Hidden Truths, page 5
And together Jade and I listen as my dad unknowingly tells the story of how I ruined my best friend’s life.
14
You and Me
I sit in my hospital bed and stare at the white ceiling. I miss my yellow room. I miss Casey. I miss baseball. I miss it all. It’s only been a day since the explosion that changed everything, but it feels like forever. Time in the hospital is less days and nights and more long stretches of boredom and pain interrupted by doctors and nurses floating in at all hours to change bandages, look at the beeping machine, and give me medicine.
I shift to the right to ask Mom to hand me my water and a sharp pain reminds me that my body doesn’t like that direction. I close my eyes, and with my good hand I trace the buttons on my Chris Sale jersey to distract from the jabbing sensation. The jersey fits easily over my sore, swollen shoulder and is way better than wearing a hospital gown. Only downside is Mom had to help me put it on, since I can’t button or do anything with my right hand.
“Hello, Dani.”
I open my eyes and there’s a good-looking guy with dreadlocks standing in front of me. He smiles. “I’m Waylan. I’ll be your physical therapist.”
“Hi,” I say.
Mom walks over to the bed, introduces herself, and pulls out a lined yellow pad.
I cringe as she shoots off her long list of questions, but Waylan listens patiently while she speed-reads down the paper. Then he smiles and I notice his chocolate-brown eyes.
“I’m sorry this happened to your daughter and understand there’s a lot of uncertainty right now.” Waylan steps closer to my mom and, in a gentle voice, says, “The best way for me to help Dani is to evaluate her movement, get her to sit up and, eventually, out of bed.”
A sliver of hope slides in.
Waylan is my ticket back to baseball.
“I’m ready when you are,” I say. “Just tell me what I need to do to get better fast. I made the baseball team.”
“Congratulations,” he says.
“The all-boys baseball team.” I smile.
“Impressive.”
I hold my breath. “So, what’s the plan? How do I get out of here and back to my team?”
“One step at a time. Our goal right now is simple: I want to have you sit up and see how your body moves.”
“Me too.” I point to my leg and shoulder. “But how, exactly?” I ask softly.
“With my help.” He lays his phone on my tray table. “Before we do anything, do you like music?”
I nod.
“Great. I think everything’s better with music, and this is one of my favorite playlists. It’s ‘The Best of the ’70s.’ Tell me what you think.”
Waylan hums and sings while we see what my body can and can’t do. I learn that I can’t lift my right arm to my shoulder or above my head, and my right hand is completely useless. He gives me putty to squeeze and a yellow band to wrap over my fingers to try to get them moving. Each color band is a different weight. Yellow is the easiest. I need to get to green.
He shows me how to use the button on the side of my hospital bed to slowly raise myself up to sit. Which feels kind of pathetic. I mean, I never thought I’d need help sitting.
But if I’m going to get out of here, he tells me, I need to sit up, stand, and be able to use the pathetic walker to get to the bathroom.
When we reach the last song on the playlist, he says, “You did great. You’ll be sore after this, but that’s normal.”
“Not sure any of this is normal,” I mumble.
Waylan nods. “It’ll get better, Dani. I promise you.”
“It has to.” I glance at my mom, who’s staring at her phone. “But if I’m being honest, it kind of feels like there’s a giant mountain between this and better.”
He pulls up a chair, leans on his knees, and looks at me. “You’re not climbing alone, my friend.”
I try to smile.
“We’re strong, you and me. I promise that I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”
There’s something about his words that makes me believe him.
I stare at the wall behind him and remember the feel of my fingers wrapped around the baseball, the smell of the grass on the field, and the sound of the ball landing in my glove.
Then I see Meadow in the hall with her sister. She waves and says she’ll stop by my room later.
I wave back, surprised that someone like Meadow Riggs wants to hang out with someone like me.
“Aw, I love it!” Waylan says, full of sunshine. “My favorite people know each other.”
I glance down the hall again. Meadow’s little sister tucks her bandaged hand into the giant pocket of her sweatshirt.
And I wish I had a pocket large enough to hide all the things that are hurting me.
15
Slivers and Bits
I stretch my legs across the leather couch in the family room, trying to ignore Mom’s not-so-quiet finger tapping as I read and reread Dani’s text.
Where are you? Im bored and you promised
Dani’s text has been sitting on my phone for over an hour. But there’s an asteroid-sized part of me that’s terrified to visit. I can’t pretend with Dani. She was the first one who knew something was wrong last year, even before she read all the mean stuff Leo plastered online about me. She saw my face after English class and said, “Spill it.” After I showed her the meme that Leo had posted, she shared her sour gummies and made a list of all the reasons why Leo was a jerk, and another list of things that would make me feel better, which included eating more gummies.
I’m not sure I’m ready for her to know the whole truth. It’s been two days since the accident, and for now, I’m hiding. And praying this wasn’t my fault.
Can’t today. Going to Cape with my dad to get the stuff from the campsite that wasn’t totally destroyed. Will visit soon. And promise there will be
I bite the hangnail that refuses to stop being annoying. It bleeds and I wipe it against my shorts.
“Wait here.” Mom gets up from her reading chair and returns with one of Zoe’s princess Band-Aids.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“These are the only ones we have.”
I wrap Princess Jasmine tightly around my thumb, wishing I could fix everything with a Band-Aid.
“Time to go,” Dad says, walking into the room.
Dad was going to go by himself, but I begged to join him. I’m hoping I’ll find something in the burnt mess that tells me this wasn’t my fault.
We head out. His classic rock music fills the car.
After we’ve been on the road for a while, I fidget, shove my hands under my butt, and ask, “Do you think Dani hates me?”
“Why would she hate you?” Dad says, turning down “Free Fallin’ ” by Tom Petty.
Because I ruined her life.
I shrug and stare out the window at the red Prius in the next lane.
Just tell him.
“Eric, you pulled Dani out of a burning camper,” Dad says, like that’s the only thing that matters.
Do I get credit for saving her life if I’m the one who put her in danger?
The conversation dies a natural death when Dad starts singing along to his favorite Petty song. I open my crossword app. For 5 across: “7 letter word for ‘hurl’.” I type: THROWUP.
It takes about an hour to get to the bridge. The Cape Cod Canal stares up at me. I roll down my window and wait for the feeling to come. The one I love. The one that smells like salty air and feels like fishing and cannonballs off the dock. But it doesn’t.
After about thirty more minutes we pull in to the campground. As we drive up the dirt road to our campsite, I see that the ground’s covered with smoky dust, scorched gravel, and metal debris. Dad parks and we get out.
I see the charred camper, and my mind winds back to the loud boom.
Smoke. Heat. Fire.
The odors swim under my nose. I sway and everything blurs.
I clutch my stomach and heave until even my breakfast disappears.
Dad kneels by my side.
My forehead is wet and sweaty.
“It’s okay to wait in the car,” he says.
“I’m coming with you. Just give me a minute.” I want to do this with him. I have to. I need answers. So after a few minutes, he hands me a water bottle. I rinse my mouth and spit, take a long drink, and stand up.
We walk to the camper office and are met by a short man with silver hair whose stale breath spills onto my face as he explains what’s been going on.
I leave Dad to listen to the boring details of what happens next and head back to the campsite. The fried camper is surrounded by burnt books and melted kitchen things. There are scraps of blue from the sleeping bags, and I step over what I think are pieces of our fishing rods. It’s like everything is here, but not really. It’s slivers and bits and burnt pieces.
Then I see it out of the corner of my eye. Wedged under what had been the bathroom door and something else less definable. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to, but I pick it up and slide it under my jacket. It’s Betty, Dani’s favorite glove. Shoved against my body, it feels like a vise squeezing my guilt.
I walk over to my dad, who’s pacing the site and talking to himself.
“Just wish I knew how this happened,” he says, as if the answers are hidden in the seared dirt beneath his feet.
We pick through the rest of the rubble. Charred pots, burnt books, and a melted mattress. As I walk around the camper, I notice a mug on its side. I reach for the clay cup and realize it’s one of the mugs I put the mac and cheese in. I drop the mug and throw up again. When my stomach’s hollow, I know there’s nothing here that’s going to tell me this wasn’t my fault.
When we leave, Dad thanks the manager and asks about the investigation. He directs us to the fire department.
“Let’s drive over and see if they have any new information,” Dad says.
My body tightens.
The fire station’s only a few blocks away. When we pull in and park, I recognize the fire trucks from the accident and don’t move.
“You coming?” Dad asks.
“No. I’m going to hang here. Not feeling great.” I don’t want to wait in the car, but there’s no way I’m walking into that fire station so they can tell me how I caused the accident that could have killed my best friend.
My jaw hurts. I unclench my teeth, but that does nothing for my stomach. I stare at Dani’s baseball glove lying by my feet, open my crossword app, and pray there’s no news on the cause of the fire.
Finish half the puzzle.
No Dad.
He knows. He definitely knows.
They’re probably telling him right now what an idiot-terrible-worst-ever son he has.
Click. The driver’s-side door opens, and it feels like a train barreling full speed into my life.
I don’t look at my dad’s face.
“Eric, you should have—”
Oh no. Here it comes.
“—opened the windows. It’s hot as a skillet in here.” He gets in the car and puts down all the windows. “No news yet.” Then he turns on Jade’s podcast and we head home.
Another thank-you-God moment. Maybe I’m getting better at this praying thing.
“What took so long?”
“The fire investigator in charge of the case wasn’t at his desk. When he finally got back, he said they should have more information soon.”
The word soon grips my chest.
“Dad, um, what do you think happened?” I ask, staring out the window.
He shrugs. “I have no idea.”
“What if someone forgot to do something? Could that be a thing that, you know, um, caused the fire?” I cough and think about all the words I’m not saying.
“Maybe,” he says. “Depends what they forgot to do, I suppose.”
My guilt pulls at me.
I look at my dad, then back out the window, then at Dad again.
The spit pools at the top of my throat.
“What if I forgot to do something?” I ask, staring at the floor, too afraid to see my father’s face.
“What are you talking about?” Dad turns right out of the parking lot.
My heart races.
“I mean, what if I forgot to do something and the accident was my fault?”
“How could it be your fault?”
I should stop talking. I don’t know anything for sure.
Jade Zhang’s voice is all I hear for the next long minute.
Then Dad asks again, “Eric, how could it be your fault?”
My worries snake to the surface. “Dad, we had mac and cheese.” I pause and say it again, slower and louder. “We. Had. Mac. And. Cheese.” I wait, hoping he understands what I’m trying to say without actually having to say the words out loud.
He doesn’t react.
Then my words tumble out and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself. My guilt needs a place to go. “I made the mac and cheese. I was the last one to use the stove.”
He turns off the podcast.
Silence.
I look over at him and see the pieces beginning to connect.
“What if I forgot to shut off the burner on the stove?” I swallow hard.
Dad sighs loudly.
“Well, did you?” he asks as if the only reason I don’t know if I turned off the stove is because I haven’t asked myself that one stupid question.
“I think so,” I say quietly. “But I can’t remember. I mean, I’m pretty sure, but I don’t know. Maybe.” I trip over every syllable.
“How can you not know if you turned off the stove? It’s not like I’m asking if you took out the trash.” The sincerity slips from his voice.
I wish I’d said nothing. But it’s too late now.
I sink farther into my seat as all my past forgetful mess-ups spill between us.
* * *
When we get home, music is playing in the kitchen and there’s a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs sitting in the middle of the table. Casey trails Mom as she takes the garlic bread out of the oven, and I want to freeze this moment. The moment before both of my parents think I’m the worst son ever.
Mom brings the bread over, and I reroute around my father. It’s just the three of us. Zoe’s with Aunt Josie.
“Did you talk to Alice? How’s Dani?” I sit down next to my mom.
She puts her hand on top of mine. “The same. Stable.”
I dump my head in my hands. “Stable is such a stupid word,” I snap.
“Eric, watch your tone, please,” Dad says, tugging on his beard. This is his tell. He does it when he’s upset.
“That’s not what you really want to say, Dad, is it?” I stare at my father, daring him to share my secret. “Why don’t you just tell her?”
He looks at me. “Eric, we don’t have to do this right now.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom turns to Dad, to me, back to Dad.
The pressure of the last few days erupts inside me.
I stand up and the words tumble out. “It was my fault! The fire. The explosion. Dani. Everything!”
Relief mixes with self-hatred.
Mom searches my dad’s face for a sign that this isn’t as bad as it sounds, but there is none.
“You always say how I forget everything,” I continue. “Well, this time I think I forgot to shut off the stove!”
A shocked look flashes across my mom’s face. She quickly replaces it with her I-love-you-to-infinity face.
I pace around the table. “I mean, maybe I turned off the stove, but I don’t remember. Maybe. But what if I forgot? I don’t know. What if I did this?” I pause and sit back down. “Mom, I’m scared.”
She rests her hand on mine. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll handle whatever this is together.”
I hide my face in my hands. “I’m sorry.”
I leave my meatballs, garlic bread, and parents and head to my room. The guilt trails me like a shadow. I close my door, but I can still hear my parents talking.
“Do you think we should say something to Alice?” Mom asks.
Please don’t tell her.
“Not yet.”
“Agreed,” she says. “The truth is, we’re not even certain what happened. Eric could have just spun himself into a worried frenzy for nothing.”
True.
“Maybe, but you know how forgetful he is.” Dad’s words echo up the stairs and land in the middle of my room.
I sink onto the floor, and my body deflates.
16
Trust Me
I wake up from a nap, and for one glorious moment, I forget.
In my mind I’m heading to the field to pitch before school, like I do every day.
But then I open my eyes to the bright lights and remember.
I’m not pitching.
I’m lying in a stupid hospital bed with my mom watching over me from her corner chair.
Tomorrow’s the first day of sixth grade. The first fall ball practice. And I’m stuck in here attempting to use a walker to get to the bathroom, trying and failing to raise my arm and move my fingers, and squeezing my quads to strengthen them.
Life is happening without me.
I take a giant breath in and remember what Waylan said. I’ve got this. I’m not climbing alone.
