Hunter Hill University: Reaching Rose Part 12

Laughing, I call it "...a lame-a.s.s game."

As we get into the comfortable groove of playing Words With Friends and hanging, I decide to bring up Rose.

"John," I start, looking at him while he decides what letters to play, "I was thinking of finding Rose."

He looks up at me, surprised. "Finding?"

"I found out she's in some mental ward in some hospital."

"Mental ward?" With his rubber-tipped stick, he lowers the iPad tray. "Why? What hap..." He stops. It registers. "She can't make jokes."

I shake my head and put down my phone. "No joking."

"She must be really depressed."

Nodding, I agree.

"Then find her."

"Find her?"

"She needs to laugh. Make her laugh, Ben."

"Make her laugh? I'm not that funny."

Johnny cracks up. "Then joke about me. Find something funny to talk to her about."

"Funny? You think joking about your situation is funny?"

"Isn't it? Isn't it hilarious that at seventeen, I'm less active than my ninety-two-year-old great-grandmother? That's funny s.h.i.t, Ben. If you consider cruel irony hilarious." Though his shoulders can't shrug, his eyes do. "What can you do?"

"Is this...all bulls.h.i.t, John? You can't really be okay with this, are you?"

He looks at me.

Stares at me.

"I'm sorry for being so blunt, I just don't get it."

He finally speaks. "What choice do I have? If I let it get to me, what happens? I end up in a mental ward like that pretty little girl of yours? s.h.i.t, I can't even kill myself to escape this."

His eyes start to tear.

My heart starts to break.

"I'm stuck like this with no choice, Ben. So...for my mom's sake, I laugh."

I nod, sadly understanding a little better.

"I'm all she has. Besides her gram. So...I'm gonna be the next Stephen Hawking and make enough money to pay for people to help her. Since I can't."

"Well...you do have a high IQ, right?"

"d.a.m.n straight. 156."

"Impressive. And you're still in high school?"

"Mom didn't want me to lose out on a real childhood. I'm in all AP cla.s.ses though, so...I'm still ahead when I start college."

"Cool."

"If I don't get pneumonia again and die."

"Dude."

"I came close. That's why I couldn't go back to rehab yet. It's gonna take a lot to get my immune system up."

"s.h.i.t."

"Yeah." He picks up his straw with his mouth and elevates his iPad. "Let's get back to the game."

We get back to Words With Friends, but my thoughts are swirling all over the place.

Will Johnny really be okay?

Will Rose?

Do I go find her?

Or do I let her be?

In the end, I let her be for now.

17.

ROSE.

Returning to the normal world isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Not that hanging home all day is considered normal for a girl my age. I should be studying or partying or enjoying life in my twenties, I'm told. But I haven't found my bearings yet.

While in the mental ward of the hospital, I did get my breaks to work on my physical disability and I did get fitted for my permanent artificial leg, which I'm wearing right now. It's not as robotic as my metal paper towel holder, so it's prettier to look at. Relatively. It's still not the real thing. But at least I can wear my own shoes with it, and it looks like a real leg. And oh yeah, they fit me for a second leg too. A leg to use when I, believe it or not, dance. That leg's really robotic looking, but it's supposed to be highly effective for dancing. And it does have a pet.i.te foot, so it still fits in a ballet shoe.

I know what you're thinking - "You can still dance?"

It turns out, yes, I can. But I haven't tried it yet.

My new therapist, the one for my brain, not my leg, allowed me to go online during some of my sessions and research dancers with amputated legs. During one of my early sessions, Denise asked me what I planned to do about dancing. I looked at her like she was the one who'd lost her mind.

"Was that not an appropriate question to ask?" she said in response, as if she couldn't see I only had one functioning leg.

My inclination was to keep staring, but my stomach rumbled with the urge to release a scream. So without raising my voice, I sarcastically pointed out that, "I seem to be missing an essential instrument for dancing."

"I beg to differ."

"How's that?"

"You're a dancer. You don't watch Dancing with the Stars?"

I rolled my eyes. Amy Purdy. Holly had brought her up the last time I saw her. "On occasion."

"Have you ever heard of Amy Purdy?"

"Vaguely."

"She was a double amputee. That didn't stop her."

I let that sink in.

"And...I've gone poking around the Internet. There are others."

Really?

"I don't think this is the end of your dancing career, Rose. I believe it's the beginning. A new start...a new challenge. Are you up for the task?"

Was I?

After that session, Denise and I spent a lot of time researching dancers with disabilities, and we found that there are actually academies that specialize in dancers with disabilities, including them with their non-disabled dancers.

So I'm home now.

It's Halloween.

And I still have disparaging thoughts about myself.

One of them being how fitting this holiday is for a one-legged Skellington like me. I don't answer the door for trick-or-treaters. My mother or sisters do that. I stay in my room and read. And answer Holly's texts every now and then.

My mother presented me with a smart phone as a welcome-home gift. She must have told Holly I had a phone again, because all day long she's been texting me. Most of them about how hot Ben Falco is and how he'd be perfect for me. I don't encourage her by agreeing, because I really don't want to talk about him. She can be relentless though. The texts have slowed up tonight, though, because the bar is probably slammed with customers. Part of me wishes I were there. I miss my old life.

It's about eight forty at night when I get a text from an unfamiliar number.

TEXT: Hi, Rose. Thinking about you. Hope everything's cool. *Ben Ben?

Holly must have given him my number. My mother doesn't even know he exists. I don't think she was paying much attention the day she came into Orange, and we were sitting together.

Do I respond?

I don't know.

I toss the phone onto the bed and open my book, not knowing what to say to him right now. The words on the page of Gone Girl run together in one long fuzzy train of letters. Putting it aside, I pick up my phone and stare at Ben's text.

After several long minutes, I text back.

ME: Hi.

I know. Lame. But...Is everything cool? Not really. Did I want to say, "Thanks for thinking of me?" No.

So...Hi. That's the best I can think of. Maybe I suffered more brain damage than they think.

Right away, I get a text back.

BEN: Hi. :) I'd like to see you soon. Going stir crazy in the house. My mother's driving me nuts.

ME: Oh.

So lame. So lame. So lame.

BEN: Can I visit?

s.h.i.t.

I guess I don't text him quickly enough, because I get another ding.

BEN: No pressure. I'll use my imagination to remember your face.

ME: Please don't.

Uh oh. He could take that the wrong way.

BEN: You don't want me to visit?

ME: I don't want you to remember my face.

BEN: It's a beautiful face.

ME: It's a scarred face.

BEN: Scars are beautiful. Especially on you.