Chapter 88

Sunday May 11th

Scottie

“Your vitals look good, Scottie,” Kimmie, one of my nurses, updates as she removes the blood pressure cuff from my arm. “Do you need anything?”

I shake my head. “I’m good, Kimmie.”

“Promise me you’ll eat a little dinner?” she asks and promptly puts my dinner tray in front of where I’m currently sitting at the little table by the window. “I’m leaving my shift a little early this evening, so Amanda is going to be the one taking over for me. And you and I both know that girl is too nice to press you like I do.”

“Oh, trust me,” I say through a laugh. “I know.”

Kimmie grins and writes Amanda’s number on the whiteboard below my television. “Call her if anything comes up before she does her final check tonight, okay?”

“I will,” I say, good-naturedly exasperated. “I know the drill.”

“You know, when you leave this place, you’re going to miss me.” She winks, and I don’t argue. I know if there’s one nurse I’ll miss when I finally get discharged from here, it’s Kimmie.

She’s a ballbuster, to say the least, but she’s exactly what a girl like me needs. She doesn’t take any of my shit, doesn’t sugarcoat anything, doesn’t step in unless I specifically ask for help, and for that, I’m always thankful.

Kimmie knows how to make her patients feel independent, which is something I took for granted until I was faced with paraplegia.

It’s amazing how much your perspective changes when something like this happens to you. Things that seemed like big things—gossip on campus, backstabbing friends, boyfriends, dating—feel trivial when you’re faced with my reality.

Autonomy is at the core of everything.

“I’m off tomorrow, but I’ll see you Tuesday.” She grabs her clipboard and the little cart that has the blood pressure machine and other things to take my vitals. “Now, wish me luck. It’s Mother’s Day, and I best be walking home to flowers and gifts and dinner on the table. Otherwise, my husband is going to be in the doghouse.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, Kimmie.” I smile.

I had no idea it was Mother’s Day, but that shouldn’t be a surprise. For most of my life, it’s been a day I avoided. A day I tried to forget. I can remember being in elementary school and teachers having us make our moms little gifts. It was painful making a Happy Mother’s Day card knowing full well I’d never actually give it to my mom because, at that point, my dad had fought for full custody of Wren and me in order to keep our mother’s constant toxicity and reckless behavior out of our lives.

But seeing people like Kimmie and Georgia Brooks fill the role so well makes me think maybe I should pay more attention. Not for my mom, but for the real moms. The ones who mother everyone, not just their kids, with love and intention.

“Hey,” Kimmie says then, pulling my attention away from myself and pausing her little wave as she’s heading out the door. “I almost forgot, but I was hoping you could also find some time to go sit with Molly for a little bit.”

I frown. Molly’s another patient on my floor, dealing with a thigh-down amputation of her leg because of bone cancer. She’s only in middle school, and her mom and dad both work two jobs to keep them afloat. As a result, she spends a lot of time alone.

“Why? What’s up?”

Kimmie shrugs. “She’s having a hard day. I think a visitor would help.”

I nod gratefully. Ever since Wren suggested it, I’ve spent a lot of time cruising through some of the other rooms on the floor and chatting with other patients. Mostly, patients who are younger than me, and I have to admit, having a little company and some purpose has felt incredibly good. Empowering, even. “I’ll go down there now.”

Kimmie nods and winks, stepping out of the room and leaving me to do the transfer all on my own—a move I have very little doubt is intentional.

I roll my eyes at her and huff, but I also get down to business.

I reach out to grab my wheelchair where it’s folded up against the wall, open it up with both hands, lock the brakes like Pam often reminds me to do, and set it at just the right angle so I can transfer with ease.

With two strong hands, I lift myself up from the chair and into my wheelchair.

I’m honestly pleasantly surprised with myself at how good I’ve become at transfers. Ten days ago, I was still incredibly shaky, and Pam or a nurse had to help me.

But today, not only can I do all by myself, but it didn’t even feel like I had to use a lot of effort.

With a quick unlock of the brakes, I get my angle right and wheel out the door, into the hallway where there’s relatively little activity. The nurses are busy switching shifts, and most of the patients are eating their dinner, so I have the hall to myself as I roll my way down the floor, stopping only briefly to push open Molly’s cracked door and then cruise inside.

She’s got a tray of untouched food in front of her and a frown on her face, but at the sight of me, she actually lights up.

Unexpected warmth spreads throughout my entire belly. It feels really good to cause a smile.

“Hey, Scottie!” she says excitedly, pushing up in her bed and swinging her tray over to the side. I wheel over to the far side of her bed and lock my wheels, settling in for a chat.

“Hey, girl. What’s shakin’?”

She shakes her head, her jet-black bob swishing in the air, and jerks her chin at her absent leg. “Not much, you know?”

“Oh yeah. I know.” I snort and glance down at my legs. “This morning, I realized I forgot to put on underwear. Thankfully, I remembered pants.” I make a silly face at her. “Could you imagine if I would’ve had my butt cheeks out when Dr. Hurst came in to see me this morning?”

Molly howls with laughter. “He would have gone full tomato!”

I honestly don’t know what it is about Dr. Hurst, but the man has some crazy skin. It’s like any minor emotion—frustration, irritation, happiness, anger—makes the blood flow to his face like a faucet.

“So, it’s not just me, then?” I grin. “Dr. Hurst’s face gets really red sometimes, right?”

“So red!” Molly says through a giggle. “Like a lobster, Scottie. For reals.”

We both laugh at that, and I cheer a silent victory that I’ve managed to put so much joy on her face. “Has your mom been by today?”

“Yeah, this morning.” Molly nods. “I gave her the painting you and I did the other day since I didn’t have a card for Mother’s Day. Hope you don’t mind.”

I laugh. “If anyone should mind, it’s your mom. You and I aren’t the best artists.”

Molly snorts. “I know. She still loved it, though. Said she was gonna hang it in our kitchen right over the table.”

“An appropriate place for a painting of bacon and eggs,” I hum with satisfaction, and Molly shakes her head.

“I still can’t believe that’s what you wanted to paint.”

I shrug. “Listen, I had to give in to my cravings somehow, and I don’t think my stomach is ready for the real thing.” I jerk my chin toward her tray and then point at the banana on the right-hand side. “I am hungry, though. Mind if I have your banana?”

She shakes her head and hands it to me, and I peel it gratefully. “That chicken noodle soup is actually good, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Better than Campbell’s, in my opinion. Not quite as good as the kind at my college, but pretty good. Try it.”

Shrugging, Molly moves the tray back in front of herself and picks up her spoon, scooping some up and into her mouth.

I smother a satisfied smile and ignore the jolt of excitement. I know firsthand how hard it is to make yourself eat, but convincing Molly to do it now makes me feel almost superhuman.

“Mmm,” she moans, putting a hand to her mouth frantically when a little bit of broth slips out. We both laugh, and when she goes in for another scoop, I have to fight the urge to pump my fist.

Molly and I babble for nearly an hour about celebrity news and Taylor Swift and nurse gossip while she eats, and as more light returns to her eyes, I feel more and more in tune with myself.

Not the Scottie who cheered or the Scottie who walked—but the Scottie who loved to help people even more than she loved to help herself.

I feel purpose and strength and, most of all…hope.

My life isn’t what it once was, but if I let go of all the rage and hurt and stubbornness, it can still be good. Not having cheerleading on my schedule frees me up to do all the things I didn’t have time for. One of Finn’s many messages mentioned getting a different scholarship from some grant, which gives me freedom to succeed in school. And hell, I don’t know, not being able to run away might make me face some of my problems so head on that I actually solve them.

As crazy as it sounds, the new Scottie isn’t like the old Scottie…but she might be better. Stronger. Ready to save the world.