Chapter 22 River
Twenty-Two
River
I gasped, air filling my lungs on a harsh inhale. My eyes flew open and saw a field of white, and then Dad was there, his face floating over me. His hand gave me a squeeze, the sensation bringing me into the room. A hospital. My left arm was heavy and immobile. My head ached.
“What happened?”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Dad said. “There was an accident, but you’re okay. The doctors say you’re going to be just fine.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You have a pretty bad concussion and a broken arm. But good news! It’s not your throwing arm. And you don’t need surgery. They’re running a few more tests. If those look good—which they will—you’ll be out of here in a few days.”
I sank deeper against the pillows, my thoughts slipping out of my grasp. My stomach twisted as if I’d forgotten something earth-shattering.
I bolted up and winced as pain battered my head. “How’s Mom? Is she…”
“Easy, son. She’s okay. Worried about you, of course. She wants to be here so badly. Would’ve driven herself if Dazia hadn’t talked her out of it. You can FaceTime later today.”
“No, I have to get out of here. Something’s not right. I shouldn’t be away from her.”
“Just a few days—”
“She only has days, Dad,” I said, but it wasn’t only my mom. There was something else… “Tell me about the accident. What happened?”
Concern furrowed Dad’s brow. “They said some temporary memory loss for around the time of the accident was typical. What’s the last thing you remember?”
I closed my eyes. Headlights racing down a street. An ocean at night. Holden striding toward the sea…
“Holden!” My eyes flew open, panic ripping through me. A machine on the wall began to beep faster. “Where is he? Where’s Holden?”
“Easy, easy,” Dad said. “He’s fine, son. He’s okay.”
I sank back, my body going slack with relief and heavy exhaustion. “He’s okay? Where is he? What happened?”
“You two were on Highway 1. Holden said you swerved to avoid a deer. The truck went down a small ravine and rolled. You’re so lucky—”
“And he’s okay? You’re sure?”
“Not a scratch.” Dad shifted on his chair. “River, you were supposed to be at prom with Violet. Who is Holden?”
Before I could answer, a tall doctor, around fifty years old with the name Stansfield on his badge, entered. He smiled kindly.
“Ah, he’s awake. Good to see it. How’re you doing, River?”
“Tired. Head hurts.”
Dr. Stansfield pulled a chair to my bedside. “That’s to be expected. You’ve had a pretty rough knock to the temple.”
He took out a penlight and checked my eyes, then asked a few questions about my pain levels and what I remembered from the accident, which wasn’t much.
Dr. Stansfield nodded. “I have some news.”
Dad’s face went pale. “What is it?”
“We have a few more test results in. My initial assessment stands—you have a small brain bleed, River, that doesn’t require surgery. Our neurology team has agreed that it will resolve on its own.”
Dad clutched his chest with a laugh. “That’s great. Jeez, you scared me there, doc.”
Dr. Stansfield pursed his lips.
“What?”
“I called what happened to River a ‘rough knock’ to the head, but that’s a gentler way of saying traumatic brain injury. I understand you play football?”
“Yeah, but—”
“He’s going to University of Alabama and then the NFL,” Dad said. “He’s a once-in-a-lifetime talent.”
“I’m afraid this accident makes that precarious,” Dr. Stansfield said. “Football is a concussive sport. For River to have suffered this level of TBI sets the stage for further detrimental effects should he continue to play. Most specifically second impact syndrome.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“SIS is acute brain swelling that occurs when a second concussion is sustained before there’s been a complete recovery from a previous concussion.
A repeat injury can cause increased intracranial pressure, which may be difficult or impossible to control.
It is, in some instances, fatal.” Dr. Stansfield folded his hands.
“I understand you’re meant to start collegiate training in a month or so? ”
I nodded while Dad’s eyes widened.
“Now, hold on. What are you saying?”
“I’m trying to give you a complete picture of your son’s TBI and its possible risks.
Even if this concussion resolves, further blows to the head—as are common in sports like football—can lead to long-term problems. If you follow football, you may have heard recent studies of players developing chronic traumatic encephalopathy. ”
“I know what CTE is,” Dad said. “But that’s from repeated injuries to the head. A lifetime’s worth.”
“I’m speaking of your son’s overall brain health, Mr. Whitmore. It has been compromised. My professional recommendation would be that River not play any more football.”
I would’ve laughed if Dad hadn’t been so heartbroken.
“You don’t understand, doctor. He’s not any ordinary player. River has a gift. He’s going to—”
“Dad.” I shook my head at him. “Can you give us a minute alone, Dr. Stansfield?”
“Of course.” He got to his feet. “I’ll be back to check in on you again in a few hours.”
He left, and Dad glowered after him, then put on a bright smile for me. “Doctors have to say stuff like that. They give you the worst-case scenario so you don’t sue them—”
“I’m done playing football.”
A weight lifted off me as if an elephant had been sitting on my chest and finally got up and lumbered away.
“Now, hold on. Don’t let him scare you. We can get a second opinion. There’s hope.”
“No, there isn’t,” I said gently. “Because accident or no accident, I’m quitting football. This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you but…” I shook my head. “I should’ve told you years ago.”
“Years ago? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to go to Alabama. I don’t want to try for the NFL. I don’t want to play football.”
Dad rubbed his lips with his hand, a thousand thoughts behind his eyes. “This is nuts. Is this the head injury?” He laughed weakly. “Should we call the nurse in here? Hey, nurse?”
Tears stung to watch his hope die right before my eyes. “Dad. It’s real. I’m so sorry. I know you wanted this so bad for me, but I don’t want it for me.”
He looked almost as dazed as if he’d been the one hit on the head. “Well…Christ, River. What do you want?”
I sucked in a deep breath, my heart pounding, but I was more exhilarated than scared.
“Holden.”
Dad blinked. “What about him?”
“I love him.”
“I’m sure you do. He’s a great friend to you. I’m glad he was there—”
“No, Dad. I love him. I’m in love with him.”
My father’s face went blank. “I…I don’t understand.”
“It’s so easy, yet I’ve been making it so complicated my whole life.
Boxing up how I felt and shoving it away.
But I can’t do it anymore. I want to stay in Santa Cruz.
I want to work in our shop, Dad, and expand it.
It’s ready for that. I want to be here for you and Amelia.
And Mom. Every hour she has left.” I swallowed hard. “And I want to be with Holden.”
Dad stared as if seeing me for the first time. Which I supposed was true. The first day of the life I was always meant to live.
My father stood up and paced the bedside, rubbing his lips with his hand. “I just…I don’t… You’re gay? Is that what you’re telling me? How is that possible?”
“You think it’s impossible? You think a jock can’t be gay?” I shook my head. “No one should be labeled and shoved in a box, Dad. And I can’t do it to myself. So yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” I said, feeling a hundred feet tall, even lying in a hospital bed. “I’m gay.”
A stunned silence fell, and I’d never felt so close to Holden as in that moment.
He’d braved this experience with his own parents and had nearly died for it.
I would’ve given anything for him to be here, holding my hand, helping me through these tense seconds in which I waited to hear if my father was still my father.
“Are you…okay?” I said, tears burning behind my eyes. “I really would love to hear that you’re okay with it, Dad. Because nothing’s changed. I’m still me.”
“I don’t know how I feel,” Dad said. “Except…I love you. I know that. I hate seeing you in here. I was scared to death. I thought I’d lose you. Can we start there?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “We can start there.”
My father put his arms around me, and then a sob that had been locked inside me for years burst free. The guilt and shame poured out, breaking down the walls of my plastic life and letting the air in.
I clung to him, burying my face in his chest, my tears rolling over the nylon of his jacket. “I’m sorry I can’t give you that life. I wanted to. So badly.”
Dad stroked my hair. “Oh, River, my boy. You’re still here. There’s nothing more important than that.”
***
I was released from the hospital a few days later with my broken wrist in a cast and a sling to support my fractured clavicle. They gave me a prescription for pain meds and warned me that I could have headaches, dizziness, insomnia, and a host of other residual symptoms from the concussion.
I spent three days with Mom instead of going to school, making up for the time I was away from her. Because it was even more clear when I came back that days were all she had left.
I sat with her, and when she slept—which was often—I called or texted Holden. No answer. Every day that went by without hearing from him scared me more. I knew him. I knew he blamed himself for my accident. Dad had told me how pale and terrified he’d been that night.
Don’t do this, I texted him. I’m okay. Please talk to me.
I wondered if he was drinking himself into oblivion.
I wondered if he’d already disappeared.
***
With only one week of school left, Mom insisted I go back and enjoy the “last days of school” energy and spend time with my friends before college pulled everyone apart.
I agreed to one day and walked in to find the entire school whispering about me and Holden.