Chapter 8
Healing was not a straight line.
Some days I walked farther.
Some days pain dragged me backward.
Some days I hated the wheelchair.
Some days I loved it because it let me move when my leg refused.
Nina said, “Mobility aids are not failure.”
Karen’s voice in my head said otherwise.
Lazy.
Pretending.
Attention.
So Nina made me say the opposite out loud.
“My chair helps me.”
“My brace supports me.”
“My body is healing.”
At first, I felt stupid.
Then I felt angry.
Then I believed it a little.
School was harder.
Everyone knew.
Some kids stared.
Some asked too many questions.
One boy said, “Did your stepmom really push you?”
Ethan appeared behind him like a thundercloud.
The boy never asked again.
But I did not want Ethan fighting all my battles.
So when a girl named Sophie asked if my leg was “still messed up,” I looked at her and said, “Yes. And your manners?”
Her mouth fell open.
My best friend Lily laughed so hard milk came out of her nose.
That helped.
Dad started therapy too.
He told us at dinner like he was announcing a weather report.
“I have an appointment Thursday.”
Ethan dropped his fork.
“Voluntarily?”
Dad smiled weakly.
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Good.”
He nodded.
“I need to understand why I missed so much.”
That was the first adult sentence I trusted.
Not “I’ll fix everything.”
Not “It won’t happen again.”
But “I need to understand.”
Months passed.
I moved from wheelchair to walker for short distances.
Then crutches.
Then one cane.
A blue one.
Not silver like Karen’s lawyer suggested for court sympathy.
Blue because I chose it.
On the anniversary of the accident, we went to the beach.
Seattle wind cut through my jacket.
Ethan walked beside me.
Dad stayed close but not too close.
I took fourteen steps in the sand.
Then I sat down and cried.
Dad asked, “Pain?”
I shook my head.
“Proud.”
He cried too.
Ethan sighed.
May you like
“Our family is extremely moist now.”
I laughed until my side hurt.
