Spark (2 page)

Dad put his hand on mine.  “How do you feel, Tess?”

“I feel awake.  I feel like my head is full of cotton or something.  I feel like I could sleep for another four years.”  I groaned.  “I guess I don’t know what I feel.”

“You rest,” he said.  “You’ll be fine.  I promise.”

If you want to know the truth, I felt terrible, but I didn’t dare say it out loud.  I was afraid they might keep me in the hospital longer and run all sorts of annoying tests on me.  And all I wanted was to go home, so I kept my mouth shut.

As is turned out, I didn't get to go home for several days.  I had to wait for the stupid doctor's approval.  There was nothing to do and nothing on TV, so I just laid there trying to remember what happened, trying to piece it together as best I could, but hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember a thing.  All I could muster was that I was on a swing.  I don’t even remember if Dani was there.

Eventually, my parents would answer all those questions, but it took me forever to get it out of them.  On the subject of Dani, all they could do was sit there staring at me like they were afraid I’d spontaneously combust if they gave me any more details.  Every time I mentioned her name, they’d just act all weird and shake their heads and change the subject.  I finally wore them down and they came clean … at least sort of.  Apparently Dani was running toward me when I was on the swing and that's when I fell off.  But that’s all they would say.  It just made me tired thinking about it, so I closed my eyes and tried to make it all go away.  I kept wondering where she was, why she wasn’t at the hospital, why she hadn’t come to see me.  I didn’t want to sound like a baby, so I didn’t ask for a while.  But curiosity finally got the best of me.

My parents just sort of got all quiet and Mom got a worried look on her face … a look I was getting tired of seeing.  Their silence spelled it out more than their words could have. Dani wasn’t coming—ever.  Turns out, Dani got struck by lightning, and she didn’t make it. 
Didn’t make it
—that’s exactly how my parents finally said it, too.  What a stupid way to say someone died.  It wasn’t like she was trying to finish a race or something.

              As if my life weren’t screwed up enough, they told me that Dr. Fake Bake Sock Monkey was coming in soon to run a bunch of tests on me, to check out my brain, to find out if everything was functioning properly. 
Why wouldn't everything be properly functioning?  If it weren’t, I’d be still asleep—or I’d be completely out of it.  I wouldn’t even recognize my own parents, right?
  I felt like asking if I’d be ok.  But I already knew the answer.  The short answer was no.  Nothing would ever, ever be ok again.  Dani and I had been friends our whole lives.  That I knew.  They could test me all they wanted, try to fix me.  But some things can never be fixed.  Like how losing someone sticks in your head and won’t go away, like some sort of roadblock.  You can’t go forward or backward, over, under, or around it as much as you might want to.  It’s like part of you is broken.  Your thoughts will go on and on, but sooner or later, they are going to catch, come to a screeching halt on that one thing that should have never happened.  It’s forever.

              “I don’t want to be tested,” I pleaded.  “I just want to go home.”

              My dad sniffled.  “I know, Honey, but we need to know where we’re at … so we can figure out where we’re going.”

             
Wow.  That’s the first thing I’ve heard so far that actually makes sense.

Seventeen

I thought the worst was over, but boy, was I wrong.  Apparently, figuring out where you’re going involves wires—lots and lots of wires.  And people with clipboards and white coats and all sorts of fun questionnaires.  I spent the next couple of days poked and prodded and studied all over. Why, you ask?  They wanted to figure out what the coma had done to my body and my brain.  Physically, I was seventeen.  But I basically died when I was thirteen and came back to life four years later.  So you could say things were a little complicated. 

First of all, there was the problem of my body.  It was true—my freakishly tall, awkward body had never done me any favors (I was forever the tallest kid in my school and believe me, that’s no fun), and it was about to become my worst enemy.  Apparently lying in a bed for four years and then deciding to hop up to go to the bathroom is not such a good idea, for example.  It just doesn’t work that way.  Yep, you guessed it.  My body had—what was it they called it?  Oh yes.  It had
atrophied. 
So basically while my brain had kept ticking away, my body was lying there getting weak, and, in some cases, shrinking.  The muscles, that is.  I had virtually no muscles in my legs.  So yep, you guessed it again… I was even skinnier and lankier than before.  I hoped that maybe my body stopped growing while I was in the coma, though, so I'd finally be the same height as everyone else my age.

              I should be so lucky.

              It was then that Dr. Sock Monkey’s nurse, Nadine, bounded into the room to burst my bubble.

              “Hello, Miss Tess.  I have your vitals and stats here,” she said with a way-too-cheerful smile.  People with bad news always had those.

              I groaned.  She came over and patted me on the arm, which I hated, thinking the news must be worse than I thought.

              “Says here everything is good.  Heart rate, blood pressure, blood work—all within normal range.”  She looked at me over the top of her pointy glasses and her smile, if possible, got even bigger. 
Oh great
, I thought. 
I’m going to die a terrible death
.

              “Your weight is slightly under normal,” she added.  Then, the most dreaded piece of information, saved, cruelly, for last:  “But the doctor is simply baffled.  Your height has stayed well within normal range—even slightly above.  It seems your little body there just wanted to keep growing!”

             
That is just impossible
, I thought. 
I just can’t win
.

              “Now we’ll need to get you on a physical therapy schedule,” she said, chattering on about exercise, rehabilitation, and I don't know the rest because I just tuned her out.  “You’ll start tomorrow,” she said.  “But the doctor says you’re free to go home.  For now.” 

My parents lifted me out of the wheelchair and after fussing over me for like nine hours, finally closed the car door and climbed in the front seat.  My dad pulled away from the curb of the hospital extra slowly, like he was afraid he’d hurt me and he kept asking, “You ok?” over and over.

“I’m fine,” I said with a loud sigh. 

He looked at me real serious and said, “Tess we just want to prepare you.  We’ve moved to a new house.”

I nodded, feeling really sleepy all of a sudden.  “Whatever.”

“Things are a little different.  But,” he glanced at Mom.  “Your room is really big.”

“Great.”  Let me just turn a few cartwheels right here and now.

I kept drifting in and out … catching bits and pieces of their conversation. 

“She’s been through so much,” I heard Mom say once.  When Dad didn’t answer, I heard her say “adjustment period” in a lower voice.  All the sounds of the car and the music and my mom’s voice droning on and on merged together into one surreal, vanishing noise, and I was fast asleep. 

              When I awoke, we were sidling through a residential area that didn’t look at all familiar. 

“We’re almost there, Honey.” Dad gently called from the front seat.

             
Great
, I thought, annoyed that my nap had been interrupted.  Then, for some strange reason, I started thinking about that song Dani and I were listening to just days before my birthday.  It was some band that neither of us had ever heard of, but we liked the words and it had a catchy beat, so it stuck.  The lyrics ran through my head like text across a screen:   

String up the stars and steal the sky

Today is a dream, today is goodbye

              Take it all with you, take every last sigh

              String up the stars and steal the sky

              Today is a dream, today is goodbye.

             
Every house in the neighborhood looked like a replay of the one before.  I kept trying to lift my hand up to put the window down a little, but for some reason, it wasn’t working right.  I got frustrated and mad and just sat there, counting the houses, trying to guess which one was ours.  The street was empty except for a few stray cars, and all the tiny yards looked deserted with their perfect fences and trimmed lawns, their mailboxes standing in a line.  It was a boring neighborhood.  Ultra boring. 

              “They all look the same,” I said.  “How am I going to remember which house is ours?”  I said sarcastically. 

              Dad laughed.  “Just memorize the house number.”

Well, there it was.  The new house.  And believe me, I was not excited about it.  I just wanted to go back to my old house, my old bedroom.  My parents explained how they’d decided to stay in Oakmont after the accident but had decided on a smaller, cheaper house that was closer to work and the hospital.  Dad had turned down a job and stayed on as an adjunct at the University. 

“Why did we have to move?”  I asked.  “I liked the old house.”  Our old house was in the country and had a nice big yard.  Here the houses were like two inches away from each other.

Dad cleared his throat quietly.  “We just thought a little house closer to the hospital—and closer to work for me—would be better,” he sighed.  “It was a tough decision, but it has made things …
easier.
”

My dad wheeled me in and down the narrow hallway to where my new room was.  The floor was hardwood and covered in a beige carpet runner.  It looked brand new, like no one had ever walked on it.  When the wheelchair rolled across it, the boards creaked.  I felt like the family ogre being taken to the belfry. 

“It stinks,” I said, noticing the weird dusty smell like the inside of an old cardboard box. 

“You’ll get used to it,” my Dad said, pushing me into the room, whirling me around in the center of the room, and finally pushing the wheelchair into a locking position.  “We’ll just let you rest for a minute.  Do you want to stay in your chair or lie on the bed?”  He asked.

“I’m fine,” I said.  My mom placed a sack full of books on my lap.  “We'll be back in a little while.”   

  I yawned.  I was incredibly tired.  It had been a long night, a long day—a whole bunch of them, apparently.  I was having trouble getting the fact that I was four years older, in the blink of an eye.  I swear I could sleep for twenty hours. 
Maybe I’ll catch up to myself
, I thought.  And I laughed a little, out loud.

I looked around.  My parents were right; the room was huge.  It had a high ceiling, with like a thousand windows, and the sun was reflecting off the smooth, polished floor.  I took a quick breath.  Don’t get me wrong, I really missed my old room, but this one—it was well,
pretty. 
In fact, it was the most beautiful room I had ever seen.  Sort of made me feel like a princess, if I was into that sort of thing.  I guess you could say it wasn’t really a place for an ogre.  More like an enchanted tower.   The doorknob gleamed in the sun like a crystal.  

              Don’t ask me why, but being in that room made me feel warm all of a sudden, like I was wrapped up in a sunbeam.  Sort of dreamy, like a trance.  All those windows and the light and that crazy doorknob.  It was enough to make a girl swoon.  But as warm and wonderful as it was, I didn’t trust it for a minute.  Believe me, I know when a room is just trying to butter me up.  And this one wasn’t getting anything past
me. 
My old room was me.  This one was a fantasy.

I sat there, in my chair, in the middle of the floor, gazing from corner to corner.  Even though I had my doubts, I could get used to all this space.  Or maybe not.  What would I do with all of it?  I gripped the arms of my wheelchair, wondering what would happen if I tried to get up.  I lifted up one foot, then the other, then back and forth as fast as I could.  Well, I could feel them.  That was always good. 

I could hear my parents talking low in the kitchen, some dishes clanking around.  I wondered how long it would be before they peeked back in. 
Probably like ten seconds,
I thought
.
  I tried to hear what they were saying, but I couldn’t make it out.  It sounded important, like they were planning something. They were always planning something.  Planning, debating, and discussing.  Being an adult didn’t seem like much fun... just a series of decisions, which might be fine until you make the wrong one, and then what? 

Here was my next thought: 
Decisions, by definition, are sort of permanent, and eternity is a long time to be wrong. 
Whoa. Where the heck did
that
come from?  So not me.   Baffling.  I had to admit, though, that it made a little sense.  It sort of fit with what was going on at the moment.  At least it was a statement instead of a question.  All the questions made me want to go to sleep.  So many endless questions.  There aren’t enough hours in the day to answer all of them.  Sometimes I would just start answering myself in my head, and you know—usually, it was dead on.  Made me wonder if a guardian angel was looking out for me, or, maybe I was just becoming an adult after all.  Maybe adults went around all day with readily available answers popping into their heads.  In that case, being an adult might not be half bad after all.

It was then that I noticed the boxes, lined up against the wall behind me.  All my things.  My long lost stuff.  My parents had left them for me to unpack.

That night, I lay in my bed trying not to even look at the boxes.  I was certainly in no hurry to unpack them.  For one thing, I had no idea what was in them.  It might as well have been someone else’s stuff.  I had lost four years of my life.  I was a different person now.