Page 14 of This I Know
I understand everything Mara said, but there isn’t much time to think about it before I have to leave for my appointment. So we say our quick goodbyes and make plans for her to spend the night before I have to start school again.
And now here I am, in this horrible place known as the hospital’s physical therapy center. Today I’m completely alone, with only the company of the young receptionist, who’s busy typing away behind her desk. The waiting room is like a cube, a small room with only a couple of chairs, some inspirational quotes here and there, and a magazine to keep me occupied. As I wait for Amy, I stare blankly at the dry erase schedule plastered to the wall that’s hanging in public view, right above the head of the receptionist. I move my eyes down the list. There it is, in bold lettering next to my scheduled time: my name, Avery Dylan.
The receptionist glances up at me. Her eyes meet mine for a split second and I look away.
That proves that I’m next. It also proves that I am, in fact, sick, I’m injured, I’m in need of healing. As if I ever really doubted it, and in case I forgot ... there it is.
Tomorrow is my last day in the hospital, and although I’ll still have to return for physical therapy, I’m determined to fix this all as soon as possible. My goal has always been to walk out of this place on my own two feet. So far, that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.
And that’s depressing.
In the middle of my self pity, my therapist appears through a side door.
“Avery?” she says, her voice high and perky. The smile on her face is wide, and I try to return some of her upbeat attitude.
I wheel myself past her and we go straight into our normal routine.
Everything’s harder today. I try to push past the discomfort, the stiffness in my muscles and the weakness and fatigue that’s running through my entire body, and that works for a little while. We’ve been working on my leg the most, since that was where the worst of my injuries were, and that’s been the hardest thing to overcome.
I was shot once in the upper leg, and I don’t remember any of it because I was struck over the head beforehand. How no one managed to hear the massive sound of a gunshot echo through that empty street is beyond me.
“You’re doing great, Avery.”
Amy always says that. The first few times, I actually believed her. It made me feel motivated. Now, I know she must be lying. Because in reality, I’m doing bad. I mean, really bad.
Okay. Maybe I’m being dramatic. I am doing a little better than when I first arrived, of course; my body has healed itself a little. But I’m not happy with where I’m at. I still can’t get out of my wheelchair without help, and when I try to walk I can’t do much more than take a single step without something or someone to lean on. My leg is just too angry.
That’s how I like to describe my leg: it’s mad at me. My leg is pissy. My leg hates me. My leg has an attitude, and it isn’t afraid to hold a grudge. It’s mad at me for allowing it to be injured, and it’s not going to allow me to walk until it just so happens to be in the right mood. And until then, the best I can do is try. Because it’s all up to my stupid leg. At least, that’s what it feels like.
Amy told me that’s silly. She says I’m in control, and that my leg has to listen to me. And at first I believed that, too. But your beliefs change quickly in situations like this, after so much trying.
“That’s enough for today, Avery,” she says as she helps me sit down into the wheelchair. She smiles when I’m all settled, then picks up her clipboard. “I heard you’re going home.”
“Mm-hmm.” I’m rolling up my sleeves.
“How do you feel about that?”
“Good.”
I try to smile back at her, but I feel fake. It’s not all good. For one, I won’t be walking out of here like I’d hoped. And two, I told my mom from the beginning that I wouldn’t be going back to school in a wheelchair. So there’s some drama waiting to happen. My mom was upset at first; she wanted me to be strong, push past everything and not care about what other people thought of me. But it’s not about that. It’s about wanting to return to my old life, the life of giggly, carefree Avery Dylan who loved to dance and stay up late. I don’t want this life to become me, functioning in a wheelchair. Not when I’m only eighteen.
Amy places her hand on mine and I stop moving. She looks into my eyes. “We’ll still meet for a while. You’ll have me.”
Is she sensing some kind of despair?
I press my lips together and nod. “I know. Thanks, Amy.” I have a feeling this is more for her benefit than mine.
She gives me a pat and stands up. I think I see a glistening in her eyes. “Well, there you go. In the meantime, keep up with your exercises. Okay?”
“Wait here, honey.” My mom steps out of the hospital room in a hurry, only taking her keys and leaving her purse.
She’s going to get our car, the big, handicap-accessible mini-van we’ve rented in order to get me home, and she’s leaving me here.
She sticks her head back through the door, the keys jingling in her hand. “I’ll help you pack when I get back. You don’t need to do anything.” She pulls her head back, disappearing.
The hospital is quiet today. In the minute since she’s left, I’ve seen one person pass by the frosted glass wall of my room. I can’t sit here. I start to gather my things the best I can. I’m antsy, and I figure I might as well make myself productive instead of wasting time.
I check out the work we have ahead of us. Not much. This whole time, I’ve been telling my mom not to bring things from my room at home to my room at the hospital in an attempt to stop the inevitable seeping of Old Avery into Hospital Avery. I didn’t want to make myself at home here. That’s dangerous. So because of that, I now don’t have many possessions to pack up, which translates to less required movement for me. What’s my mom talking about? I can do this. I fold a few pieces of clothing and pile them into my open suitcase. I grab for the pile of get-well cards, a few silly letters from Mara among them that I love so much, and a picture frame that I’ve kept sitting next to my bed this hold time.
