Push Girl by Chelsie Hill, Jessica Love Page B

the mug I’d made for my mom at a paint-your-own pottery place when I was five, the goofy dance sequence in the movie (500) Days of Summer. There were so many favorites I’d mentioned to him over the years we’d been together, how did he possibly remember how much I loved gerbera daisies?
    “Our card says, ‘We love you, Kara! Love, Jack and Amanda.’”
    “Aww, that’s sweet.”
    “Okay, next.”
    “You don’t have to read them all,” I told her. I didn’t need to hear “praying for your speedy recovery” worded a million different ways, and I certainly didn’t want to know if anyone else wished for me to be back on my feet soon. “I just want to know who they’re from.” What I wanted was to know if Curt ever sent me anything. Mom said he’d been busy with school and water polo, but too busy to go online and order some flowers? Too busy to answer my texts?
    “Okay,” Amanda said, and she peeked at every arrangement left in the room. “Your grandpa, your aunt Erin and your cousins, your dentist—wow, that was nice—and this one is from your dance studio. Look at this cute card! Aww, and everyone signed it, even the little kids.”
    She waved the homemade card in my face, and as much as I wanted to look at all the sweet signatures and notes from the dance girls, I couldn’t bring myself to focus on it. All I could think about was the fact that I’d been in the hospital for over two weeks now, after getting in an accident so bad that I’d lost the use of my legs, and none of those flowers were from my boyfriend.
     
I TRIED TO CALL YOU TODAY, BUT YOUR MOM SAID YOU WERE AT PRACTICE. ARE YOU HOME NOW? YOU CAN GIVE ME A CALL ON MY CELL.
     
YOU KNOW I’M IN THE HOSPITAL, RIGHT?
     
I’M GETTING WORRIED ABOUT YOU. IS EVERYTHING OK?
     
    Dr. Nguyen, the nurses, and my parents had talked for days now about me learning to use a wheelchair. And I knew it made sense. I couldn’t walk on my legs. I needed to get around. A wheelchair would help me do that. Still, my brain was having difficulty processing the reality of a lifetime spent sitting in a chair. Miracle-walking made much more sense in my head.
    After a few days of talking about the future of my mobility, Dad came into my hospital room and said, “You ready to be on the move, sweetie?” And for one sad second, I thought that my ridiculous fantasy had come true, that the doctors found a miraculous cure for my spine and I’d be back on my feet again soon, like the jerky card said. A nervous flutter spread through my stomach, and I propped myself up on my elbows, waiting for an explanation. But Dad wheeled an ugly, hospital-issue wheelchair into the room, and I felt my face fall. Of course that was what he meant.
    “It’s your new set of wheels,” he said. He waved his hands over the top of the chair, like I was supposed to be impressed. His enthusiasm was obviously forced, but I appreciated the effort. “Now, this is just a temporary chair from the hospital. We actually ordered a special one that’s being custom-built just for you. But Dr. Nguyen thinks you’re ready to get out of bed and get moving.”
    There was something about moving around without my legs that made everything more real, and way more scary. Like getting in that chair was admitting to myself and the world that I was different. I wasn’t prepared to do that, to be that person yet.
    So instead of being excited over the prospect of getting out of this bed, this room, and moving around, I blinked back the tears that had suddenly appeared in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of Dad right now. Not when he was trying so hard. But I didn’t want to get in that wheelchair, either.
    What choice did I have, though?
    “You ready to take her for a spin?” Dad’s eyes met mine, and I saw so much there. Care. Exhaustion. Pleading, but sympathy. That combination of emotions in Dad’s face made me push the tears back down where they came from for now and force a smile. For his