Miss Sandra picks me up from Love Field. I see her waving from the curb a quarter mile away in what is probably a new blouse she bought just to receive me in. She is the mom of three boys, so I’m an occasion for her, a glimpse of the daughter she always wondered about.
“Hiiiiiiii!” she sings prettily, and covers me up in her silky arms. “I’ve missed you so much!”
I climb into her SUV and she immediately presses a button that makes my seat sink slowly back as far as it can go. She wants to make sure I’m as comfortable as possible, and even though I feel ridiculous as I whir backward and away from her, I am grateful to be loved so well.
Sandra is happy now. She’s married a nice man called Ron who is mad about her, and they live in a new beautiful home not far from the old beautiful home she lived in with Sam. As we drive she talks about her sons and Ron’s kids and what we’re having for dinner. She asks me about Nashville and about my family, and then, as the high-rises dissolve into the suburbs, she asks me about the pain. I tell her less than she already knows. Sleeping is hard, working is impossible, and insurance doesn’t cover anything. She starts to ask a question but stops herself before the words come. In the same way my own mother, the best ones, just know how you need to be loved at any given moment, Sandra gifts me with a silence instead. She covers me in grace and understanding. I watch her shift in her seat and let out a long, quivery sigh, like it’s all she can do to keep herself from jumping into my skin and carrying the pain for me.
“Did you remember to bring your films?” she chirps.
I did. I pat my bag. A fat manila envelope pokes out of the zipper pocket. Inside is every single image ever taken of my spine. Sandra has a doctor for me, just like everybody else does. She knows it might not work, but it’s all set up and she’ll pay for it, so it can’t hurt. Trying to fix me is the only way anyone knows to love me right now. Letting them try is the only way I know to love them back.
The hospital is a stack of gray boxes in the middle of the city. We arrive early—Jack, Sandra, and me—after an evening of Texas brisket and watching lightning bugs fly in figure eights over the pool. My heart and backbone throb, kissing each other on the inside of my body as we skulk around the entryway and wait, white-coated strangers breezing past us like we’re shrubs. My body remembers when it sees this place and I become allergic again, my throat itches and my hands sweat, and my breath is taken from me. Jack has walked me through dozens of these doorways before; his hand clutches mine and doesn’t leave. It’s routine, it’s what we know, and all I need to do is hang on for thirty minutes.
The exam room is about the size of a changing stall at the Gap. The doctor stares at my films for a long time. He’s tall, with a big mop of pigeon-colored hair, and stands with his hands on his hips like he’s Christy Turlington.
“What’s this?” he asks, squinting behind his glasses.
“My black spot.”
That’s what I call it. Nobody’s given it a different name. He raises his eyebrows at the dark cloud at the base of my skull on all my films. I explain it to him the way it’s been explained to me, nothing to be concerned about, it’s just the wire interacting with the machine. He sighs and clicks his tongue.
“I can’t help you properly until I find out what’s underneath it.”
He orders a set of X-rays that cost $50 and a different type of imaging that won’t interact with the wire in my neck. I shake so hard when the tech injects dye into my veins that Sandra offers to buy me six months of PTSD therapy. It sounds like the most useful treatment anybody has suggested so far.
* * *
The call comes two days after my appointment and I let it go to voice mail. Jack and I are eating tacos together in Austin because it’s easy to fall back in love with someone when you’re eating tacos with them. The tacos are working, we’re happy. The fentanyl patch is working too—it’s strong. I can dance a little, snatch a glimpse of who Jack and I used to be together. I remember how hilarious he is and he remembers how much fun it is to be out at night with me.
I hand the phone to Jack to check the message while I get up to pee. He grabs my arm to stop me.
“Ruthie, this is Dr. Mills. You need to get back to Houston immediately.”
We find out that the wire holding my spine together is poking into my brain stem. His voice is urgent. He’s never seen this before.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Jack sputters.
We leave our half-eaten tacos and everything else behind.
Back at Jack’s brother’s house just outside of town where we’re staying, everybody panics, scurrying around, looking for something to do. Jack calls my parents; his brother John calls the insurance company; his wife, Lena, calls Sandra. I retreat, but Orange County isn’t far enough away this time. I go upstairs and settle into the blinding pink of our five-year-old niece’s bedroom. There are heaps of faded teddy bears, a neon-rainbow gymnastics outfit, and an owl decal the size of a Saint Bernard. I remember the joy of five and sit inside it for a moment, insulating myself with good memories for the rest of the evening. The next day, five years old doesn’t feel far enough away, so while everyone else panics and fusses, I go to the bookstore and buy a half-off copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, diving headfirst into Hogwarts to hang out with my friends Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville (who is the best one of all). I stay there, locking myself away in a make-believe world, which even with its spells and monsters feels safer than the one I’m from. By Rowling law, the dark is never as strong as the light and the evil can never unhinge the good. My heart aches for a simple justice like that.
We don’t go back to Houston at all, even though we probably should. Jack tries to coax me, the families try, but I shut them all out. Miss Sandra overnights the films to my brothers in Baton Rouge and they take over. Tim is living a quiet life as St. Francisville’s most beloved physician and Lile is living a loud one selling surgical equipment in the city; they call in every favor they can and set up consultations with the best orthopedic surgeons in the country. My parents talk over the possibilities, how they can help me, and what my life will look like if I need a wheelchair. I watch everybody spin and spin, worry and worry, but I stay still. Fear brings its own kind of paralysis.
After a few days, it’s time for Jack to go back on the road with the band and for me to go back to Nashville with Harry Potter. I’ve been back just a week when Lile calls with the news: I’ll need another surgery, another spinal fusion. He spoke with several doctors and the verdict was unanimous. I hold the phone to my ear for twenty minutes while his bellow of a voice goes on as he tries to be matter-of-fact, keep me calm, and reach me the way he’s always been able to but suddenly can’t.
“You’re going to be just fine,” he says.
I don’t really hear him, I won’t let myself. As soon as I hang up, I forget about Lile and my spine and the doctors, padding my brain with more magic spells and Quidditch tournaments. I keep my eyes squeezed shut as March becomes April, floating off, disassociating, and letting everyone else deal with the business of me. With my eyes shut, though, there is so much that I miss.
I miss the panic and the pain, but I also miss the radical love. I miss the fear and uncertainty, but I also miss the belligerent faith of the ones who carry me, the wild courage they have to move forward when I can’t move at all. I don’t allow myself to witness the love that they pour over me; I just lie in my bed terrified, medicated, paralyzed. I’m a ghost in the bedsheets.