"Why?" I butt in.
They both turn to me, then to each other. After a few seconds filled with glances that feel like I am only getting part of the story, the doctor sits on the arm of a chair, folding his clipboard to his chest, and begins a lengthy explanation about gait and my ability to return to normal activity more quickly if my center of balance doesn't get used to depending on my sound limb.
"What's … normal activity?" I ask. The doctor glances at my father, who chews at his lips and adjusts the way he's standing.
"Well," the doctor begins, looking at his hands clasped around his clipboard, his brow pulled forward. "Normal depends on the goals you set for yourself, Josselyn. If you push yourself, there's no reason you can't participate in sports again. Maybe in a year or two … "
I knew that's where this was going. In a year. A year! What good would that do? I can join some rec league in Bakersfield and fill my Tuesday and Thursday nights after class at the community college with some slow-pitch softball league? I'm never playing again. I'm never going to be the girl with the fire again. I'm never going to get a hit off Caitlyn Moore's fastball and prove myself to college scouts, and my grades are shit. My path ran right into a cliff, and I jumped off.
Now all I'm doing is falling. And Wes isn't even here to catch me.
"Let's go," I say, my eyes focusing on the long hallway before us.
After a few seconds, the doctor stands from the arm of the chair, stepping over to give my father a few more directions, as if he'll remember any of it. He's barely learning to take care of himself. Taryn walks alongside me as the nurse begins to push us down the hallway, and when we get to the curb outside the lobby, Taryn waits with me while my father goes to get his car. She doesn't ask any questions. My friend knows better than that.
The drive home is just as quiet, and I tune her and my father out while they arrange my things. The house looks ridiculous-all of the furniture pushed to the side, making wide paths for me. What's worse is I feel like I should be able to get up, to be able to stand whenever I want to. I catch myself more than a few times pushing my weight on my arms, lifting to try to reach for something, only to fall back into my seat. I'm trapped; my body is a prison.
After an hour, my father leaves us to go to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions. I stay by my window, wishing it were bigger-higher. I want to go to the river. I want to find him. They say they're searching, but how is anyone looking-everyone is here. They've all been here. And I've seen the news. The camera shots are of volunteers and guys in wet suits walking through the area where the bus collapsed upside down into the water. Nobody is looking for Wes. They won't find him this way.
"Why are they all lying to me?" I ask Taryn.
She's quiet. I keep my stare on the small, dried dots where the rain hit my window several days ago and left salt deposits behind.
"Tell me, T."
I hear her move toward my bed, and I finally turn to look at her. Her eyes flit to me, but move away when they meet mine. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's empathy. Whatever it is it has her tongue-tied and our friendship twisted.
"Tell me," I repeat, my eyes heavy on her, waiting for her to look up. She finally does, and the glassiness is the first sign I've seen of anything real and honest in a week.
"The police called off the search two days ago," she says, her head falling to the side. My heart is ripping open, the tear slow and painful, but not a shock. I think I've been ripping it open every day to get used to the pain.
"He's out there," I say. Her eyes close and her head falls forward completely.
"TK and Levi … they keep searching," she says. She brings an arm up to run along her nose and eyes.
"I want to go there," I say.
Her body shakes with one short laugh.
"Take me," I say. Her head shakes with a no.
"Why?" I ask.
Her eyes come up to meet mine, and her lips are tight before she finally speaks. "It won't do any good, Joss. And how am I going to get you there? How are you going to help look?"
My eyes narrow on her, and she stands, turning her back to me. My eyes fall to my lap, to my one good leg, and I know she's right. But he's out there somewhere. He has to be.
"Just … " I swallow hard. "Just drive me through the area. Just once. I need to see it. Please."
It's quiet-the only sound her moving a few of my things, hanging shirts that I never bothered to hang before the accident. My gear is still in the bag, piled in the corner, and I turn to see her lift it in her hand, but then she sets it back down.
"Put that away. In the garage," I say.
She doesn't look up, but stills, her fingers flexing a few times before she nods and bends to pick up the bag. She leaves my room with it, and I hear the sound that signals the garage door opening and closing, the bats clanking on the floor, my old life being packed away.
When she comes back, she has a harder time looking at me. At first, I almost challenge her, dipping my head with her movement around my room, trying to catch her sightline. After a few minutes, though, I give up and let my eyes go back to the comfortable bliss of searching out my window, staring into the endless sky.
"I have to go," she says softly. I nod. "I'll be back tomorrow, and I'll bring your school things. They approved you for home study until you can go back."
Back. I'm never going back.
I nod again, and after several long, quiet seconds, I hear my door close.
I'm alone.
Eighteen
Three and a half months later
"Joss. It's time," my dad says.
It's the same routine every morning. My father knocks lightly on my door before pushing it open enough to poke his face inside. He tells me it's time. I ignore him. And we battle it out between both of our obstinacies until I give in and go to rehab, only to fail and have to come back home to homework I don't understand and a tutor who makes me want to punch him.
His name is Todd. He's a teacher's aide. One of those men in their thirties who decided the corporate world was too corrupt, so he wanted to give back, in a meaningful way, by teaching. He would get eaten alive in a classroom. He can barely handle me, and that's one-on-one, and I can't run away.
My only solace is that I'm in my final week of school. I will have one science credit to take over the summer-to make up for a failing grade-but that won't require Todd's visits or help. I failed because I quit trying mid-semester. One bad test sent my grade below fifty percent. Honestly, it made more sense just to let it ride and retake it over the summer. My dad agreed. Or maybe he has to pick his battles. Either way, I won that round.
I won't win this one though. I'm too tired to argue this morning. I pull my body up and work my prosthetic on. The process may get faster one day, but I'm still too new at it. I've only had the temporary leg for a few weeks. I spend a lot of time with the sock and finding my balance. My walking is still not good. My dad says it's because I don't try. I quit arguing with him about that too. It doesn't do any good.
I make my way slowly down the hall, and he's already waiting with the door held open, half a peanut-butter sandwich in his mouth and another half wrapped in a paper towel for me to eat in the car.
It's five in the morning. We go to the rehab center early, so my father can make it to work after. I suppose the hours and my constant needs have had one positive effect-he hasn't fallen off the wagon. At least, not that I know of. I met Meredith last week. She showed up for dinner and stayed late, talking out in the living room with him until almost midnight. At first, I listened in on their conversation, expecting him to confess cravings or slips he's had. But there weren't any confessions. They talked about family, about me when I was younger, and about my progress. I guess he just needed someone other than a bottle to listen.
It takes me a few tries to get into the car. I'm still not great at maneuvering myself. My dad looks away when I move awkwardly. I'm hard to look at.
The rehab center is in the downtown, so my dad and I nibble slowly at our sandwiches, taking up half of the ride there, avoiding conversation. My father moves right into his daily recap of what we did the morning before, and my new goals. I let him talk, but I never react. I just listen, my eyes looking out at the empty streets of downtown Bakersfield as we drive to the clinic.
My eyes are still searching for Wes. But I'm starting to believe I'll never find him. His family is starting to believe it too.
I made Taryn take me to visit them last week. I've seen them one-on-one, when Levi came to visit me with Kyle or when TK was with Taryn, but it was different seeing them in their home. It was so incredibly evident that a piece of them was missing. The home wasn't the same.