G is for Gerry (Men of ALPHAbet Mountain)

“What are you in the mood for?” she asked. “Anything specific?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The meds make my stomach weird. I can stop taking them tomorrow and switch to the other ones that won’t affect me like that.”

“How does pizza sound?”

I froze.

“Pizza sounds amazing,” I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth.

“Pizza it is,” she said. “They have the best pizza here. You won’t believe it. A place called Sergio’s. Hang on.”

She was right. I didn’t believe it. I had been in Chicago, New York, and Detroit in the last six months. I had eaten my weight in pizza. The idea that something from a tiny town in Ashford, Tennessee, would be half as good as any of the pizzas I had in those cities was extremely hard to believe.

As Dee got up to go grab her phone, I thought about what the last six months had been like. Traveling to all those cities, doing tours of football stadiums, and interning during the summer for media companies covering the teams, I had learned a lot. I got rave reviews for my hard work, and more than a couple of people who worked in those companies had told me I was a shoo-in for a job once I got my degree. Even though I knew it might still be a few years away, I was so excited at the prospect of being a sideline reporter that I had already bought the coat I intended on wearing during those brisk winter games.

Now it hung up in the closet of my sister’s house, the red wool sticking out against the bevy of black T-shirts and gray hoodies that made up most of my wardrobe. The thought that I ever might wear it, facing a camera with matching bright red lipstick and discussing the minutia of the game, was nearly lost. I could have died. Even still, though I was living and breathing, my confidence had shattered.

I caught my reflection in the still-off television. My stump stuck out like a sore thumb. It was the most immediate thing someone would see about me and the first thought they would have about me now. Not my smile, or my eyes, or my intelligence or personality. My stump. My missing leg.

I was beyond crying, at least for now. I didn’t wake up every day thinking that I could hop out of bed and then tumble into a million pieces anymore. I didn’t look in the mirror and see a broken, puffy, bruised lump anymore either. I mostly looked like me. Just… less of me.

I wasn’t the type to get down on myself often. Much like my sister, I tended to keep a positive attitude, no matter what I was going through. But this was the biggest test in my life, and I was going to have to fight to keep myself on track.

I realized I was still staring at my stump when Dee sat down again beside me. She was clearly exhausted from helping me move my stuff in, and I was so grateful to her for doing it.

“Hey,” she said, nudging me with her elbow. “It’ll be okay, kid. You’re strong. You’re going to get through this, and I’ll be there every step of the way. Just a bump in the road is all this is.”

I nodded.

When I looked back at her, she was smiling, but there were tears in the corners of her eyes. I knew it must be hard seeing her little sister like this too. But she did her best to cover it, to make it seem like it was no big deal and like if we just worked hard, I would be back to normal in no time.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t just grow another leg. It was going to take time and healing and physical therapy. I was going to be fitted for a prosthetic as soon as the wound healed, and then I would have to learn to walk with it. We would have to go back and forth to the doctor in Nashville, hours away, to do all that. And I would have to depend on her to take me. It was a lot.

Yet, she smiled still, and it filled my heart with love for her. She was better than any big sister had any right to be. I had to make her proud and make her sacrifice worth it by working hard to recover. Part of that meant, for the next day or so, taking it easy and letting what was left of my leg heal. And maybe eating a truckload of pizza.

“Pepperoni and pineapple?” I asked.

Her smile got wider as she nodded. It was tradition, ever since we were kids. Pepperoni and pineapple and bad romantic comedies. We used to drink grape juice out of wine goblets and pretend we were fancy ladies. Now, she could have the real thing. I figured I’d just stick to soda. If I was going to pig out, I might as well have the empty calories of a Dr. Pepper.