Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

I don’t acknowledge him, controlling the one thing I can right now—my voice.

“You were brought in via ambulance and taken into surgery. You had extensive internal bleeding which we managed to stop. Your leg is broken in two places but not severe enough to need additional surgery, so the cast will come off at the six-week point…” I zone out on him as he throws medical jargon at me, but there’s only one thing I want to know: Will I ever feel my legs again?

“When you woke up yesterday...” I come out of the haze I self-imposed and pay attention to what he’s saying as he places the tablet on the small hospital table at the bottom of my bed. “You said you couldn’t feel your legs.” I blink at him once in response. “We took you for an MRI and found that you have swelling on your spinal cord.”

“Swelling?” Nate asks. “What does that mean?”

The doctor flicks his gaze from me to Nate and back again. “The swelling was caused from the fall.” He clears his throat. “We can be thankful you didn’t break your spinal cord, but…” His throat bobs as he swallows. “With a break, we can be pretty certain of the outcome, of what your recovery will be like and if there’s anything we can do to aid that recovery. However, with swelling on your spinal cord, we can’t be certain if it will go down, and if it does, how long it will take.”

“That’s what’s causing her to not be able to feel her legs?” Nate asks.

“Yes.” The doctor comes closer, picking up his tablet this time before turning it around and showing us both an image of a spine. “When there’s swelling on the spine, it compresses down on the nerves that send your brain signals to move and to feel.” He steps forward, placing his tablet down and holding his hand out as he says, “I need to test your legs to see what we’re working with.” Tilting his head at my legs, he asks, “May I?”

I nod, swallowing against my dry throat as he pulls the blankets back. “Tell me when you can feel my hand.” I wait, squeezing my eyes closed, not knowing where or what he’s touching until I finally feel his hand.

“I can feel that.” When I open my eyes, I see his hand just below my belly button and the tears that want to desperately escape burn the back of my eyes.

The doctor nods to himself, pulling the blankets over me and picking his tablet up. “The swelling is what’s stopping all of the feeling from the waist down.”

I look back at the image on the tablet he’s holding up before bringing my gaze back to the doctor. He smiles at me gently, but when I don’t say or do anything, his eyes dim a little.

“What happens now?” Nate asks, yet again.

I wish he would stop asking him questions. I want silence, I want quiet. I want to pretend none of this is happening and that I can fling my legs off the side of the bed at any moment and pad into the adjoining bathroom, or walk over to the small window and see the clouds that are sure to be slowly moving throughout the sky. Instead, I’m stuck here with the d

octor and Nate talking about me.

“The recovery process will be a long road. You won’t be able to start it until you have the cast off, and at that time, it will be a slow haul that’ll need lots of determination.”

“And she’ll be able to feel her legs again?” Nate pauses. “She’ll be able to walk?”

The good old doctor clears his throat, and if I wasn’t feeling about as useful as a block of ice in Texas right now, I’d probably laugh. Even the doctor doesn’t know whether I’ll be able to walk again. What’s the point? Why carry on when I’ll never be able to sit on the side of a pool and dip my toes in the water? When I’ll never be able to feel the sand beneath my feet? When I’ll never be able to… walk.

“I can’t answer that without possibly giving you false hope. All we can do is wait and see. We can’t predict these things as well as we could had it been a clear break. Time will be our only answer.”

Nate and the doctor stare at each other for a beat and I turn away from both of them, staring at the same spot on the wall and going far into my mind. I make a safe space for myself. A place where nothing bad can touch me, and nothing at all can hurt me. A place where I can walk through the woods, swim in the lake, and stand under a waterfall. A place of peace and contentment.

It’s not until the door closes and Nate’s hand covers mine that I realize the doctor has left. But still I don’t acknowledge Nate as he says, “We’ll get you the best doctors and physical therapists available, and I’ll be here every step of the way because there’s no chance you’re going back to your apartment. Don’t even try to fight me on that.” He pauses for a second before adding, “I can’t promise that everything will work out the way you want it to, but I can promise I’ll be with you. There’s no doubt about that.”

My nostrils flare the longer he talks, the more he makes plans, the more he promises he’ll be here for me. He won’t: he’ll leave when things get too tough. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but what about in six months’ time if I still can’t walk?

I can’t deal with the pain of losing him as well as my mobility. It’s best to cut things off now, to turn it all off: every single emotion I’ve ever felt for him.

I open my mouth, about to speak the only words I intend to speak to him ever again, because to me right now, nothing will ever be what it used to. Not my legs, not me, not us.

“Leave.” My voice is hoarse, but I push through it. “I want you to leave.”

“Why?”

My hand twitches in his as he grasps it tighter. “I want to be alone.”

“And I want to help, I’m not letting you push me away this time.”

I grit my teeth at his words, wanting to shout at him to get out, but not wanting to show him how close I am to breaking. I’m afraid if I show him too much, if I expose myself to him now, I’ll never be able to turn back from it.

I keep my eyes focused on his, knowing there’s nothing in the depths of mine. No matter how much he searches, he won’t find anything.

“I don’t want you here,” I say, my voice flat before turning away, effectively dismissing him.