Page 15 of This I Know
I take it in my hands and pause. It’s a photo of my dad and me. I’m there, about nine years old, at the end of the school year celebrating my third grade graduation. He looks silly and carefree, like he usually did in those days. His tall stature cowers over me, his long arm wrapped around my shoulder, drawing me in. This was before he passed away. My arm is slung around his waist and I look deliriously happy.
I hug the picture against my chest. Then I slip it carefully into my suitcase between a few articles of soft clothing. I touch the area in a moment of silent prayer before turning away toward the rest of my things.
It only takes a few minutes to pack the rest of my belongings, and now I’m left with nothing to do but wait for my mom to get back with the van. I take one more look around, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. My eyes scan the room and land on my bed. My pillow. I go over to it and lift it up. I almost forgot my journal. I the small, pink notebook and the pen lying beside it and bring it back to my wheelchair. Since I have some time, I might as well write one last entry before I leave this place for good.
November 23
I saw him again last night. It wasn’t too late, maybe only 7 o’clock, but nurse Nancy gave me an earlier dose of my medication than she usually does and I really needed to sleep it off. I hate how that stuff makes me feel. It makes me tired and brain-dead. Anyway, I thought about it, and I don’t think he’s real. I’m pretty sure he’s a guardian angel or something. Maybe he was sent to take care of me. I’m not sure I even believe in that stuff, though. I’m probably just hoping, making something up like our Psychology classes have taught us our brains love to do. So really, I’m not sure of anything anymore.
I read over what I just wrote. God, my brain really is still not with it.
I’m resting my eyes when I hear a tapping on the door. It’s my mom. That’s one thing I’ve appreciated during my stay – how respectful everyone is of your privacy. No one, not even your mother, dares to barge into a private hospital room unannounced. It’s one of the benefits of being a sick person (the only one, perhaps), and it’s totally underrated.
She stops in front of me, out of breath. “The van’s ready.” She looks around at the packing I’ve done. “And it looks like you are, too.”
“I couldn’t sit still.”
She laughs. “I figured you wouldn’t. I was just being nice.”
She reaches for my duffle and in one swift motion, hauls it over her shoulder. I’m immediately jealous of her strength.
I tuck my journal away with the same carefulness as I had the photo, then zip up the suitcase. I hoist it onto my lap.
“Say goodbye to this place,” she says. She’s carrying her purse on one arm, a few grocery bags full of snacks and other miscellaneous items on the other, which look to be weighing her down, and now she’s got my heavy duffle.
“Want some help?” I offer.
“I’ve got it. You make sure we haven’t missed anything, will you?” And she leaves me.
I do just that. I wheel myself around the small room one last time, opening and closing the dresser drawers as a precaution and checking that there’s no crumpled, hidden clothes stuffed under the bed. I’m about to head to the van when something catches my eye. On the floor, near my bed, at the base of the nightstand, lies a sparkle of color. I move closer and pick it up. It’s a small pressed flower, purple with delicate yellow stripes. It’s so dry that it looks as though it should break from being held, but it looks like it’s been pressed expertly and it’s surprisingly durable.
That’s strange. It must be from one of my visitors, and maybe it fell out when my mom moved the duffle bag.
My mom reappears at the door. “What’s that?” she says.
I stuff it into my pocket. “It’s nothing.”
She pauses, catches her breath and then walks over to me. She runs her hand along my jaw. I can read her so well that I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s having a moment. She’s thinking,We almost lost you, and now here you are, going home. We still have you.
I do my best to smile. I place my hand against hers. “I’m glad I still have you, too, Mom.”
She shakes her head. “I hate it when you do that.”
I hope I’m not squishing the flower.
Another thing being gravely injured has taught me: life is hard.
And bylife,I don’t mean struggling to get good grades and trying to find the time to get your chores done so you don’t get yelled at. You know, the usual simple high school life that everyone takes for granted. That’s insignificant now. I mean every little thing, things you normally don’t think about – that’s what’s hard.
Getting into the van is hard because it’s a struggle to figure out how to do it without falling or hurting myself more. Riding home is hard because every little bump in the road feels like my leg is getting hit with a sledgehammer. Getting out of the van is hard because I foolishly choose to leave my wheelchair behind and even with my mom’s help, I slip and almost fall onto the damp concrete.
But being home … that’s the best feeling in the world. I sink into my bed, curl up, and I never want to move.
My mom removes my arm from her shoulder and kisses my head. “There you are. Rest as long as you need. Alright?”
I grin and nod, then close my eyes. She takes it as her cue to leave me alone, and I hear the door click shut.
I lean over to inhale the scents of my favorite sheets, pillows, and stuffed animals. I tell myself,Yep, this is what I’ve been waiting for. Screw the world – I’m staying right here until I get better.
