Page 147 of Learning Curve

“Yeah, yeah,” I retort. Pam grins before walking out of my door.

My rehab hospital room is different from the hospital room I was in at Daytona. And different from the first room I was in when I arrived at St. Luke’s. About ten days into my rehab process here, Dr. Hurst felt I was ready to be transferred to a floor that requires less care from the nursing staff.

So now, instead of getting checked on every two to four hours by the nurses, I only see them around mealtimes. It’s been a welcome change.

Though, if I had my way, all the flowers and balloons and cards and bears and everything else that people have sent me wouldn’t have followed me here. It’s not that I’m not thankful that everyone is trying to support me, but I’m trying to find a way to move on from feeling like a victim all day every day. When I look at it all, I get sad.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Wren greets as she walks into my room with her arms full of a duffel bag and a box, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?”

“I switched shifts with Jessica,” she updates and sets the bag and box down on the small dinette table near the window. “I’ll be here tonight, tomorrow, and until, like, three o’clock on Saturday because I have to work early on Sunday morning.”

She starts to pull items from the bag—a brush, a hair straightener, hair products, makeup, nail polish.

“What is all that?”

“I thought we’d enjoy a little girl time,” she says and flashes a smile over her shoulder. “A spa day, if you will.”

“You trying to tell me I look like a troll?” I tease. She shrugs, and I scoff. “Wow, don’t spare my feelings or anything.”

She laughs. “No offense, but you’ve been slacking on the self-care.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I recently became paralyzed.”

“Oh shit, really?” She snorts. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” I smile, and this time, I actually feel like I mean it. The humor feels good. “My legs don’t work. Like, at all. It’s nuts.”

“But…do your arms work?” she questions with pursed lips. “Because I’m pretty sure you don’t brush your hair with your feet…”

“You really went there, huh?” I retort with wide eyes, but I also laugh.

Wren grins and carries the box over toward me. “By the way, Dad sent a care package of all of your favorite snacks. I hope you don’t mind, but I ate half of the gummy bears on my drive here.”

“Stealing the paralyzed girl’s candy? That’s a new low.”

“Pfft. I guess now isn’t the time to mention that I also ate your Oreos, huh?”

I know it’s crazy, but this entire conversation is my favorite conversation I’ve had in I don’t know how long. It’s as if, finally, someone is treating me like I’m a normal person. Finally, someone isn’t trying to bend over backward for me.

“Dad says he misses you and loves you and plans to come visit Saturday after his morning shift.”

My happy balloon is instantly popped.

Ever since I was transferred to New York, my father has been spending all his time either working or visiting me. I hate it because I want some form of normal for him, too.

He’s always been a hard worker, but this is another level, and that’s all thanks to me and the financial debt my medical care has added to his life. I tried to tell him not to worry about it. I tried to remind him that I’m legally an adult and all the bills should be in my name, but he’s the best kind of guy and refused to hear anything I was trying to say.

Wren grabs a chair and moves it toward my bed, and she gives me no option as she grabs my foot and starts to paint my toes a pastel shade of pink. Normally, I’d give her shit, but now, my mind is doing its typical spiral of all the things that weigh heavily on my shoulders.

Medical bills. My dad working himself to the bone.

My scholarship.

My classes that I’m missing every single day.

My squad and the fact that my injury caused us to lose Nationals. And all the teammates who have reached out, trying to come visit, but I just make up excuses to keep them away.

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