The Year We Fell Down (10 page)

“You got it.” Bridger walked out of Corey’s common room, reappearing less than a minute later. Then he collected his girlfriend for the evening. They swapped spit for a moment in the middle of the room. And then the two of them left together.

Corey watched them go. “Wait…goalies?” I watched the understanding break on her face, and then she snorted with laughter. Embarrassed, she clamped a hand over her mouth. But her eyes danced with glee. “Okay,” she said when she could breathe again “I
thought
my brother had taught me every hockey slang term. But apparently not.”

“Yeah?” I tipped my head back onto the sofa. “He left out a good one.”

Corey grinned. “If you had a little sister, you’d understand. Or so I’m told.”

Right
. I felt a familiar little kick to the gut at the very idea. If life had worked out differently, I
would
have a little sister. And two brothers besides. But I pushed that thought away. “I get it. Your big brother thinks his baby sister shouldn’t think about those things.”

Her smile got sly. “Hang on…tell me the truth. How much of a dog was my brother?”

“Well, if the scale is from priest to Bridger…” I held my hands far apart, and Corey giggled. “I’d say he was right in the middle.”

“Here’s to mediocrity,” she said, holding up her glass.

“Cheers.”

Corey drained her drink and then pointed at the darkened TV screen. “Do you think anyone would disapprove if we checked the hockey score? I don’t think I can make it through the evening without knowing whether my Puffins are smacking your Bruins.”

She turned her blue eyes onto mine, and for some reason I felt an unwelcome pang in my chest. “Go for it, birthday girl. That said, I wouldn’t want you to get depressed on your big day. Because there’s no way you’re winning this thing.”

“Says you.” With a big smile, she began to look around for the remote.

—
Corey

The Puffins
flattened
the Bruins, 4 to 1. For a while there, I thought Hartley might start crying into his drink.

So at least I had that going for me. Of all the things on my birthday list, though, a Puffins victory wouldn’t have been at the top. The gift I really wanted was the Bruins fan on the sofa next to me.

Hartley stayed until the party was over. Then he gave me a kiss on top of the head, and another “happy birthday.” And then Dana and I were alone again.

“Let’s leave the cleanup for tomorrow,” she yawned.

“Absolutely,” I said, privately vowing to do it all myself.

I let her have the bathroom first. When I finally got to bed, I found a small red box on my pillow. In black marker, the words
MR. DIGBY
had been inked onto the cover.

What?

I lifted the lid. Inside I found a purple plastic object measuring about six inches long, shaped like a fat cigar. It took me several long seconds to figure out what I was looking at.

It was a vibrator.

“Oh my God,” I said aloud, the words echoing in my empty room. I could only guess that Hartley had this strange gift idea after our uncomfortable talk about sex after paralysis. Even though I was all alone in my room, I felt heat creep up my neck and over my cheeks.

Hell and damn. When someone gives you a gift, you have to at least acknowledge it. Ugh! He had to know how embarrassing I’d find this. Maybe that was the point?

There was no way I could mention this in person. So I took the cheesy way out. I texted him. And it was just my luck, but he texted right back.

Corey:
Uh, Hartley?

Hartley:
Yes, beautiful?
;-)

Corey:
Um…you shouldn’t have?

Hartley:
Since U liked RealStix I thought my other favorite hobby might appeal to U too.

If possible, I began blushing even harder. A bolder girl would have replied “thanks for the visual.” But I wasn’t that girl.

Corey:
How…thoughtful?

Hartley:
Too bad I can’t see your face right now.

Corey:
***face palm***

Hartley:
Did I mention that I don’t embarrass?

Corey:
You weren’t kidding about that.

Hartley:
Goodnight Callahan. Nice party.

Corey:
Goodnight Hartley.

Chapter Nine:
Peace in the Kingdom

—
Corey

“What’s the matter, Callahan?” Hartley asked as we made our way slowly toward Commons for lunch.

I stuffed my phone into my bag and caught up with him. “Nothing. My mom is having a cow because I told her I didn’t want to fly home for Thanksgiving.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “It’s too many planes, trains and automobiles for only for a couple of days.” Flying with a wheelchair in tow was a drag, especially because Harkness students had to catch a bus to the airport. I just didn’t want the hassle.

“This place really empties out over Thanksgiving. You don’t want to stay here alone.”

“I’m not. Dana isn’t going all the way back to Japan for Thanksgiving. So we’re going to hang out together. The medical school cafeteria stays open that day.”

Hartley stopped crutching toward Commons. “You are
not
eating in the med school caf on Thanksgiving.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped it. Then he put it to his ear.

I waited, of course, because a guy can’t crutch and talk on the phone at the same time.

“Hey Mom? I need to bring two more friends home for Thanksgiving.”

“Hartley! Don’t…”

He waved a hand to silence me. “No, don’t worry. She’s still safely out of the country. These are perfectly normal friends. Nobody will be expecting caviar and fois gras.” He paused. “Awesome. Love you.” He hung up, stuffed the phone into his pocket and put his hands back on the crutch handles.

“Hartley,” I protested. “Your mom doesn’t need two extra guests.”

“Sure she does. I was already bringing Bridger and his sister. I always bring people, because I live close by. The only guest my mom did not enjoy was Stacia.” We waited for the light to change so that we could cross the street. “You and I will have to stay on the first floor, of course. If you don’t mind sharing a room with me.”

I didn’t know what to say. Did I want to go to Hartley’s house with him? Heck yes. But I could imagine the pitfalls — me looking ridiculous, mostly. “That’s really nice of you,” I said, thinking. “Did you say Bridger has a sister?”

Hartley laughed. “Wait until you meet her.”

A week later, I watched the streets of sleepy Etna, Connecticut, roll by from the backseat of Bridger’s car. Hartley rode shotgun, on the phone again with his mother. “We’re just off the highway,” he was saying. “Do you need us to pick anything up?”

In the back seat, between Dana and I, Bridger’s sister Lucy bounced in her seat. “Over the river and through the woods, to Hartley’s house we go…” she sang. “Are we there yet?”

Bridger’s sister was nothing like what I expected — mainly because she was seven years old, and in the second grade.

“If you kick the front seat one more time,” Bridger threatened from behind the wheel, “I will tickle you until you pee yourself.”

“Icky,” Lucy agreed, stilling her feet. Her ponytail was a gorgeous russet color, the exact same shade as Bridger’s.

“And you’d better not be kicking Callahan,” Bridger added.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly.

Hartley was still on the phone with his mom. “That inflatable mattress has a hole in it,” he said. “But we’re good, because Bridger and Lucy can have the guest room, and Dana will take my old room. Callahan is going to bunk with me, because neither one of us is any good on the stairs.” He listened for a moment. “You need to relax, mom. Stop ironing napkins and have a glass of wine. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

When Bridger pulled into the driveway, Hartley’s mom was waiting for us on the porch swing of an old wooden house. When Hartley opened his door, she bounced down three steps and ran over to kiss him and ruffle his hair.

She was pretty, and younger than I expected her to be, with shiny black hair and rosy skin. Her eyes were just as beautiful as Hartley’s, only darker. “Welcome! Welcome,” she said as Dana hopped out of the car, her smile wide. “I’m Theresa.”

“Hi Aunt Theresa!” Lucy yelled, hugging her around the waist.

“Oh! You’ve gotten so
tall
,” Hartley’s mom said. “You big girl. The dog is upstairs, Lucy. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Without another word, the little girl ran up the steps and inside.

“Mom, this is Callahan and Dana.”

“I hope we’re not imposing,” I couldn’t help but say. “Hartley wouldn’t let us stay on campus for some reason.”

“You can’t stay there!” she laughed. “Not on Thanksgiving.”

Dana pressed a bottle of wine into her hands. “Thanks so much for having us.”

“You’re always welcome. But hang on, Adam. I didn’t realize Miss Callahan was a girl. She won’t want to bunk with you.”

“Mom, all the ladies want to share my bed.”

“Hartley!” I punched him in the arm, and his mother laughed.

He turned to me. “The bed is the size of Massachusetts. I’m not kidding.” To his mom he said, “You’re not talking me onto that evil couch.” Hartley kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Good,” she said.

“Is there anything Bridger and I can help you with while we’re here?”

She cocked her head to the side. “The car could use an oil change,” she said. “You could do that this weekend. Save me the forty bucks.”

“Done,” he said.

Theresa had already done most of the work on the Thanksgiving meal. The turkey was almost done, and two pies cooled on the counter.

Even so, Hartley tied an apron around his waist and then poured a quart of heavy cream into a bowl. He took a whisk from a drawer and began whipping quick ovals through the bowl. “What’s the matter, Callahan? You’ve never seen a guy whip cream before?”

I shook off my surprise. “I just wouldn’t expect you to cook, Hartley.”

“I’m only the assistant.” He sped up the motion, the whisk a blur through the white surface. He picked up a cup of sugar and shook some of it into the mixture. Then he began whipping again.

I dragged my eyes away from the mouthwatering sight of Hartley’s upper body hard at work. “So what can I do to help?” I asked. “I’m not, um, a cook. But I take direction well enough.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Theresa said, although it seemed categorically impossible that at two p.m. on Thanksgiving there wasn’t something I could do.

“Mom,” Hartley said, “Callahan gets cranky if she thinks you’re babying her. If you want peace in the kingdom, give her a job.”

His mother laughed. “Sorry, Corey. It’s just that I’m not used to it. Not all of Hartley’s friends have such a positive attitude toward kitchen work.”

“Nice, mom,” Hartley said. “Take a couple of shots at her even though she’s on another continent.”

I pointed to a bag of potatoes on the counter. “Do these need peeling?”

“They sure do,” Theresa said, opening a drawer to produce a peeler.

I tucked the bag under my arm, and crutched over to the kitchen table. I heaved myself into a chair. Theresa watched as I unlocked my knees and swiveled to face the table. She brought me a newspaper for the peels, and a bowl for the finished spuds. The peeling was slow work, but I didn’t mind.

“Adam, how’s the therapy going?” Theresa asked.

“Tedious,” he said, still whisking. “Callahan and I have the same trainer. Pat the drill sergeant.”

“I think therapists are like dentists,” I said. “Nobody is ever excited to see them. Or maybe you and I are just jerks.”

“Or maybe it’s Pat,” Theresa suggested.

“Nope!” I argued cheerfully. “I’ve pretty much disliked every therapist I’ve met. And there have been many.” I tossed another potato into the bowl. “Although, I might be mellowing with age. I’m not as ornery with Pat as I was with the others.”

“Why?” Hartley asked.

“Well, the first therapists I saw were teaching me to do things like put on my own socks, and transfer from the wheelchair to a bed. And I was so pissed off that I needed someone to teach me that, I couldn’t see straight.”

“I can understand that,” Theresa said.

“They know a lot of cool tricks, though. Once they show you something — like how to get from the floor back into your wheelchair without tipping over — it’s just so obvious how much you need their help. And that just makes it worse. You hate learning it, but you can’t afford not to.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Hartley said.

“You’d think, since I’d spent so many hours training for sports, that I would have been a model patient, but you’d be wrong,” I told them. “Okay, I’m going to stop whining now,” I said, tossing a potato into the bowl.