Going the Distance (17 page)

Tears of shame and anger were rolling down my face and, I am not ashamed to say, from pain as well. I just looked at my dad.

“You can’t be this stupid!” my dad kept going while I tried not to wince from my hip’s aria.

“Mr. Monroe,” Nate interrupted timidly. “Can you get his pills? I think he’s in pain.”

At first the words meant nothing to my dad; between being wakened and being four kinds of pissed, he was not processing language very well. But one by one the words penetrated, and he looked at me and asked, “Does it hurt?”

I nodded.

“Good,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe pain will get the message through that thick skull how hurt you really are.” He stomped out and into his room.

Nate walked over to the side of my bed, a sympathetic look on his face. “You could have just said you needed to piss, dude.”

I looked up at him shocked. “How did you know…?”

He looked down and then away.

Perfect, I hadn’t only woke up my dad and fucked up my leg. I’d also pissed myself.

Perfect, Danny, just perfect.

My dad shoved some pills down my throat, and within a couple of minutes I was out cold, When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the window, and Nate was nowhere to be seen. I looked around groggily, trying to remember last night.

And then it hit me.

I tossed back the covers and saw I was wearing a different pair of sweats.

Falling back into my pillow, I groaned. “Perfect. I had to be changed like a fucking baby.”

Nate must have heard me because a few seconds later, he walked in. “So it lives,” he said cheerfully. “How you feeling?”

Mortified, I pulled a pillow over my head. “Horrible.”

“You in pain?” he asked, concerned. “I have pills, but we have to be—”

I pulled the pillow off. “No, I’m embarrassed, dude.”

That made him pause. “Why?”

“Really?” I asked him. “I pissed myself last night.”

“Oh!” he said, realizing what my problem was. “Seriously, man, let that go. You couldn’t help yourself.”

“Says the guy who didn’t piss himself last night,” I muttered.

“You have to go now?” he asked, holding up a plastic container. “Get it out of the way.”

“What is that?” I asked, knowing exactly what it was and hating it.

“It’s something to piss in,” he explained way too happily. “They sent it home with you.” He held it out to me. “So yes?”

The bad thing was, I did need to piss.

“Fine, give it to me,” I said, taking it and opening the top. “Just… go in it?”

“Yeah,” he said, examining the container intently. “It looks big enough, right?” I had no idea, since I never measured how much I pee.

“I can get up,” I said, shoving it away.

“No you can’t,” he said, putting it back in my hand. “Unless you have to take a dump or need to shower, you’re in bed. So learn to use it or piss yourself again. And this time I am not changing you.”

My stomach heaved, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Oh God! You changed me?”

“Well, I helped your dad, but… dude, it isn’t that big a deal,” he tried to convince me.

“God, I fucked things up,” I said, feeling like I could die right there and then.

Nate sighed and shook his head. “Just go to the bathroom. I’ll grab you some food.”

He walked out, and I opened the top and did my business. Turns out the bottle was more than large enough.

He came back carrying a plate with some eggs and sausage, and I could hear my stomach make a noise in response. “Well, part of you is happy to see food,” he said, putting the plate down and reaching for the container.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said quickly.

“You gonna eat breakfast next to a container of piss? Dude, just chill out.”

I wanted to argue, but the food kept distracting me, and he walked out before I could even try. I inhaled everything in about three bites; nothing had ever tasted so good in my life. I was about to lick the plate when Nate came back in and handed me a huge glass of orange juice. I grabbed it and swallowed it in one huge gulp.

“Damn!” I said, leaning back. “That was the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

He laughed and took the plate and glass away. “It was eggs, dude. You just haven’t eaten in forever.”

“You don’t have to clean up after me,” I said, realizing the instant the words came out how stupid they were, because what was I supposed to do? Hobble to the kitchen myself?

He put the plate down on my dresser and turned around to look at me. “Okay, let’s get this over with. What’s your deal?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You can’t be here by yourself, and I’m trying to help. What’s your damage with that?”

“I just feel bad. You shouldn’t have to do all that,” I muttered, not sure how to answer. “I mean, this can’t be how you wanted to spend your summer.”

“I planned on spending summer figuring out if I wanted to hear my mom bitch about my dad or visit my cousin in North Texas. I didn’t have any plans, and I don’t mind doing this. Anything else?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Why? You barely know me,” I blurted out. “I mean, I appreciate you being here, but I just—”

“I had a brother and he died,” he said, interrupting me. The words brought me to a screeching halt. “He died, and I have always wondered what it would be like….” His voice got thick with emotion, and I could hear him clear his throat. “Anyways, I’ve always wanted a little brother, and you seem to be needing a big one right now.”

We locked eyes.

“You got it?” he asked.

I felt ashamed. “I didn’t mean… I just….” Nothing would come out in the order I wanted it to.

“And your dad told me about you, and I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re gay, bi, or the world’s ugliest woman. It doesn’t matter to me, so if that’s what you’re scared about, you can get over that as well.”

The pills didn’t make me feel as dizzy as his statement had.

“And no, he didn’t just say you liked guys. He asked a series of questions that made it pretty clear he was asking if I was your friend or your
friend
,” he said, using air quotes. “I told him we were just friends, and he dropped it, but I think I cracked his code. So, anything else you want to talk about, or we good?”

I nodded.

“Awesome,” he said, picking the plate and glass up again. “You’re getting ripe, so that means trying to get you vertical, which is improbable, or a sponge bath, which means you getting over the fact I’m seeing you naked. Which I already have. So figure it out.”

And he walked out.

Now you have an idea how my summer went.

Nate took care of me when my dad was gone and helped me get to the physical therapist so I could learn to walk again. I really thought that was going to be the easiest part. I mean, how hard could it be to walk again when I was used to working out six times a week? There was nothing this guy could throw at me that I wasn’t ready for.

Turns out the list of things I was not ready for was massive.

It was almost a month and a half after coming home, which meant almost two months since the accident, and I was climbing the walls, metaphorically. My hip still ached, but it no longer exploded into earth-shattering fits of pain like it had. The doctor said I was healing really fast, which was good. When he took my cast off, I thought the leg under it belonged to someone else, it was so small. I had always prided myself on my calves; not a lot of guys have good ones, and I had great ones, if I was going to be honest.

Now I had one normal one and one that looked like it was attached to an eleven-year-old boy.

The doctor warned me that having my cast off was no indication that I was ready to do anything strenuous. He said hip injuries were tricky with the healthiest of people, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He set me up for PT three times a week, which Nate would help me with while my dad was working. The PT guy was this massive black guy who looked like he was a former Oakland Raider linebacker and looked me and Nate up and down when we walked into his gym.

“You Monroe?” he asked. I nodded. “Great. You are not a basketball player in here. You are not a jock. In fact, all you are is someone who can’t walk, so I don’t want to hear any crap about how healthy you are or what you did before this. We’re going to do this my way, and I am not taking any flak just because you used to be able to jump.”

“He’ll jump again,” Nate said, not liking this guy’s tone at all.

PT guy swiveled his head toward Nate, and it reminded me of a bulldog orientating on its prey. “You a physical trainer?” Nate shook his head. “You have a degree in health or kinesiology?” Another shake. “Then shut the hell up.”

I almost chuckled until he looked back at me. “Laugh it up. We’ll see how funny this all is when we’re done.”

It took all of forty-five minutes for him to get me to cry.

No joke, I had been run into the ground by coaches on two continents, and none of them had made me hurt like this guy. Besides the fact that I hadn’t done shit in two months, so I was as weak as that eleven-year-old kid my leg belonged to, it turned out most of my muscles had assumed doing nothing was the way we were going to live from now on and were pretty pissed to find out the vacation was over.

I was drenched in sweat, lying on the exercise mat as he went over and wrote some things down in my file.

“You okay?” Nate asked, coming over to me.

“Hell no, he is not okay,” PT guy shouted from across the gym. “He’s lying there crying his eyes out like he’s been mugged. What part of okay do you think that looks like?”

“I’ll be okay,” I assured him.

“Maybe,” PT guy said, walking over to me and dropping a piece of paper onto my chest. “That’s a list of things you should get. Epsom salts, heating pad, normal stuff.” He then added a folder. “List of exercises you should be doing every day at home.” And then another stack of papers. “And a dietary list you ain’t gonna follow, but you can’t say I didn’t give it to you.”

He finally dropped a towel onto me and concluded with, “Next Monday, same time.”

Nate helped me limp out slowly before PT guy could come back for some more.

Turns out PT guy wanted me to soak in a tub of hot water to help loosen up some muscles, which sounds like a completely normal request until you realize I was over six and a half feet tall. We had a tub, of course, but it was small for normal people, which meant it might work if I wanted to soak my feet. My dad talked to the school and got permission for us to use the locker room there, specifically the huge tubs we used for icing up or soaking in. Since it was still summer break, no one was using them, so the people Dad talked to let Nate and me go in after therapy so I could cry in private.

Nate stripped down to his trunks and got in with me since there was more than enough room. The first few sessions I actually fell asleep, I was so drained after being mangled by PT guy. The second week the coach came in. He had, of course, heard that I had been in the accident, but this was the first time he’d checked in on me. When he saw Nate and I were in the tub, he made a face but didn’t say anything, instead asking me how I felt.

“Sore,” I admitted. “I thought I was okay, but just simple leg lifts are killing me.”

He nodded, no doubt understanding more about it than me. “Son,” he said, looking at Nate. “You mind if we have a second?”

Nate nodded, climbing out of the tub and wrapping a towel around his waist. “Holler when you’re ready to get out,” he said to me.

Once he was out of earshot, the coach said in a low tone, “Look, Danny, your accident… what happened. That wasn’t because of what I said to you, right?”

And here I thought he was going to accuse Nate and me of fooling around in the tub.

“No, Coach,” I said honestly. “Everything you said that night was true, and to be honest, I never even saw the other car.” I got flashes of memory sometime, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Half seconds where I could hear the other car tearing through the Jeep’s door, the red flash as my leg snapped.

I shook my head. “I wasn’t drunk or anything. Seriously, Coach. It was just an accident.”

He seemed to accept most of that. He wanted to say more, from the look on his face, but he didn’t. “Well, get better, and even if you can’t play this year, you’re still on the team. I expect you to be on the bench cheering and giving them pointers.”

Even if I couldn’t play? For some reason hearing the coach say it out loud made it real in a way my dad, the doctor, and even Nate hadn’t been able to. I didn’t say anything, just nodded, and we talked about nothing for a while, but I can’t remember what it was. All I could think of was that I might not be able to play this year.

On the way back to base, I asked Nate, “What if I can’t play again period?”

He didn’t even pause, just shook his head. “Nope, you’ll play again.”

He sounded so sure it took me by surprise. “I mean play professionally,” I amended.

He nodded. “That’s what I meant too.”

As we pulled off the freeway toward the base, I asked, “And you’re so sure, why?”

He took a couple of seconds before answering, gathering his thoughts. “Because God gave you a gift. He gave you basketball, and he wouldn’t take that away from you. He might make you work for it once in a while, but he’d never take it from you. You’ll play again.”

He said it with such conviction that it was startling. “You really think that?”

“That you’ll play again?” he asked, glancing over to me.

“That I have a gift?”

He chuckled. “Dude, you’re as tall as the Chrysler Building, you have zero percent body fat, and can do a standing jump that most people need a trampoline to pull off. You really think that isn’t a gift?”