But I can't. I barely walk.
My father leaves the car and doesn't look my way, and his dismissal of what just happened fires me up. I step from the car and slam the door.
"Fuck!" I yell.
He freezes, spinning in his spot before taking several steps toward me. He points his finger, his head cocked to one side, and his jaw clenched.
"You DO NOT talk to me like that!" he yells.
"Like what? Like your broken, disabled, disappointment of a daughter? Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fu … "
My father's hands rise up and I flinch, almost falling backward. But he doesn't hit me. I don't know why I thought he would. He has never put a hand on me in violence. Instead, his hands grip my shoulders, and his hold is hard and rigid, forcing me to face him.
"I can't," I say, my eyes wide and trying to focus on anything but him. I begin to blink, the tears coming. "I can't."
"Yes, you can!" he yells, shaking me lightly, willing me to listen. My head falls forward and the sobs come.
"I'm never going to be what I was … I can't. I just … " The cry takes over everything, and my dad pulls me into him, his hands clutching my back at first and soon his palms work along my spine and shoulder blades, attempting to soothe me.
I mourn. And in our driveway, the sun barely up, the summer heat threatening to begin already, my dad holds me. He holds me without saying a word. He doesn't bring up his opinion, what he thinks I can do, or what his plan is with Becca with the laser eyes and the sharp tongue. He just holds me.
When I needed him, for once … he's there.
I cry in his embrace for several minutes, until we both know that Todd, my tutor, will arrive soon. We walk inside, my dad's hand on my back until I move down the hallway toward my room. He pulls out my books and leaves them for me on the table, and after freshening up in the bathroom, I begin my studies silently, preparing myself for my last test of the year while my dad leaves for his job.
Todd comes, and I let him proctor my exam without my usual snarky remarks. He waits for them, and his eyebrows narrow more than once when I don't deliver. I catch him about to speak a few times, his mouth making the movement of drawing in a breath, but each time he halts himself. When I open the door to let him out, my test tucked away in his polished-leather briefcase, I laugh quietly to myself. I think Todd was worried about me, but didn't want to ruin the easy day-his last with me.
His hands are washed of me, just like everyone else.
I move to my room and lay on my bed, removing the socket and pulling my leg across my body to stretch. I wonder if this will ever feel like routine. I wonder if I'll quit waiting to wake up.
I pull out my phone and run through the few texts from Kyle and Taryn, both complaining about the other being a pain in the ass. They fight over who gets to help me and bring work home for me from school, and their kindergarten-like banter amuses me for a few minutes. I write them back, calling them babies, then move to the messages I have saved from Wes. There aren't many. Mostly short notes that he's outside my work, or that he'll wait for me after practice. It's the last one that gets me the most-he wrote it in the parking lot, while the rain was pounding the bus and his truck. It probably sat in his queue waiting to be sent for several minutes, finally clearing and coming to me just before he jumped into the water to save my dad.
You would have been great today. Nature just wasn't ready for you to show that girl up yet.
I laugh lightly and let the tear fall down my cheek. I feel him every time I read those words. Wes believed in me more than anyone. He believed in me differently than my dad, different from Kyle or Taryn. He knew my weaknesses, and loved them, and he loved my doubts too. He told me they were what made me strong, but lately, they're too heavy to bear. They're swallowing me, and I'm not sure there's any of that girl left inside.
The coolness of the sheets against my face lulls me eventually, and I let my phone fall from my hands onto the bed next to me, my eyelids heavy as the sound of wind whistles through my window. I sleep hard, and I dream of Wes.
In my dream, he's at his family's house. I drive up in my father's car, on my own, without any help, and I step from the car and run to him. My leg is still gone, but I'm able to run. Wes sees me, and he holds his arms wide, catching me when I leap to him. I feel his arms around me, and the warmth seeps into my bones. It's all so real, which only makes the pain more intense when I wake up an hour later to the sound of my front door opening.
"Joss, it's me," my dad's voice echoes down the hallway.
"I'm in here. I took a short nap," I say, my voice groggy and my eyes puffy. I'm pretty sure I cried in my sleep.
My dad knocks lightly, but pulls his hand into a fist quickly when the door falls open. "Sorry, I know you don't like the knocking thing," he says.
I smile lopsided and push myself up to sit, stretching my arms over my head before shrugging.
"It's okay. I would probably find a problem with anything you did to wake me up," I admit.
He chuckles.
"Oh, hey. I stopped to pick up the mail. There are some magazines in here, and a few of those catalogues you used to like," he says, tossing the pile of mail on the bed next to me. I glance down to see the one on top for an online store where a girl can order almost anything and have her name put on it.
"I have always wanted a Joss spoon-and-fork set," I say, lifting it and holding it in front of me on display, my finger tapping at the picture.
"You'll have to ask Santa for that," my dad says with a wink. That was always his comeback, for everything I asked for. Santa never followed through on most of it. "I have your last homework assignments. Taryn said she was going to the Stokes' house right after school and Kyle had a meeting. I said I'd deliver."
My dad throws the homework pile on my desk just inside my door. It's thin enough to fit into the file folder, which is a relief.
"What kind of meeting did Kyle have?" I ask, thumbing through the name catalogue in my lap.
My dad doesn't answer right away, so I glance up at him. When I do, my stomach knots. I know before he says it.
"Cal State's looking at him. They have to meet at the school, with his dad, since he's still a junior," he says, his lips pursed as his eyes drift down and to the side.
"That's great," I swallow. I mean it, even though it sounds pathetic and half-hearted. I want Kyle to get noticed. I just wasn't prepared for the disappointment I would feel lamenting my own dream.
"Anyway … I'm gonna see if I can get something going on the grill later. I'm going to run to the store. Any special requests?" he asks, diverting the topic.
"I'm good with whatever," I say. His face starts to fall so I smile and nod. "Really. I'm good. And I like anything from the grill. Maybe burgers, if you want."
"Burgers it is," my dad smiles. He pushes his hand into his pocket for his keys, but leaves it there, his posture half of what it once was. "I won't be long."
I watch him leave and wait for the sound of the door closing before I let out the breath I've been holding. My lips flap and the sound makes me laugh. I pull the catalogue back up to my face and read the name in the sample: Florenza. I chuckle to myself. Nobody has that name. And if they do, they aren't buying vanity bottle openers.
Rolling my eyes, I toss the catalogue back down on my bed, and it slides sideways along the stack of mail, a small, cream envelope sticking out. I glide it forward with my thumb and pick it up between my thumb and forefinger. It's addressed to me, with no return address on the front or back. The envelope is the kind that's sent along with greeting cards, but my birthday isn't for another two months. It's been years since my dad's mom has sent me money for no reason, and I'm not sure my mom's mom, Grace, would just send me something out of the blue.
I turn the envelope on its side and push my finger through the one space that isn't glued down, pulling the flap away and tearing along the seam. There's a regular piece of notebook paper inside, folded in thirds, but I can tell from the backside that there isn't any writing on it.
I pull it from the envelope and unfold it in my lap as the small ticket slides loose, landing on the bare skin of my leg. My breath hitches.
"Oh my god," I whisper.
My heart begins to drum loudly in my chest, the sound filling my ears. I lift the tiny ticket in my fingers and hold it up to examine it:
ADMIT ONE TO TARYN AND JOSS'S RACE
The words are faint, and the finger smudge is permanent. The edges are soft, worn from being kept in a pocket or hidden in a box-wherever Wes kept his secrets. I'm the only other place he's shared them. And somehow, he's sent me this for safekeeping.
Somehow, meaning he's … alive.