“I know you can. ”
“And you deserve it,” she says softly.
I glance around my walls, staring at the pattern of tack holes between the few remaining clippings. Soon, this room will be back to normal; all evidence of my impossible journey will be gone. What will I dream about then?
“Come on,” Stacey says at last. “We’re going to be late. ”
She ushers me out to the minivan. On the long drive to the doctor’s office, we talk about little things, nothing that matters.
Once there, it takes less than an hour to cut off my cast, take an X-ray, and pronounce me healed. My orthopedist, Dr. John Turner, says, “The break has healed beautifully. As well as we could have hoped. And Mark says the physical therapy is going well. ”
“Yeah,” I say.
“How much more will she need?” Stacey asks.
“I don’t know. ” He looks at me. “We’ll just take it day by day, okay? How are the headaches?”
“Better,” I say. Mostly, it’s true. The whiplash symptoms are abating slowly.
The appointment is winding down, edging toward goodbye, when there’s a knock at the door. A woman comes into the examining room; she’s carrying a white plastic bag. “Doctor?”
He looks at her. “Yes, Carol?”
“These are Ms. Candellaro’s clothes. The ones they cut off her after the crash. We would have thrown them away, but there were some personal items in the pockets. ”
Something about that hits me hard. I don’t know if it’s cut off or crash. All I know is I can’t smile or move.
Stacey takes the bag. “Thank you. ”
I’m still vaguely disconcerted as we walk through the parking lot. I’m using a cane for balance, though honestly, I think it’s emotional, a phantom feeling of less than wholeness. In truth, my once-broken bone feels strong.
All the way home, I stare at the bag.
Stacey pulls into my driveway and parks. “Are you
okay?”
“I will be,” I say, grabbing the bag.
“I could take that for you. Get rid of it. ”
“I know. ” How can I tell her I’m not ready to get rid of it yet? Instead of speaking, I smile and nod and get out of the minivan.
Leaning heavily on the cane, I make my way up to the front door. Behind me, I hear Stacey drive away.
Inside the house, it’s too quiet.
I’ve forgotten to leave the stereo on. I immediately go to the radio and push the button.
Bruce Springsteen is singing. “Baby, I Was Born to Run. ” I change stations, find a nice, soothing Elton John ballad.
No more dreams for me. I toss the bag of clothes on top of my bureau and go back to work, stripping the pictures from my wall. When I’m finished, and my butter yellow walls are a desert of tiny gray pin holes, I cram everything into grocery bags and take them out to the garbage can in my garage.
Everything goes in the trash.
* * *
A ticket to Seattle.