A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(64)

"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.