Page 11 of Edge of Unbroken

“Thanks for the ride,” I say sincerely. “And the food.”

He smiles. “Anytime. Are you going to be at Shane’s this weekend?”

“Probably not,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to pack for my trip to North Carolina. You?”

“No, I’m heading to Michigan tomorrow. We always spend Christmas there with my mom’s family. But you should definitely come to the hockey game after break is over.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say and clamber out of the car, quickly waving at Drew and his sisters before sprinting up the walkway and the five steps to my front door.

Wednesday, December 22nd

Ronan

I’ve been in Montana for almost two months now. Two months of forcing myself to keep breathing, to keep my heart beating, to continue living.

My grandparents have been doing their absolute damnedest to get me—at least physically—out of the darkness I’ve been holing myself up in.

They’ve staunchly ensured that I attend every single one of my therapy sessions with Doctor Seivert. “No more skipping them, baby boy. No more sleeping away the daylight hours,” my grandmother told me only last week when I wanted nothing more than to squirrel away in my bedroom, shut the curtains, and pass out. All I craved was sleep. I still crave it. All the time. It’s the only thing that seems to fill the emptiness inside me. Sleep. I can never get enough.

But my grandma didn’t relent, just like my grandfather has made it his personal mission to keep my mind and body occupied with work.

Every morning for the past three weeks, my grandfather has woken me no later than 3:30 to start the day.

He’s been taking it slow with me, letting me rest when I can’t make myself put one foot in front of the other anymore, though my grandparents have pushed me a little bit longer every day. I guess that’s the good thing about my upbringing, if there even is such a thing: I don’t have it in me to argue with my grandparents or push back. If I’m told to do something, I’ll do it.

I mostly helped my grandparents and aunt with things that weren’t so damn physical, like cooking. I have to admit that my skills in the kitchen have definitely improved. I’ve also been helping my aunt Erin with the business end of things.

My aunt and her husband Martin run the touristy side of the ranch. Martin handles the bookkeeping and accounting while Erin is a pro at hospitality, meaning she deals with guests who come to visit year-round and occupy the small guest cabins on my grandparents’ 3,500-acre ranch.

But where my emotional recovery is… lagging, I guess, my physical injuries have improved by leaps and bounds. I’m doing a lot better than when I got here or even a few weeks ago. I’d say I’m mostly healed, the only residual issue being my knee, but that’s coming along. I’m able to get around without crutches okay and have been using my brace less and less, except when I get down and dirty with some of the harder labor.

About a week ago, my grandfather decided I was well enough to start working on the ranch with him again, even though I still limp around slowly. Most days I sincerely doubt my usefulness, but neither my grandfather nor his ranch hand, Thomas, give me any indication that what little work I’m able to do isn’t helping them. And I do my absolute best to be of assistance while my grandpa, Thomas, and Thomas’s son Elias—both of whom live in a small, two-bedroom cabin on my grandparents’ ranch—wrangle calves for branding, place new fence posts, or otherwise engage in heavy-duty work.

My cousins Colin and Riley also help out. They’re eight and fourteen respectively, though Riley has already made it blatantly clear that she has no intention of sticking around the ranch once she turns eighteen. My grandmother always frowns at her, then comments to Erin about how Riley reminds her of my dad at that age. My dad, of course, left Montana when he turned sixteen, only to get my mother knocked up during a one-night stand and, well, here we are.

Most days we’re done with the heavy labor around noon, eat lunch, and then I usually crash hard, sleeping for two hours before my grandmother wakes me so I can do a few hours of schoolwork before dinner.

And that’s usually my day. Where my grandpa, Thomas, and Elias always head back outside for more feedings and to check on things before everyone turns in for the night by 8:30, I’m already so wiped out by the time dinner rolls around that I have a hard time keeping my eyes open at the dinner table. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.

***

It’s late morning when I radio my grandpa today. “Athair, would it be okay if I go back to the house?”

I just finished putting the last of the fresh pine shavings in the stalls, then found the nearest straw bales to sit on. If only I had something to elevate my knee with. And maybe a blanket and pillow so I can just pass out right here. It’s taken me way too long to muck out the stalls. I had to sit down a ton to rest and shut my eyes for a moment. And it wasn’t even because my body was tired. It was, but it’s mostly my mind now. I just can’t shake that feeling of not being enough, especially with how useless I am around the ranch. My mom’s voice is in my head—sometimes loud, sometimes less so—telling me what a fuck-up I am.

I have to rest like that several times a day—just sit my ass down somewhere quiet and close my eyes, doing what Doctor Seivert told me to do two months ago: “picture something that feels good to you. Focus on just that, nothing else. Hold that feeling inside you tightly, let it consume you.” Cat. It’s always Cat. She was that feeling two months ago; she is that feeling now.

The radio crackles for a second before my grandpa’s deep voice comes through. “Are you all done in the barn?”

I take a deep breath, then move the radio to my mouth again. “Yep, all done,” I say and sigh.Please let me go back to the house.

“Alright, then yes, you’re released for the day.”

Thank the heavens.I get up from my seat on the straw and take a tentative step. My knee aches, just like it does every time I’m on it for too long. I know exactly what I’m going to do once I get back to the house. I’m going to take a hot shower, then elevate my leg and ice the absolute living shit out of it. That should do the trick.

Before I can get too far, my grandpa comes back on the radio. “Ran, could you grab the ratchet wrench with the nine-sixteenths head and take it back to the house? See if you can’t tighten the bolts on the newel posts.”

“Yeah. Where is it?” I ask.

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