Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(11)

I sat on the edge of my bed, the princess in my palm, but my mind turned and looked back down the broken road I’d traveled in the last month.

No matter how much I’d thought about it, it still felt like a dream. The ringing of the phone. My sister’s voice carrying the words that would forever change me. The smell of the hospital, stringent and sterile. The sight of Mama, unconscious in the hospital bed.

They’d been on their way home from our family’s store where Daddy sold the furniture and art he made. The man who hit them had dropped his phone, speeding and swerving when he reached for it.

Daddy died on impact. His truck was left a snarling twist of metal.

I didn’t even know how Mama had survived; every day, I woke with gratitude that she had.

She had been confined to her hospital bed, unable to attend his funeral. I was of little use, and we had no other family; our paternal grandparents had passed on, and our New York family were strangers to us. So Elle handled every detail with stoic grace while the rest of us unraveled, hour to hour, minute to minute. I spent those days at Mama’s side in the hospital, Meg with Elle where it was easier. When the doctors determined the extent of the damage to her spinal cord, things moved quickly. Because there was no therapy to speak of, no recovery to plan. Only the transition into the reality of her life and her loss.

Every day for two weeks, a nurse would spend a few hours at the house, teaching us how to care for Mama, teaching her how to care for herself. We had to learn to transfer her in and out of her wheelchair, how to turn her every few hours when she was confined to the bed, how to look out for signs of sores. And those were the easy tasks.

There were so many more that stole bits of her dignity, and there was no easing into it, no little by little. It happened all at once with staggering suddenness. It was in the emptying of her ostomy bag—or worse, the changing of her ostomy bag. Her inability to shower on her own or cook for herself. She could reach nothing, couldn’t see the stovetop from her wheelchair. She needed constant care, and we had no way to help her but with our own hands.

It was Uncle John who convinced her to come to New York. They had come for the funeral, and John spent several long afternoons in the hospital with Mama with one mission: persuade her to accept his help. He had the room for all of us, the funds to eradicate the medical bills and pay for nurses, and the desire to do something.

Her acceptance, as much as she hated it, was the best thing that could have happened to us. Because John had saved us from an uncertain future. We were indebted to him in a way we could never repay.

He’d given us hope when hope was lost.

And now, everything had changed, and it was going to be everything we needed, everything I needed, everything my father would have wanted, and everything that would patch up those perilous holes in my heart. Because even though they’d never mend on their own, I could endure them and honor him by living every second with every single part of me.

So I would.

I would live out loud.





3





Sweet and Salty





Greg

The pavement rolled beneath the wheels of my skateboard the next morning, my hands buried in my coat pockets and beanie pulled down over my ears, while I did my best not to think about Annie.

I’d tried to forget about her all yesterday afternoon when that yellow coat and pink hat crossed my mind, unbidden. And at home with my family last night when I’d replayed her running into me and stopping my universe for a breath. And this morning when I’d worried a little too long about what I’d wear today.

I’d settled on a black-and-white-plaid button-down, cuffed three-quarters to leave my tattooed forearms on display. I wouldn’t admit that with a gun to my temple, but it was the truth.

Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t like I’d been obsessing about her or anything. I hadn’t thought of her much. But, out of nowhere, she would invade my mind like cigarette smoke. I’d wave thoughts of her away with a dour twist of my lips, all while jonesing for just one drag.

You’re just attracted to her. That’s normal, I told myself as my sneaker hit the pavement, propelling me on.

She was cute and innocent, different from New York girls. But she couldn’t even drink, for Christ’s sake. Not for nearly three years.

She was practically jailbait, which meant she was off-limits. This probably made things worse—the knowledge that I couldn’t have her.

But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was.

The fact was that we were at completely different places in our lives; she was figuring out who she was, who she would become, and I had done that ten years ago. She was experiencing life for the first time; everything was speeding up for her while I found myself slowing down.

It would never work, and that was the heart of the matter. Nothing about pursuing her made sense.

But I thought of that moment when she’d fallen into me, and I’d looked into the depths of her eyes, felt her body pressed against me. And, if the last twenty-four hours were any proof, I knew she wouldn’t be so easy to forget. The knowledge that it was chemical, that it had no depth or roots, didn’t matter. Something in me recognized something in her, and that was that.

Hoping it would blow over was probably futile. I’d do my best to ignore it all the same.

The last few years had largely been spent devoted to my family. When lupus had finally confined my mother to her bed, my siblings and I’d moved home to help out. And when she died, we couldn’t bear to leave our father. He needed our help—not only with his loss, but with the crushing weight of medical bills.