“Within hours, I couldn’t breathe on my own. I couldn’t swallow, so they had to put in a feeding tube. I was lying there, in excruciating pain, and I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t even point to one of those stupid rating charts with the round faces. You know what I’m talking about?” Justin nodded again.
“People talked and moved around me for days, no answers, no nothing. Just fear and pain. I couldn’t even lift a hand to wipe away my own tears. My entire world boiled down to the constant swoosh of the respirator. The beeps of the alarms on the machines. Lights flashing when it was time to draw more blood. It was like a thin curtain blocked me from the rest of the world. The worst part was that anyone could’ve come into my room at any time, and I wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it. Not scream, or even flinch.”
Justin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. I lowered my gaze and noticed his hands clenched around the desktop. His knuckles were blanched white.
“Things got a little better once we had a diagnosis,” I quickly assured him, hating that he was in distress. Which was odd since we were talking about me. But it meant everything that he cared.
“Doctors and therapists started coming in around the clock. They taught me how to communicate again. I couldn’t talk right away, though, so they had me blow into a straw whenever I needed the nurse. Slowly, I learned how to roll over and sit, how to feed myself and go to the bathroom.” I paused there and shuddered. “You have no idea how humiliating it is to be a teenager and need someone to wipe your own ass.”
Justin opened his eyes. “No, I don’t.” His voice was scratchy and he shook his head. His mouth curved into a smile as he said, “I don’t know how you did it. You’re incredible, Sunshine.”
Justin Carter knew how to rock a smile. Flirty grins, mischievous smirks, even vulnerable pouts. The smile on his face now, though, was filled with wonder, respect, and true affection. It was easily my favorite of them all.
“Not incredible,” I replied. “Just a survivor. A stubborn one. Once I started making headway, I was determined to be the best patient ever, to kick the thing’s ass, you know? It wasn’t easy. At first, I didn’t have any muscle tone. Within days of being admitted, I could see all the bones in my hands. But I never gave up, I kept pushing, and I did everything my therapists told me. Sometimes I pushed too hard too fast and set my recovery back.” I sighed in frustration. “I’m not one hundred percent yet, but I will be. One day.”
I fell silent and rested my head on my arms. As I lay there, quiet, simply staring back at Justin, a peculiar sensation crept over my skin. I was no mind reader, and my knowledge of boys was limited to my older brothers and my string of book boyfriends, but I could’ve sworn pride shone in Justin’s eyes.
Being from an athletic family, it sucked having everyone waiting for me to relapse and telling me to slow down. Second guessing every move I made. The doctors said they’d never heard of patients having a relapse; sometimes people suffered residual weaknesses, but they were generally older, and I was expected to make a full recovery. But no one ever knew for sure. Too much was still unknown, and it made me feel out of control and helpless.
But through Justin’s eyes, I didn’t feel weak. He looked at me and saw someone who could accomplish anything. Do anything. I liked that feeling. A lot.
Outside, a dog barked, and suddenly, as if waking from a stupor, Justin blinked his eyes. He cleared his throat and he pushed off the desktop, onto his feet.
The spell was broken. Story time was over.
Confused by the abrupt change, I clamored to sit up as well. Had I said something wrong? I rolled off the mattress, found my balance, and then stood awkwardly in front of him. He wouldn’t even look at me. The comfort and ease of the last few minutes was gone, erased, replaced with restless feet and darting eyes.
I frantically glanced around the room, desperate for something to talk about, and that’s when I saw the ball.
A level lower than I’d looked before, it was on a stand on his bookshelf. I walked up to it and recognized Larry Dierker’s signature. “Ah, nice one.”
Justin moved in behind me. Taking the ball off its stand, he stared at it, palmed it, and admitted almost to himself, “It’s my only decent memory from childhood.”
This was huge. Out of everything I’d discovered from my hours of Justin research, I knew one thing without a shadow of a doubt: The boy was Private with a capital P. Worried he’d remember that, too, and stop talking, I clamped my mouth shut.
“The only thing Dad loves more than money is baseball,” he said, this time with a definite edge. “Not his own family, not even this stupid house. This place is more like a hotel.”