Secret Lucidity(7)

My mom is supposed to be picking me up later. I haven’t seen her since she left my room in tears a few days ago. She did call me yesterday to tell me that they’re holding off the funeral until I’m out of the hospital.

Great, something to look forward to.

“Are you ready to get dressed?” the nurse says when she pokes her head in.

I had to call the nurse’s station for help a while ago because I couldn’t do it myself.

“I’m sorry. It was too hard with just one hand.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wonder who will help me get dressed once I’m home. My arm is harnessed in a brace against my chest, a constraint I have to wear for two months while the break between my shoulder and collarbone heals. The doctor has already gone over all the dos and don’ts and what I need to do to get back into swimming. As if I’m supposed to walk out of here and resume life as usual. He then handed me a list of referrals for counseling, but I scoffed it off. I’d rather not prolong this pain by being forced to revisit it in weekly sessions.

Once I’m dressed in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, she offers to tie my hair back in a ponytail before helping me lie back down. When she leaves, my head fills with the pattering of rain hitting the window, and I get lost while watching the drops collect on the glass before they skitter down in jagged rivets.

A light knock draws my attention, and when I turn my head, I see Coach Andrews standing in the doorway. He looks uneasy with his hands shoved into his jean’s pockets and blue eyes electrified in nervousness. Feigning indifference, I roll back to face the window to hide my embarrassment about breaking down in front of him the other day.

Hurry and say what the rest of them say. Tell me you’re sorry for my loss. Ask me how I’m feeling. Look at me like I’m a pitiful, broken doll. Just do it quickly and go so I can forget you were ever here.

“How’s your shoulder?”

Finally, a real question. I still remain silent, just as I’ve done with all the other visitors.

His footsteps sound as he moves closer to me before legs of a chair scrape over the floor. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting next to my bed.

“I spoke to one of the nurses. She said you get to go home today.”

Please, just go.

A moment passes, and he releases a heavy sigh before saying on broken breath, “This is all my fault,” which is then followed by more silence.

As the seconds tick by in the unease of quietness, I come to the conclusion that all of these visitors aren’t really here for me, but rather, for themselves—to make them feel better. As if the guilt of not coming is too much, so to ease their conscience, they pay me an uncomfortable visit. If they really wanted to do something to benefit me, they would all just stay home.

“You’re not alone, Cam,” he eventually says. “We’re all upset about losing him.”

Upset? What a pathetic word. It’s too cheap and insignificant to describe how I feel. Because what I’m feeling is beyond the most miserable word I could possibly imagine. It’s so much worse that there is no word for it. It’s incapable of being measured by mere letters and syllables. It’s indescribable, and if you tried, it would draw blood, because it’s more than just an emotion, it’s a weapon.

I should know.

It tortures me from the inside.

Not a second goes by that I don’t endure its lancing to every vein that weaves its way to my heart. It’s killing me, but you wouldn’t know it from the outside, because for some unknown reason, it’s being held hostage on the inside, wounding me in muted agony.

He moves around the bed and sits on the edge next to me. He’s in my peripheral, looking down on me, invading my space, invading his unwelcomeness.

“I only knew your dad for a few weeks, but it felt much longer,” he tells me, and after a gap of time, adds, “I know the pain of losing someone.” The strain in his words tug at me, they wrap around my heart and squeeze, but I fight against the sadness he’s evoking. “I know it seems unbearable right now, but I assure you it is bearable.”

I close my eyes when grief aches from behind them, but it’s a failed attempt to hide myself when a tear slips out. It takes its time finding its way down the side of my face and eventually falling onto the pillow.

“Cam . . .”

“Can you just leave?”

And he does.




By the time my mom arrives and all the discharge papers are signed, the rain has bid its farewell, leaving the air thick with humidity. I sit in a wheelchair while I wait with a nurse for my mom to pull the car around.

It’s the first time I’ve been outside since . . .

It’s the first breath of fresh air since . . .

For the first time since . . . I see that the world hasn’t stopped moving.

I fight against the instinct to break down like a toddler and beg the nurse to take me back inside. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to face this on my own.

My mother pulls up through the wraparound drive, and the nurse helps me into the car. It’s a good thing I’m on all these painkillers to dull out the fear of being in a vehicle again. I don’t know if I could do this without them. Instead of talking, I stare out the side window as we head home.