9
JONAS
The next day found Jonas spending his time moping around the house. His brother was gone (as usual), Taylor was still at camp, and his dad was at work. That left his mom, who was off for the day. That didn’t stop her from working, though; she was scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom, her hair tied up and apron on. Jonas watched her. She used to dance in the kitchen when she cleaned the floors, radio on and arms swaying in time to the music. Jonas couldn’t help but think it was his fault that she didn’t anymore. So he sat on the couch, frowning moodily at the turned-off TV.
Jonas’s mom seemed to pick up on his bad mood and didn’t really engage him, whether to remind him of his doctor’s appointment later that day (the one he didn’t want to go to at all) or to suggest some other activity (that involved leaving the house).
He didn’t feel like being in his room all day, which was strange, because there was usually no place he enjoyed being more. He didn’t really feel up to going out, and his leg hurt, but he didn’t feel like doing nothing.
It was strange. Since he had gone out, since he had given himself the chance to see that he could indeed successfully leave the house, he’d stopped being completely content to stay inside. Like, since he’d given it a chance, it had ruined his contentment with doing nothing.
The only problem was that he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to himself yet, so here he was, camped out in the living room, his own personal compromise between hiding in his bedroom and going out.
Eventually, his mom put away her apron and grabbed her purse and keys. “Time to go,” she said hesitantly, watching him from the door. Jonas wordlessly got up and retrieved his crutches. He’d chosen to wear the prosthetic leg—he’d been wearing it more and more lately because he’d become almost addicted to the visual representation of having two legs; taking the leg off at night was kind of depressing now—but he still wasn’t going to actually walk on it.
“I’ve got to go to the grocery store afterward,” Jonas’s mom said. “If you don’t want to go, you could always drive yourself to the doctor’s?” She sounded like she’d rather take him to see the doctor and then drag him around the grocery store as well.
“No,” Jonas shook his head. “I’d rather not drive.”
“All right,” she said, nodding and heading out the door. Jonas followed her and got into the passenger seat of her van (which was nicer than the Bus: newer, and with air conditioning). He stared out the window as they drove, the trees and the buildings blurring into smears of color as they eventually picked up speed on the highway and headed downtown.
When they reached the doctor’s office, his mom came around to open the passenger-side door for him.
“I’m not an invalid,” he snapped, probably too harshly, he thought, judging by the hurt look in her eyes.
“I know, Bird,” his mom said, backing off. She suddenly looked tired again. Jonas hadn’t realized she’d been starting to perk up over the past couple of weeks, but the change in her now made it evident. “I was just trying to help,” she added softly.
Just, just, always just. “I’m not going to break, Mom.” Jonas avoided meeting her eyes as he got out and positioned his crutches, making his way to the door of the doctor’s office.
The building was home to many doctors, and many specialists, several of whom Jonas had become familiar with over the last year. It was big—too stark and too clean for Jonas’s taste. And it smelled like a hospital, which he hated. (Funny, since you were going to be a doctor.)
There was a list of things Jonas thought about when he thought about hospitals, and none of them were pleasant:
Flashes of lights on the ceiling.
The faces of doctors and the sound of his mom crying.
The sensation of finally giving in to darkness because that was all his body wanted to do and he couldn’t fight it, couldn’t fight it anymore.
He hadn’t always hated the smell of hospitals; it was an after The Accident thing. A side effect. (Like the not driving and the noticing of people’s left feet.)
Back in the present, Jonas eyed the people using the stairs with a frown. He would have used the stairs if he could have. You should eventually be able to walk almost as before, his prosthetist had told him when he was first fitted. With practice, you could even conquer stairs. Jonas hadn’t wanted to conquer anything. He hadn’t wanted to have to. He had wanted to have his leg back.
They got into the elevator. He pushed the button for the third floor. It was all familiar, all robotic movement. Go through the motions; go home afterward.
They signed in at the front desk.
“Jonas!” The nurse called his name eventually. Jonas wanted to do anything but stand up, force a smile at the nurse, and begin to walk back with her. His mom stood, too, making her way to his side. She always came for his appointments. She was always there, ready to support him, willing to help if she was needed. He wondered, suddenly, if maybe that was a small part of his problem. Too many people to help him, to pity him; too easy for him to just let them. Maybe he really just needed to help himself. He was leaving for college, after all.
“Mom,” he muttered, stopping short. “I-I’d really just rather go alone this time.”
“Oh,” she said, drawing back her hand from his arm. “Are you sure?” She was frowning, worry in her eyes. Her voice wobbled a bit.
“Yes, Mom,” he mumbled. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to go by myself. All right? Please don’t make it a big deal. It isn’t; I promise.”
“Yes, all right. Of course.” She swallowed and patted his arm in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but really just conveyed to Jonas, along with the glistening of her dark eyes, how upset she was. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to feel useful. He wondered if maybe sometimes she felt like she’d somehow failed as a mother, although that was really the furthest thing from the truth. None of this was her fault. Guilt squeezed his stomach again.
He wanted to comfort his mom, so he turned back at the last second, crutched back to her, and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her arm. “Okay, Mom?” he asked her.
She smiled slightly, swiping at her face with shuddery hands. “Okay, Bird,” she said. “I’ll be just out here if you need anything.”
“I know,” he said, giving her a little smile before turning and following the nurse.
Dr. Akeson, Jonas’s orthopedic surgeon (aka the one who’d neatened up what remained of Jonas’s leg after the metal from the car door had finished with it), was a short man with a balding head and a white beard. He was like Santa Claus, if Santa wore a lab coat and smelled like antiseptic.
“I’ve been—I’ve been trying to walk some,” Jonas started, uneasily. He’d tried to imagine how the words would feel, how they would taste, when he finally said them. He couldn’t quite decide yet if they felt good or bad to say. He looked down at his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tapping his leg just above the prosthetic socket, a nervous tic that came out just about every time he was at a follow-up appointment. He was self-conscious in the hospital gown they always had him wear. He knew it was so they could examine his leg more easily, but he felt cold and a little exposed. He quit tapping and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.