Bruce was warm as always, hugging me, and begging me to stay for dinner. But I couldn't. One look in his wife's eyes was all I needed. She was as broken as I was, missing her son. There couldn't be two of us at that dinner table.
Before I left, Bruce mentioned that they were probably going to go through some of Wes's things this week. Not to get rid of, but just to put away, so Maggie didn't have to look at them with any false expectations that Wes would one day return to claim them-that he wouldn't step through the door and slide out of his shoes and into his favorite sweatshirt. He invited me to come back to take anything I'd like. I couldn't tell him no, but I didn't tell him yes.
There's a part of me that doesn't want the false hope either. Then, there's another part that wants to keep that hope alive and where it belongs-in Wes's home, in his room, with his brothers. It feels like we're picking apart the pieces, like vultures.
"Joss? Ready?" My father's question startles me from my thoughts.
I nod.
He holds the door of his car open while I find my balance and step out. There's an older man walking in front of us with his wife. He's been here at the same time as me for the last week, and I notice he's making better progress. Then again, he's trying.
I notice my dad's eyes on him, and when his gaze moves to me as he holds the door to the center open, I see the judgment. He masks it quickly, but not before a hint of it slips through. I'm not trying hard enough. But I guess I don't see the point in rushing. What am I rushing to?
We're past needing to fill out paperwork and formally check in. The therapists all know me. My dad made sure of that too. I wished he hadn't told them I was an athlete. I'm not. Not anymore. And all he's done is put high expectations in place that I will never reach.
"Are we ready for the bolster work, Joss?" asks Stephanie, my main therapist. My dad requested her, thinking I'd work better with a woman. Stephanie is peppy, and her lips are always pink with glitter. My dad has no idea who I am at all.
"Sure," I say, ambling toward the table. I lift myself up and push my hips higher with my hands, lifting my legs while Stephanie slides the round bolster in place for me to complete a series of hip flexers and leg raises. The goal is to strengthen my muscles in other places to improve my gait and let me walk with my prosthesis for longer periods of time. Right now, my legs hurt after a couple hours, especially the stump.
My dad is usually right next to me, coaching me through the exercises. But this morning he steps to the other side of the therapy room. The peace is welcome, and without his watchful eye, I coast through my sets. I'm operating at maybe thirty percent of my normal output, but Stephanie is still clapping and praising every exercise I complete. She's walking confetti.
I finish my bolster work and push myself to sit while Stephanie puts it away. My eyes catch my father's across the room. His arms are folded, and he's talking out of the side of his mouth to a woman next to him. She's in a black sweat suit, one made for runners. Her hair is dark, long and pulled back tight. Her face is hard, and she doesn't smile. She stares at me for several seconds, and I look back, daring her to look away. She never does, but she raises her hand, cupping her mouth, whispering something to my dad.
They're talking about me.
Stephanie helps me to my feet, and I answer a few questions about the fit of my new leg, any trouble I've been having with it, any adjustments I might need.
"I don't really think there's anything you can do to make it much better than it is now. It sort of is what it is, ya know?" I say, looking at the top of Stephanie's head while she bends down in front of me and tugs on the socket, feeling around my stump.
"There are plenty of things that can be done," a woman's voice says. Her tone isn't nice, and it causes me to jerk up and meet her hard eyes quickly. "You're failing yourself, you know."
I'm a little stunned, as is Stephanie, who stands up quickly and places her small, sparkly body between me and the woman in the dark track suit. It's like watching a bad guy in a Superman comic have a showdown with a pixie.
"I'm sorry, but our sessions are private, unless the patient approves of you being here," Stephanie says. I smirk slightly, impressed at her ballsy response. The woman looks to my dad as he steps up, his hand rubbing on the side of his face.
"Actually, it's okay. This is Becca Fontain. She's here to work with Joss. Not … not to replace what you do, but just to … supplement it some," my dad says, barely navigating through hurting my therapist's feelings.
"I'm sorry?" I say, leaning to the side from behind Stephanie's big hair. She turns to me, blinking away tears. Apparently, my dad didn't navigate delicately enough.
"I'll be right back," she says, squeezing my shoulder and moving to the back room where I know she's going to wipe away the evidence of her emotions.
"Great, you made my pixie mad," I say, rolling my eyes. My legs are tired from the morning, so I rest one hand on the table behind me.
"You're tired from standing. How do you expect to ever get on the field again, to compete, if you can't stand and have a conversation?" Becca says, her eyes shifting from my hand on the table, which I quickly remove, to my face.
"I'm sorry, how do I … what?" I'm too stunned to respond to her. I look at my dad to fill in the blanks-and there are dozens of blanks. Maybe even hundreds.
"Becca, give me a second," he says. The woman nods and steps back to the other side of the room, pulling a cellphone from her pocket and flipping through apps on how to be evil to pixies and new amputees.
My dad clears his throat, looking over his shoulder to the table I'd just let go of. He urges me to sit, but I refuse. Becca might see me resting, and fuck if I need another dose of her today. My father leans against the table, crossing his arms. He looks down for a few seconds before he begins to speak.
"I thought you'd get more out of sessions if you had someone like Becca to work with. She's a para-athlete. She was one of the first women in the Iron Man competition … "
"What's wrong with her?" I ask, my eyes raking over her hard body, wondering what her tracksuit is hiding.
"She lost her right leg, below the knee. Just like you," he says. My eyes shoot to his, and my lips push together hard. She didn't lose anything just like me. Nobody lost anything like me. I lost everything.
"And she's here because you think … " I don't finish, my jaw working back and forth as I fail to complete that sentence. I let my dad fill it in.
"She's here because you're an athlete, Joss. Because she can get you back on that field, and if you work hard enough-in time for you to play your senior year," he says.
I laugh hard once and stare at him.
His chest rises slowly as he draws in a long breath, his demanding eyes full of expectation. The coddling period is gone. He's returned to being the coach. But what if I just need a father? What if I just need someone to hold me and tell me it's okay that I'm only going to be what I am now? What if I need a daddy to tell me another boy will love me one day, just like the one who disappeared?
Just like the one who died.
That thought flashes through me unwanted, and my eyes burn instantly. I run my arm over my face and turn away.
"I'm done playing. You need to get over it. I have. I'm done for today too," I say, walking as quickly as I can to the main door. Stephanie rushes out to help me, but I hold a hand up, telling her I'll see her tomorrow. She looks hurt, and I feel bad. I know she's only trying to help me. That's what all of her positivity is about-about making me feel good about the tiny strides I made. But that's all they are. Tiny. And those small things exhaust me; they feel impossible to the point where I will myself to believe I'll never achieve them. It's easier than being disappointed at the end.
I get to the car and stand at it, my arms draped over the roof, my fingers tapping urgently while I wait for my dad to come out behind me. It takes him nearly ten minutes to leave the clinic, and I see him take a card and program a few things into his phone with Becca before they shake hands and he strides my way. She pushes her sunglasses on her face and keeps her body pointed my direction, watching me. This time, I break the hold and look down.
"That was rude," my dad says, unlocking the car and getting inside.
I laugh and open my door, climbing in after him.
I shake my head and buckle my belt, every move of my arm an angry jerking motion. I fold my arms over my body and let my good leg bounce nervously, my teeth clenched. I hold back everything I want to say, but I rehearse it in my head in an effort to rid my system of it. It has the opposite effect, and by the time we pull into our driveway, I'm so mad I want to kick a hole through the car door and take off running, never looking back.