Under My Skin (16 page)

“Sounds like a Shaw-ism.” I slide to the edge of my windowsill and set my pillow aside.

“A what?” He stops working an invisible lather with his hands.

“Something Doctor Shaw would say.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I suppose it does. The woman is brilliant, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” He waves his arm for me to come along.

I don’t bother clarifying that I didn’t mean for it to be a compliment and follow him down the hall after grabbing a mask from the box by the door.

My heart is already revving by the time we reach the PT room. Ricky’s no pain, no gain babble drifts through my mind. Maybe I
am
psyching myself out. My reaction last time was a simple panic attack, nothing more, and certainly nothing dangerous. Like Ricky said, my new heart is strong, show room new.

I stride toward the treadmill with my hands fisted and jaw clenched.

Ricky immediately redirects me to the stationary bike on the other side of the room. “We’re trying something different today.”

Instead of a standard bicycle seat, the machine has a full-on chair with hand grips on either side. A towel rests on the center console. Ricky whips it off and drapes it over his shoulder.

“Hop on.” Ricky slaps the chair’s seat. “Grip the hand holds and work the pedals. I’ll increase the resistance to the right spot. I want you to feel like you’re working, but not so hard as it feels like you’re wading through wet concrete.”

“Okay.” I slip my feet through the footholds and start pedaling. It’s so easy that I actually have to concentrate on not going too fast.

Ricky turns up the resistance dial. “Tell me when you feel the burn.” He smiles. The guy totally enjoys this. He’d probably be completely comfortable in a medieval torture chamber. I can imagine him saying in a light-hearted voice, “Let me know when your feel your tendons pop. That means your legs and arms will rip off soon. All you have to do is get used to the pain.”

The pedals fight back. I lean into the seatback, tightening my grip on the handles. My thighs start to burn. “I think that’s good.”

Ricky reverses the resistance a notch and drapes the towel around my neck. “Ten minutes. I’ll be back.”

I stare at the clock, watching the seconds tick by as I wind the pedals around in circles. One minute feels like a hundred.

Ricky’s chuckles carry over the noise of the other machines. He’s a guy who enjoys life. I’ll have to ask him his secret. Maybe he’ll give me a couple of items to add to my alarmingly blank list.

Right now, I’m nothing more than a sixteen-year-old in a physical rehabilitation room with ancient relics who could probably beat me at arm wrestling. Hell, they could probably beat me in a competition of mall walking.

A layer of sweat creeps across my upper lip. Damn mask. I tug it under my chin and take a deep breath of real air. Relief floods me, though my heart continues to pump faster and faster. My pulse rushes in my ears.

I close my eyes, but nothing can dull the competing scents of stale body odor, cleaning fluid, and overused equipment.

This place sucks.

I keep pumping my legs. What would it be like to ride a real bicycle in a park on a summer day? How serene it would be to glide past pastures of green grass, to skim under shade trees, and a pause at a pond to catch the sunset. I almost feel the wind dragging through my hair. All of a sudden I feel lighter, freer. I’m normal. Healthy.

Whole.

“I’ve never seen someone so happy to be exercising.” A girl’s voice tears through my fantasy.

My eyes fly open. I’m face to face with a petite girl wearing a plastic collar around her neck. Her baggy black t-shirt and gray sweatpants are covered in paint stains. Her crystal blue eyes study me with curiosity, a striking compliment to the cobalt streaks in her black hair.

I stop pedaling, struck by the clarity of those inquisitive eyes. I open my mouth, but have no idea what to say so I close it again. Lamest of the lame.

The right side of her mouth ticks up. “The silent type. I like it.”

I blink.

She slides her fingers along the machine’s center console then rubs them together, testing for dust. “Okay, Mister Tall, Dark, and Quiet. You got a real name?”

“I, um … ” I clear my throat.

“Um is not a name.”

We’re face to face with me sitting and her standing, yet it’s like she’s peering down at me from a tower. “A-Adam. My name is Adam.”

“Adam. Like Adam and Eve?”

“No, I mean, I guess.”

“Is that a yes or no?” She laughs. It’s one of those wow-this-bloke-has-no-idea-how-to-talk-to-girls laughs.

Heat builds in my cheeks. A bead of sweat slides from my temple down my cheek. My hold slips on the bike’s handles. “What’s your name?”

She shifts her weight. “I’m Darby.”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s a hospital. What do you think?” Her mouth collapses into a frown.

I imagine kissing the smirk right off her face. The heat intensifies in my lower belly. “Um … ” I point to her throat, or, more specifically, the collar around it.

She stiffens. “Oh. Well, I broke my neck and … ” Her words trail off and so does her gaze. She ducks her head so her hair veils her face.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I don’t want to talk about my illness either, so I can’t blame her for clamming up. I drag the towel from my shoulders and twist it in my hands, hoping she won’t leave. Not yet. If only my brain would come up with something interesting to say.

She watches me work the towel over while sucking on her bottom lip. Then she takes a deep breath, snapping back into the fresh girl who first greeted me. “It’s okay. I was in an accident.”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal but the hint of pain in her eyes tells me otherwise. It’s only a slight wince, but it’s there. I’ve gotten used to catching it over these past few months, whether it’s from Mum fretting over me during one of my episodes, a doctor delivering bad news about my condition, or Dad letting me know how ungrateful he thinks I am.

“You’re not in a wheelchair,” I say. Utter brilliance.

“You noticed.” There’s a playful twist to her mouth now.

“Yeah, but don’t people who break their necks end up paralyzed?”

The darkness returns to her gaze. “I was lucky.”

“Very.”

Just as quick, the hint of pain is gone. “How about you?”

“Me?”

“Why are
you
here?”

“Oh. I had heart surgery so I need to recondition my body.” Recondition. I have no idea if I’m using the term right. It’s Ricky’s. He won’t mind me borrowing it. However, the “re” would imply I had some “condition” to begin with.

“Heart surgery.” She takes a step away as if I’m contagious

The bike beeps. My ten minutes is up.

Ricky saunters over wearing his permanent smile. “Making friends?”

I nod, though I’m not quite sure what we’re doing.

“I see you’ve already started your break, so let’s jump into the next ten minutes right away.” He resets the timer.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Darby retreats some more.

“Who are you working with?” Ricky asks.

“Uh … Sandra.”

Ricky ushers her toward the door. “She’s in the other room.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know, but she started working with someone else, so I left.”

Ricky shakes his head. “She’s probably looking for you.”

“Whatever,” Darby says.

Well, well, looks I have something to put on my Live Life List.

Talk to Darby again.

Darby

Shaw’s waiting for me after I shower. She’s placed two chairs at right angles to each other. I only need one shot to guess the empty chair is for me.

“There you are.” Shaw doesn’t bother to stand.

I steady the towel wrapped around my head and sit. “I decided to shower after PT.”

“How’d it go?”

“The shower or PT?”

Shaw gives a small smile. “PT.”

I shrug—or try to ‘cause the c-collar blocks me—and scrunch my nose. I have to wear the thing
all the time
, sleeping, showering, sitting, walking, PTing, and I can’t
wait
to rip it off. “Okay, I guess. It’s boring.”

So boring I had to wait twenty minutes for my physical therapist to figure out what she wanted to do with me. Her excuse? She hasn’t worked with spine injury patients much. Not comforting. At. All.

Good thing I wandered and found that weird kid, Adam, in the other room. Talking to him gave me something to do. Sure, he was shy, but kind of cute and his lip ring means he’s not a complete loser.

“It’s important for your recovery.”

“I could recover at home, but I … ” I pick at a hangnail. Mom and Dad haven’t visited or called since I kicked them out.

“Don’t want to go home.”

“More like I’m not welcome there.”

Shaw’s face pinches. It reminds me of when Mom purses her lips or Dad picks his teeth when they see my report card. “What makes you say that?”

I twist away from her.

“Your parents love you.”

“Can we get out of here?”

Shaw uncrosses her legs. “You’re upset.”

I shake out my hair. “I’m sick of being cooped up.”

“Our little outing last night gave you a taste of freedom, I see.” Shaw stands and snatches her coat off the back of her chair.

I find my sneakers. “I don’t care where we go, I just can’t stay in this room anymore.”

Shaw helps me into my rain jacket. “Okay.”

We head in the opposite direction from last time. A light drizzle falls. Dampness seeps into my bones. I don’t care. It’s better than being in the kiddy room with safari walls.

There are more people on the sidewalk than last night. Makes sense. It’s day time. Most rush along, heads bowed or tucked under umbrellas and hoods and hands stuffed in coat pockets. Shaw and I take a right, entering a small park at the bottom of a hill. We pass empty flowerbeds and leafless bushes until we find a bench next to a pond. The wood is worn and wet.

“Not the best place to sit,” Shaw says.

I tuck the back of my coat under my butt and sit anyway. “My jacket’s waterproof.”

She sits next to me. “So is mine.”

My nose runs from the cold. I wipe it with the back of my hand.

Shaw rubs her hands together. “Chilly out here.”

“I can’t go inside.”

“It was cold like this the day my mother died.”

I stare at her out of the corner of my eyes.

“My mom and I were in a car accident, like you and Daniel. Somehow, she lost control of the car and we crashed into a lake. Water started rushing in almost instantly.” She closes her eyes and hugs herself.

I want to say something, but what’s there to say?

“Mom’s head hit the steering wheel. She was knocked out. I shook her and shook her, but she wouldn’t wake up. I managed to drag her out of the car and to the shore. It must have been a rush of adrenaline. I was just a little girl.” Shaw pierces me with her dark stare.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I know how painful it is to lose someone you love and I know how painful it is to be separated from your mother. Yours is still alive. You should savor every moment with her.”

I pull my cuffs over my hands. “I’m sorry about your mom. What happened was horrible. But you don’t know anything about my life or about my mom, so you shouldn’t tell me what to do.”

Shaw stands. She stares down at me, her face clouded, even in broad daylight. “You’re a sharp girl, Darby Fox. Seems I underestimated you.”

“Most people do.”

She lifts her chin. “Even your parents.”

I stand so we’re more on equal ground. Doesn’t matter. She’s still a foot taller than me. “Right.”

“I apologize for overstepping my bounds. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Isn’t it your job to know better?”

She runs her tongue over her teeth. My jab stung. “Indeed. Sometimes I take a chance and sometimes it doesn’t work out.”

I drop my gaze to the pond. She’s not the only one who’s failed at taking chances. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty good at making mistakes, too.”

“Like what?”

“The accident was my fault. If I hadn’t been arguing with Daniel, maybe he wouldn’t have … ” My throat closes, strangling the end of my sentence.

“Hit that patch of ice? The roads were horrendous that night. You can’t blame yourself for the weather.”

I make eye contact with her. “Like you can’t blame yourself for your mom not surviving.”

The edge of her mouth ticks up. “Never said I did.”

Confusion fuzzes my head. “Oh.”

She crosses her arms. “It’s easy to assume, isn’t it?”

I snort. Boy, she’s good. “Thanks for making me look like an ass.”

She lowers her chin. “That was not my intention.”

I scratch my jaw. “No, I deserved it. Especially after I snarked at you for telling me about your mom.”

She extends a hand. “Truce?”

I shake. “For what?”

“We have a lot more in common than you think. I know what it’s like to have a loved one’s organs be donated. My mother’s heart was given to someone else. I never knew who they were and it kills me to this day.”

The more she talks, the more gutted I am. “What am I supposed to do with all this stuff you’re telling me?”

“I don’t want you to feel bad for me. That’s not why I’m sharing.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“We need to work together, not against each other.”

“How?”

She laughs. “Not used to collaborating?”

I start walking up the hill. “If we’re going to ‘work together,’ I need you to lay off the loving parents angle, okay?”

She takes easy strides next to me. “Okay.”

“And how long are you going to make me wait before you tell me who had Daniel’s heart?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

I halt. “When will you know that?”

“I’ll know.”

* * *

I stir the gloppy, overcooked pasta around my plate, pushing watery green beans to the edge. A couple of them splat onto the plastic tray. Since I haven’t picked things on the menu, the kitchen sends up whatever they have. I glare at the lime gelatin for desert. Gross.