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Sitting up is fine. Getting my legs over the side of the bed sucks, yet I can breathe through the pain. But I stand up and sit down three times because of the wave of nausea and dizziness it produces.
“You got this, Randall. Just take it one step at a time, okay?” Dad says.
I pause between each step, worried I’ll pass out from the pain. Halfway there, I want to quit. Twice I almost puke. But I make it to the fucking bathroom.
Reality comes crashing in when I see my reflection.
I’m standing in the hospital bathroom with my dad, crutches under my arms for support. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion, my head swimming from the pain. My beard is a gross mess, and my hair is greasy. I probably stink. All I’ve had for the past seven days are wet-washcloth baths because I haven’t been able to stay upright long enough to shower.
My dad is right in front of me, ready to catch me if I fall. “Just breathe, son. Just breathe through it.”
“What if I can’t ever skate again?” The question has been floating out there like a lost balloon.
“It’s early, Randall. You’re in the worst of it, and we won’t have answers to that for a while.” His tone is gentle, his words unsteady.
“Adele took my fucking future. I was supposed to do what Mom couldn’t.” My vision blurs. I’ve been fighting this emotion for a while now, not wanting to give in to debilitating sadness. But it’s been waiting, ready to sink its claws in.
“Hey.” Dad’s hands come to rest on my shoulders, and his eyes reflect every emotion I feel—sadness, understanding, fear, and a helplessness I assume can only be understood when you’re a parent trying to hold your child together while his world inverts. “If that’s what you want, we will do the work to try to get you there. But you need to focus on your own goals, and not the ones you think you need to attain for someone else, okay? We’re not going to conquer the world today. We’re just going to take it one step and one breath at a time.”
I can’t form words, and I can’t hold myself up anymore.
He wraps his arms around me.
“It’s all right to fall apart, Randall. You’re safe to mourn what should have been.”
So I do.
32 TOUGH LOVE
Winter
The week following BJ’s accident, I barely slept, but his family and friends rallied in support, and I have never been so grateful to have so many people to keep me propped up, because the what-ifs are terrifying.
And my mom was right there with them, doing everything she could to help me through. She’s stayed with me for a whole week. She’s cooked and stocked our freezer with easy meals. She’s baked and made me lunches and done my laundry. She adores River and the twins and thinks Rose is a hoot and Quinn is one of the sweetest guys she’s ever met. She calls him a gentle giant.
And at night, when I wake up sweaty with nightmares, she’s been there to save me from them.
“I just wish the nightmares would stop,” I tell her when it happens yet again. I had them all the time when we were living with my dad—always afraid the worst would happen, and then it did. “I feel like I’m responsible for this somehow. Like it’s my fault.”
She brushes my hair away from my face. “Why would you think that?”
“You got hurt because I made Dad angry and left you to deal with him, and then BJ got hurt because I didn’t love that Adele was manipulating him, so I started picking him up from practice once a week. Maybe I pushed her because I was taking his attention away from her.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, honey, I know I’ve said this before, but what happened with Clay wasn’t your fault. I stayed in an abusive relationship for far longer than I should have. And if it wasn’t for you always defending both of us, far worse might have happened. You tried to get me to see how bad it was. I only wish I’d listened sooner.” She sighs. “You’ve been conditioned to take the blame, and I’m at fault for that. I let you take that role for far too long, and I’m so, so sorry. I’m trying to make up for it, and I’m so lucky that you’re as forgiving as you are.” She looks at me a long moment. “You’re not to blame here either. What happened with BJ’s partner is not your fault. If you hadn’t been there, the ambulance might not have been called in time. You saved his life, honey.”
She hugs me and lies with me until I fall asleep again. In the morning, my mom calls Clover, and they set me up with a local counselor. It’s compounded trauma, and I need a sounding board.
When BJ gets the all clear to come home, Mom fills their fridge with easy-to-reheat meals and promises to come back if I need her.
Just over a week after the accident, BJ’s parents bring him home. Getting from the front door to his bedroom takes all his energy. It’s hard to watch him struggle, to see his frustration over how depleting it is to walk fifty feet. He takes three breaks, and I can tell he’s fighting to control his temper, which isn’t typical for BJ. He’s always even-keeled. But he’s hurting and scared.
“You should really consider coming home, Randall, even if it’s just for a couple of weeks.” Lily crosses her arms, her lips pursed. BJ’s lying on his bed now, covered in sweat, breathing heavy, his pallor somewhere between sheet white and pale green.
I actually don’t disagree with her, though it’s the last thing BJ wants.
“I want to recover here,” he argues. “I don’t want to lose my entire semester over this, and if I go home, that’s what’ll happen.”
“We have to let him try, Lily,” Coach says softly.
