A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(63)

I can't feel my body. The drugs numb me. They don't numb my mind,  though. That races, replaying everything that happened, hyper-focusing  on the details. The bridge collapsed in the rush of floodwaters. This  stupid state and their goddamned budget problems skipped a few  inspections here and there. They bet on certain areas never getting  rain. And then the rain came.

My father has had the news on in my room. I've heard it-the bridge  collapse on one-eighty-five. They talk about our bus. They have footage  of the wreckage. They've tried to talk to my father about me. They've  ambushed my friends. I was the one injured, the only one injured-other  than the bus driver who had a concussion and my father who had a broken  arm.

Nobody talks about Wes. Even my father whispers when Kyle asks if he's  heard anything. I heard a small blip, once, that there was a search for  one of the students who was caught in the floodwaters. But then nothing.

"It's late, Kyle," my father says. I hear a chair shift and Kyle's heavy feet hit the floor.         

     



 

"It's okay. I don't have to work today. I … he said I could take time  off," Kyle says. His voice is sleepy. He's losing it. He used to lose  his voice when he'd stay awake all night with me at his house. Go home,  Kyle. You're tired.

"Nothing's going to change, Ky," my father says. My eyes twitch under  their lids hearing him speak to my friend with the familiar name he used  to give him-shortened Ky. They have each other. "Go on, get home. You  can come back tomorrow. I don't give a shit what the nurses say about  you visiting."

Good. I don't give a shit either.

It's quiet for a few minutes, but eventually the chair slides again, and  I hear it move all the way to the opposite side of the room. I feel  Kyle step closer. I should open my eyes. But I don't want to-not yet.  I'm going to stay in this dream for a little longer; avoid the  nightmare.

"Hey, JJ," he says. I feel his hand grab mine, and I fight my instinct to squeeze it back. "I'll see ya tomorrow."

His hand slips away, and a few seconds later, I hear the door close. My  father's sigh is long, but he's not leaving. His own chair moves, and I  feel the bed shift slightly as he rests a leg up on the end. He's  getting comfortable for the night. He won't leave. I heard the nurse say  he hasn't left since they set his arm.

"Are they still looking for him?" I ask. My lips are so dry, the words  crack them open when I speak. My voice is a whisper, and it cuts my  throat.

My father's foot remains still. He's quiet. But I hear him breathe  slowly, a long inhale and exhale. I'm pretty sure he knew I was awake,  but he's also relieved. I don't look at him, but I can hear him tremble  when he speaks.

"They're still looking," he says.

I don't say anything more. He doesn't ask any questions. I feel the  threat of my first tear form in one eye, and I let it fall to the cool  sheet under my head. After a few minutes, I feel my father's hand close  around mine, and his head falls against my shoulder. The weight of it  shakes with small tremors. He's crying. I squeeze his hand back, and he  stops. He leaves his head on my arm, and I hear the sniffles as he tries  to be strong.

He's not ready to tell me the rest. I'm not ready to hear it. But I know my leg is gone.



The pretending could only go on for so long. The next morning, it was time to start the long climb through reality.

Infection. Nerve damage. The bone snapped completely. Everyone who spoke  to me gave me the same details and timeline-they had to make decisions  fast. They worked to repair what they could right after the accident,  but the infection was spreading quickly. It was making me sick, risking  more of my leg-risking my life. I had been here for four days, almost  five. At the beginning of day two, the decision was made to cut off my  right leg below the knee. Mid-calf, I'm told. I wouldn't know. I won't  look at it. I refuse.

As much as I can't feel anything … somehow, I still feel my missing lower  leg. That's the first thing I felt when I started to wake-pain. A  sensation that wasn't there because my leg-it wasn't there. Then that  ache shifted to my heart.

"Joss, I'm going to change the dressing. We're going to set a hard cast  over everything later today, which means you'll get to go home," the  doctor says. He seems really impressed with his work. I hate the way he  admires it.

"Okay," I say. I've also learned I have to respond. If I don't, the  adults begin to whisper. They start to talk to me in that fragile voice,  the one used on infants and people who are at risk of losing it.

I've lost everything, so what does it matter?

"Okay," I say to her next question.

I never smile. I don't make eye contact. For the last twenty hours, I've  done nothing but stare out the University Hospital window, my eyes  searching for something. I'm searching for him.

Several minutes pass. I move for the nurse and her assistant. I do what I  need to do so they'll leave, so I can go home-even though I know I'll  hate it there even more. At least at home I can hide in the familiar.

"I called the Jungle Gym. Kyle said he talked to your boss too. You can  take as long as you need. He said he'd hold the job for you," my father  says. Like I'm what? Getting over a fucking cold?

"Call him back and tell him I quit," I say, my eyes wide on the window.  The cars far below weave in a pattern I've memorized. It's the timing of  the lights. Six get to turn, twenty get to pass, and then it starts all  over again.         

     



 

"Joss, don't give up on something. You might want to go back; you loved  that job. The psychologist said familiar is good … " my father says. He  sounds like a brochure.

"Have they found him yet?" I say, ignoring his plea to keep my shitty  job because it's good for me mentally. The only thing I liked about that  job was the boy who gave me a ride home at night. Find him and I'll go  back.

What if they never find him?

"They're still searching," my father answers. His response is several  seconds late. He doesn't think they will. He doesn't know Wes.

"It looks like you get to come home tonight … if they get you through the  cast part early enough. Kyle is at the house. So is Conner. They helped  move some things around, so you can … "

He doesn't finish. They moved furniture so I could get to my room in a  wheelchair. I logged that part of our conversation with the doctor too. I  said crutches were fine, but my father heard it might make it harder  for me to learn my center of balance when I get a prosthetic.

"I'm not going to play ever again, you know?" I say, my back still to  him. I think it's more comfortable for him this way too. He never  answers me. Maybe he needs to believe that he can make me better-be part  of my miracle. I let him.

The sound of the television clicking on drowns out everything else, and I  let the white noise of some college basketball game take over for our  conversation. Hours pass, and my father and I don't say another word to  each other. He trails behind as I'm wheeled to another room where my  cast is set. They want to protect the skin, let it heal without me  risking any setbacks or damage to the wound.

I never want to move. I'm not sure how I could do any damage to anything  other than my soul, and that's already gone. Or at least … it's missing.

When we get back to my room, my things are all packed. There's a bag on  the bed-my duffel from home. My phone is sitting on top of the zipped  part. I haven't looked at it other than once, briefly, to see if any of  the hundreds of texts and messages were from Wes. They weren't.

"I'm leaving now?" I say, my eyes zeroing in on how small my bag is. My  things fit in such a small space, and I'm going to another small space,  to live a small life.

"Heyyyyy … ." Taryn's voice hums from behind me. My eyes flutter to a  close. That's her awkward hey-the one she spoke when my mom died. She  used it the first time I needed stitches, and she was staring at the cut  on my chin. She used it the first time I tried cutting a chunk out of  my hair in the back because my dad wouldn't take me to shave it. She's  using it now.

"Hey," I say back. I almost amuse myself. Almost.

"I packed your things. I told your dad I'd help you get settled in," she  says, shifting to sit in front of me. She perches on the edge of my  bed, ready to sprint. I don't like how everyone feels like they have to  catch me. I just want to be left alone.

My mouth is in a straight line, and I don't have anything to say. The  discomfort of the silence grows until she has to stand. She walks behind  me, my bag in tow, and someone pushes me in the chair until we stop at  my doctor-the one impressed with his cutting-and-sewing job.

"If things heal well, we're looking at fitting her in two, maybe three  months. It's going to be important that she maintains her strength, and  we want to try to keep her off crutches, as much as possible," the  doctor says. He's not looking at me. He's speaking to my father.