Fracture Read online

  He stopped after a few pages and said, “You’re not falling asleep, are you?” But I was staring at his mouth, and he saw it.

  “No, I’m good.”

  Decker had at least three ways of looking at me. Sometimes, he’d look at the surface of me, like when I’d walk into a room for the first time and his eyes would go wide and friendly. He could also look right through me with sharp eyes when he was annoyed, like that day at the lake. And he could look directly into me when he wanted to know what I was thinking or feeling. He was doing that now. I could tell by the way his upper lids drooped to meet the gray of his irises. I could almost feel him in my head, picking at the pieces.

  I waved him off. “Just keep going,” I said. And he did.

  Dr. Logan came in when the sky was still orange.

  “Field trip.” He clapped his hands together once and waited for the nurses to transfer me into a wheelchair. I pursed my lips at him. His eyes weren’t bloodshot. His clothes looked fresh. He had slept. He was cheerful. And when he leaned close to check my stitches, I didn’t even smell coffee on his breath.

  “Time to say good-bye to the boyfriend,” he said.

  “Oh, him?” I made brief eye contact with Decker and looked away. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Decker turned his back to me as he shrugged on his jacket, which was all the good-bye I was going to get.

  My head felt sticky and cold as Dr. Logan stuck wire after wire onto my skull. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass window and did a double-take. I was a walking science experiment, thin wires shooting out of my head like a blond Medusa. The wires wound down my side to a small box. And just as he attached the last of the wires, the itching started.

  I raised my hands and left them hovering just above my scalp. “It itches,” I said.

  “Hmmm.” Dr. Logan rested his pointer finger on his chin. “Itching or discomfort?” Like I didn’t know the difference.

  “Itch,” I repeated. “But inside.” Deep in the center of my brain. And, like the day before, the tugging intensified from one direction until it wasn’t a tug at all but a pull. A strong, persistent pull. “I need to get out of here,” I said, swiping at the electrodes on my scalp.

  “Wait, calm down,” Dr. Logan said as he gripped my wrists with his hands, preventing the destruction of his work.

  “I gotta go, I gotta go,” I said as the itch spread down my neck. I rolled my head back and tried to swing my legs out of bed.

  “Go where?”

  “I gotta go,” I repeated, because the pull was strong and the itch was spreading down my shoulders and I didn’t know exactly where. Somewhere out in the hall. Somewhere to my right.

  And then the itch made its way down my arms to the tips of my fingers and they burned and twitched as the itch tried to escape. Dr. Logan loosened his grip on my wrists and looked at the movement. He frowned at the readout. “No seizure,” he said.

  Then he looked back at me, like that should’ve stopped the twitching in and of itself. I got up, jerking the machinery with me, trying to dislodge the wires from my head. Dr. Logan pressed a button over my bed and engulfed me in his arms, almost like a hug, but not really because I couldn’t move. More like a straitjacket. And then someone came into the room and I felt a pinch on my arm and everything went fuzzy and a little bit silly. I was pretty sure I was giggling when the blackness took over.

  Melinda scrubbed my scalp with industrial-smelling shampoo. At the salon Mom and I both went to, everything smelled of coconut and mint. Not here. This shampoo smelled like toilet cleanser and felt like that stuff Mom used to put on my cuts. I lay flat on the bed, head hanging off the bottom end, feet hidden under my pillow. Blood pooled in my head. I hoped the increased pressure wouldn’t cause any further damage.

  Dr. Logan stood near the door while my parents paced around the room like newly caged animals. Viewing the scene upside-down was disorienting and dizzying, so I closed my eyes and listened to the conversation unfold as the nurse kneaded my scalp with her fingertips.

  “We really need to get her home,” Mom explained to Dr. Logan. “The Internet says that a hospital is the worst place to be unless you’re really sick. It makes you sicker. Isn’t that right?” Dr. Logan cringed. Doctors must hate the Internet.

  “And I’ve been speaking with insurance,” Dad said. “We stay here much longer and we won’t have a house for her to come home to anymore, we’ll owe so much money.” That was just like Dad. He probably had an Excel spreadsheet of our expenses for the past two weeks, including a category for the vending machine. I wondered if he planned on deducting it all from our taxes.

  “Her EEG was normal, but I’m still concerned about the hand tremors. She became incredibly agitated both times,” Dr. Logan said.

  I cleared my throat. Agitated? I flipped out. I had to be sedated. Sedated.

  “She’s doing well. Really well,” Mom said. “I can handle things at home.”

  I knew I wasn’t doing really well. I opened my eyes and made eye contact with Dr. Logan. I think he missed the message. I was upside-down, after all. Gravity made it impossible to contort my face into disbelief and panic. Or maybe I succeeded and Dr. Logan didn’t really know me well enough to translate the message.

  “Let’s talk outside,” Dr. Logan said. The pacing stopped, my hair was rinsed and towel-dried, and I was left alone.

  Ten minutes later, it was decided. I was going home. “You’re cleared by me,” Dr. Logan said. “Except for the ribs, of course, but that’s not my specialty anyway.” He winked. I narrowed my eyes. We sat around for the next four hours while the hospital processed the discharge papers. Mom read me the end of Catch-22. I learned that my rehab situation was indeed a Catch-22. I discovered another one, as well. Death is finite. Unless it’s not. In which case it wasn’t death in the first place. Just an absence of life.

  Dr. Logan said I still had to come in for monthly consultations, with the potential for recurrent MRIs or EEGs, depending on my symptoms. I appeared to have escaped any lasting neurological damage, except for my hands, of course. My parents didn’t seem worried about the twitching. Dr. Logan acted like he thought it would eventually pass. I didn’t want to have an episode at school. I was already the smart kid. No need to be the smart kid with the freaky twitching hands.

  When my parents left to find an edible meal in the cafeteria, I picked up the hospital phone and called the only number besides my own that I knew by heart.

  “I’m coming home,” I said in halting syllables.

  “Thank God,” Decker said. Either dread did not translate adequately over the phone, or Decker didn’t know me quite as well as I thought. “Don’t worry,” he added, “I’ll be there.”

  I let out a sigh of relief and hung up before I said something I’d regret. Something like, I’m scared.

  Dr. Logan came back to go over some documentation, outlining possible side effects to watch for. “Let’s not forget that Delaney is indeed a victim of traumatic brain injury. Don’t let her recovery fool you. Be on the lookout for headaches, fatigue, depression or anger, sleep disorders, memory trouble, and speech issues. That’s what therapy is here for.”

  My parents nodded, half-listening, and signed the paperwork. Melinda eased me into my wheelchair.

  “Last time,” she said. She tucked my hair behind my ear and pushed me down the hall. I said good-bye to the blue room, my home for the last week. In the lobby, my parents thanked Melinda for her care.

  “Let me take it from here,” Dad said. He pushed me toward the exit, a narrow hallway with open double doors at the end. Mom put her hand on my shoulder as she walked. The afternoon sun reflected off the snow in a blinding light. My body and mind resisted. I wanted to stay. I wasn’t ready to go home. But they pushed me toward it, the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Chapter 4

  “Wake up, honey.” Mom’s voice roused me from unconsciousness. “We’re home.”

  “And look who’s here,” Dad said. “Sur
prise, surprise.”

  Decker sat on the front steps, shovel resting by his side. The recent snow sat heavy on the grass, but our walkway was clear. Our house, a cool gray, looked dark in contrast to the white yard. Small icicles hung like teeth from the eaves over the front porch. The house waited to consume me.

  Decker opened my car door and reached his arms inside.

  “I got it,” I said. I held my breath as I pulled myself upright, careful not to move my rib cage any more than absolutely necessary.

  The first thing I noticed when I stood on the driveway was my skin. It felt normal. There was no tugging sensation, no feeling that I might fly apart. Maybe Mom was on to something about hospitals and illness.

  “Get the bags, Ron. I’ll get the kids settled.” Mom gave Decker a radiant smile and kissed me on the forehead before unlocking the front door. “Go on, get back to normal now,” she said.

  I paused in the entryway. The house looked immaculate but smelled stale, like wood and plaster. I guess that’s all a house really is at its core. My absence had taken the life out of our home.

  “Smells funny,” Decker said, never being one to hold back.

  “I’ll get some cookies baking. Should warm the place right up,” Mom said.

  Decker took my bags upstairs while I mentally prepared to haul myself up the steps. He came back down and put a hand on my waist. “I’ll carry you,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Decker was taller than me but definitely skinnier. Sometime during the last year or so, I had stopped growing upward. I maxed out at a respectable yet not quite modelesque height. Since then, any growing I did happened in the outward department. I’d heard girls in the locker room not so discreetly whisper that I had gotten fat. But I had also heard guys not so discreetly whisper that I had gotten hot. It’s a fine line.

  “Are you implying I’m weak?” Decker was all lean muscle. Good for running. Good for playing basketball in the school gym while he waited for me to finish working in the library. Good for balance and agility and not falling into a lake. Not so good for hauling my butt up the stairs.

  I smiled at him and placed my open hand on his cheek. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then I gripped the stair rail, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled myself up. There was some serious discomfort, but minimal pain. When we reached the top, I smiled a huge smile at Decker. “See? No permanent damage done.” He didn’t look convinced.

  My room looked untouched. The walls were a pale lavender, which suddenly felt childish. My English homework lingered at the edge of my desk. A mobile of the solar system that Decker and I made as a project in middle school hung over my bed. I had begged him to let me keep it. He didn’t fight me for it. White shelves held academic trophies and framed pictures of my family. Science fair ribbons were pinned directly into the walls. A picture of me and Decker from the yearbook was stabbed above my dresser, right next to my mirror.

  Decker watched me watching the walls. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s like I never left.”

  The smell of chocolate chips and macadamia nuts reached my room by the time I’d finished putting my clothes away. Decker started unpacking my second bag. He stuffed the get-well cards wherever he could find room in my desk drawers. I’d have to reorganize them later, but I didn’t complain. He stacked my novels and textbooks on top of my desk, where they teetered precariously. My French textbook was one exasperated sigh away from knocking over my lamp. I took the books, one at a time, over to my bookshelf for proper placement.

  “Tell me what to do,” Decker said.

  “It’s quicker if I just do it.” I slid Catch-22 into the empty slot in the “H” section.

  “It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to alphabetize,” he said. “Let me do it.”

  He wrapped his arms around my stomach and tugged me backward. “I’m fine. I took my painkillers. I’m sick of sitting around doing nothing.” I spun around so I was facing him. His arms didn’t move from my waist.

  “Listen—”

  “Delaney.” Mom swung open the door and Decker dropped his arms. “You have company.” And there, standing behind her, was a packed hallway.

  The whole group was there, but I was tired. Exhausted, actually. I blew out an annoyed breath, one powerful enough to knock over my French textbook. Good thing I’d taken precautions.

  “Try to be nice,” Decker whispered in my ear. “They were worried.”

  I shot him a look that said, I’m always nice, but it was not a very nice look, which negated the message. Carson and Janna sat on my bed. Kevin and Justin did this fist bump thing with Decker, then sprawled out comfortably on my floor.

  “Our girl looks good!” Carson smacked his hand on the bed, indicating I should sit next to him. Me and Carson on a bed felt awkward now, especially since I was sure they all knew about the incident at Decker’s house. I looked back at Decker, wondering if this was his idea of being nice, but he wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at Carson with an unreadable expression. I sighed and wedged myself between Carson and Janna.

  Carson leaned over and kissed me, a smacking, wet kiss that landed half on my mouth and half on my cheek. Decker was staring at my lips, like he could see the mark from Carson’s mouth. I could feel it, wet and getting colder, and I desperately wanted to wipe my sleeve across my face, but that would be Not Nice. So I was stuck with this sloppy, chafing, physical mark of Carson’s presence on my face. I felt the heat rising up my neck.

  “God, Delaney,” Carson said, “I seriously thought you were dead. But imagine the sympathy—last guy to kiss Delaney Maxwell. Girls would be lining up to comfort me.” He smiled his killer smile at me. Only Carson could joke about my death and getting girls in the same sentence and get away with it. I even smiled. I was being nice, and I wasn’t even trying.

  “You’re vile, you know that, right?” Janna reached around me and smacked her brother on the back of the head. “But anyway, Delaney, if you need help studying for finals, just give me a call.”

  Carson rubbed the back of his head. “Janna, you’re such a nerd. Seriously, she just got out of a coma and you’re thinking about her grades. Freak.” But he smiled when he said it. Because even though they were nothing alike, Carson took Janna with him everywhere. He secured her spot in the social pecking order. She was free to be whatever kind of nerd she wanted.

  “So, are you coming to my party at the lake house this year?” Justin leaned his head back against my lavender wall. He was lanky and generic, and I never understood his appeal. Maybe it was just his proximity to Carson and Kevin and Decker. Maybe their appeal rubbed off. Or maybe since he was part of the group, girls just assumed he was cute.

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “What? You have to,” Carson said. “You’re all anyone will be talking about.”

  “Yeah,” Justin said. “You have to come. I’d say it’s the least you could do.” Then they all started grinning and talking about who was coming and who was bringing what and who would be home from college. And then I realized something—I was their achievement, their trophy to show off. And, as Justin pointed out, I owed them.

  And then Tara Spano, who had been at the lake that day but was not involved in the rescue story in any way, bounced into the room.

  She bounced directly over to Decker. “Hey, Deck.” She touched his arm, and he smiled a big toothy smile. Apparently, Decker’s status had risen significantly since he rescued me from the ice. It’s not that Decker wasn’t cute. He was, actually. But it was kind of a new thing.

  His hair was really dark and his skin was pretty pale. His eyes were set fairly deep, and the corners of his mouth always hung down unless he was smiling. But he’d grown into it all during freshman year. The second week of freshman year, to be precise.

  I’d said good-bye to him at the bus stop on a Monday afternoon, but I was incapable of saying hello Tuesday morning. I just stared at him, having one of those completely socially awkward moments, wondering when h
e’d gone from being the Decker who built snow forts with me to the Decker who was looking at me sideways and grinning like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I recovered by refusing to talk to him the rest of the day. Or the day after that. But I got used to it by Friday. So, girls liked him, and I could see why they did, but I always assumed Tara was out of his league.

  Tara noticed me, almost as an afterthought, and opened her arms. “You, get over here!” she said. I cut my eyes to Decker for guidance. I was not a hugger as a general rule. I was not a fan of Tara as a specific rule. But Decker made his eyes go wide and tilted his head toward Tara, making it abundantly clear that this was part of being nice. So I got up and walked into Tara’s open arms.

  “I was so worried about you!” she said, though she didn’t visit me at the hospital or send any cards. Then she squeezed and tilted me side to side. I felt the rib fractures give a little, a sharp stab of pain below my heart, and then I threw up. I spewed hospital-issued Jell-O and non-hospital-issued french fries down the back of Tara’s turquoise sweater. And then I collapsed. Even from the floor, I could see that the ends of Tara’s long dark hair were caked in my lunch.

  “Gross!” Carson said appreciatively.

  “Mrs. Maxwell!” Janna stuck her head into the hall. “Delaney threw up!”

  Decker immediately ran over, slid his hands under my arms, and pulled me to standing. “You okay?” he said.

  “Fine.” I looked at Tara, whose jaw was twitching but who knew she couldn’t flip out on me, and shuddered. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  Tara realized that everyone was looking at her. So she did what any attention whore would do when covered in vomit in front of cute guys. She stripped. Under her sweater, she wore a tight white tank top.

  “No big deal,” she said. “But hey, maybe I can get some shampoo?” And she laughed.

  Mom ran in and searched my body for defects. “Delaney, what’s the matter? Are you nauseous? Does your head hurt? Everyone else, downstairs. There are cookies.”