Chapter 8 Pike
Pike
Skylar okay, honey?”
Mom’s setting out frozen cheesecake and more champagne. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to drive tonight. Since my accident, her liquor cabinet’s never been so stocked.
“She’s doing something with her medication,” I lie.
Ollie paws at my chest, wanting down. I don’t want to stand either—my knee’s killing me. But I need to intercept Skylar before she tells Mom it’s fake.
I should’ve been honest with Skylar. There was no need to mention my career, though. Mom rarely talks about snowboarding anymore. She even put away the framed pictures of my awards, thinking I can’t handle them.
I need to stall. “What were you doing in our support group that night?”
“Learning,” she says.
Too innocently.
“At midnight?”
“I get notifications when you post.”
“You’re serious.”
“What were you doing in the group so late?”
Getting support, I almost snap. “Skylar and I have chronic pain. We spend a lot of time in there.”
Mom dips her spoon into her raspberry cheesecake slice. “Talking about being depressed?”
That’s it. I’m taking up Skylar’s offer to drop her from the group.
“I’m fine. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
“Your whole life changed in an instant. How can you be fine? I’m not.” Tears prick her eyes, and my sternum burns. I put Ollie down and give Mom a quick hug.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” she says. “Again.”
I pat her back like I always do. She saw me crash. She’s told me a hundred times she thought I was dead.
“It was creative writing,” I say.
“It read like a cry for help.”
I grit my teeth. It was not a cry for help. I know because I fucking wrote it. It was…well, I’m still working out exactly what it was, but I’m not suicidal. I can have complex thoughts about my situation. Why can’t she see that?
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I always worry. You’ve been so withdrawn lately. I never thought I’d miss reading about you sleeping around, but at least then I knew you were enjoying yourself.”
I barely contain my groan. Does she seriously think the number of women I sleep with determines how “normal” I am—as she calls it? That my disabilities make me incapable of bringing someone home?
I am. I have.
Maybe consider that I’m burned out from rehab. That this is the first couple months I’ve had a moment to breathe. Maybe I don’t feel like constantly going out anymore because I actually need sleep. Maybe the majority of people piss me off because they’re so damn ableist.
Maybe try anything else.
But we don’t discuss the women. Ever. She knew what went down—hard not to when she was my manager for most of my career—but we left it unspoken. I’m not about to start explaining that area of my life to her now.
“But you’re with Skylar,” she reasons, scooping Ollie up. “Of course, you won’t be around much. It’s the first hope I’ve had in months.”
I nod, realizing all I’ve done is confirm her flawed perspective by bringing Skylar around. I wish I could articulate that depression isn’t cured by a relationship. Hell, I wish I could articulate my depression.
“I read that men who have pelvic operations sometimes sustain erectile dysfunction,” she continues. “I wondered if everything was still working. Oh, don’t look so upset. I’m not insinuating there’s anything wrong with your lovemaking—”
“Mom!” I cover my bleeding ears. It’s too disturbing to know she’s one of those people who wonders about my sex life. “Skylar and I have a great…romantic…relationship.”
Perfect. Now I’m inappropriately picturing sex with Skylar.
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“We’re done talking about this.”
She pats my hand. “Let me give you some womanly advice.”
“Please don’t.”
“You’ve never been in a relationship before. Indulge me, Brandon.”
“It better not be about sex.”
“I know it’s easy to get caught up in the physicality of a new relationship, but make sure you’re paying attention to your girlfriend’s emotional needs too.”
Now I’m just insulted. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Sometimes men miss these details. Think of how much your father missed—”
“I’m not Dad.”
“No,” she agrees, “you’re not.”
“I care about other people besides myself.” And I’ve always made my casual intentions clear. I never cheated on anyone. Never would.
“Of course you do, honey. But ask yourself, how ‘fine’ can your girlfriend be when she’s online by herself while you’re asleep next to her? That’s a woman with a lot on her mind. Make sure you engage with her enough so she can shut off after a long day.”
“I engage plenty. Skylar is a group moderator. She likes being online.”
“All I’m saying is it’s helpful to check in with your girlfriend often.”
“Thanks, but Skylar’s perfectly okay.”
“She has an incurable brain disease. How can she ever be okay?”
“It’s—” I struggle for the right words. “There are nuances—”
Ollie barks and tries to escape Mom’s grip. I turn and see Skylar, half-obscured by the entryway.
“Hi,” I say.
Skylar bites her lip. “Hi.”
Sorry I didn’t tell you, I mouth.
“To answer your question, Laurie…”
My stomach drops. Skylar heard us talking about her. I’m losing count of how many times Mom’s been offensive.
“It’s none of her business,” I say. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
She acknowledges me with a nod, then slides her arms around my waist from behind, her fingers interlacing against my stomach. I freeze, then force myself to relax. A soft waft of caramel and something warm wraps around me just as firmly as her arms. It’s grounding and dizzying all at once.
She peeks around me to face Mom, who has the audacity to look like the world’s most sympathetic citizen.
“I remember asking myself that when I got diagnosed,” Skylar says. “How could I ever be okay? But you get used to it, even if it’s scary. You find people who help you through it.”
“Like our group,” I say.
“I do get sad about it,” she says. “Sometimes because of the pain, sometimes because I’m angry, sometimes because my brain is literally getting squished, and that messes with emotions and hormones. But I don’t have to be happy all the time. Pike understands that. It’s one reason we work.”
“One of many,” I add.
She hugs me with her whole body, sending a startled jolt through me. Her closeness, her warmth against me…it feels too real. I try to remind myself what we’re doing here. I wanted to give Mom the impression everything’s peachy, but what Skylar said is better—closer to what I wish I could convey.
“There are pills for depression too,” Mom says.
“Mother,” I warn. I rest my hand on top of Skylar’s in hopes she understands I’ve got her back. “That’s none of your business.”
She points at the cheesecake. “Come, eat. There’s a weather advisory for Ontario and Monroe counties. You should spend the night.”
Skylar freezes. “We should take dessert to go so we don’t get stuck here.” She emphasizes stuck here with two tight squeezes around my stomach. “I have something in the morning.”
“And I’m meeting Kal,” I add.
“We’ll be careful, Laurie.” Skylar lets go, and the sudden lack of her warmth jerks me back to reality. A few more minutes of acting, then we’re done with the first half of our deal.
Mom gets up to hug Skylar. “It was lovely to meet you. I haven’t seen my son smile so much in months. Thank you.”
I’d be touched if I weren’t annoyed. I smile a normal amount.
Outside, my car’s covered in thick, wet snow. I clear it off with determined swipes of my cane instead of stepping up into my car to get my snow scraper. It bothers my knee and hips too much.
Mom must’ve driven me to a million appointments in this beast, with its all-terrain conversion and platform wheelchair lift. Now that I’m mostly using my cane, the lift still comes in handy when I want to bring my wheelchair along. The downside is when I’m not using the ramp, the step up is huge.
As soon as I back into the main road, Skylar turns on me.
“You’re famous? What the hell, Pike? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
I keep my eyes on the road. “There was no need.”
“You must love being on your end of this power dynamic. If I didn’t meet your expectations, what angle were you planning to use with the paparazzi? Gold digger? Stalker? I can already see the trolls coming for me on your behalf.”
It takes every sore muscle in my body to keep me from turning to her and gaping. That’s what she’s been thinking since she found out? I’m about to mutter, Okay, crazy, and drop the subject, but Luis pops into my head.
When I first moved in with him, he sat me down after a couple weeks and asked me to stop using ableist language.
I didn’t even realize it had peppered my vocabulary most of my life.
Now I know that words like crazy and stupid and dumb have been used to oppress disabled people throughout history.
Some were even invented by eugenicists. It’s been hard to erase them completely from my vocabulary, but I’m trying.
How to rephrase. Skylar’s not crazy. She’s being unreasonable. It’s because she thinks I’ll hold this over her. Potentially tell lies about her to the media. It’s sobering when I think about it that way.
But I’m still insulted.
“Involving the paparazzi would be great for me.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Pity party for Brandon Pike. If my own mother can’t handle my sad poetry, imagine the world.”
We pass the tiny shops and bed-and-breakfasts along Main Street, the remaining string lights making it look like a Christmas village. I slow down as we hit the winding turns. Nothing’s shoveled or salted out here.
“I didn’t think about it that way,” Skylar says when I stop at a light. “I don’t understand why you kept it a secret.”
“You freaked me out, that’s why. I thought you were an obsessed snow bunny.”
“Snow bunny? Do I even want to know?”
“Snow bunnies are like groupies for skiing and boarding.” I leave out the fact that they’re also typically gorgeous.
“Oh, thank goodness. I was picturing something like a snow furry.” Her laughter clears the stiff air between us.
“I didn’t tell you because once I realized you didn’t know, it was nice not to have that in the equation. And I’m not famous anymore,” I clarify. “I was famous. I’m a different person now.”
“You can disappear from the public eye, but you still hold the power. If you ever decided to throw me under the bus, who would believe me over you? They’d think I was after your money, fame, or dick.”
Hearing that word out of her mouth momentarily throws me off-kilter. “I get why you’re worried. But I would never do that, Skylar.”
“So, you’re a closet celebrity and a closet poet,” she says after a moment. “Anything else in the closet?”
“That’s it. Besides this relationship, I guess. Which…you’re not going to tell anyone about, right? Now that you know who I am?”
We pass another streetlamp, and I see her turn to me out of the corner of my eye. “What are you going to give me for my silence?”
The only thing she could want is money. Which is—not crazy, no. It’s extortion. But I’m not as loaded as she probably assumes. Most of my money has gone toward an exorbitant mortgage, my parents’ retirement accounts, covering Mom’s salary, funding training and travels, and bailing Dad out.
In just the past two years, I’ve burned through nearly $2 million on medical expenses.
Top surgeons, critical care, elite rehab clinics, and my custom $23,000 wheelchair have eaten through my savings.
Insurance barely scratches the surface. Only thirty physical therapy visits a year?
It’s a joke. I’m paying out of pocket for everything else: pain creams, braces, supplements, stim and ice machines, a decent bed, massages, dry needling, an ergonomic desk, even pre-cut food.
I know that makes me privileged, but without any sponsorship money coming in, there’s no way I can maintain my previous lifestyle.
I finally cut Dad off for good, but I’m still paying for Mom’s livelihood, like I always have.
She uprooted her entire life for me. That’s why she’s pushing me to do work that draws on my notoriety.
I’m eventually going to need something when my savings runs out. And it will.
So if Skylar’s counting on a big check, that’s not going to happen.
“Trust me when I say you don’t want them sniffing around because you’re associated with me.”
“Relax,” she says. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Thank you.” I force my muscles to unclench.
“People don’t understand why I won’t do an interview.
It’s less that the media wants to talk to me.
It’s what they want to talk to me about.
Before, it was the women, the lifestyle, the snowboarding.
Now all they want to focus on is my accident and everything I lost.”
“That’s fair,” she muses. “People are always commenting on disabled people’s bodies anyway. It’s worse when you’re a public figure.”
I nod and sit back. “Listen, I’m sorry you got ambushed at dinner. You did great, though. Next time will be easier.”
“Next time?” Skylar groans.
She’s gonna bail on our deal. I can feel it.
“Can we discuss your blackmailing—Pike! Look out!”
Bright headlights blaze in front of us. My heart slams against my chest. I’m on the correct side, but this motherfucker isn’t. I ease off my brakes and swerve off-road, grinding up the snowbank. Skylar lets out a bloodcurdling scream. A second later, we’re back on the road.
“Fuck.” I’m shaking. “That was—”
The car spins. Full-circle, fifty-mile-an-hour spinning. My heartbeat floods my ears. We must’ve hit black ice.
I reach for Skylar. My arm barely crosses her body before we fly over the snowbank.