Heroine(14)

“How do you know that?” I ask her.

“I spend a lot of time here.” She shrugs. “Listen long enough, you figure it out.”

Edith comes back in with two brown bags that she’s written our names on in old-lady cursive, like she’s packed our lunches for us. We pay her and she sends us off with more cookies and a reminder that she’s restocking next Monday, to get ahold of her then. I tell her I should be good, but she just nods and pats my shoulder. Josie walks with me to my car and even opens the door for me, as I do my awkward, stilted dance that’s required to get behind the wheel.

“You in?” she asks, before she closes the door.

“Yep,” I say, then roll down my window. “Hey, seriously. I . . . thanks.”

“No problem,” she says. “It’s on me. You look like you need it more than I do.”

“I was in a car accident.” It comes out almost apologetic, like I had to have done something wrong in order to be rendered so weak and helpless. “What about you?”

“I’m just bored.” Josie shrugs. “See you next Monday, Mickey.”

I want to tell her she won’t, but she’s already gone. I catch a glimpse of her little sports car driving away in my rearview mirror, where I also see that I’ve had a strand of chocolate sitting on my chin this entire time.





Chapter Ten


sleep: to take rest by a suspension of the voluntary exercise of the powers of the body and mind

I drive slow all the way home, and only partly because of the mix of snow and ice falling from the sky. A real fear gripped me at Edith’s when I got behind the wheel, the confidence of the morning gone along with the sun. I’m barely doing thirty when I pull into the driveway, and my hip is starting to burn.

It’s bearable, but my left crutch slips out from underneath me a little bit at the door and I put more weight on my right foot than I should. Any good feelings I had left from warm cookies and cold milk are driven out of me in a rush, leaving behind a spike of pain.

I push open the back door with my shoulder and Mom is there in a second, untangling me from my backpack and crutches, then guiding me into a seat at the kitchen table.

“First day back went that well, huh?” she asks.

I grit my teeth and nod, deciding not to tell her about my slip on the pavement.

“There’s potato soup on the stove, and I thought I’d make grilled cheese,” she offers, doing her best not to hover.

It sounds like the best possible end to my day, if only I didn’t feel like my hip exploded.

“Cool,” I say. “I’ll just grab a shower.”

I do, leaning heavily on the suction-cup bar that Mom put in there for me, as I test putting weight on my leg. I’m cautious, starting first with the ball of my foot, then easing back onto the heel, aware of the rubber grip on the shower floor that also showed up right after I got home from the hospital.

I feel better as my muscles unknot under the hot water, enough so that I try not to think about the pills stuffed in the pocket of my varsity jacket. If I can get through the evening after taking a jolt like I did at the garage door, then maybe I can get through to my next appointment without having to go back to Edith.

Mom’s got her own approach to pain relief—hot food and a whole bunch of kitchen towels duct-taped to the armpit rests of my crutches.

“You on call?” I ask her, sitting back from the table after eating.

She shakes her head. “I know it was potato soup and not chili, but maybe we could do some Netflix?”

I look at her blankly.

“You know,” she says, spinning her hand around. “Netflix and chili?”

“Oh my God, Mom,” I say. “It’s Netflix and chill, not Netflix and chili. And don’t ask just anyone to do that, either. It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

Her eyebrows go together. “What does it mean?”

“Google it,” I tell her. “Or even better, don’t.” I get my crutches under me and am hobbling for the stairs before she can get her phone out.

“Is this like a sixty-nine thing?” she calls after me. “I know what that is.”

“GOOD NIGHT, MOM,” I yell.

Sleep is impossible.

I thought I could do it, thought after the boost I felt from driving myself, returning to school, and watching my mom get just about everything wrong over dinner, that I could grit my teeth and push through the night.

I was wrong.

I probably shouldn’t have put so much weight on my leg during the day. Should have taken a couple people up on their offers to get things for me, rather than doing it myself. Should have gone for a bath instead of a shower, taken some pressure off my pulsating hip. A lot of bad decisions put me where I am right now—standing in front of my varsity jacket and digging for the baggie.

It’s two in the morning. I made it that far, which should count for something. I rode out waves of pain and told myself that I’d been through worse before. And maybe I had, but before I didn’t have an answer sitting just a few short steps away, a promise that I didn’t have to feel this way if I didn’t want to.

And maybe taking an Oxy right now isn’t a bad idea, after all. Maybe everything else was a bad choice, and this is a good one. Maybe I need that relief in order to relax, all my muscles going slack and sleep giving my body a chance to rejuvenate. Sleep, that’s another thing. I’ve got to be up in four hours, ready to convince the world that there is nothing wrong with me. And I can’t do that without some solid rest.