Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
T here are so many people in this room. My parents, I get why they’re here. I want them here. I think. Why my Aunt Sarah is here, I don’t know. Or maybe I do. It’s a helpless feeling driving everyone. Helpless all around. Afraid. Frustrated. My Uncle Jason is out of town on business, but I’ve seen his face on my aunt’s phone screen about a dozen times in the last ten minutes. He’s FaceTiming into the room. I wish I was lucid enough to take notes and keep track of every little positive quip he’s said to me.
I’d laugh if no one were here.
I’d cry.
I’m scared.
This room full of people isn’t helping. It’s loud. Crowded with questions and zero answers. There’s not a doctor in this room right now.
My dad moves to my one side of my bed. My mom hasn’t left the other. I’m bound to the bed with this cage-like structure of pins and slings. I’ve gone through so many scans. It feels like a hundred, but I’m sure it’s more like four or five. Everything feels multiplied. My pain ranks at the top of all. I hurt.
“Wyatt’s on his way,” my dad says.
I breathe in deep. It hurts.
“Did they win?”
Nobody’s told me about the game yet. I haven’t asked because it probably makes me sound crazy. Wildcat football is very much not the priority in this room, but it’s a priority in my head. It’s my distraction.
My dad’s mouth shifts into a soft smile as he nods.
“Twenty-four to seven. Wyatt threw an interception.” He shrugs, but my mouth fills with a sour taste.
It’s my fault he threw that . That’s a stupid thought but I can’t help having it.
“Did they pull him?” I ask quietly, not wanting the rest of the room involved in my conversation. My dad is literally the only one in this room who understands why this is important to me. I need to know.
A faint laugh parts my father’s lips, and he shakes his head.
“No. He finished the game. And QB2 only went in twice.” My dad’s eyes linger on mine for a beat, and I blink because I can’t nod.
My father’s hand covers mine, and he moves his massive fingers between mine, squeezing. I feel him on the left. It’s the right side that has everyone on alert. My mom is holding my right. Apparently, she hasn’t let go since they moved me back in from the MRI and set up all of the braces. I only know because I see her holding it. I can’t feel a thing.
It wasn’t my fall that did it. It wasn’t even my grip. I can recall everything in flashes, as if my eyes took snapshots as the world crumbled and set them aside for me to sort out later, to pull out as proof that this was not something I made happen. It happened to me.
Alicia wavered, her left foot slipped, and her body lurched forward. I did as I trained and worked to ease her fall, guiding her into a safe landing. But I was going down, too. And when I hit the ground, Alicia’s knee hammered into my head and then everything went blank. My memory gets a little spotty after that too. Eyes blinking rapidly. Coach Kane holding my shoulders still. Our team trainer with a flashlight. The words, “Just a concussion.”
Then the EMT. So many questions. Can I feel this? Can I move my right foot? Will I squeeze my right hand? Am I trying to? How about now? How about now?
What about now?
“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson? Can I have a minute with you and Peyton?”
My dad gets up from the bed, but my mom stays at my side. My gaze flickers between them as best I can without moving my head. I’m locked down.
“Guys, I’ll update you out there. Sarah, if you can wait for Wyatt to show up and tell him I’ll come get him in a few?”
My aunt nods at my father’s request, then tells my uncle to hold on as she mutes the phone and steps over to me to give me another awkward hug where she basically just hovers over my body.
“You got this, honey.” She’s using her tough voice, probably to make sure I believe her. But do I? Do I got this? What the hell even is this ?
In my mind, I nod. I think I smile, maybe.
“Jason’s on his way, too,” she adds as she leaves the room.
“Great,” I utter when she’s out of earshot. My mom chuckles. I definitely said that out loud.
“Hi, Peyton. I’m Dr. Klazmeric. We met earlier but you weren’t really down for remembering names and stuff, so I figured we’d do this part again.” He’s young, maybe in his thirties. Young for a man in charge of making my limbs feel stuff again. Or maybe he’s not. What do I know?
“Thanks for setting me up with this cool choker,” I joke, doing my best to glance down at the surgical collar around my neck. His face tightens into a quick smile, and he nods with a short laugh.
“What can I say? I have the best jewelry,” he jokes back.
I like him.
“All right, so . . . what we’re looking at here, it’s not impossible. It’s tricky. And I don’t want to make any false promises or distort the truth with any of you, especially you, Peyton.” He makes eye contact with me, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his dark-rimmed glasses.
My God.
I swallow at the sight but force another smile.
“I appreciate the straight shooting, doc.”
“We all do,” my mom adds. She shifts next to me, the bed moving a little with her weight, and I take a sharp breath.
“You should maybe use a chair for now,” the doctor suggests, moving to the corner of the room and dragging an armchair to the bedside for my mom. She moves into it quickly then whispers to me, “I’m sorry.”
It didn’t really hurt, but it did make me nervous. And maybe I simply wanted some space.
“I’d like to get her in for surgery as soon as possible. She won’t be under long for the diagnostic. Maybe two hours. But it’s best for spinal cord injuries if we go in with a solid plan. We want to get a good look at what we’re dealing with. We have some of the best spine and brain surgeons in the country here, and she’ll have a team of us looking after her.”
My mom looks to me and I give her a nervous, close-lipped smile.
“Okay,” my mom lets out with a sigh. “How soon?”
“A few hours at the most,” he says, and both of my parents stifle their gasps at his response.
So soon.
Not soon enough.
“So, we’re sure it’s her spinal cord?” My dad’s voice wavers, and it’s unlike him to show nerves. It makes my belly tighten, and I hear from the machine incessantly clocking my pulse to my right that it’s amped up my heart rate.
“The scans all point to her fifth vertebrae. We’re just not sure how bad the fracture is. And she has some severe swelling. That’s likely why you’re having a hard time feeling things on your right side. But we’ll know more after we take a look.”
“Am I . . .” I stop, swallowing the sandpaper that’s instantly coated my throat. My eyes are burning with impending tears, so I breathe in slowly through my nose to hold them at bay. “Am I going to be able to walk?”
Dr. Klazmeric is quick to smile, and it honestly might be the first taste of hope I’ve had since I hit the turf hours ago.
“I don’t want make guesses, but from everything I’ve seen on the scans, and the resources available, I have every reason to believe in two or three years you’ll be walking again.”
My lips quiver, and I can’t hold them up to fake it. Neither can my dad, who looks as if he was just sucker punched. Probably because he was.
Two to three years.
“I know that seems like a long time, but when you think of it in terms of milestones and months, well . . . I don’t want to get ahead. Right now, let’s focus on getting all of the information in front of us, and then we can build our plan of attack. And you get to drive that, Peyton. That timeline will be completely up to you.”
I swallow down the massive ball of doubt and croak, “Okay.”
“I’ll be back in about an hour with news on surgery. We’ll get her prepped,” Dr. Klazmeric says to my father, shaking his hand, then leaving the three of us alone in this suddenly quiet room.
My mom’s heavy inhale is followed by my father’s.
“Two or three years,” I say. My eyes flit to my mom, because it’s her stubbornness I need right now. It’s measured. My dad’s more likely to call everything, “Bullshit.” This is serious, though. There’s nothing bullshit about this bed, the surgical collar, the traction devices, the beeping heart monitor.
“Wyatt’s here,” my father says. I blink a few times at my mom, and she glances at my dad.
“I’ll go get him,” he says, leaving my mother and me alone. They’ve perfected their silent communication. He knows I need this minute with her.
“I know,” she says before I even utter a word.
“Two or three years.” I keep repeating that number. It’s how long I’ve been with Wyatt. I’ve become a woman in that time span. It’s longer than it sounds. And breaking it into months, despite what Dr. Klazmeric says, only makes it feel longer. Thirty-six months!
“We don’t know what we don’t know, Peyt. And I can tell you from years of experience, there is a whole hell of a lot that none of us know. So let’s focus on the now. Wyatt is here, and you’re having surgery soon. Those are two things we can prepare for.”
“Wyatt . . . what do I tell him?”
I love you. I won’t be walking for a few years. Stick around, cool? But focus on football. Because you should. But fuck football. And fuck life sometimes.
“You tell him the truth,” my mom says, her words straightforward and plain. Also, probably right.
“I can’t.” I get those two words out as I hear him moving down the hallway with my dad, and tuck everything else underneath my crumbling bravado the moment he opens the door and our eyes meet.
“Peyt, I—” His eyes well up with tears.
“It’s okay.” It’s not. But him crying isn’t going to help either of us. And I don’t want to watch him break down. It’s selfish of me, or maybe it’s not.
“You can come close. Sit down, just . . . be gentle.” I shift my eyes to my mom, and she flashes a quick smirk.
“One of us was sitting on the bed and making waves,” my mom says.
“Let me guess. Reed?” Wyatt says through an emotional laugh.
“Naturally,” I answer, throwing my dad under the bus for my mom’s sake. I meet her eyes when Wyatt leans over me in search of a way to hug me. My mom winks at me, then backs out of the room to give us a few minutes alone.
“Just kiss me. My lips are about the only thing they haven’t put a pin in,” I joke. He doesn’t laugh, but he does kiss me. Softly. It’s sweet, and I lick my bottom lip after he pulls away.
“Your dad mentioned surgery. What do they know? Did you break anything? Is it the spine? And have they ruled out head trauma?” His barrage of questions levels me a bit, and I blink wildly before laughing out the answer I decided to go with for Wyatt—for a little while.
“I don’t know.”
He shifts gently on the mattress and works his hand into mine. I can’t feel it. I can’t squeeze him back. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, or maybe he simply assumes I’m weak and tethered in so many places that I can’t. He doesn’t need to know yet.
“Maybe tell me about the second half. It probably seems trivial, but I’d like to hear it. It’s a good distraction. I hate that I missed it. Your opening drive, Wy?—”
“Peyt.” He tilts his head.
“I know. But please. Just, for a little bit. Pretend with me. Call the game as if I were there and you want to relive the good parts.”
Wyatt’s gaze connects with mine, and we swim in each other’s souls for a few long, quiet seconds. I feel his silent plea. I get his sense of urgency. Fuck, I have it, too. But there’s literally nothing either of us can do right now, like my mom said. We live in the present, and we resolve ourselves to surgery soon, and answers after that. Followed by questions. And more answers. And more questions.
“I ran the third touchdown in myself,” he finally says, and my lungs open with a welcome dose of pride.
“You did?” There’s genuine excitement in my voice. I’m not faking this. I needed this news.
His beautiful upper lip rises on one side, all flirty and humble. As sexy as he is, he’s also really fucking cute. Just . . . cute. My cute quarterback.
“So, we were about twenty yards out, and Whiskey throws this block, and I . . .”
I close my eyes and smile as he recounts the entire thing to me, and it plays like a movie in my head. Bryce didn’t get to take it in—he did. I can visualize his stiff arm, the quick spin he made to break the last tackle, and the cocky growl he let loose in the end zone after he flipped the ball into a spin on the turf. I’m sure there was something extra running through his veins, the game a way for him to channel his worry. Eating the clock to get it over with. Skipping the interview to make it to me. I know all of that. My dad was in Wyatt’s head because they’re the same, and he told me as much. But that little moment of glory? That’s what I’m going to hold on to for now. This now. And I’ll play the movie in my mind one more time right before they put me under.