Page 73 of The Scars I Bare
“I’ll make you a list.” I grinned. “In fact, maybe I’ll just order you a stack.”
“Oh, boy.”
“You asked.”
“Hey,” he said, smoothing back my hair as his eyes found mine, “how come I never knew this before? This different side of you? I mean, the girl in the hospital, she never spoke about book obsessions or nerdy parents.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess, after I got married, I let a lot of me go. I thought I was still there, you know—the strong-willed, fiery Cora who kept her job and said no to nannies even though she’d married a rich guy. But I had changed. Blake thought a lot of what my family loved was silly, and in turn, so did I.”
“You miss them a lot.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then, let’s go visit them.”
I smiled up at him before looking up at the stars, feeling more at peace than I had in years. And, for once, my heart didn’t ache.
Recovery Journal: Day Forty-Five
I think the goal of rehab is to empower me.
To make me feel strong enough to go back out into the world.
They’re reteaching me practical skills, like tying my shoes and dressing myself. They’re even trying to help me cope with the changes in my body and how to embrace them.
But all I see is a broken man.
All I see is one arm where there used to be two.
All I feel is frustration where there used to be none.
All I see is a failure where there used to be so much more.
My brother says it will all be better once I come home.
“Let’s get you home and get you settled back into a routine. Get you back in your old life.”
What old life?
What old routine?
The only way I could go back would be if I had the old me to return with. The one with two hands and a lifetime of possibilities. He died out on that ferry, and all that’s left is this new version of me.
Whoever that is.
So, how do I move forward in an old life with old routines when I’m not even me anymore?
“So, you’ve got everything packed?” my mom asked for the tenth time as she was busy making her famous shrimp and grits.
It was a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon, and since I’d been doing an impressive job of getting out of weekly dinners the last few Sundays to spend time with Lizzie and Cora, Mom had tracked me down early today, showing up at my door the minute church was out and demanding mother-son time.
“Yes, Mom,” I said. “I’m all packed.”
“Extra socks?” she asked, helping herself to just about everything in my fridge. “I’ve heard it’s hot in Texas this time of year, so extra socks are always—”
“I’ve got plenty of socks.” I laughed. “Really, I’ve got this.”
She made a pout and an exasperated huff in front of the stove before turning toward me. “I’m just trying to help. You know, you can ask me for it every once in a while.”
