Page 24 of How to Walk Away

SO BEGAN THEstrangest day of my life—one of them, at least. Top five.

What I wanted most all day was exactly what I wanted least.

I desperately needed time alone to process the news that Chip had just given me, and I just as desperately did not ever want to process anything—or be alone—again. I needed to take an emotional breath, but I was petrified to do it. So I spent the day mentally panting, light-headed and oxygen deprived, with my soul crying for air but my brain refusing to breathe it—and also dreading the night, when I’d have no distractions from every impossible thought that would rush in without my permission.

My parents startled me by arriving with lunch—Tex-Mex takeout from my favorite spot—before I realized any time had gone by. They had big, anticipatory smiles, as if fajitas might make everything okay for me.

I didn’t touch the food—too nauseated from the meds—but I thanked them. Not even the idea of the food was comforting. My dad gave me the report on driving Chip home: He’d thrown up twice on the drive—“kind of a motif today”—once out the window, and once all over the dashboard. His parents were waiting in their driveway, and they steered him inside to sleep it off.

“Poor Chip,” my mother said. “I hope they offered to pay for a detail.”

Poor Chip?Was Chip the one we felt sorry for?

“He’s not handling this well,” my dad said.

My mother gave me a pointed look. “Sometimes I think people are more worried about him than about you,” she said, as if we were making chitchat.

“I don’t need people’s worry,” I said. I was worried about me. That was enough.

“He shouldn’t have said what he said to you today,” my father went on.

“He told me I look like a pizza,” I said. “Is that true?”

“No, sweetheart,” my dad said. But my mother looked away.

“I’d like to get a look,” I said then, catching my mother’s eye. “Can I borrow your compact mirror?”

But the headshake she gave, I knew from a lifetime of experience, meantno way in hell. “You’re not ready.”

Okay. Maybe she was right. Maybe I’d learned enough today. On to the next question—the one I didn’t want to ask. But I paused a long time. I took a low breath. “He also said I was paralyzed,” I said at last.

My mother sat up a little straighter.

“Is that true?”

My father gave me a sad little shrug. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing you’re still on our insurance.”

My mother had insisted that I stay on the plan they kept for their employees until I was settled in my career, even though the premiums were higher. We had argued about it more than once.

I hated it when she was right.

“What does that mean?” I asked, turning to my mother, who was braver.

She let out a big sigh. “From what the doctors have told us, only time will tell. It takes about six weeks before the bone heals and all the swelling in your spinal column clears out and we can see what kind of damage is left. Right now, the swelling itself could be blocking nerve signals. It’spossible that once everything has healed there will be no blockage at all, and all normal function will come back.”

I read both of their stoic faces. “Possible,” I said, “but not likely.”

“Not very likely, no,” my dad said. “The doc is very encouraged by some parts of your nerve responses and less encouraged by others. But he also says there’s real mystery involved in these kinds of injuries. He said there are people you think will never take another step who wind up running marathons.”

“Or becoming underwear models,” I said, my voice like a robot.

“Exactly,” my mother nodded, like that would be a good thing.

“So we’re waiting,” my father explained. “Doing everything the docs tell us, and waiting.”

My mother still couldn’t look at me for more than two seconds at a time. “The point is,” she chimed in, eyes on her taco salad, “it’s all about attitude.”

I squinted, like,Really?“Sounds to me like it’s all about swelling and nerve damage.”

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