Page 23 of Drifting

The thing that pisses me off the most is that I could have Ricky and the guys go over there, but my dumb ass didn’t memorize his number. Why would I when it was on speed dial? But Cin and I shared a phone, and the night of the accident, she had it, and now it’s shut off. I was too fuzzy from the morphine to realize I needed him to give me his number again, and now, I have no way to reach him without driving back to his house, which won’t be for a while.

I just have to hope Cin’s alright.

* * *

As the weeks fly by, things remain semi-peaceful. Most of the time.

We get into our share of arguments, though, especially over clothes. Patty tries to explain that, while my clothes were sufficient for Westridge, they won’t work here, and she hires someone to bring clothes to the house.

This lady measures me from head to toe, then brings out racks of clothes. The first rack is bright pink everything.

Hell, no.

The second rack is filled with pastels and frilly shit. The third rack holds nothing but dresses.

“Are you for real? Do you really think I’ll ever wear something frilly or pastel?” Falling back on the couch, I cross my arms and glare at Patty. “I agree I need to update my wardrobe, but I won’t wear a dress or anything ruffles. And no pink. Period. It’s not who I am.”

“People here can be downright nasty, and that’s just the adults. I can’t imagine what the teens will be. Hannah and her friends go shopping twice a month.” Patty pulls a pale pink dress off the rack and holds it up. “People dress differently here. I don’t want them picking on you because of what you’re wearing. Even Peter’s concerned that your clothes won’t work. He’s the one who said to bring in a stylist.”

“I don’t care what Hannah and her friends say about me or what I wear. You never used to care what people thought of you, either. I remember a time when you didn’t shower for days. You didn’t give a shit if the trailer was in disarray or if I had clean clothes to wear the next day.” I grind my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. She really knows how to get my juices flowing. “Dealing with everything I did growing up with a druggie mom and jumping back and forth from our apartments to group homes, my skin got thick. I don’t give a shit what people think about me. They don’t matter in my life, and in less than a year, I’ll be out of this town, and the people here won’t even remember me.”

I am who I am, and I won’t change, not for anyone.

Face turning red, she shoves the dress back onto the rack. “I’m trying here, but you need to meet me halfway. I can’t fix the things I did in the past. Believe me, I wish I could. I’m not the same person, now, but I did the best I could raising you.”

I sit up straight. “Correction. I raised myself.” I jab a finger against my chest.

She sighs heavily. “I know, but now, I’m trying to do the things I should have done years ago. I realize that won’t make you forget the past, though.”

After that, we come to an agreement. She won’t pick out my clothes, and I’ll stop bringing up the past every time we talk.

I hope Peter paid the stylist well because she takes everything away and brings back new clothes closer to what I want to wear.

* * *

Almost a month after I move in, Patty and Peter drive me to my doctor’s appointment to find out if a can get the cast-off and switch to a walking cast.

After a nurse takes me back to get X-rays and sonograms and brings me back, my doctor comes into the room where Patty and I wait patiently.

He nods his hello, sauntering over to the light board, and hangs up three X-rays. The first one he clicks on shows the bone in my leg where they put the pin in. “It’s healing perfectly, so we can take the cast off and put on the walking cast.”

He points to the x-ray of my arm with all the rod and pins they screwed into my bone. “Your arm needs a few more weeks before we can remove that cast. Do you have any questions?”

When we shake our heads, a nurse comes to take me to another room where I lie down on a table with my legs out. She places a sheet over my other leg and upper body to protect my clothes from debris. Then, a buzzing sound starts, and my leg vibrates. When the buzzing stops, the sound of plaster cracking fills the room.

“Okay, lift your leg, please.”

I do and see her move my old cast out of the way.

Then, she removes the sheet, careful not to get plaster all over the floor. “Please carefully sit up and swing your legs around.”

Following her directions, I glance down. Dead skin covers my wrinkly leg, and I reach down, running my short nails up and down my leg. Aww, finally.

“Feels good, huh? When you get home, take a bath and gently rub off the dead skin. For the next couple of days, apply plenty of lotion.” She holds up a black boot. “I recommend using a crutch for a while. These boots can get heavy.”

She fits it around my leg, then fixes the Velcro so it’s tight on me. “Ready to stand.”

I shimmy off the table, placing my good foot down first, then lift my other. Shit, she’s right. It’s heavy. Handing me a crutch, she follows behind as I limp down the hall to where Patty and Peter wait.

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