Heroine(19)

Even Jolene doesn’t have anything negative to say, I’m doing so well. I’m at the end of the bars in a couple minutes, and pivot for the return journey without a pause. Last month they had to both hold me up when I turned, one of them wiping tears off my face while the other moved my leg for me.

“You are on fire,” Kyleigh yells.

At the moment, no, I’m actually not. I definitely was, right after school. I made it out to my car with a straight face but I was running on fumes; every molecule of air that my hip moved through felt like a needle going straight down into bone. I dug into the center console of my car for an old Doritos bag, and the pills tucked in the corner. I took two because I knew Mom was meeting me and I didn’t want to upset her by collapsing into a pile of inability before my session even started.

This is the best rehab place in three counties, and Mom and Dad are paying through the nose for it, insurance only covering so much. If I have to wander into the gray area of appropriate use of my medication in order to make this appointment worthwhile, then I’ll do it. The look on Mom’s face when my hour is up is more than worth it. She looks the way she does right after she gets home from delivering a baby, like something new just happened in the world and she was a part of it.

I’m not something new. I’m just trying to get back to my old self.

Which, Jolene informs me, I’m way closer to than anyone expected at this point.

“You’re ahead of where I thought you’d be,” she says, handing me a paper cup of water while I do my cooldown stretches. “At your first appointment, I wouldn’t have expected you to be able to do more than a toe touch to the ground at the beginning of February. But you’re bearing weight on your heel. You’ve been doing all your exercises at home?”

I nod, too tired for words.

“Every night,” Mom says.

Jolene puts both her hands on my shoulders, crouching down in front of me. “Your recovery is a testament to what hard work can do.”

“Can I graduate to putting weight on it regularly?”

She glances at her clipboard, but I don’t need a calendar to know what I’m asking. If she’ll let me move on to putting half my weight on it with crutches, I’ll be a full two weeks ahead of recovery schedule.

“That’s a lot, Mickey,” she says. “But if you can do it without too much pain some of the time, I would say it’s okay.”

“Awesome,” I say.

“Some of the time,” she repeats. “I know you want to be ready for your season in time, and it is feasible. But right now I’m happy that you can walk. You should be, too.”

“I am,” I tell her. And it’s true.

But it’s not enough.

Mom’s still beaming as we leave therapy, her pride overflowing into a pizza stop. I convince her to let me walk into the restaurant without the crutches, and even though it’s slow, I do it. Then I ease into the booth without holding on to the tabletop for balance, just to show her I can. She reaches across the table for my hands.

“Mickey, I can’t even say what I thought when I first saw your X-rays. They were—”

“Bad,” I finish for her. “I know.”

“To see what you did today . . . honey, I’m so proud.”

She’s so proud that the waiter has to ask her if she’s okay, while she wipes away tears, explaining that she’s happy, and yes, everything is okay.

It’s not, not yet. But it’s going to be. I’m going to make it that way. Because I realized when I saw her face light up at therapy that this isn’t just about my pain.

Every time I pop a pill I’m doing it so that Mom has a kid she can be proud of, something good to focus on with Dad’s second family on the way. I’m doing it so that I can be behind the plate for Carolina when our senior season starts, showing the OSU scout she’s still got what it takes. I’m doing it so that she and I can go on with our lives like that night never happened, like I wasn’t behind the wheel in a car that landed upside down in a ditch. I’m doing it so that my teammates aren’t exchanging worried looks when I limp past them in the hallway. Yeah, I manage to tell myself as I sink my teeth into a bread stick, I’m not taking Oxy because it makes me feel good.

I’m taking it for other people.





Chapter Fourteen


tolerance: the power or capacity of enduring—or—the power acquired by some persons of bearing doses of medicine that in ordinary cases would prove injurious or fatal

While I might be able to convince myself that I’m taking OxyContin for other people, it’s still my money paying for it. And right now, I don’t have much.

I’m back at Edith’s, somewhere I told myself I wouldn’t be. But with physical therapy going so well and softball conditioning starting in a month, I have to prioritize. Just thinking about running the two miles that Coach Mattix asks out of us during training makes me dig my fingers into my hip, punishing the injury that has sidelined my former confident self.

I dig, feeling the screws, but the pain isn’t near what it was last week after therapy. The Oxy is making sure of that. I’ve figured out that two can get me through the day, and if I chew them up before bed, two will send me right to sleep, taking care of my nights. But today the familiar echo of pain began snaking shadowy fingers out from my hip right after lunch, something I’d been able to keep at bay until at least after dinner with two 30s.