Page 52 of The Vow

“Mild? For how long?”

“With rest, it should only be a few days, Miss...?”

“Adams. Alex, if you prefer. I’m Pip’s girlfriend. Is that why he’s acting a little strange?” She squeezed my hand harder, attempting to squeeze life into me.

Dr. Pearson had terrible bedside manners. “I think he’s acting completely normal for someone who’s been through the ringer. However, I’d like to run another series of tests.”

“What are they for?”

“To determine if he has a spinal cord injury, Miss Adams. I’ll schedule an MRI, along with a CT scan.”

The woman in white should be wearing black. She was the scourge of St. Anthony’s Hospital, delivering bad news as casually as a newscaster on her last day of the job.

“Oh, God... what kind of spinal cord injury? Are you saying he might not walk again!?”

“Anything is possible, Miss Adams. But let’s wait and see what the test results show before making assumptions.”

As we watched Dr. Pearson walk away without another word, her thorned tail was showing from beneath her doctor’s coat. No one dared to ask the question that was dangling in the air because the words would taste putrid. Nick paced, Alex gently wept. I kept repeating lyrics in my head, because if a good Catholic boy like me had to answer whether I would want to live, or die, if I had to exist without the use of my legs, the answer would send me straight to hell.

Nineteen

Alex broke down when she heard the news. With aggressive rehabilitation, Pearson said my strength and mobility could improve after four months. I stopped listening after the devil doctor mentioned inpatient rehabilitation. As soon as I was able, I discharged myself from the gothic prison that most people call a hospital. Alex cursed, and cried, and begged me to reconsider, but inpatient rehab was only the beginning of a long, excruciating, expensive journey that could possibly result in absolutely nothing.

There were only two Get Well Soon cards, and one bouquet of flowers that we took home from the hospital. The flowers, a gift from every guy at Phoenix, are already dead. One Hallmark sentiment was signed by my cousin Pat “And Family”, and the other card was from the manager at Zenith Arena. When I finally deciphered his messy scrawl, I laughed sardonically at the words: You should see the other guy. The phone rang off the hook when I first got home. After that, my dear, extended family either figured they’d done their duty, or I was a lost cause and there was no point in calling.

Ma’s been sick with a cold and refuses to visit until she feels better, as if I have pneumonia instead of paraplegia – the technical term for the paralysis to my lower body.

It was Cable who insisted on buying my manual wheelchair. He didn’t deliver it himself. According to Nick, he hasn’t left his house since the fight. Nick hired a bar manager so that he could lend a hand, or his legs, more accurately. He built a ramp so that I could access the house while on wheels and made the necessary renovations such as installing bars in the bathroom. He even made changes like moving all the dishes to the lower cabinets, but showing up here was also his excuse to try and convince me to get my ass to the hospital and to do it for Alex. I told him to get the fuck out of my house.

Alex is, was, my reason for living. I find it amusing that our relationship started under the guise of being roommates, and now that’s exactly how we’re behaving. We don’t eat together, sleep together, and barely communicate. Without help and a custom bed, transferring to a sleeping position is nearly impossible and I choose to sleep in my chair. Alex is no longer interested in eating, since her lips are constantly wrapped around a wine glass, and while she does take care of me, we don’t talk like lovers do. I fucking miss her like crazy, I miss us, but I can’t admit it to her. All I do is live inside my head.

“Why do you take so many showers?”

“They help me relax.” She was dressed, but she was still wearing a towel on her head. “Did you take your meds? I forgot to remind you before I left.”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I got you a new sports drink. If you like it, I’ll buy more.”

I’ve already mourned the fact that my career is over, yet her innocent statement stung. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“A sports drink? Sports!?” I saw her not as the love of my life, but as the proverbial punching bag.

“Pip, I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. I don’t want to hear the word ‘sport’ spoken in this house. Do you understand now?”

“I... yes.”

I thought she’d storm out of the room. Instead, she came and kneeled by my wheelchair. I wanted to apologize, and hold her, and kiss her, but my broken body, and my shattered mind, wouldn’t allow me to. I waited for her to say something, but she resided in the land of the living and spoke a different language. Forcefully, I removed her hand that she had placed on my knee.

“Whoever it is, I don’t want to see them,” I said in response to a knock on the door.

Alex stood, making me curse the impersonal steel and rubber of my chair. “I didn’t deserve that. If you don’t love me anymore...”

“You know I love you,” I said with too much anger. “I wouldn’t know how to stop loving you.” I may be crippled, but I’m not stupid. Never would I want her to think my love for her has died. “I... I can’t do this...”