Page 19 of This I Know
Well, today’s the day. The day I’ve been dreading is finally here.
Today is the day I’m going back to school. I’ve put it off long enough, and my mom’s not going to stand for me taking any more time off. She keeps telling me I need to go back. Not only that – she keepsinformingme that I’m going back.
“Just so you know, you’re going back to school tomorrow,” she said last night.
Today, without question. That’s what I’m facing. We struck a deal: as soon as I could walk on my own I’d go back. It was either that or homeschooling, and I definitely didn’t want to stoop to that level. I guess I’m lucky, though. If she’d had it her way, I would have gone back the day after I was released from the hospital. But I can be pretty stubborn, just like my angry leg, and she caved, so I ended up with that deal and a little more time.
And I can walk now. Sort of.
I’m still recovering. But my twice-a-week sessions with Amy have been going well, and I’ve made huge strides, both figuratively and literally. I no longer get as frustrated, and the workouts and stretches she makes me do don’t hurt as much.
As if to make the whole thing official, my mom returned my wheelchair last week. The moment was bittersweet, but I must say I was glad to see it go. I don’t need it anymore. Still, it’s scary to know that if I did need it again for some reason, it won’t be there. I keep telling myself I’ve been getting around fine without help and I needed to separate myself from such an unhealthy fallback. That I’m doing great and I don’t need it. And it’s true – the only thing that lingers now is a little bit of pain and stiffness. My wheelchair was a crutch, both mentally and physically, and I’m glad she ripped it away like a Band-Aid.
My mind still needs some work, though. I have trouble remembering certain things and controlling my thoughts … which sounds strange, but I’ve been told it’s normal for what I went through. My doctor told me my head injury will take the longest to heal. Something about the brain, they said, requires an incredibly long time to fix itself. Which is too bad for my brain and me.
So now wheelchair-less and facing my first day back, I get out of bed, carefully (the last thing I need today is to aggravate my leg and return with an even worse limp), and I make my way to the window to fling open the curtains. It’s no accident that I woke so easily today; I’m making it a point to appreciate every day I wake up and find myself in my own room and not the hospital. It’s a beautiful thing to be given the freedom to sleep in your own bed, with your own choice of sheets and pillows and mattress. There’s no way I’m going to let that go unappreciated again.
The warm sunrise hits my face. I crack the window open and lean down to smell the fresh air as it pours in. The brisk, leafy air is invaded by the scent of fresh breakfast foods cooking downstairs. My mom has always been an early riser, something I inherited from her, so this doesn’t surprise me.
I take a step across the room before my foot collides with something on the ground, something large and bulky hidden among a bundle of blankets.
“Ow,” says Mara, her morning voice muffled and tired.
“Oh, God. Sorry, Mar.” Good thing it was my healthy leg that did the colliding, or we might have to reschedule my school debut.
She rolls over as best she can in her tangled makeshift bed. “Never spending the night with you again.”
I sit close to her on the edge of my bed and let out a sigh. She knows it’s my first day back, and I’m trying hard to hint that Idon’twant to do this.
“I know it sucks,” she says, reading me. “You don’t have to tell me.” She pushes herself up on her arms and blinks hard a few times.
“I’ve been so caught up in other things that I almost forgot how awful first days are. What’s wrong with me? Is that even possible to forget?”
She laughs. “I guess that depends on how traumatized you were by those first days.”
“That’ll change today.”
I moan dramatically and drop my body onto the side of the bed. I let my arm hang limply off the side.
She puts her hand on my shoulder and looks at me knowingly, trying not to break a smile.
“Like I said, it sucks.” She stands, wobbly. “But come on. It’s not that bad. You know everyone’s going to be so happy to see you back. We were worried about you.” She stretches. “And …” She moves closer. “You have me, you know.”
I rest my chin in my hands and stare off into space. “I know.”
I’m getting lost in my own thoughts. I need to cut this out or I’m going to create some sort of uber-dramatic downward spiral.
“Well, let’s get ready,” Mara says.
She gets to work, folding up her blanket, probably so I won’t trip on them. When she’s done, she sets them neatly in a corner of my room.
“Thanks for letting me crash.” She flashes me a peace sign.
“Yep.” I push myself up. “You can shower here if you want. Here.” I walk to the bathroom and return with a fresh bottle of body wash and a loofa.
“Thanks.”
She clutches them against her body. She grabs her clean clothes, adding those to her grasp, and she’s about to leave when she stops.
