Hidden Truths, page 4
“Eric’s dad said there was some kind of explosion.” Mom’s voice shakes and I turn back.
“What do you mean?”
I wish she’d put down her notes and hold my hand again.
“The camper, he said something in the back exploded.”
My breath catches as panic freezes me. “Is Eric okay?”
Mom nods, straightening my blanket.
“And his dad, is he okay?” I need to fill in the stuff that’s missing.
She nods again.
Relief washes over the worries gripping my insides.
“They also found Casey and brought her back,” she says as she opens the blinds.
I wish Casey was cuddled at the end of my hospital bed.
“They said she smells like a smoky dog but is fine, and Eric’s aunt Josie is watching her for now. Then Eric said he’d take her.” She writes something down on her notepad.
“So just me?” I say, my voice low.
She stops writing. “You were the only one in the camper at the time.”
My mind swims.
“How did I get out?” I search my brain again but come up with nothing.
“Eric,” Mom says. “He saved you.”
I close my eyes and wonder how you thank someone for saving your life. Donuts? A note?
Then I blow out a big breath. “Well, at least it’s early enough in the season that I’ll still be able to be with my team for the end of fall ball.”
Mom’s face changes.
“Don’t make the worried face, Mom. Seriously. I’ll do whatever the doctor says I need to do and take whatever medicine I need to fix this.” I point to my body. “But there’s no way I’m missing the entire baseball season.”
She’s quiet.
I look at my cast, my not-moving fingers, the machines, the IV, the weird bright lights, the white walls, and my heart beats in a totally not-normal way.
“Dani, the recovery for your leg is two months with the cast and then at least a month of PT, and with the nerve damage in your shoulder”—she glances at her notes again—“the time frame for that recovery can be much longer. It’s just less certain.” She looks back up at me. “They also want to be sure your head is okay. I forgot to mention that part earlier. You have a mild concussion.”
I bite my lip.
“Mom, I can get better faster than they think, and I finally made the team. I’m not giving up now. Not for this. Not for anything.” I take a deep breath. “Also, my head is fine,” I say, ignoring the hazy feeling swooshing around my brain.
She pauses. “Look, I made a chart.” She hands me her notepad with its color-coded chart showing each stage of my recovery.
I stare at my mother and realize how much I hate charts.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Dani, but baseball’s going to have to wait.”
My world sways.
“And really, we just need to be grateful that you’re all right.” She hands me the cup with ice chips again.
I don’t take it. I stare at my mom, who doesn’t get it. Never got it.
Gigi got that baseball wasn’t just something to do on a Saturday. It wasn’t a phase.
It’s who I am.
It’s everything.
I shake my head. “What did the doctor say?” I ask, my nerves bleeding.
“Dr. Jeffries wants to give you time to heal.” Mom blinks back her tears. “He doesn’t have all the answers right now.”
“Exactly. He doesn’t know. You don’t know.” I take a big breath. “But I do. I’m going to play this season.”
11
The Only Truth
It’s been hours in the waiting room when I see Dani’s mom walking toward us. Her eyes are puffy, and she’s wearing her serious face.
“How’s Dani?” Mom asks in a soft voice.
“She’s going to be okay,” Alice says, clearing her throat as if the thing bothering her is stuck there.
I exhale and raise my face to the yellowing ceiling tiles. Thank you, God. I’m all over that clean room and shed.
Mom and Dad hug Alice, then turn their hugs on me.
“I’m so relieved, but it’s still going to be a lot for her. The doctor said that…” Alice’s voice trails off.
What’s happening here? Everything is fine. Dani is okay.
“Dani has nerve damage in her right shoulder, a slight concussion, and a fractured right tibia.” She pauses. “But she’s determined and strong.”
The voice in my head kicks on.
Tell her this is your fault.
Go on, tell her.
Say it!
I rock my head from side to side, hoping to turn my brain off.
Alice continues. “Thankfully she didn’t sustain any burns. The doctor thinks the cabinets and door that fell on her in the explosion and likely caused the fracture and nerve damage, also somehow shielded her from the fire and most of the debris.” She lets out a big breath of air. “He said she was lucky she got out of there before the fire spread to the front of the camper. But she’ll need lots of physical therapy, and right now she can’t use her right arm and hand.”
Why does she keep doing that? Saying Dani’s good, then saying something that’s the opposite of good?
Mom puts her arm around Alice.
“Honestly, I’m okay,” Alice says. “Grateful, really. Dani’s all right.”
Then she turns to me as if seeing me for the first time.
She knows this is my fault.
I look away. I don’t want to talk to her. Not now.
“Thank you,” she says.
For almost killing your daughter?
“You saved Dani’s life.” She says it like it’s the only truth.
I feel sick.
If you knew the whole truth, you’d hate me.
But all I say is “I’m sorry.”
Alice steps back. “Eric, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. Dani’s in here and I’m not.”
And this is my fault!
“You being in the hospital with Dani wouldn’t make her better.” She blows her nose. “Just promise me you’ll look out for her when she gets out of here.”
I promise like I’m not the worst friend in the world.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Dani.
U here? Come visit.
I stare at my phone. I want to see her before she finds out. Before she hates me.
But I’m scared.
I’m to blame and soon she’ll know.
I can’t hide from Dani.
12
A Large Troll
“Hi,” Mom says, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. “These came while you were down the hall getting imaging on your shoulder.” She points to the baseball balloons in the corner of my hospital room. “They’re from the team.”
I roll to the right but quickly realize my mistake as the pain shoots up from my leg. I grit my teeth to dull the hurt.
It doesn’t work.
Mom pauses. “The plant is from Eric’s family, but he wanted me to tell you that he’ll bring donuts when he visits.”
“Why didn’t he come back with you?”
“You were out getting those tests done.”
I look at my phone. Text from Eric:
your mom said 2 come another time
I squeeze my good hand into a tight ball. “I need to start doing whatever I have to do to get out of this stupid bed and back with my team.”
The space between us grows, and all I hear is the beeping machines until a nurse walks in. The nurse is round with a flat chin and kind eyes. “Name’s Reed. Nurse Reed to you, sugar,” he says with a hint of Southern accent. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how is your pain?”
“Seven.”
He frowns sympathetically. “Tell me what’s hurting.”
Everything.
“My right leg is throbbing. It feels like a large troll is sitting on my shoulder. And my right fingers feel tingly and numb.”
“I’m sorry you’re in pain.” He lays his hand on the metal rail on the side of my bed, and I notice the sparkly ring on his pinky. “The throbbing is from the fracture, the troll is from the swelling, and the numbness and tingling are because of the nerve damage. I promise, rest, physical therapy, and the medicine will help with all of it.” He pauses. “How’s your head?”
“Fuzzy.”
He nods. “That’s the concussion. Rest up and I’ll check on you again a little later.”
“Um, before you go, do you know anything more about baseball? As in me playing it?”
Nurse Reed shoots a glance at my mom, who looks at me and tilts her head like I already told you.
Before Nurse Reed can answer, I gesture with my good arm to my broken body. “I know not right now. Obviously.” I roll my eyes. “But, like, when? Because I made the baseball team, and I need to get back to practice. I mean, it was a huge deal. Before me, the team was all boys.”
Nurse Reed waves his hands in the air like he’s celebrating. “I knew there was something special about you.” He winks.
“See, you get it,” I say, hope sneaking in.
“I do, sugar. That’s exactly the attitude that’s going to get you better, too. As for timing, all I know is the most important thing you can do right now is focus on healing your body.”
What about my heart?
“Before I leave, do you need to use the bathroom?” he asks.
My embarrassment fills the room.
“Nothing to be ashamed of. This is a hospital. Plus, happy to ask Nurse Bell to step in. She’s a love.” He winks. “This is what we do. I already put an extender on your toilet.” He points to the bathroom, where I see a toilet with metal handles over the regular-person toilet. “But honestly, you might be better off with a bedpan for now.”
I close my eyes and wish with every ounce of me that this was not my life.
Bedpan or old-person toilet?
Are these seriously my choices?
I inhale a shaky breath, open my eyes, and say, “I’m all set. Thanks.”
“Okay. Ring if you need me.” He points to the call button by my bed. “Otherwise, I’ll be back in a bit to give you meds and see how you’re doing.” Nurse Reed heads out the door, probably to help some other patient go to the bathroom.
I try to readjust my pillow and wince as the pain pings across my shoulder.
Mom comes over. I wait for her to reach for my hand.
But she doesn’t take it.
I slip my hand back under the sheet like her distance doesn’t sting.
“Don’t worry, Dani. I can help with everything. Showering. Getting dressed. Going to the bathroom. Whatever you need.” She smiles like having my mother assist me with these things is somehow less horrifying. “But now I’m desperate for a decent cup of coffee. I’m going to see if I can get something drinkable from the cafeteria. Want anything?”
I shake my head, because what I want, you can’t get in a cafeteria.
Mom straightens my blanket and leaves.
I see the girl from earlier in the hallway, the one with long black hair and happy yellow pants. She walks past my door and stops. Then I hear footsteps shuffling back. She peeks in.
“Hey,” she says, running her hand over her long braid. “I know you.”
My brain is a mix of confusion and pain.
“You go to Mapleville Middle School, right? Sixth grade? Well, I mean, you would be going. Um, will be.” The girl steps into my room like we’re friends. “When you get out of this place.”
I try to nod, but the medicine makes me feel wobbly, so I’m not sure if my head is actually moving.
“I’m Meadow.” She gives me a half wave. “My little sister Millie is down the hall.”
I stare at her and realize I do recognize her. I mean, not like we’re friends. Meadow Riggs is one of those super popular kids at school. She nodded at me once but was surrounded by lots of kids, so maybe the nod wasn’t really at me.
“Dani,” I say, waving with the hand that can do that.
She holds out a red Jell-O. “Want it?” She moves closer to my bed. “Trust me, this is the best flavor. Stay away from orange. It tastes like throw-up.”
I smile.
“You’re that baseball girl, right?”
A zip of happiness shoots across my heart. “Yep, that’s me,” I say.
13
Worst Friend in the World
I wake up to Casey licking my face. Aunt Josie dropped her off when we got home last night. I pet her behind her soft ears and hope she won’t hate me for hurting her human when the truth comes out.
Last night Dani texted that she ran into Meadow Riggs at the hospital and that she seemed nice. Which was confusing, since Meadow’s one of those kids from school who says mean stuff like it’s funny. But it’s not. I texted back a lot of question marks and a what-are-you-talking-about emoji. Then my brain wouldn’t stop spinning. It’s as if the moment the world got quiet, a million tangled thoughts kicked in. Eventually I gave up and watched funny cat videos with Casey until my mind shut down.
I roll over and grab the crossword from my nightstand, glad today isn’t one of those days when Zoe’s standing at the edge of my bed waiting for me to wake up. I can’t handle her big, trusting eyes staring at me. The ones that believe I’m not a terrible person.
Clue for 9 across: “Differences of opinion,” and the third letter is F. Nothing. For 35 down: “Rancid.” Nothing. For 33 across: “Artificial caves.” Nothing.
Knock. Knock.
I throw on the gray sweatpants living in a pile on the floor in the middle of my room. “Come in.”
It’s Mom. “How are you?”
I shrug, my eyes fixed on the superhero mobile that Dani and I made in second grade.
Mom leans in. “You know, what you did for Dani was incredibly brave.”
I shake my head.
“Eric, you ran into a fire to save your best friend.” Her eyes are wet. “That’s bravery.” She pauses and puts her hand on top of mine. “But it was also reckless.”
I look up, hoping I’m not in trouble for something else.
“You could have been seriously hurt, or worse,” she says.
I sigh. “But it was Dani. It wasn’t like there was a choice. I had to do it.” I sit back on my bed and tuck under my wool blanket.
“I understand that. Your infinite willingness to help the people you care most about is one of the many reasons I love you. But in the future, I need you to think about you, too.” Her breath’s a mix of coffee and mint.
I nod.
“I know this is a lot to process. You can talk to me.” She waits for me to share.
My words are ready.
I open my mouth to tell her everything. The whole truth. But as the sentences form in my brain, I wonder if she’ll hate me. Then I wonder if moms can do that.
I close my mouth and bite the hangnail dangling from my thumb.
We sit like this for a while, the only sounds coming from my gerbils, spinning on their wheel. Then she says, “I love you, infinity,” as she gets up and walks out of my room.
Her words hang like a deadweight around my neck.
I look around and start cleaning. We have a deal, me and God.
Most of the stuff in here reminds me of Dani. The red-and-white foam finger that says Red Sox Rule. The clown statue I won at the Barnstable County Fair that she convinced me was cool and not creepy at all. And the purple stain on the carpet from the time we tried to dye wooden dreidels with beets and blueberries for the temple Hanukkah party.
I grab the dirty clothes from the floor and stick them in the wicker hamper at the end of my bed. I put the photo of me, Dani, and Casey at Chapin Beach on my nightstand. I took it when Casey was just a puppy. It was right before she peed on my new flip-flops.
Then I hear Dad’s voice traveling up from the kitchen. He’s on the phone with Alice. I shove some clean socks in a drawer and head downstairs.
“Eric!” Zoe shouts as she runs in from the other room, throwing her arms around me.
“Hey, Peanut.” I scoop her up and know that even she’ll hate me when she learns the accident was all my fault. Dani’s one of her favorite people. For Zoe’s last birthday, Dani got them matching Girls Rock T-shirts.
Dad hangs up the phone and sips his coffee. “Alice asked if we’ve heard anything on the cause of the explosion.”
I stop breathing.
“Have you?”
Please say no. I’m not ready for everyone to know.
“Nothing yet. The fire investigation is ongoing,” Dad says. “But hopefully we’ll have some answers later today when we go back to the campsite.”
Please, no answers yet.
I see my reflection in the glass cabinet.
You’re the worst friend in the world.
Dad shakes his head. “I’ve gone over everything we did that morning, and I can’t think of a single explanation as to why it happened. We weren’t using portable heaters or electric blankets. The camper wasn’t new but didn’t have many miles on it, and the stove was off.”
My body freezes.
The stove was supposed to be off, because I was supposed to have turned it off. But did I?
There’s a loud knock at the door.
“Hello.” It’s our neighbor and friend Jade. She’s wearing a PEACE, LOVE AND SOFTBALL cap. My dad looks like he’s expecting her. Jade Zhang is an investigative reporter for a podcast he loves called Let’s Talk Dollars and Sense. She plays on the temple’s 0-8 softball team with Dad and some other grown-ups from the neighborhood. Jade hugs my father and pats my shoulder. “Glad you’re both all right.” Then she runs her hands through her short, straight hair. It’s black with a streak of blue in the front. “I stopped by Alice’s, but no one answered. How’s Dani?”
