Page 152 of Tiny Fractures

“Okay, I’ll stop by on Wednesday,” she said to me before turning to my dad. “Call my office if he’s released prior to that and I’ll come to your home.”

My dad nodded, and she left.

***

I didn’t get discharged before Wednesday, and not even on Thursday. But on Friday morning, after the respiratory therapist again tortured me for an hour and a half, one of the surgeons who operated on me told my dad that they’d release me that afternoon. A few days prior, the doctor and my dad had talked about sending me to a rehab facility to regain some strength, but all I wanted was to go home. My dad and I fought about it. A lot.

“Ran, our house isn’t equipped with what you need right now. I don’t think we can even get you up to your room with that knee,” he tried to reason with me, pointing at the contraption that had been completely immobilizing my knee for three weeks by then. Even getting into a wheelchair so I could actually use the bathroom and take a hot shower—best shower of my life, by the way—took every ounce of my strength.

“I don’t care,” I argued. I knew I was being unreasonable and stubborn, but all I wanted was normalcy. “I’ll sleep on the couch; I’ll use the bathroom downstairs. I’ll claw my way up the stairs. I don’t care. Please, Dad!”

But in the end the doctors and my dad prevailed, and I was sent to another hospital for rehab purposes. I spent three more weeks there trying to get back some mobility. I didn’t think it was possible, but the rehab hospital sucked even more than the other one because I spent so much of my time in physical therapy for my hand, my shoulder, my lungs, my knee, and the visiting hours were much more limited. The unpleasant result was, of course, that I got to see much less of Cat and my friends. I spent way too much time stuck in my own head, and slowly but surely everything began to catch up with me… and not in a good way.

***

By the time I’m finally, finally released, it’s October. My left hand and shoulder are healed enough that I’m no longer reliant on a wheelchair. I’m able to use crutches to get around, though it’s still hard work and requires a lot of energy—energy I really don’t have yet—and I typically have to rest every ten feet or so, needing to catch my breath or just sit the fuck down. I’m not used to being so damn dependent on people, and I hate how weak I feel. It’s pissing me off.

My lungs are slowly healing, as are my ribs. Really deep breathing still hurts, as does coughing, which I don’t do so much now that I’ve recovered from the pneumonia I apparently contracted while I was in a coma. Who even knew that was a possibility?

Most of the bruising on my body is pretty much gone by now, though the one around my left eye is taking a bit to resolve. The lack of movement and even greater lack of appetite have resulted in some steep loss of muscle mass and weight. I’m down almost twenty pounds from my previous weight and my clothes feel baggy when my dad and Steve pick me up to take me home on Friday afternoon.

It feels weird to drive up to the house. My car is still parked exactly where I left it the night I came home from Cat’s and instantly my head is flooded with memories. I’m suddenly not so sure I can go into that house. As much as I wanted to just go home, I don’t know that I can actually do it now that I’m here. I feel paralyzed, panic filling my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“You ready?” Steve asks, holding the passenger door of my dad’s Tahoe open for me, my crutches in his hands. He must see the panic in my face because he squats down next to me, looking at me intently. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I can go in there,” I admit, trying to focus on my breathing.

“Yeah you can. You know why? Because Cat and Shane are in there waiting for you. And because this is your home. And Onyx will be so excited to see you. And because I’ll be with you, and so will Dad.”

He’s right—all of those are good reasons. I close my eyes, taking deep breaths in, holding them for a three-count, and letting them out slowly.

I let Steve help me out of the car, carefully positioning my still-immobilized right leg so as not to put any weight on it before grabbing my crutches and carefully hobbling up the stairs and through the front doors.

Cat

I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day, feeling like a child on Christmas Eve, because Ronan is finally getting released from the hospital today. I just can’t wait. It’s been six weeks to the day since I was with him outside of the hospital setting, five weeks since he woke up from his coma. Everyone is really happy with how fast he’s healing from his physical injuries. His knee and ribs are taking the longest to heal, but that was to be expected. It’s the emotional trauma we’re most worried about.

Ronan hasn’t talked about what happened to him that Saturday; he hasn’t opened up to me, his brother, his dad, or even Shane. We don’t push him or prod in any way. Despite Ronan’s reluctance or refusal to discuss even anything remotely related to the abuse he endured, the impact it has had on him is obvious to everyone who’s close to him. Ronan is quieter, more subdued than I’ve ever known him to be. His appetite is lackluster, especially given his stature; he rarely eats, and when he does, he never finishes his plate. Sure, the hospital food probably isn’t really anything to be desired, but Ronan also doesn’t eat the food any of us smuggle into the hospital for him. And he’s fatigued; everything seems to cost him an incredible amount of energy. The worst part is that even with the passage of time and his physical recovery, his mental and emotional health seem to be declining day by day.

I’m aware that he’s been seeing a therapist a few times a week. My mom mentioned early on to me, after Ronan had woken up, that she thought he would need some therapy quickly. She was delighted when I told her that he was getting help already, though she was honest with me when she sat me down one afternoon couple of weeks ago.

“Kitty, I know you really care about Ronan,” she told me warmly.

“I love him, Mom,” I told her, making her smile.

“I know. And I know he loves you, too. That’s been obvious to me for a while now,” she said with an earnest nod. “But, sweet pea, I just want you to be aware that the next few weeks and months are probably going to be really difficult. Severe trauma like the kind Ronan has suffered is hard to overcome, and everyone responds to it differently, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I nodded.

My mom shook her head and sighed. “There will be triggers for Ronan, especially once he comes home, back to the place where really bad things happened to him. It’s like a soldier returning to the battlefield,” she continued, and I creased my eyebrows. “And it won’t always be predictable what will set him off and what his reaction will be.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Mom?”

She exhaled deeply again. “You’re so young, Kitty. I just want you to be prepared; I want you to think about if you’re ready to weather something this tough at your age.”

I finally understood what she was trying to relay. “Are you telling me I should break up with Ran?” I asked, a noticeable edge to my voice.

“No, but I want you to at least think about whether you’re ready to make such a commitment right now, or whether it might be better for you to take a step back and give Ronan and yourself a little distance while he tries to work through his trauma,” she said, her voice warm but resolute.

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