when she introduced me to my first dance teacher, I hugged Miss Jana’s legs and smiled the biggest smile Mom had ever seen. I stayed right in the front for the entire class, and I cried when Mom tried to take me home.

  Even at five years old, I knew I was made to be a dancer. My first effortless pirouette. My first kick into the air, when my leg flew impossibly high. My first routine learned and performed to perfection. Dancing was always in my bones, in my skin, just waiting to come out.

  I watched Curt play water polo and I saw how easily it came to him. Treading water while throwing a ball across a pool into the goal and defending himself from the other team. He made it look like it was something he could do in his sleep, even though I knew how much he practiced, how hard he worked for it. Dancing was like that for me. It was my entire life. From five until seventeen. I was going to dance in college. I was going to figure out a way to dance as a job.

  That had always been the plan.

  Before this. Before some A-hole drunk driver plowed into my car, yanking my dream, my life, the thing I loved away from me.

  Dr. Nguyen stopped talking, and when I opened my eyes again, he was looking at me, waiting for me to reply. I’d zoned out so long ago, I had no idea what he’d even been saying.

  “I’m a dancer,” I told him, as if bringing this fact to his attention would make him realize what a horrible mistake this whole thing was. It’s not like I was just some random teenager who lost the use of her legs. I needed to be able to walk because I needed to be able to dance. I needed to be able to dance like I needed to be able to breathe.

  Dr. Nguyen looked at me, really looked at me, and a flicker of sadness and sympathy passed through his eyes. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 7

  My restless, dreamless sleep was interrupted by voices in my hospital room. I used to be a deep sleeper, able to doze off anywhere and everywhere and sleep like the dead until Mom literally dragged me out from under my covers. But since the accident, since all these nights in the hospital, I woke at the slightest noise. I never felt rested. I never felt comfortable. I never felt like myself.

  Today, these voices jolted me from sleep because they were different from the voices I’d grown used to. These voices weren’t Mom or Dad, who’d started visiting in shifts. They didn’t belong to Dr. Nguyen or any of the nurses I’d gotten to know—Laura during the days, usually, who tried to make me laugh with her terrible corny jokes, and Carmen in the evenings, who told me the plot lines of all the soap operas she watched. No, these voices were new. Not unfamiliar, but not ones I’d heard since I’d been in this room.

  “She’s awake,” Amanda said when my eyes fluttered open. She had her trademark huge smile on her face, that smile that always made me feel better when I was bummed out about something, and her eyes sparkled. Like me waking up right now was the single most miraculous thing she’d ever witnessed.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Jack said. He sat next to Amanda, and he wore his normal beanie, even though it was late September in Southern California and probably still surface-of-the-sun hot outside. His hair was a little longer than the last time I saw him over the summer, and blond curls circled around the edges of his knit cap.

  It was no surprise that Jack and Amanda were my first nonfamily visitors. They lived next door to each other and they were friends with both each other and me; we’d been quite the trifecta back when Jack and I were dating. But we hadn’t been a threesome in almost a year, despite the best efforts of both of them, and being all together again like this gave me both a sense of nostalgia and a feeling of unease.

  And I won’t even mention my epic disappointment that my first nonfamily visitor wasn’t Curt.

  “Stop lying.” I tried to sound light, like we were chatting over lattes at Starbucks and not uncomfortably gathered in my sterile hospital room. Since they were here, I figured I might as well try to ease some of the awkwardness. “I know I’m a hot mess.”

  After much begging, Mom finally brought me a mirror yesterday and let me see myself. Trying to prep me for the reality of how I looked, she warned me that I was still healing from the damage of the accident and that, unlike my spine, none of the damage on my face was permanent. Luckily the air bag and seat belt kept my head from smashing through the windshield, but I was still pretty banged up. Cuts from the shattered window, two black eyes from a broken nose, swelling from all of the above. It was surreal looking in the mirror; it was like I was looking at someone else entirely. Because besides the injuries, the person in the mirror looked lost. Empty. There was no light in her eyes, no life in her weak smile. If not for my long blond hair and the small scar I’d always had right above my eyebrow from when Amanda’s little brother, Sean, threw a toy truck at my face when we were kids, I’d have never recognized myself in that girl. But what was a swollen, cut-up face and lost-looking eyes when my legs didn’t work? At least this would change with time. At least this would heal.

  Jack smiled a nervous smile and put his hand tentatively on my arm. It was the lightest pressure, but it was comforting. “You look amazing, Kara. Truly.” He let out a small staccato laugh. “Besides, modeling is actually ranked one of the worst jobs for women in America. The average working model only makes like eleven dollars an hour. Looking perfect all the time isn’t even worth it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How long have you been holding on to that fun fact?”

  “We saw pictures of your car,” Amanda said, changing the subject. She twirled her long braids around in her hand, a sure sign she was as nervous as I was. “It’s a miracle that you survived. When you didn’t wake up right away, God, we were so worried. I’m so glad—”

  “You’re such a rock star for making it out of that accident, Kara. Not everyone would’ve survived that.”

  “I didn’t do anything special,” I mumbled. And I thought, It’s not like I tried to stay alive. And I ended up paralyzed, anyway.

  But it occurred to me suddenly that they might not know about my legs.

  I pulled my arm out from under the light pressure of Jack’s hand. “So, did my parents tell you? About…” I trailed off because I hadn’t said it out loud yet, and I didn’t want to. It was almost like me saying it, admitting it, meant I’d never be able to turn back.

  Amanda’s eyebrows drew together. She gave me a little nod, and we didn’t say anything else. Jack didn’t even jump in with a fun fact about how many paraplegics go on to fly to the moon or cure cancer. They didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  Silence fell over the room.

  “Oh,” Jack said, and he jumped up from the chair and reached behind him. “We brought you some stuff.”

  Amanda’s sad look fell away, and that big smile was on her face again. “We figured you were probably bored, so we brought you some things to keep you busy.”

  Jack sat down and balanced a bright green tote bag on his lap, looking so proud of himself. He’d always been pretty enthusiastic about things, much more than the average guy, but I could tell he was laying it on extra thick today for my benefit.

  He pointed at the bag. “Books—”

  “Trashy ones. Romance novels, not schoolbooks,” Amanda was quick to clarify.

  “Magazines, a crossword puzzle book, some snacks.”

  “I was thinking I could paint your nails right now. If you wante
d me to.”

  “I’d help, but that would be weird.” Jack smiled. “But I can read to you from this trashy magazine. I hear it says in here that stars are just like us.”

  The unease I’d felt when I woke up and saw Jack and Amanda sitting there next to me was ridiculous. These two people from my past—the best friend I was growing away from and the ex-boyfriend who was still a friend—nothing was weird with them, and I always seemed to forget that.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Curt’s conspicuous absence, though. I didn’t know why he hadn’t come, or why anyone else hadn’t come, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. There weren’t many things more pathetic than asking someone to find out if my boyfriend was going to bother to show up to visit me in the hospital.

  “Thanks, you guys,” I said, forcing a smile back at them. “Really.”

  Amanda smiled, too, as she rustled through the tote bag. “So, hot pink? Lavender? Or black?”

  “Let’s do the black,” I said. “It matches my face.”

  HEY CURT. I’M AWAKE NOW AND I’D LOVE TO SEE YOU. CAN YOU COME BY THE HOSPITAL? 6TH FLOOR, ROOM 6750.

  SOME PEOPLE FROM SCHOOL CAME BY TO VISIT TODAY. I WAS HOPING IT WOULD BE YOU. MISS YOU.

  YOU DIDN’T FORGET ABOUT ME, DID YOU? LOL

  * * *

  “Do me a favor,” I asked Amanda the following day as she sat next to my bed, reading my horoscope from another trashy celeb magazine. (“Changes are afoot for you, Aries.” Interesting choice of words.)

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Can you walk around and tell me who all these flowers and things are from? I feel bad that I don’t know.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She bounced up from the chair and walked up to the first arrangement, a small and delicate vase full of Stargazer lilies. “This is pretty,” she said. She grabbed the card and read it in a dramatic voice. “‘Dear Kara, Wishing you a speedy recovery. Our thoughts are with you. Best, Dr. Alexander and everyone at Pacific Coastal High School.’ Aww, the principal sent you flowers. That’s sweet.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t actually Dr. Alexander. I bet anything it was Mrs. Mehta in the front office. You know she does everything for him.”

  “Fair enough,” Amanda said. “Moving on. Here we have a tasteful arrangement of yellow roses in a clear glass vase.” She moved her hands up and down in front of the flowers like she was presenting them on a game show. “And the card. ‘Dearest Kara, We are praying for your quick recovery. Hope you are back on your feet soon.’” Amanda made a face and shoved the card back into the flowers. “Ouch.”

  “Who was that from?”

  “Your dad’s office.”

  “I guess they haven’t heard the latest,” I said.

  “Well, these flowers are looking a little wilted. Maybe they sent them when you first got in the accident.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t even know if I would live at that point. Much less be back on my feet.”

  “Maybe they are just a bunch of douche bags?”

  “That’s much more likely. Douche bags who send wilted flowers. Boo on them.”

  “Next!”

  “Next we have this beautiful vase of colorful gerbera daisies, which I can already tell you is from me and Jack and does not have a jerky card attached to it.”

  “Those are pretty,” I said.

  Amanda smiled. “Jack picked them out.”

  I couldn’t help but remember the long conversations Jack and I used to have about our favorite things. I told him about so many of the little joys in life that never failed to bring a smile to my face. My jazz shoes with the hole in the toe, the mug I’d made for my mom at a paint-your-own pottery place when I was five, the goofy dance sequence in the movie (500) Days of Summer. There were so many favorites I’d mentioned to him over the years we’d been together, how did he possibly remember how much I loved gerbera daisies?

  “Our card says, ‘We love you, Kara! Love, Jack and Amanda.’”

  “Aww, that’s sweet.”

  “Okay, next.”

  “You don’t have to read them all,” I told her. I didn’t need to hear “praying for your speedy recovery” worded a million different ways, and I certainly didn’t want to know if anyone else wished for me to be back on my feet soon. “I just want to know who they’re from.” What I wanted was to know if Curt ever sent me anything. Mom said he’d been busy with school and water polo, but too busy to go online and order some flowers? Too busy to answer my texts?

  “Okay,” Amanda said, and she peeked at every arrangement left in the room. “Your grandpa, your aunt Erin and your cousins, your dentist—wow, that was nice—and this one is from your dance studio. Look at this cute card! Aww, and everyone signed it, even the little kids.”

  She waved the homemade card in my face, and as much as I wanted to look at all the sweet signatures and notes from the dance girls, I couldn’t bring myself to focus on it. All I could think about was the fact that I’d been in the hospital for over two weeks now, after getting in an accident so bad that I’d lost the use of my legs, and none of those flowers were from my boyfriend.

  I TRIED TO CALL YOU TODAY, BUT YOUR MOM SAID YOU WERE AT PRACTICE. ARE YOU HOME NOW? YOU CAN GIVE ME A CALL ON MY CELL.

  YOU KNOW I’M IN THE HOSPITAL, RIGHT?

  I’M GETTING WORRIED ABOUT YOU. IS EVERYTHING OK?

  Dr. Nguyen, the nurses, and my parents had talked for days now about me learning to use a wheelchair. And I knew it made sense. I couldn’t walk on my legs. I needed to get around. A wheelchair would help me do that. Still, my brain was having difficulty processing the reality of a lifetime spent sitting in a chair. Miracle-walking made much more sense in my head.

  After a few days of talking about the future of my mobility, Dad came into my hospital room and said, “You ready to be on the move, sweetie?” And for one sad second, I thought that my ridiculous fantasy had come true, that the doctors found a miraculous cure for my spine and I’d be back on my feet again soon, like the jerky card said. A nervous flutter spread through my stomach, and I propped myself up on my elbows, waiting for an explanation. But Dad wheeled an ugly, hospital-issue wheelchair into the room, and I felt my face fall. Of course that was what he meant.

  “It’s your new set of wheels,” he said. He waved his hands over the top of the chair, like I was supposed to be impressed. His enthusiasm was obviously forced, but I appreciated the effort. “Now, this is just a temporary chair from the hospital. We actually ordered a special one that’s being custom-built just for you. But Dr. Nguyen thinks you’re ready to get out of bed and get moving.”

  There was something about moving around without my legs that made everything more real, and way more scary. Like getting in that chair was admitting to myself and the world that I was different. I wasn’t prepared to do that, to be that person yet.

  So instead of being excited over the prospect of getting out of this bed, this room, and moving around, I blinked back the tears that had suddenly appeared in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of Dad right now. Not when he was trying so hard. But I didn’t want to get in that wheelchair, either.

  What choice did I have, though?

  “You ready to take her for a spin?” Dad’s eyes met mine, and I saw so much there. Care. Exhaustion. Pleading, but sympathy. That combination of emotions in Dad’s face made me push the tears back down where they came from for now and force a smile. For his sake.

  “Am I going to need a helmet for this thing?” I asked. And for the first time since I woke up in the hospital, we both laughed.

  CURT. WHAT’S UP WITH YOU? PLEASE CALL.

  Between my parents coming by on their respective shifts, Jack and Amanda, and various other family members, plus the nurses and doctors always in and out of my door, I rarely spent a day in the hospital alone. The nights, though, were a different story. The more I was being weaned off the painkillers, the harder it was for me to fall asleep, and the more time I spent scrolling to the end of the Internet on my
phone in an attempt to turn my brain off and get some quality rest.

  One night, after I’d gorged myself on celeb gossip and couldn’t stand to read one more article about an actress’s post-baby body, my finger hovered over my touch-screen for at least a minute before I let myself type “paraplegic + wheelchair” into the search field.

  I was shocked by all the results that popped up, particularly all the videos. People who had filmed themselves moving from their wheelchair to a kitchen chair without help from anyone. Moving from one wheelchair to another. Even one girl popping wheelies on her chair. People in colored wheelchairs and customized wheelchairs and wheelchairs that had seats covered with funky fabrics. Nothing like the boring, hospital-issued chair I’d been using.

  This world of people out there in wheelchairs was so new to me. But it was just that, a world. An entire world I’d had no idea existed, but I was now officially a part of.

  * * *

  Mom wheeled me down the hallway into the elevator and pushed the 2 button. Getting out of my bed and my room was liberating. Leaving this floor of the hospital, going somewhere, it was almost like a vacation. But it was strange doing it via wheelchair, and I still pushed away the fact that I wouldn’t be able to walk out the doors when it was time to go in a few days, like I really wanted to.

  Mom and I fell into silence on the quick elevator ride. She hummed along with the generic music piped through the speakers and I let my mind wander, as I’d been doing a lot recently. Dr. Nguyen had put me on some new pain meds, and these made it hard for me to focus very long, so I often caught my mind traveling to strange places. This time I thought about how I used to choose to take the stairs in buildings to strengthen my legs for dance, and I’d never be able to do that again. Dance or take the stairs.