"Shawn is holding onto a few of Wes's things, just to store. We're not erasing him or anything. It's only … "
"I understand. It's hard to see sometimes," I say, my eyes lingering on Shawn's before coming to Bruce as I let go of his brother's hand. "It must be hard on Maggie."
He inhales slowly, and holds his mouth in a tight line, nodding as his chin tucks into his chest. "It is," he concedes.
I look back up to see Shawn now moving down the driveway, TK walking with him carrying the rest of the boxes. I trail behind with Bruce and watch as they load the last items in and help Shawn position his chair on the lift that's now flattened in the street. With a push of a button, it raises him to the car-floor level and he moves to the open area where he lifts himself from his chair to the swiveling driver's seat.
TK steps forward to slam the sliding door closed, but Shawn holds up a hand to stop him, then his finger points at me.
"When my doctor said I had to go on disability, and stick to a wheelchair, he told me it meant no more driving," Shawn says, his finger suddenly pointing down to his seat. "I said bullshit. Don't let circumstances dictate what you're capable of. We're all special in our own way. Wes taught me that."
I look at him silently and smile with a nod, but my eyes hold his a little longer than the rest of them realize. We are all special. And Wes-he's special too. You know it. I know it. And he's alive.
"I'll remember that," I say. TK closes the door, but Shawn and I look into each other for another breath before he turns to face the wheel.
"You need a ride home Joss?" Bruce asks. I open my mouth to utter yes, but instead close it, gritting my teeth because I know it's going to hurt to turn this down-physically hurt. But I do. Because bullshit. Because I can walk home. And I am special too.
"I'm okay. It's good for me-to set a goal," I say, one eyebrow lifted at him.
"All right," he says, the smooth chuckle of his laugh almost stripping the sadness from his eyes for a second. "Well, if you change your mind-call."
I hold up my phone, waving it once, and I give him a nod. I turn away and begin my much slower trip home, glancing once or twice to see the Stokes family still standing at the end of their driveway, watching over me as long as they can, to make sure I'm okay.
When I turn the block, I pull my phone out and thumb through my texts, settling again on my favorite one from Wes. I start to type several times, quitting each, thinking I'm being far-fetched and ridiculous. Eventually, I figure I have nothing to lose, so I type and send a note to my hero.
Thank you.
I stare at it for a long while, and for the first block I walk, my body tingles with anticipation that I will get some message back. After a while, I tuck my phone in my pocket, pulling it out every minute or two to check again. Each time, my words are the last line typed.
By the time I get to the house, my father is pacing in the driveway. He starts to walk toward me, but when he sees the look of determination on my face, he stops, his hands folded behind his neck as his chest lifts and lowers with heavy breaths.
"I'm sorry. I should have called or texted," I say when I reach him. He looks down at my leg, his eyes still heavy-he's worried. "It's sore. But I wanted … I wanted to know my limits."
He nods, his brow pinched as his hand comes up to cover his chin. He fidgets in place, exchanging one hand for the other, trying to cover his emotion. But I see it. It's there. I'm fighting, for the first time in months. It's all he's wanted for me.
"Your limits," he whispers through loose fingers, his breath catching with a cry.
I suck in my bottom lip, nodding, reaching my hand for him to grab my arm, to help me steady myself.
"Turns out, I don't have any."
His body shakes with his laugh, a short burst that carries his release.
"Well then. How about I make us something to eat," he says, arm around my back, my weight relying on him more than I've ever let it. My father carries me.
I let him.
"Joss, it's time."
My father knocks. The same knock, the same quiet wake-up call. The same pattern we've lived morning after morning. Today, though-I'm up. I'm ready.
"Let's go," I say, pushing the door the rest of the way. My father lets me pass him in our darkened hallway. The sun is just rising. I've been awake for hours. Not from pain. I've just been waiting for the day to arrive. I'm ready for it.
I pick up the wrapped half of a sandwich from the counter and glance at my father, standing with his folders and messy briefcase behind me. His smile is subtle. He hides it. It's part of his technique, not that a parent should have a technique with their child, but he's been a coach more than he's been a father, the lines blur. When my father coaches me, and I do something well, he grins, but only on the right side, and only for a blink. It always disappears, sometimes before I catch it, but other times I get a glimpse just before it's gone.
I saw it just now.
We leave the house, the door slamming heavy behind us, my father's keys jangling in the lock. He pulls the garage shut and locks it in place while I wait at the passenger door in the driveway. He clicks his key fob, and I get in.
We both devour our sandwiches in the car, but we don't rush to talk. I'm glad he doesn't have questions. I don't have the thoughts formed yet. My mind hasn't put my priorities in order. But I know what I want. I know what I'm capable of. And it's a lot.
My father knew too. That's why he's been pushing. In his way.
My eyes still scan the landscape. If anything, I think I'll be doing that more now, now that I know. Wes is somewhere. I'm not sure why he's hiding, but I trust there's a good reason. More importantly, my heart trusts that I will see him again. I'll keep his secret safe-whatever that secret is.
We pull up to the rehabilitation clinic, but before we leave the car, I unbuckle my belt and lean to the side, looking at my father. He takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall from the steering wheel.
"I want it all," I say.
He doesn't look at me, but that smile ticks up the right cheek again, sticking around a little longer than before.
"What can Becca do for me?"
I looked Becca Fontaine up late last night. She's impressive-even for an able-bodied competitor. She's also incredibly open about dealing with depression and how important it is to have a place to channel your emotions. She channels hers into training others, in between training for her own goals-which she's achieved in the form of several gold medals. She's based in Los Angeles, and I also saw that her training rates are by request only. That means she's expensive.
"She can get you back on the field, at a high level that will make people notice," my father says, his head falling to the side as his eyes land on me.
"The cost … "
"Is taken care of," my father stops me before I fully ask. He steps from the car, ending the conversation, but I open the door and pull myself out as quickly as I can.
"Dad, that's not true, and you know it. We can't afford this, so how can I help?" I ask. He pauses at the front of the car for a few seconds before leaning back to rest his palm on the hood, his head falling forward.
"Josselyn, I have made mistakes," he says, a breath of silence before a sad laugh escapes him, his shoulders rising as his head shakes. "Monumental mistakes … that I will probably spend a lifetime trying to correct. And when I die … " he says, turning to face me, his eyes glossy, "I will still come up short with you no matter how hard I work to get back to even. I have failed you. I left you when you needed a father most. I fell into a selfish, dark, demon-kinda hole, and it claws at me still-probably always will. But damn it to hell if I'm going to abandon you again. Not now. No baby girl. Not now."
I hold his gaze with my own, my lips tingle, my heart affected by his words. I pull my mouth together tightly and breathe in through my nose.
"Is this some twelve-step box you have to check, because I'm pretty sure we still can't afford this," I say, making light of the heaviness of our conversation, but also only half kidding.
My father chuckles and steps closer to me.
"No … and yes," my father says. "I talked this over with Meredith. About how I need to really step up now, and how hard that's going to be. But we'll make the money work. There's more insurance that needs to pay out, and I'm not about to be quiet until you get what you deserve."
"No, I guess quiet isn't your thing," I say through a pointed laugh.
He reaches a hand for mine, and I stretch to him, threading my fingers through his older, callused ones-a touch I haven't felt since I held his hands when I learned to skate in our driveway as a child.