Page 20 of Proof Of Life

My heart breaks for him all over again. What if he’s right? And what does that mean for me? I could never be happy with someone if he’s lonely and miserable. If he’s not dating, neither am I.

“Someday you’re gonna meet–”

“Don’t! Don’t fucking say it. Someday I’m just going to meet a nice girl who loves me for who I am and not how I look? Is that what you were gonna say?” I’m speechless, because that’s exactly what I was going to say, and he sighs deeply. “You don’t get it. I don’t want someone to settle for me. I want to be enough.”

I'm sick of it. Fucking fed up with his I’m-not-good-enough spiel. I slip my finger under the gold chain that hangs around his neck and pull him close. “Don’t you get it? You’re not enough. You were never just enough, Wes. You’ve always been more than anyone deserves. And if they can’t see that, in spite of your missing leg, they’re fucking trash.”

Apparently, when my heart is broken beyond measure, or when I’m incredibly turned on, I drop the t from his name. I wonder if he even noticed.

“Wes?” he smirks. “Is this something new you’re trying out?”

Of course, he’s going to focus on that instead of what I said. Ignoring him, I insist, “Someday you’re going to meet some miserable soul who doesn’t deserve you, and because you never make good decisions, you’re going to fall head over boot for them.”

“And you’re gonna be right there to pull me back,” he assures me, pointing his finger into the center of my chest.

“What in the fresh hell is going on in here?” Liza shrieks, pushing her way into the room. Of course, she has to walk in right when we’re hobbling from the bathroom with a cloud of steam billowing out behind us.

“What’s it look like? We’re getting cleaned up.”

“Do you realize you’re at high risk for falls?” She must mean business with her hands on her hips.

“Can’t fall,” I grunt, as Brandt deposits me on my bed. “I’ve got three legs. Can’t fall with three legs.” I’m referring to both of Brandt’s legs plus my one, but from the way she’s glaring, she doesn’t find it funny.

“The least you could have done was shave your face while you were in there,” she huffs. “Lay down so I can wrap your leg.”

“You mean my stump?”

As she’s gathering her supplies, I can see her eyes roll. Liza doesn’t appreciate my dark sense of humor. She spreads everything out on the rolling table beside my bed.

“You look almost human again. I guess you’re not too bad when you clean up.” It's a backhanded compliment, but it’s the best I’m going to get from her.

“You hear that, Brandt? She’s starting to come around. She might even like me by the time I’m discharged.”

Brandt notes the look on her face and laughs. “That might be stretching it.” He’s dressed in a clean pair of BDUs and he catches me looking. “Tomorrow, before you head to therapy, I’ll bring you a fresh pair to change into. We can’t have you rolling down the hall with your ass hanging out.”

After smearing some sort of ointment over my stitches, Liza tears open a new roll of gauze and begins to wrap my limb. I sit up a little straighter and check out what she’s doing down there.

“Do you want to watch? It wouldn’t kill you to learn how to do this yourself. I have a feeling you won’t be here much longer, and you’ll need to know this when you get home.”

The pleasure I feel at breaking free of this sterile prison is overshadowed by a rush of anxiety. Going home alone is filled with so many unknown factors that it’s overwhelming to even consider.

“I’ve never looked at it,” I confess. But I’m mildly curious.

“You haven’t seen your leg yet?” She sounds shocked, her eyes growing wider when I shake my head. “I’ll get you a hand-held mirror so you can see it better.” Liza disappears into the hall and comes back minutes later, carrying a plastic purple mirror. Then she removes the gauze she already applied, uncovering the stitched and puckered skin on the tip of my thigh. My limb now ends just above the knee. Or where my knee used to be.

Brandt slides his hand over mine and squeezes, and I pull away, feeling childish. I don’t need him to hold my fucking hand to help me accept the reality of my lost leg.

Liza tilts the mirror left and right until she finds the perfect angle. It doesn’t hurt to look. In fact, I feel almost numb, strangely detached, as if I’m looking at someone else’s leg. But the longer I stare, the heavier the pressure feels in my chest, and I can feel my heart begin to squeeze. It’s not the sight of the stitches or the scarring. It’s the implications that come with it—the memories, the what-now. My future looks a lot different from my past. I have to relearn the most basic things that I learned as a toddler. And it galls me to admit that I’m afraid.

Quietly, I lace my fingers with Brandt’s, noting his small smile from the corner of my sight. I’m a fool to think I don’t need him.

It’s been a grueling week of rehab, and there’s not one muscle in my body that isn’t screaming out for mercy. I thought I was fit, more or less, but now I’m rethinking my definition of fit. Riggs has me doing impossible shit, like push-ups on the armrests of my wheelchair, while I’m sitting in it. Strapping thirty pounds of weight to my ankle and making me do leg lifts. And today is my favorite, the parallel bars. Or as I call them, the bitch bars, ‘cause I sure feel like one now that I’m failing spectacularly at it.

How hard is it to brace my weight on the rails and hop ten feet in a straight line? Apparently, harder than I imagined. And with my heart rate up, blood is rushing through my veins, and I can feel it throbbing in my stump like a pulse.

I want to sit back down.

I want easy.

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