Allie Pleiter - A Heart to Heal

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Heather swallowed hard. Max said it so matter-of-factly. As if I wanted to die was like my left shoulder hurt. All her counselor training left her no response to his casual attitude.

He actually laughed—a dark half laugh, but still, it sounded wildly inappropriate to her—and she cringed at the sound. “That’s horrible,” she said, not exactly sure if she meant his feelings that night or his disturbing attitude now.

“Horrible, tragic, devastating—pick your sad word. I’ve heard them all. Everybody was being so kind and vague and optimistic, but it didn’t fool me. People get that look in their eyes, you know? The one they cover up in a second but you still catch it?”

She did know, but she didn’t say anything.

“I think I knew right when I fell that something really serious had happened, but I don’t remember hardly anything from that night. I don’t remember the helicopter ride—which is rotten, by the way, because I think that would have been cool—or the hospital or surgery or really anything until about a day later. And even my memories from those first days are sort of blurry.” Max pivoted the seat and shifted a bit down the rails, adjusting his position as the boat picked up a bit of speed. Heather felt the wind lift her hair and the sun warm her shoulders. It was easy to see why Max craved time on this boat.

“The first thing I clearly remember,” he went on, his voice still remarkably conversational, “is waking up in the middle of the night and trying to get up out of bed—I think I wanted to go find JJ or something. That was the moment when I really, truly figured out that I couldn’t feel my legs. Like the world just stopped at my hips.” He pretended to busy himself with some adjustment to the rigging, but even without a counseling degree, Heather could’ve seen he couldn’t look her in the eye while talking about the trauma. His eyes darted everywhere around the boat but at her, and she could see how hard his hands gripped the tiller. Why even pretend this was an easy memory? What had made her think it would be a good idea to ask?

Max cleared his throat and shifted. “I remember pinching my thigh, hard, and feeling nothing. Zip. Nada. Then all the tubes and nurses and Mom showing up clicked in my head, and I knew. Alone, in the dark, I just knew. And I decided it would be better if I stopped breathing, right there and then. It was like I didn’t even have enough life left in me to get mad. I was hollow, empty...just gone, like my legs.”

He ventured a glance up at her, and she felt the severity in his eyes as fiercely as if he’d grabbed her hand. “So that’s what it was like. Lousy’s not really a strong enough word, if you get what I mean.”

She had a way-more-than-lousy memory like that. The scars running down her left hip and thigh shouted memories that made her feel hollow and “just gone.” Only she couldn’t brandish them like Max did. There had been another man in her life, years back, who pushed his pain out onto the world like that. Mike had forced his illness on people, daring them to cope with the nasty details, almost looking down on her when she couldn’t do it that way. Heather could count the number of people who had seen her scarred leg on the fingers of one hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not knowing how else to respond.

Max shook his head, his sardonic smile mocking her compassion. “You know, everybody says that. I’ve got enough I’m-sorrys to fill this river twice over. That always struck me as funny, ’cause it never accomplishes anything.”

“Oh, yes, you make it clear no one’s allowed to feel sorry for you.” That came out a bit sharper than she’d planned, but some part of her was having trouble swallowing Max’s nonstop bravado. Sure, he laughed off his huge trauma—and looked down on anyone else who couldn’t do the same—but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He thought all that casual charm hid his dark edge, but it didn’t. Not to her.

“I don’t think Simon wants people feeling sorry for him, either. I think half his problem comes from how much people coddle him.” Max waved his hand around the boat. “See anything life threatening here? Any deep, dark dangers?”

“Only one, and he’s just as dangerous on land.”

Max jutted a finger at her. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Would you make a crack like that at Simon? Would you give him the respect of thinking him strong enough to take it?”

“Simon is a fifteen-year-old boy who’s sick.”

“No,” Max nearly shouted, jerking a line in tighter so the boat picked up speed. “He’s not sick. That’s just it, Heather—he’s not sick any more than I am. Okay, his legs don’t work right. My legs don’t work at all, but I can do almost anything I want, while he...” Max growled and slid the seat so fast down the rails that Heather felt the whole boat shake when the chair locked into a new position. “Simon and I have been texting each other since the basketball game. His mom cuts up his meat, for crying out loud. The only thing limiting him is his parents. If he’s having social problems, it’s their fault.”

“That’s not fair! My mom had to help me like that after I got hurt, and—” Heather snapped her mouth shut, beyond angry with herself for letting that slip. She angled away from Max, pretending—uselessly—to look out over the water while he took the boat into another turn. She couldn’t go anywhere; she was trapped on this boat with Max Jones and an admission she’d give anything to take back right now. The silence on board was so thick she felt paralyzed herself.

He stayed quiet the whole way across the river, which surprised her. She’d expected Max to pry the rest of the story out of her, but he didn’t. She felt him looking at her, sensed his gaze even though she kept her eyes on the river.

Finally, as he turned the boat around again, Heather dared to look his way. His whole face had changed. His face showed warmth and understanding, not the defiance that seemed to be his constant expression. “What happened?” An hour ago, she wouldn’t have believed Max capable of such a tender tone.

She didn’t like the idea of his knowing the details. Those were private. But Max Jones needed to know he was not the only person on earth to suffer a life-changing accident. And out here on the water, Heather felt as if the secret could be safely contained. “I was burned. In an accident. My junior year of high school.” Even those vague details made her feel wildly exposed, and she hugged her knees again, clutching the scarred thigh close and away from the world. “And whether or not you think it’s useless, I’m still very, very sorry it happened.”

She expected him to press her for details, but Max seemed to sense she’d taken a huge step in admitting just the basic facts. He didn’t pry or challenge her need for privacy; he just let her be quiet amid the wind and water. When they pulled the boat up to the dock a peaceful hour later, Heather conceded that there might be more to Max Jones than she’d realized.

Chapter Four

Jeannie Owens adjusted the gift basket’s ribbon Monday afternoon with an artist’s touch before pushing it across the counter to Heather. “That ought to do the parents’ night fund-raising auction proud, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

The Sweet Treats candy-shop owner furrowed her brow. “I was hoping for a more enthusiastic reaction. My chocolate-covered caramels are supposed to be sought after, not barely tolerated.”

Heather knew very well how “sought after” Jeannie’s caramels were. Too well, if her bathroom scale was any indication. “Sorry. This is fabulous—it’s even bigger than last year’s.”

“But...” Jeannie cued, raising one eyebrow in concern rather than judgment.