Page 77 of Sparking Sara

She shrugs. “I won’t be running marathons anytime soon, but it’s an improvement.”

“I’m really proud of you,” I say, pulling a chair up next to hers. “I meant to tell you that yesterday when you got in the cab like you didn’t have a care in the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“After my parents’ accident, I was terrified of cars. I only got in them when absolutely necessary. For an entire year, I rode my bike to work. And that’s not easy to do in Kansas City, Missouri. You made me feel like a wimp when, not four weeks after your accident, you got into a car like it was no big deal.”

She shakes her head. “Why would I be scared, Denver? I don’t even remember the accident. One minute I was road-tripping with Lydia and the next, I was looking up atyou, barely able to move or speak.”

I motion around her room. “Yeah, but you see what it did to you. It took years from your life. It made you forget the person who was most important to you. Doesn’t that make you angry? Aren’t you pissed at the world? At God?”

“I’ll admit it sucks having to learn to walk again.” She touches the right side of her head. “And I have a six-inch scar as a permanent reminder. And who knows if I’ll ever be able to paint again the way I once did. But the fact is, since I don’t remember those years, there’s nothing to be upset about.”

She nods to a bag in the corner of her room. I recognize it as the bag Oliver packed some of her things in yesterday. “That stuff—Prada bags, gold-rimmed wine glasses from Sheiks—that’s not me. I can’t believe it was ever me. I mean, I know I was a bit self-centered growing up, and maybe I was over-confident. But sending back a blanket two times because it ‘wasn’t soft enough for my sensitive skin?’Who does that? And maybe I don’t want to be that person anymore. So, no, I’m not pissed at God. Maybe this is God’s way of making me the person I was meant to be before I got sidetracked.”

I grab some napkins and serve us each a slice of pizza.

“Well, I’m glad you forgot how much you liked tofu,” I say. “No way would I have put that on a pizza.”

She laughs. “Me, either.”

“How did it feel seeing your apartment yesterday?” I ask.

She glances back at the bag of stuff she didn’t unpack. “The only thing that really felt like home was my studio. Nothing else seemed right. That wasn’t my furniture. Those weren’t my clothes. It felt like I was in a stranger’s apartment.”

“I’m sorry. I hope it will get easier for you. I think it will.”

She nods. “Maybe. The good news is that something seemed to change with Oliver yesterday.”

“Change?”

“When he came for dinner last night, he let me feed myself. And he brought cheeseburgers.”

My eyes go wide. “He did?”

“And he brought me some more clothes. Clothes that fit. Go check them out.”

I walk to her closet and open it. I look at the shirts hanging on the rack. I pull one out and hold it up with raised brows. It’s a t-shirt with the flag of Great Britain on it. “Wow,” I say.

“That’s not even the worst one,” she says.

“Oh, Lord, there’s more?”

I pull out another one. “Viva las London?” I say, laughing as I read the front of the shirt.

Sara laughs with me. “Apparently Oliver has no fashion sense, but he’s trying. And he no longer makes me eat tofu or black beans, so that’s huge.”

I make a face. “Nobody should have to eat those.”

We finish our lunch and then Donovan comes to get Sara for her afternoon therapy. He has her trying to do squats and jumping jacks and other things that are very hard for her to do with her weak left side. On the surface, she seems almost back to normal. But when it comes right down to it, I realize she still has months of therapy. Maybe more. And she may never walk perfectly again. She may never run marathons. She may never paint.

It’s the last thought that worries me the most.

~ ~ ~

Back in Sara’s room, she settles into her bed, worn out from physical therapy.

“Somethingiswrong,” she says. “You’ve been acting differently all day. Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

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