Every single one of my friends in high school hated something about their bodies. Matilda hated her abs. Sydney couldn’t even look at her thighs. Abby wore long sleeves year round to hide these tiny little white bumps she always picked at on her arms. Angie complained daily about the girth of her calves.
Not me.
I loved every last thing about my body. My long, lean legs shifted infinitesimally in whichever way I needed, effortlessly holding up the weight of my torso as I carved the snow, one beautiful slope at a time. My hands gripped the poles perfectly, not that I needed them often. My abs and core muscles held everything else together on the slopes and looked pretty great in a bikini in the summer, too. My lungs never failed me, no matter how high the altitude or how frosty the air. My sharp eyes spotted every indentation in the snow, every stick and branch, every patch of ice.
Unlike all my friends, I was one with my body from birth, and it performed like my dad’s Shelby Cobra 427. Perfectly, with precision, and without complaint.
Until it didn’t.
I stare at the useless lumps the doctor persists in calling my legs. There should be a different name for legs when they betray you. You should get a new name for every body part that quits working, for everything that malfunctions and fails you when you need it. When a stallion’s man parts are snipped off, they call him a gelding. My legs should be called flegs. Failed legs.
The doc picks up my chart, her eyes squinting to make out the tiny print. I know exactly what it says. Incomplete T10 fracture. Stabilized. Partial function.
That’s the biggest joke of all. Partial function. It’s like saying a Shelby Cobra has partial function because the interior lights still turn on. The car won’t run. It can’t do anything that made it useful in any real way, but you could still sit inside of it and, I don’t know, read a book or drink a milkshake. It’s more like a sofa than a car, but somehow that would be partial function. Similarly, my thighs are more like pant holders than actual legs.
“Miss Thornton,” the beefy doctor says, her cheeks ruddy, “I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“You’re the one who sent me to try the aqua treadmill. You still claim I have partial function. I’ve been doing physical therapy twice a day, or sometimes three times—“
She frowns at me, her crows feet becoming even more pronounced. “You’re only supposed to do it once a day.”
“I’m an overachiever, so sue me.” I wheel toward her a few inches. “I haven’t had any improvement from anything. Not a single bit. I still can’t support myself with arm braces for more than a step or two. I’ve been flying out weekly for those treatments in Michigan you suggested. That underwater treadmill, the newest best hope. Still no improvement.”
Dr. Captain purses her lips. “Miss Thornton, I told you there were no guarantees. We never know how much progress a patient can make until you’ve tried as many things and pushed as hard as you can. The fact that you can ambulate from your chair to the toilet and into a shower chair using only hand rails, and without any other assistance is tremendous progress.”
“Yes.” Tears threaten and I focus on my anger instead. Better to rail at her than to break down and sob. “I should be giddy I can go pee without a chaperone.”
Dr. Captain drags a chair over next to me, sits and looks me in the eyes. “I understand you’re frustrated and disappointed, angry even. You aren’t going to want to hear this, but I don’t have anything else to offer you. The Hydroworx is what we use for professional athletes and celebrities. It’s the gold standard. You’re one of a handful of non-professional athletes who has even used one. I’m not trying to preach or anything, but you’re very lucky to have the means to try this sort of treatment. If it didn’t work. . .”
I can’t stop them this time. Tears stream down my face unchecked. As frustrated as I was that everything kept failing, knowing we’ve reached the end of the line, the last trick in her bag, well. That’s even more depressing. “You’re saying this is as good as it gets for me, and I should be grateful it’s this good.”
She nods.
I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. I’ve been dealing with this for years, and even so, every time I try a new therapy, my hopes soar. Barometric chambers, neuro-stimulation, acupuncture, ChABC injections, and now underwater treadmills. I’ve tried every single non-surgical option available. There’s nothing left to try.
Which means it’s time to abandon all hope of ever being normal again.
“You have a good quality of life,” she says. “Full mobility in your upper limbs, partial mobility in your legs. Sensation through your pelvis. Intermittent sensation in your legs and feet. You have every reason to expect a long and healthy life, and these disabilities are workable.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I check out for the rest of the appointment, responding with nods and grunts. I won’t be scheduling another appointment here.
What’s the point?
When Dr. Captain’s nurse tries to push me out of the exam room, I snap at her. “If I wanted to move without making the conscious decision to move, I’d have bought a power chair.”
I wheel myself through the door. If there’s something my body can still do, I do it. I’ve grown enough muscle through my shoulders and back and enough calluses on my hands that I don’t even notice long treks. My older brother Trig kept trying to convince me to buy something with an electric option at least, but they’re so heavy and difficult to transport. Besides, I won’t rely on a machine to do anything I can still do myself.
A magazine catches my eye as I wheel past the waiting area. It’s not a new issue, but it’s one I haven’t seen before. Which means Trig worked overtime to make sure I didn’t. As my hand reaches for it, the air around me thickens into jelly. Time collapses to nothing and my fingers shake. I press past it all and force my hand to close around the glossy pages of the Outside Magazine.
Winter Olympic Issue.
My fingers trace the face of my former best friend where it smiles at me from the cover. It’s not Annelise Mayberry’s fault we aren’t close friends anymore.
The blame for our withered friendship falls squarely on me. Five years ago, we were both bound for the Olympics, the best two downhill skiers in America. Annelise trailed me by a hair on downhill, and by a wide margin on slalom. I was going to medal in both the downhill and the Super G at the Olympics. Everyone knew it. Even the Swedes cringed when they heard my name.
Until the accident.
Without me on the team, Annelise still snagged a bronze, and at the time she told every news network who would listen she wouldn’t have won it if she hadn’t trained with me. She was a loyal friend, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t talk to her, or even congratulate her. It only reminded me of what I lost.
I can’t stop my fingers from flipping to the spread on her from the most recent Olympics. Even though it’s been more than four years now, I couldn’t bring myself to watch any of it. Sometimes I pretend the Olympics died. No one cares about them anymore, and they disappeared. But of course, wishes aren’t horses, and other people can still ride.
Annelise’s huge, shiny teeth gleam at me from the centerfold. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes sparkly, and my lungs almost fail me as I read the blurb. “Three time Olympic Gold Medalist Annelise Mayberry has it all: speed, accuracy, and control. That’s how she conquered the Combined, the Downhill and the Slalom in this year’s Olympics, the first sweep by any woman from the United States of America.”
My hand crumples the glossy pages involuntarily, and when I force my fingers to uncurl, it slides to the ground. I wheel out of the office without meeting anyone’s eyes and beeline toward my Range Rover without thinking. I open the door and then wheel back in close to the seat. I hit the position two button so the chair leans back, and then I lock the wheelchair in place. I shift my feet out of the footrests on my chair and toward the car, and then I lean forward, and using my arms, I boost myself out of my chair and into the driver’s seat. I reposition my legs. Then I pull my seat cushion off and tuck it behind the seat of the car. Next, I pop off the huge back wheels one by one and stow them, too. Finally, I lift the middle section, collapsing the body of the chair and swing it into the passenger seat.
I’ve done it so many times that I can switch into robot mode as I do it. Somehow the familiar routine calms me down a bit. I drive home a little too quickly, my heart still racing a bit, but I’m not stupid enough to pick up the phone when Trig calls, even if I’d like to hear his reassuring voice. I never use my cell when driving. Not to text, not to call, and certainly not to check any social media. Not since that day.
I call my brother back once I’m at the office, in front of my desk, with the file on our newest acquisition open on my computer screen. “Sorry I didn’t answer. I was driving before.”
“No problem,” he says. “It wasn’t a big deal.” Except his words are clipped, his tone clearly agitated. He actually sounds about like I feel.
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope.”
I wait silently, because something clearly was a big deal to him. Eventually he’ll spit it out, whatever made him upset. I’ve learned that when I press him for details, he doubles down like a tick that a vet’s trying to evict. Can’t go popping my own brother’s head off.
“Fine, I’ll just tell you.” He sighs heavily. “So you know Geo’s best friend Rob?”
“The marine with huge biceps and perfect hair?”
He grumbles. “They aren’t that big. But yes, that’s him, and you know yesterday was Memorial Day.”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’ve never met the perfect Marine myself, but I did know it was Memorial Day.”
“Well, Geo always spends Memorial Day with Rob, or she has ever since her fiancé died anyway. She asked if it bothered me, and of course I said it was fine. But when I told her I’d like to come along, she looked at me like I suggested she dip her French fries in strawberry yogurt.”
“Wait, sweet potato fries or regular ones?”
“Brekka!”
“Sorry, I’m just kidding, okay? I’m listening, I swear.”
“She didn’t want me to hang out with them,” he says. “I could tell, so I didn’t go.”
“Okay.” There must be more to it than this, right? I mean, Trig adores Geo, and she is completely bonkers for him. But her fiancé died in a huge explosion with perfect Marine Rob, so I’m not surprised they’d spend Memorial Day together. It’s a little awkward since he’s a guy, I suppose, but it’s not like Rob and Geo ever dated or anything. I’m not sure what question to ask next. I don’t really get why he’s so upset.
Trig clears his throat. “I never told you this before because you get a little protective sometimes.”
“Me?”
Trig snorts.
“Fine, I might look out for you, but you’re just as bad. We only have each other. Which is exactly why you can tell me, no matter what it is. I promise I won’t judge.”
“After I asked Geo out on our first date—“
“When you stalked her to Macaroni Grill, you mean?”
Trig grunts. “When I happened to run into her and Rob at dinner at a local place, yes. Anyway, after Paul and I left that night, Rob told her he loved her.”
Wait, what? “Perfect Marine Rob tried to snatch her out from under you?”
“Not exactly snatch her, since they’d known each other for like twenty years. But he did finally profess his love for her, and he told her he considered their dinners to be dates. He had loved her since her fiancé died, or sometime around then, or maybe it happened after. I don’t know. The point is, Geo didn’t feel at all the same, but he did like her, or he does, so it made me kind of … nervous to send her over there alone all day.”
“Basically, she wanted to spend all day with a super muscular, caring, fairly rich guy who’s besotted with her? And she didn’t want you to come along.”
“I don’t know whether I’d call him super muscular, but sure. That’s essentially right.”
I lean back in my chair. “That sucks. Why didn’t you call me on Friday or Saturday or whenever you first heard about all this?”
“I had it under control. Geo loves me and I know that. If she wanted Rob, she’d have picked him, but she didn’t. She picked me.”
I lean forward again. “Uh, okay. So then what’s wrong? This story reminds me of one of Dad’s.” His stories meander like a third grader playing right field.
“That’s rude.”
“Then get to the point.”
“I let her go, but then I didn’t hear from her. She didn’t come home last night, and she didn’t answer my calls.”
I almost drop the phone. “Is she okay? Did creepy Rob like, kidnap her?”
Trig’s voice drops. It sounds nearly menacing. “I’d end him.”
“Okay, then what?”
“I drove over to his house, obviously.”
“Obviously.” But wait, at what time? “When did you go over there? Before or after you called the police?”
“Before. I mean, I didn’t even call the police, okay?”
“You suck at stories, Trig. What time did you go over there?”
“Three a.m. I went over at three.”
“And?”
“I saw Geo, all curled up and adorable, in Rob’s lap.”
“Uh, wait, are you saying she cheated on you?”
“No,” he practically shouts. “But she was asleep. On Rob. On hot Rob’s lap.”
I think about Geo. She adores my brother. I don’t doubt that. In fact, my brain was trying to reject the possibility of her cheating on Trig, even as I asked. But I can see how this Rob guy would make Trig nuts. He and Geo have been friends for a long time, and they hang out all the time. They’ve been through a lot together.
“How long have they been friends again?”
“At least twenty years,” Trig says. “They lived a few doors down from each other growing up. They met playing kickball or something. I guess Rob beat up some kid who told her she couldn’t play.”
“What a freaking Boy Scout.”
“Right?” Trig huffs. “I know nothing happened, but I’m sick of them having their little club that I’m not a part of.”
I wonder if he’d care if Rob was a girl, or a really unattractive guy. Probably not. Even so, it’s a valid irritation. At the same time, I can’t fault Geo, not really. Especially since she doesn’t seem to have many friends. I can relate to that deficit, and it makes the thought of cutting off anyone you care about a painful prospect.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Probably nothing,” Trig says. “Seeing her asleep with him, all curled up, with his arm slung around her shoulder, well. It pissed me off, but I just drove back home. She called me the next morning and apologized. She told me she fell asleep on Rob’s couch next to him.”
“Which is true. At least she wasn’t withholding information.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“I’m always on yours,” I say. “Every minute of every day of every month of every year.”
“I know you are. It actually helped just to tell someone. I love Geo, Brekka, and it’s hard. It’s so hard watching her care about anyone that much. Someone who’s not me, I mean. Does that make me a monster?”
No, it makes him human. “Not at all. Maybe tell Geo how you feel, but try to remember she’s lost her dad, and her mom too, essentially. That means she has you, and me of course, and her friend Paisley, and Rob. That’s pretty much it. So asking her to not be his friend might be… a steep ask.”
“Oh, I’m not doing that, not at all. I can handle it. And I don’t need her to think I’m coming unhinged.” He sighs. “Did you have a chance yet to look over the comparative analysis and EBITDA on Parker Family Holdings?”
I run him through my assessment, and then hop off the phone, ostensibly to finish digging through our leads. Instead I find myself pulling up the purchase order I recently approved to Franklin Graham Honda, Rob’s Honda dealership. Sixteen Honda Accords to use for company cars. My eyes stop at the address.
I should not even consider flying out to Atlanta and giving Rob a piece of my mind. Trig doesn’t need my help.
Even so.
I pull up the same purchase order twice. Then I google the dealership and work out a plan to get there. I don’t have a car in Atlanta, and I have a little control over my lower limbs, but not enough to drive myself without a modified car. I need at least a push pull or I’d be a total hazard on the road.
I mentally shake myself like a wet dog. I need to let this go.
Trig doesn’t need me to get involved. I force myself to review the files, but every time I close my eyes, even for so long as a blink, Annelise’s face flashes in front of my eyes.
I was better than her. So much better than her, but I didn’t win a single solitary gold medal, much less three. I’m a loser stuck in a metal chair. I can’t ski. I can’t walk. I can’t even crawl using my knees. The best I could manage in a pinch would be dragging my body behind me like crazy Ivar the Boneless in that History Channel show, Vikings. The only value I add to the world now is in analyzing companies to determine whether they’re a good investment.
Which is exactly what I should be doing right now, instead of imagining I might storm Rob’s office in Atlanta and let him have a piece of my mind. I evaluate the file and type my recommendation for Trig. I send it through the ether and glance at the photos on my desk. Trig swinging me around at a dance recital when I was twelve. Trig photo bombing at my high school graduation. Trig and I on the slopes, his arm slung around my shoulder.
My mother is a power vampire who hammered Trig and I like a drill sergeant. If anything, she’s grown scarier with age. My father hasn’t been in the same room as her for more than thirty minutes in years, and we usually have to photo shop us all into the same photo for Christmas cards.
Dad, on the other hand, always purchases lavish gifts, like a jet for my birthday, or a Porsche Cayenne for Christmas. He even gives gifts for things no one else does, like the Fourth of July, but I wouldn’t bet on him remembering my middle name, much less listening to me lament about matters of the heart. I’m not sure he even realized how the accident led to the ruination of my hopes and dreams. He hasn’t once asked how I’m doing since I lost use of my legs. I’m sure he cares about me, I’m just not sure he thinks about me much.
In the industrial strength vacuum left by my parents’ multitudinous shortcomings, my brother Trig stepped up. He came to every dance recital, every swim meet, every spelling bee, and every important ski run of my life. He cheered me on, he buoyed me up, and he stayed up late to commiserate when things didn’t go my way. Trig has been there for me from birth until present day, showering me with love and affection for more than twenty-seven years. He bought me my first pair of skis, and paid a fortune for a custom-made titanium wheelchair when I wanted to curl up and die.
The more I think of everything Trig has done, the more worked up I get that Rob would do anything to hurt my brother. I may not be able to compete in the Olympics, but I can sure as heck survive an unplanned trip out to Atlanta.
Robert Graham is going to rue the day he was so inconsiderate of Brekka Caroline Thornton’s brother’s feelings.
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