Page 21 of How to Walk Away

He looked up—right at me. “I broke your back. You understand that, right? They told you? You didn’t want to go up in that plane with me. It was the last thing on earth you wanted to do, but I fucking forced you. You trusted me. And now—because of me—you willnever, ever—”

Maybe for the first time ever with Chip, I didn’t see his next words coming:

“—walk again.”

For a second, I thought I’d maybe heard him wrong.

Then, just like that, I knew I hadn’t.

It was like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. My lungs seemed to flatten. I tried to take a breath, but I couldn’t make it work. All I could manage was tiny little flutters.

Chip sobered, reading my face, and peered in closer. “They haven’t told you yet?”

I felt dizzy, I still couldn’t catch my breath, and then I got that salty tingle you get in your mouth right before you throw up.

Chip took a step back. “Oh, my God! They didn’t tell you you’re paralyzed!”

Didn’t see “paralyzed” coming, either.

Next? I threw up. All over the floor, and the bedrail, and my hospital gown, though my mother’s nine-patch quilt from home was miraculously spared.

Right then, as if on cue, the door pushed open and my father walked in, carrying a box of French pastries over his head like a waiter’s trayand announcing, “We’ve got—” But he stopped short when he saw us, and then finished under his breath, “Croissants.”

Chip rounded on him. “Nobody’s told her?”

My dad shifted into action, leaning back out into the hallway—“Can we get some help in here?”—then tossing the pastry box on the side chair and leaning over the bed to check on me. I stayed draped over the railing in case I puked again. Plus, now I was afraid to move my back. Had leaning over hurt it? Had the heaving made things worse? Could I have accidentally just made myselfmoreparalyzed?

My father grabbed a towel and reached around to wipe my face off.

Chip’s outrage seemed to exempt him from caretaking duties. He stayed safely across the room. “She’sparalyzed—and nobody told her?” Chip demanded of my dad again, slurring a little.

“Sounds like you just did,” my father said, tucking my hair back behind my ear.

“She has a right to know, doesn’t she?”

“Of course,” my dad said, his voice tightening, turning to face him. “But not like this. We were waiting for the right moment.”

“Like when?” Chip demanded. “Over Thanksgiving turkey? On Christmas morning?”

“You self-righteous little clown—”

My dad was a big, bearlike guy—a former marine—and Chip was more in the “wiry” category. Everyone knew my dad could crush Chip if he wanted to—and I suddenly understood that maybe that was exactly what Chip wanted.

“Dad!” I called. “He’s drunk. He’s been out all night drinking. Just take him home.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine to me, sweetheart.”

“Just get him out of here, Daddy.” I hadn’t called him “Daddy” in years. “Please.”

My dad let out a long sigh, and as he did, Nina bustled in with a freshgown and new sheets. An orderly followed her with a mop cart and spray bleach for the floor.

I let Nina fuss over me, and get me changed, and reposition me in the bed. I watched the orderly mop, wondering if he’d notice the far splat in the corner. The room seemed to fill with a wispy, numbing fog. It was like the real world was too much, and so my brain was going to blur it out. There were noises, there was talking—I heard my dad and Chip muttering and hissing at each other—and the door opened and closed and opened and closed, but the moment seemed to break into puzzle pieces scattered across a table.

For a long time after Nina got me settled, I tried to hold very still, afraid to move and make things worse. When I finally lifted my head to look around, the only person still left—still stuck—in the room was me.

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