Light blinded me, pulling me from the dream. It had seemed so real, almost like I’d been given a second chance. I could still feel the hope and confidence my thirteen-year-old self felt as I’d faced down my uncle. Missing the hell out of that brave little girl, I reached for my left arm and felt… nothing. It was still gone.
Just like my dreams.
Just like my future.
“It stinks in here,” Mom said, throwing open my window.
Well, not technically “my” window since I’d sold my house back in New Mexico, and was now staying in my childhood bedroom in Portland, Oregon until I found a place of my own.
“You know what you need? Sunshine and fresh air. When’s the last time you set foot out of this room?”
Squeezing my eyes closed against the brightness, I replied, “I went to the bathroom a few hours ago.”
She sniffed the air. “Well, you clearly didn’t take a shower. This room smells like my car did that one time we had to squeeze your brother and four of his teammates into our car after that football game when their bus broke down.”
I remembered the car ride well, and was sure my nose hairs were still singed from it. “You’re being dramatic. It’s not that bad.”
“Trust me, it is. A skunk can’t smell itself. Are you sure your arm’s not infected? Of course, you wouldn’t know if it was since you skipped another doctor’s appointment.”
“That was today?” I asked lamely. Using ignorance as defense was garbage, but I wasn’t exactly playing with a full deck.
“You know full well it was today, because I woke you up and reminded you before I left for work.”
That seemed like a week ago or maybe last year. All the days were blurring together.
“I asked if you needed a ride—”
“I can drive, Mom.” Not a jet, but I could manage a car one-handed. I wasn’t a complete invalid.
“That’s what you said this morning, yet here we are. You missedanotherappointment. Monica, you promised me you’d be okay, and you’re not.” The bed dipped as she sat next to me. “It’s been almost two months since the accident, and you still haven’t gone in to get fitted for your prosthetic. It’s like you’ve given up, and you’re breaking my heart. Baby, you’re not okay, and it’s time to face that fact and have a conversation about what to do now.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She sighed. “You never do. You’re every bit as stubborn as my mama was, God rest her soul. I begged that woman to go to the doctor for years and by the time she finally listened to me and went, it was too late.”
I’d heard the story dozens of times. My grandmother had died of cancer when I was a child, and I could never tell if Mom was taking credit for knowing Grandma was sick or threatening to curse me with my own bout of disease if I didn’t listen to her. “I don’t have cancer, Mom.”
“No. Your problem’s much deeper than Mama’s. You need to talk to someone… go see a counselor so you can sort through this mess and move on with your life. Baby, we’re worried about you.”
Unable to handle the concern in her voice, my suddenly bright room, the early spring draft coming from the now open window, and life in general, I rolled over and tugged the blanket up over my head. “I’m tired, Mom. I just need to sleep.”
“Impossible. No way you can be tired, since you’ve been sleeping for three weeks straight. You’ve barely left that bed since we came home. You’re not eating, you smell like a week-old ham sandwich, and you haven’t contacted any of your old friends to let them know you’re home. You’re wasting away. You need to get your behind out of that bed and do something with yourself.”
I was in a love affair with my bed and had no desire to change that relationship status. What was the point of getting up when I’d never be able to fly again? There was nothing I wanted to do now. Not a damn thing. Sleep seemed like my best option. At least in my dreams, I still had both arms and the memory of doing what I loved. Waking up sucked ass. “Just a little longer. I’ll get up in a few hours,” I lied. “Rest is important for the healing process.”
“You know what else is important for the healing process? Going to your doctor’s appointments. You promised me you’d make this one. You lied, Monica Rene.”
Evoking my middle name meant business. My lack of initiative had nothing to do with her, but she made it out to be a direct attack against her parenting. Still, the hurt in her voice made me feel like shit. “It’s not a big deal. Just an appointment.”
“Just a… Monica, in the thirty-two years you’ve known me, have I ever given you the indication that I took on freeloaders?”
Mentioning that Uncle Taj had been the definition of a freeloader would have probably gotten my teeth knocked out, so I wisely came down with amnesia. “No ma’am.”
“I don’t know what in the world makes you think you’ll be able to lie in bed all day while living under my roof, but that’s a lie from the Devil himself.”
I needed to get my own place, but that involved getting out of the bed and changing my aforementioned relationship status. Preparing to argue, I threw back the covers but the tears in her eyes gave me pause. I wasn’t the only one irreparably injured in that accident. My parents were suffering too, and I sure wasn’t making it any easier on them. “I’m sorry. I just… I need more time.” I needed to rally and snap out of this funk, but no amount of positive thinking would grow my arm back. Knowing that I’d never pilot another jet was slowly killing me inside, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I wasn’t playing when I said I was married to the cockpit. My dream had died. No, worse, it had been captured in combat and now reality kept torturing it and there was nothing I could do to save it.
