Learning Curve

Wednesday May 14th

Scottie

I flex my stomach again, working at the core muscles I’ve been trying so hard to build up in PT, and drag myself up in the bed. I grab my notebook from the side table and jot down some of the other ideas I had for making Dickson’s campus more ADA-friendly. It follows regulations already—it has to—but now that I’m thinking of things from a renewed perspective, I know there’s a lot more that can be done to help students like me. Future students like Molly.

My phone buzzes with a text, so I drop the notebook back on the table and pick up my phone instead.

The message on the screen brings a smile to my face, so I quickly type out a reply.

Kayla: Remember how I was telling you about Sheila having the baby?? She sent a picture, and I think she looks like me!

Me: OMG, KAYYY. Your niece is adorable! Which, yes, she looks just like you, so that isn’t a shock! Her eyes are such a stunning color!

Kayla: Thanks, girl! Julia and I have all the trashy magazines ready for tomorrow! See you then!

A soft sigh escapes my lungs, the relief of letting the two of them come for a proper visit lightening the weight on my chest.

After I finish my exchange with her, I find myself scrolling my phone, looking through all the missed text messages and phone calls I’ve received over the past several weeks. It’s hard to believe it’s been over a month since I got hurt. A month since everything changed.

I have no idea what my mom is up to—I haven’t spoken to her since I made her leave my hospital room in Daytona—but she still texts me often.

I don’t know why, but it feels like I’m ready to read through some of them now, so I do.

I’m so sorry, Scottie. For everything. I know I don’t have any right to ask for your forgiveness. But I just want you to know that you’re always on my mind.

Thinking about you today. Hope you’re doing okay.

Wren told me you’re doing really well with physical therapy. And before you get mad at her, just know that I’m the one who asked about you. She didn’t offer up any information easily, but I felt relief in knowing rehabilitation is going well.

I love you. And I want you to know that I will spend the rest of my life taking accountability for everything I’ve put you through over the years. You didn’t deserve any of it. It wasn’t your fault, and it all falls on me. I was the one with the problem. I was the one who wasn’t the mother that you deserved. That will always be the biggest regret of my life.

All these years, I honestly think this is the first time she’s ever said anything that resembles accountability or acknowledging the past.

I lift my fingers toward the screen and let them hover over the keypad. For the first time in what feels like forever, a part of me actually wants to text her back.

Thank you, I type the two words out. The only words that feel right in this moment. I stare at them for a long time before I end up hitting send, but eventually, I do.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it will lead anywhere. I don’t know if I’ll ever respond to her again. But I guess something is better than nothing.

I set my phone down on the table and stare out the window. The sun has already set, and the sky is starting to turn to night. Views of skyscrapers and light Wednesday evening traffic fill my view. When I see an American flag blowing with the wind, a little sigh of longing leaves my lungs.

I can’t remember the last time I was outside. I can’t remember the last time I actually felt the sun on my face or the wind in my hair.

My whole reality has been hospitals for the past several weeks. Even when I’m working with Pam, we always go to the PT room on the fourth floor.

I look down toward the ground and note the little outdoor courtyard that sits in the center of the hospital. It’s completely empty, and I decide that maybe, just maybe, I should try to go down there for a little bit.

Technically, I don’t have clearance from Dr. Hurst to leave the premises, but…I’d still be on the premises, right?

Feels like a good enough explanation to me. Plus, now that I’m wearing my own clothes and I’m no longer hooked up to IVs, the only identifying information is my bracelet, and that’s easily hidden beneath my long-sleeved T-shirt.

I grab my wheelchair from its spot on the wall, lock the wheels, and perform the transfer into my wheelchair like it’s part of my routine now. It’s not a struggle physically, mentally, or even emotionally—which is maybe the most shocking. It just is.

When I wheel past the floor-length mirror just outside my en suite bathroom, I realize I’m smiling. It’s a sight that’s becoming more and more frequent these days, and a surge of pride bolsters me as I wheel toward my door.

Slowly, I peer out toward the hallway and the nurses station. When I don’t see anyone in sight, I make a break for it. As quick as my hands will let me, I wheel down the hall and toward the bank of elevators.

Every few seconds, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is there to try to stop me, and I’m relieved when I manage to reach the elevators without a single staff member noticing.

If Kimmie were on shift, she might be pissed if she found out I did this, but Amanda is my nurse again this evening. She’s sweeter than pie, and the most I’ll get is a disappointed look on her face if she ends up noticing my absence. The risk is most definitely worth the reward.

Once I’m on the elevator, I hit the button for the ground floor, and the cart whizzes to life. And when I reach the lobby level, I wheel over the threshold without much difficulty and head toward the hallway I’m pretty sure leads toward that courtyard.

I offer a confident smile to the woman working the main desk in the center of the lobby, my expression conveying, I’m just a random girl wheeling around. Nothing to see here.

The woman doesn’t think anything of my presence and goes back to looking at whatever is on her computer screen.

Phew.

When I reach the automatic doors, I stop in my tracks when I realize I’m not heading toward the courtyard. Instead, I’m heading straight out the main entrance of the hospital and right into the busy city.

Shit.

I almost turn around, but then I remember the lady at the desk, and since I don’t want to raise any red flags before I can feel the wind on my face, I keep heading straight, through the automatic doors and toward the sidewalk.

For a Wednesday evening, the sidewalks aren’t that busy, but anxiety has my heart racing at record speeds. I’ve never had to maneuver through pedestrian traffic like this. Hell, I’ve never even navigated anything but smooth hospital floors.

The concrete makes the wheels of my chair vibrate, and I force myself to breathe through the stress. This is no big deal. You can do this. And more than that, you can enjoy it.

Anxiety and fear of the unknown try to wreak havoc on my mind, but I keep reminding myself that I am capable of doing hard things. It’s what Pam always tells me during our therapy sessions. I can do hard things.

I’m a half a block from the hospital entrance at this point, and when I reach a crosswalk, I let myself stop for a long moment, out of the way of foot traffic, just to take it all in. Spring is in the air, and the breeze is lukewarm against my face. Trees and flowers are blooming from planters on the sidewalks. And there’re a lot of people already enjoying outdoor dining at restaurants.

The crosswalk light changes, giving me the go-ahead, and I do my best to navigate the curb as I wheel onto the street. People walk around me, but I keep my eyes forward and focus on maneuvering my wheelchair.

This is good. This is normal. This is…invigorating.

I’m doing this completely on my own, without the assistance or guidance of anyone, and I’m doing it because of my own longing to do it.

I’m living. I’m happy. I’m Scottie.

I get across the street and onto the sidewalk, and a few drops of rain fall onto my face. I can’t believe how good they feel—how good they could feel. And to think, on that first day of class, I was doing a shrieking run to get away from them. I tilt my head up to the sky to savor it, and the pace of their timing picks up, pinging me quickly from the dark storm cloud above.

If it weren’t for getting my chair soaked, I think I’d stay out here forever.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I decide that now would be a good time to head back to the hospital. I’ve had my fun, but there’s no need to go overboard. Being a rod for lightning would really put the icing on this year’s cake.

I have to wait again for the crosswalk, and as the seconds tick by, the raindrops come faster and harder. By the time I cross the street and reach the sidewalk, it’s pouring down from the sky. My hands slip against my wheels, the water making it hard to get a good grip, and people on the sidewalk are running around me as I try to head back to the hospital entrance.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to try to wipe my hands on my T-shirt, but it’s no use. I’m soaked—my hair, my shirt, my sweats, even my bra and underwear and socks and shoes are drenched. And the rain doesn’t let up or give me a break.

I start to laugh maniacally, the dam of every emotion I never thought I’d feel again bursting inside me.

I don’t have my phone. I don’t have my wallet. I have nothing but myself, my wheelchair, and my hospital bracelet. And I can’t move. It’s not funny, but for some reason, it also is.

I may have convinced myself I don’t need anyone helping me, but I sure could use a knight in shining armor right about now.

“Scottie!”

The sound of my name urges my eyes forward, and I see Finn running toward me.

“Scottie!” he calls out, and it only makes me laugh more. I call out to the universe for a knight in shining armor, and it sends me one. Maybe my luck has finally taken a positive turn for a change.

“What are you doing? The nurses are looking for you,” he says when he stops right in front of me. The rain has drenched his hair and white T-shirt and jeans, and his brown eyes implore mine as he kneels down in front of me. His face is gentle, as gentle as I’ve ever seen it, and another flashback to our first encounter in the rain steals any decorum I have left.

“Man, this is something!” I say, my laugh almost hysterical now. “You and me, meeting in the rain like this.”

“Let me help you,” he says, and I shake my head. I don’t want to go. I know it’s dangerous, and I know I’m soaked, but I’ve never felt more in a moment of kismet than I do right now, and I don’t want to let it pass me by.

“You remember the day we met, Finn?” I ask, looking up to the sky again and putting my arms out to my sides to soak in the rain.

“Of course I do.”

I nod, a run of tears joining the rain on my face now. They’re not sad, though. They’re just me. “Here we are again, the damsel in distress and the mysterious man of her dreams.” He smiles, and I reach out to touch his handsome face. “I didn’t know anything about you that day and I don’t know where you came from now, but I don’t care. I love you. And I know I should let you go, but—”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t let me go.” His voice is the most determined I’ve ever heard it, and his eyes never break contact with mine as he shoves to standing. “I don’t want you to, Scottie. Can’t you see that?”

“Finn—”

“I love you, Scottie. I choose us. I choose you. Do you hear me?”

Between one breath and the next, he lifts me out of my chair and up and into his arms. Rain pounds from the sky but all I can feel is the warmth of his skin as he cradles me close to his chest. “I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, and I refuse to let you push me away.”

It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve felt his arms wrapped around me. Forever since I’ve felt his touch. And it’s all so powerful, so intense, that I bury my face into his chest and sob.

“I love you,” he whispers and kisses my forehead and hair. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I choose us,” I whimper. “Because I’m ready to choose me, too.”