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ASH
“Let me help you into the car.”
“I can do it on my own.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret them. I don’t need to see the wounded look on my mom’s face to feel like a piece of shit for snapping at her, but it doesn’t help.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I ease myself to the passenger seat. I can’t even drive. I can’t do a damn thing on my own.
“You’re just frustrated.” I manage to wait until she’s closed the door to walk around to the driver’s side before I growl. It’s one thing to feel completely helpless. It’s another to be babied and patronized, which is exactly how I feel every time she or Dad or Amy says something like that. Like I’m a child again. Like they have to watch what they say around me and make excuses for me. I don’t want that. I don’t want any of this.
But she’s right. I am damn frustrated. Two weeks after I left the hospital, and I still need too much help to be left on my own. It’s like I had to step back in time. Like I’m a kid again, relying on my parents for everything.
So yeah, I kind of want to tear somebody’s head off on a daily basis.
“Amy called me earlier.” When all I do is grunt, Mom continues. “She asked how you were doing.”
“Did you tell her I’m not much different than I was yesterday when she asked?”
“What do you expect? She’s your sister. She’s concerned for you, just like we all are.”
Stop being concerned. It would hurt her if I said it, so I keep it to myself. I don’t always — sometimes I’m too damn frustrated and pissed off to think before I speak. I’m not proud of the way I’ve acted.
But dammit, it’s days like this when I wonder whether I’ll ever be healthy again. That’s terrifying. Not even because it would mean never playing the game again — though that would be bad enough. I worry I’ll never be able to live alone again. I’ll never be independent. There are still days when I wake up and my memory is foggy. I’ve already lost my shit more than once when my parents tried to be helpful and gave me the word I was struggling to remember. I don’t want to be babied. I know they think they’re being helpful, but they’re driving me out of my skull.
And, of course, I feel like the world’s biggest jackass for feeling this way. They didn’t have to bring me home to take care of me here.
“Soren called.”
I can’t help but bristle, even though she announced it like it’s a good thing. “He called the house?”
“Yes, he called the landline. What about it?”
“Did he forget my number?”
“No, Mr. Smart Mouth. He said you haven’t been answering your phone. Why not?”
We’re only a few minutes away from the therapy center, though we could still have another hour of driving ahead of us and it wouldn’t be enough time to explain why I’ve been avoiding his calls. I can’t imagine anybody would understand unless they were in this situation.
“Well?” Because of course, she’s not going to let this go until I give her an answer.
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t feel like talking to anybody.”
“I thought the two of you were so close.”
“Yeah, when we have hockey in common.”
“Who says you don’t anymore?”
“Mom, come on. You’re the one taking me to these therapy sessions. Can’t you see how I’m struggling?”
“It’s going to take time.”
I want to scream every time I hear somebody say that. “It’s already been two weeks.”
“I have a newsflash for you, son. We heal on our body’s time, and that’s that. Going through therapy, doing your exercises at home, all of those things are helping speed the process.”
Great. I hate to think of how much slower this would be if I weren’t fumbling my way through therapy.
“Listen.” She parks the car close to the entrance and turns to me, sighing. “I’m not going to pretend I understand exactly how you feel. You’re an athlete. You’ve always been able to rely on your body. I can only imagine that must make this worse.”
