Читать книгу A Heart to Heal - Allie Pleiter - Страница 13

Chapter Three

Max checked his watch again Saturday afternoon. Since when did he get nervous about stuff like this? Chronically late, he didn’t have a leg to stand on—if he could stand—about anyone’s punctuality. Still, Simon’s dad seemed like the guy to show up ten minutes early, not twenty minutes late. And where was Heather? He wheeled the length of the dock again, needlessly checking the ropes that tied the Sea Legs to the dock, frustrated with how much he’d managed to invest in one kid’s sailing lesson.

It was the look in Simon’s eyes that did him in. That heartbreaking eagerness at the mention of going sailing nearly instantly squashed by a dad’s harping voice. Parents were hard enough to take at that age as it was. To have all that other stuff loaded on top, then compounded by kids like Kikowitz?

Kids like he’d been?

The faces of all the kids he’d ever bullied had haunted him last night. He saw Simon’s face every time he shut his eyes, and it was making him crazy. Sleepless, fidgety and just plain nuts.

The sound of tires on gravel hit his ears, and he looked up, expecting the Williamses’ big red van. Instead, a small tan sedan pulled into the parking area and Heather climbed out of the nondescript little car. Shoulders slumped, head slightly down, Heather’s body broadcast what he’d begun to suspect: Simon wasn’t showing.

His understanding—and annoyance—must have been clear on his face, for all Heather said when she walked onto to the dock was “I’m sorry.”

Max grunted. It was a better choice than the nasty language currently running in his head.

“I’ve been on the phone with Brian Williams, trying to convince him Simon would be safe, but—”

“But hooligans like Max Jones can’t be trusted with his precious son—oh, I can just hear the speech.”

She set down the loudly patterned tote bag she was carrying and eased onto the dock’s little bench. “It’s not about you.”

“Oh, not all about me, but I can just imagine what Simon’s dad thinks of someone like me.” He flipped open the equipment locker’s lid and tossed the third life jacket back inside.

He was picking up the second one when she put out a hand to stop him. “So I guess we’re not going, huh?” Disappointment tinged her words.

Max looked up, life jacket still in his hand, surprised. “No, we can still go.” He’d just assumed she’d ditch the day with Simon not coming. Sail alone, just with her? He’d have to go so slow and be so nice.

“I sort of want to know how this whole rigging works.” She gestured toward the specially modified sailboat, covering her tracks with a “professional curiosity” that didn’t quite pass muster. She frowned and crossed her arms when she reached the back of the boat. “Sea Legs? Really?”

“I thought that was particularly clever, actually. Much better than my first choice.”

Her brows knotted together. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“The Crip Ship. JJ thought that a bit confrontational.”

Heather laughed. “Max Jones? Confrontational? Imagine my surprise.”

Max spread his arms. “Got me where I am today.” He tossed her the life jacket. “Hop in. I’ll hand over your bag and cast us off.” Wheeling over to the bag, he picked it up. It weighed a ton. “There had better be decent snacks in here.”

“Homemade brownies, watermelon and some of the firehouse root beer.”

Max handed over the bag as he rolled on board after her. “Someone ought to call Simon and tell him what he’s missing.” He pulled the ramp up and stowed it in its special spot alongside the keel.

“I think he knows.” Heather’s voice sounded like he felt. Disappointed and not a little miffed. “This would have been so good for him.”

Max liked the way that sounded. Ever since he’d wheeled into Heather’s office, he’d gotten the vibe from her that he was a poor substitute for whatever mentor she’d had in mind. It bugged him that Heather hadn’t judged him capable of helping someone. Then again, no one was more surprised than him that he’d even cared to take the whole thing on.

He pointed to the bowline. “Undo that knot and pull the line aboard, will you?”

While she climbed up to the front of the boat, Max transferred himself from his chair and into the swiveling seat on rails that allowed him to move freely about the boat. It wasn’t a particularly graceful maneuver, and he preferred having her attention diverted elsewhere. Once settled, he collapsed his wheelchair and stowed it in a compartment. Pulling the jib tight, Max felt the singular, blissful sensation of the boat under way. Even before his injury, nothing felt like pulling out onto the river. Now that gravity was often his enemy, the river gave him even more freedom to unwind his nerves. Sea Legs may be a mildly tacky joke to some, but it was actually close to how he saw the boat. Anything that gave Max speed and movement gave him life. They counterbalanced all the parts of his life that had become slow and cumbersome since falling from that cliff a little over a year ago.

In a matter of minutes, Sea Legs was under way, slicing her way through the Gordon River and catching the perfect breeze that blew through the warm September afternoon. Heading upriver and upwind, he angled the boat toward the opposite shore, ready to “tack” back and forth as the craft moved against the current and into the wind. He watched Heather settle into one of the seats closer to the bow, the breeze tumbling through her hair.

“You’re different here than at school,” he offered, liking how she angled her face up toward the sunshine. “Not so serious.”

She shot him a look. “I take my job seriously. Don’t you?”

Max shrugged and tightened up a line. “I don’t have a serious job. I’m...enthusiastic about it, but Adventure Access is about making fun, so it’s not the kind of job you ought to take seriously.”

Heather brought her knees up and hugged them. He found himself staring at her bright pink toenails peeking out of the blue thong sandals she wore. Funny the details that don’t come out at the office. Max spent a lot of time noticing feet—now that his weren’t much use—and she had ridiculously cute toes that wiggled when she realized he was staring at them.

“Are you serious about anything?” she asked, shifting to tuck her legs underneath her and blushing. Some part of Max was highly entertained that he’d made her blush. What kind of woman wore sensible clear polish on her nails but bright pink on her hidden toes?

“I’ve been seriously injured. Been listed in ‘serious condition’ at Lincoln General.” He tied off the line. “And I’ve been in serious trouble lots of times.”

She looked more disappointed than annoyed. “What does it take to get a straight answer out of you?”

That was a loaded question. His boss and now brother-in-law, Alex Cushman, had asked pretty much the same thing before bringing him on board at Adventure Access. Nobody seemed willing to take a smart aleck at his word these days—they all wanted to see some deep and serious version of him, as if what he’d been through didn’t supply enough credentials. “It takes a straight question. Duck, by the way—we’re coming about and the boom is going to come across the boat.”

“Okay,” she said as she ducked. “Straight question. What did it feel like?”

It was obvious what she meant by “it.” “When you cut to the chase, you really cut to the chase, huh?” He had a couple of stock answers to insensitive questions like that—mostly asked by curious kids who didn’t know better or adults who only wanted gory, tragic details—but opted against using them. He’d asked her for a straight question, after all. He just hadn’t counted on “straight” going to “serious.”

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”

“No.” Max was surprised to find he didn’t feel any of the irritation that kind of question generally raised. He actually wanted to tell her. It must be some kind of empathetic-counselor trick. “It’s okay. But it’s not especially pretty.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned one elbow on the bow behind her and looked ready to listen. So he told her.

“I wanted to die.”

* * *

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.