Lisa Schroeder - The Bridge from You to Me

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Finally, Gram comes over, puts her arm around me, and leads me to my room.

“I’m going to call the church,” she tells me. “They’ll start a prayer chain for him.”

She closes the door.

I grab my phone and dial his number.

“You have reached the Life-Model Decoy of Tony Stark. Please leave a message.”

“Benny. Call me. Please? Please. You need to call me.”

TUESDAY

“Lauren, what’s new?” Dr. Springer asks. “How’s school going?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s all right.”

“What’s the latest on the boy in the hospital?”

“I heard some kids talking today, and they said Benny came out of his coma. I hope it’s true.”

“Last time, you spoke of a boy you met. What was his name?”

“Colby. Turns out he’s Benny’s best friend.”

“Any luck talking to him? How’s he doing?”

I look out the window. It’s a pretty September day. Nice and warm. I wish I were outside, sitting in the sun, instead of in here. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him.”

“Well, you may want to reach out to him. People hurting need to know they have friends who care about them.”

Surprisingly, I think she’s right about that.

“Have you been writing in your journal?”

I sink down into my chair, as deep as I can go. “Not lately.”

“Do you still have the nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to talk about what happened?”

I don’t know why, but this question pisses me off. I scowl at her. “I don’t get why I have to talk about it. I just want to try and forget about it.”

She leans in, her voice soft but firm. “Lauren, traumatic events aren’t just forgotten. It doesn’t work that way. That’s why you’re here, so I can help you. I want you to be able to live a full and happy life, but before that can happen, we have to work through your feelings about what happened. You need to find some closure.”

I reach up and rub my temples. “I hate this.” I feel tears welling up. “You know, it’s all her fault.”

“Whose fault?”

I glare at her. “You know who. My mother.”

“Okay. Let’s start there. Tell me about her.”

I sigh and tick things off on my fingers. “She has really thin hair, nothing like mine. She loves pizza. But no olives. She can’t stand olives. Oh, and she loves watching that hoarding show.” I shudder. “I have no idea why.”

Dr. Springer smiles. “Do you think she’s a good mother?”

I smirk. “There’s definitely room for improvement.”

“Even so, she’s your mother, right? And I’m guessing there are some things you like about her?”

She won’t make me cry.

She won’t make me cry.

She won’t make me cry.

“Yes. And sometimes I miss her so much I can hardly stand it. Then other times I find myself hoping that I never have to see her again. I just don’t understand . . .”

I look out the window, willing the tears back.

“What, Lauren? You don’t understand what?”

I say it so softly, I’m not sure she can even hear me. “How she could have done that to me.”

After our second grueling practice of the week, Coach gathers us around before releasing us for the day. He’s got his clipboard in one hand; his other hand sits in the pocket of his khaki shorts. It’s like he’s trying to look relaxed, but I can tell he’s really not. It’s been a difficult few weeks. For all of us.

“Last Friday night, we got lucky,” he says. “We should not have won that game. You know it and I know it. That’s why I’m working you so hard this week. Look, I know it’s difficult, not having Lewis here, playing with y’all. But if anything, that’s more of a reason to want to win. Don’t let yourself down. And for God’s sake, don’t let him down. Get mad! And then go out on the field and put that anger to good use. You know Lewis wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Before the game on Friday, we’ll have stickers for your helmets with Lewis’s number, sixty-two, on them. I’m sorry it’s taken so long for them to get here. I know he’s on your minds, but the game must go on. And this time, it won’t be enough to simply show up. You’ve gotta want it, and play like you want it.” He looks at me. “You can do this. I believe!”

“I believe!” we reply with as much enthusiasm as we can find, which isn’t much.

“Nice work today. See y’all tomorrow.”

The other guys scramble to their feet and hustle off to the locker room, anxious to get home. Eat. Do homework. See their girlfriends.

They are so different from me. All I want to do is find a hole, crawl into it, and sleep for a hundred years. God, I’m tired.

Since the accident, when I’m not at work or on the football field, I’m at the hospital. Of course, now school has started, so I have that to deal with too. I haven’t been allowed to see Benny, since I’m not family, but I wanted to be there, anyway, as much as possible.

Other friends came by to show their support for Benny. Coach came by a few times too. We’d talk a little, and when we ran out of things to say, we watched cartoons in the waiting room, or we’d go and get some bad food in the cafeteria. A lot of times, though, it was just me, sitting there, wishing things were different.

I can’t stop feeling like it’s partly my fault. Why didn’t I pick him up and take him up to the Hill? I should have known that the old country road with its twists and turns is not something he should have been navigating on a bike at night. Usually when we go up there, we ride together, in my truck. Why did we do things differently? Why wasn’t he with me, like he should have been?

There’s been all kinds of speculation about what happened. Everyone I know says they’d left Murphy’s Hill already.

I don’t understand why he was there so late, and maybe even the last one to have left. As for the accident, a lot of people wonder if he swerved to avoid hitting something coming at him, like a deer. Or maybe even another car, although no one has come forward with any information. The thing is, Benny loved that bike, and he was never careless. Ever. That’s why it’s hard to understand. It’s as if trying to figure out why it happened will help them deal with it better. I get it.

When my mind won’t let me sleep, thinking about Benny, I search for similar stories on the Internet. I want to know that he can recover from this. That he’ll be okay. Sometimes, I find the kind of stories I’m looking for, where people come back after a traumatic brain injury. And sometimes, I find the kind of stories that remind me how fragile life is. How lucky Benny is to even be alive. It’s shocking how many people die from motorcycle accidents. I had no idea.

I wonder if Benny knew. If he cared.

It’s a vicious cycle of madness. We should have, he shouldn’t have, why didn’t he, why didn’t I . . .

The fact is, it happened. And there’s no going back.

Now, I get to my feet and drag myself to the locker room. I think about last night, when Benny finally came out of the coma. The doctor talked to his immediate family, and then Mrs. Lewis came to talk to me. I was so relieved that he’d finally woken up. When days turned into weeks, it was hard not to imagine the worst, though I tried not to let my mind go there very often.

The two times he had surgery to relieve the pressure in his brain, I sat in the chapel and prayed. What else could I do?