Ruin (4 page)

“Yeah … so? I can enjoy something. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s not wrong, but you need to start focusing on what you’re going to do when you’re done with school.”

I slam my lips together and turn around to stare at the screen. I hate these dream-crushing conversations.

She stands behind me and grabs my shoulders, gently massaging them as if it will help prove her cause. “Honey, you know I’m only looking out for you.”

I let out a sigh. “I know.”

“I only want what’s best for you.”

I know she does … but doing what’s best probably won’t make me as happy as this. But it does pay the bills. If you get accepted into a prestigious dance group, that is. As if that isn’t just as difficult to pull off.

“There are so few authors who can make a living from just writing, and I want you to be able to live comfortably. Especially with your … condition.”

Condition. Wow. I never thought my mom would call it such an awkward, clinical name. Like I’m sick or something.

“It’s just Asperger’s, Mom. You can call it what it is,” I say, turning my head toward her.

The corners of her mouth lift slightly. “I know. I just don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with you. You’re perfect the way you are.” She hugs me so hard my face is squashed into her boobs. “You’re just a little … different. And that’s okay. But it also means you have to find the jobs that work for you.” When she releases me, I suck in a breath of air.

“You’re my baby. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy, Mom.” I smile at her, even though it might not be the truth. I don’t want her to feel bad too.

“And you’ll stay happy with a good job. So that’s why I brought these.” She puts the papers on my desk. They’re advertisements for a dance studio.

“You want me to dance?”

“Well, you like it, don’t you? And this has more job opportunities than writing stories.”

“Really …” I don’t believe her, and I think she knows that.

But I also know her personal preference for my future is more important to her than my own ideas are, even though we’re talking about
my
future.
My
life.

“Well, I figured you only wanted to write or dance … so if it were up to me, I’d pick the one that’s more active.”

I pout my lips as my brows draw together. “Okay …”

“Your dad and I … We always love seeing you dance.” There’s that awkward smile again.

That smile that says she wants this for me and thinks I should too.

And maybe it is.

I don’t know what I want, and it scares me a little that I’m already supposed to know.

Plus, she’s my mom. Moms always know best. Right?

“Promise me you’ll take a look at them?” She gently tucks my hair behind my ear, the touch sending shivers down my spine. I’m still not used to the sensation, no matter how many years have passed.

I nod slowly. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” She places a quick peck on my cheek and then leaves my room, winking a final time.

Hesitantly, I grab the papers, but all I can think about is what I just agreed to.

Of what I’m pushing away to pursue this.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Who in the world would ever dream of becoming the next J.K. Rowling anyway?

No one … except me.

What a silly dream.

I should aim for something bigger, something easier to achieve, according to my mother. Like dancing for a theater show or even a music video.

After all, Mom said I was always better at dancing than I was at anything else.

And moms are always right.

***

Now

With sweat dripping down my neck, I sit bent over on the bed, my head pounding from the worst experience in my life.

Not the crash.

Not finding out that my leg is shattered.

None of that compares to the pain I just felt when they literally pulled my broken leg to get it in the right position just so they could put a knee-high sock on me.

And then again for the plastic boot that had to be put on.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Louder than I have ever screamed before.

I begged.

I fucking begged them to stop.

Pain has never before made me beg.

But I’ve also never felt a worse pain in my life.

I swore more in these last ten minutes than I have in a month.

They didn’t even show me an ounce of mercy. Didn’t stop once to give me a breather. It’s as if they didn’t care about my pain. I was just another patient they had to deal with. Just another number down the line.

When it was over, I was so dizzy I could barely breathe. I kept thinking I was going to faint again, but I told myself I wasn’t going to, so I stuck my head as far down as possible and just breathed out slowly and carefully.

The nurse even brought me a wet cloth to dab my forehead with because I was burning up.

It took me twenty minutes to recover.

All the while, the nurses explained that I had to keep the boot on for at least a week because my surgery wasn’t scheduled until next week.

As if things couldn’t get any worse.

Now, I’m in my hospital room, trying to keep it together while recovering from that damn torture.

I’ve gotten some extra medicine to cope with the pain, but it’s only mildly effective.

And if I wasn’t already lucky enough, I’m sharing a room with a sixty-year-old who doesn’t know where he is and how he came here. The nurses have to explain it to him repeatedly, and he still forgets it within a few minutes. I wish that were the worst, but he also yells at them and accuses them of lying. It’s a bit embarrassing.

Well, as they say, the hospital is no luxury hotel.

I chuckle to myself and shake my head. Jokes are pretty much the only thing I have to keep myself going.

Until my parents suddenly burst into my room.

“Oh, God, May, my sweet girl.” When I hear the nickname my mom always calls me, I sigh in relief.

She immediately hugs me, rubbing my back too; her warm hands almost making me want to cry again. “The doctors told me what happened. I was so scared.” She hugs me again.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, even though that’s a lie. I just don’t want them to worry.

“Fine? You broke your leg!”

“At least she’s still alive,” my dad says, walking over to kiss me on the cheek.

“Yup,” I say. “And that’s pretty much all I am right now.”

“Aww …” My mom sighs and rubs her lips together. “I know it sucks, honey, but you just gotta push through it. Sometimes, these things just happen, and you can’t do anything about it. Besides, look at it this way … there are always people out there who are worse off.”

I nod as I look at my bed and pat down the blanket, but I’m agitated because she makes it sound like I should be happy my injury isn’t worse. But I can’t be happy. And someone having it worse doesn’t make me feel any better.

Still, I don’t make a fuss about it because now’s not the time. “I just keep thinking about what happened.”

“Do you remember anything?” my dad asks.

I shake my head.

“So there’s no one we can sue for damages?”

I laugh. “No, I don’t think so.” Typical comment from my dad.

“And the car?” he asks.

“I think it’s totaled,” I say, even though I have no idea.

“You weren’t drinking, right?” my mom says, raising her brow.

“No, of course not.” I roll my eyes.

“Well, after your dance—” My mom interrupts my dad by shoving her elbow in his side, and he cringes.

I shake my head at my mom’s reaction, but I’m not upset.

They’re always so worried. Like I’d ever do anything like that.

I hate alcohol because it loosens you up, and I hate losing control. It’s what I need to make it through the day, but they don’t understand. No one does. But it doesn’t matter. If I tell them it’s because of my Asperger’s, they still wouldn’t get it. They don’t feel what I feel. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself or any part of that, either.

“So how are you feeling?” Mom asks.

“Like crap,” I say, laughing to relieve a bit of the tension.

“Well, do you want us to bring you anything? Snacks? Drinks? A bit of reading?”

“Could you bring my Gameboy? And my laptop? Oh, and my earplugs.” I look around my bed to find my bag, which the firefighters miraculously managed to pull from the car before it went up in flames. “I’ve still got my phone here, I think.” I fish it out. “Yup.”

“Good, you can text your dad with the stuff you want. He can bring it to you tonight.” She kisses me on the cheeks.

“So you’re not coming?” I ask mom.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie … but I have to go to work. Your dad’s off early today, so he can take this one.” She smiles as if that’ll make it better.

“Okay …” I frown.

Mom’s always been a bit obsessed with her work. I don’t know why, but I guess it makes her feel good … Important. Unlike talking to me.

“Anything else you need?” Dad mutters under his breath as he pens down a few things on a notepad.

“A bag of Doritos.”

My mom laughs. “Sorry?”

I shrug. “I just like them.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s just a little … weird. With you being here in the hospital and all.”

“Yeah …” I sigh and look down at my leg again.

“Hey.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay. I just know it will.”

“They said I needed surgery next week. That means it’s bad.”

“Yes, but it also means they can fix it.”

I shiver. “Maybe I’m just scared.”

“Of what?” Mom asks.

“I don’t know. Them digging around in my leg. Waking up without a leg.”

My mom chuckles. “That’s nonsense.”

“I know, but I just have these fears.” Sometimes, I’m just irrationally afraid of stuff, but she knows this.

“Don’t worry so much. It’ll be okay,” she says, grabbing my hand. “What could go wrong?”

“What if I wake up in the middle of them cutting me open?”

“You won’t. No one does.”

I raise a brow. “There’s a chance.”

“A very, very low chance and it only happens to people who have trouble with the anesthesia. You don’t, remember?”

“Yeah …” I nod a little, but my heart is racing in my chest. I turn my head toward her. “But it’s okay to be scared, right?”

She grabs my face and pushes it into her boobs while hugging me. “Oh, of course, honey. Everyone’s a little scared sometimes.”

I bury my face in her chest and take in her scent. Her smell calms me down just a little bit. I always used to cling to her when I was little. Sometimes, we all want to feel like we’re a kid again. My mom always knows how to comfort me and make me feel at ease.

Until someone knocks on the door. “Sorry for interrupting. Can I come in?”

I lean away from my mom’s chest and clear my throat.

“Of course,” my dad says for me, making me smile a little.

He always takes control of the situation, even if it isn’t his situation to begin with.

The doctor walks up to me and shakes my hand. “Dr. Hamford.” He releases my hand after clearing his throat. “So I’ve got the dates and times for your surgery. You’re scheduled for this Friday at three thirty. You need to have an empty stomach for it, so no eating six hours before the surgery.”

“Can’t the surgery be sooner? Like tomorrow?” I ask. I just want to get it over with since waiting only makes me more anxious.

“No, there’s too much swelling in your leg,” he replies.

“Okay …” Damn. Then I’ll probably be in a lot of pain in the coming days.

He grabs a stool and sits down in front of me. “I’ll be doing the surgery along with a co-worker of mine who’s an orthopedic surgeon. We’ll be placing a plate and about six to seven screws in your leg, and we’ll also go in with a microscopic camera.” He hands me a card with the date and time on it. “So … do you have any questions for me?”

“Um … how long will the surgery take?”

“Four or five hours.”

“Can she get something to ease her nerves beforehand?” my mom interjects.

“Yeah, of course. You want a relaxant?” the doctor asks me.

“Yeah.” I smile at my mom, and she winks back. She always knows what I need.

“All right. I’ll let the nurses know.”

“Thanks.” I swallow away the nerves I have right now.

“Will we be told when she’s out of surgery?” my mom asks.

“Of course. We’ll let you know the moment she comes out. She’ll be in recovery for a good half hour, but then she’ll be brought back here to her room.”

“Will I feel anything weird when they put me under?” I ask.

“No.” He smiles. “It’s like falling asleep. And with the added relaxant, you’ll already feel very tired.”

“Good … I don’t want to feel anything,” I mutter, and my parents laugh.

“So after the surgery,” my dad begins, “how long will she have to stay here in the hospital?”

“Oh … that I don’t know for sure at this point. It could be days. It could be weeks. It all depends on her recovery and physical improvement.”

“Weeks? And then I’ll be able to walk again?” For a second, a small smile finally feels like it’s welcome on my face.

But my smile is met with a grimace. “Eh … it’ll take a while before you can walk again. It’s going to be a long recovery.”

My lungs contract and I find it hard to breathe. “How long?”

My heart stops beating as I hear his answer.

“Nine to twelve months.”

Nine to twelve months.

Like a sentence.

For doing absolutely nothing wrong.