Part 5: Long Road to Recovery

It was a full month before he was released from the hospital. One month shifting in and out of consciousness, being welcomed by the same damn scenery. One month of lying in a hospital bed. One month of nothing. The two surgeries that followed his transfer left him with screws and rods in his legs. “They will help the healing process,” doctors told his parents just before the final decision.

By the time he was released from the hospital and started therapy, the final verdict wasn’t whether he would walk again or not, the question had shifted to when he would have that ability. One doctor would say it would take a year to regain full flexibility and strength in either leg, while another argued that it might take even longer given the complexity of the breaks and the state of his lower sciatic nerve.

As if Colby cared. He just wanted to get better, determined to make it to the U.S. Amateur Championships in August; now just seven months away. He had made a great impression to get that far, and his invitation was not one that could be renewed. This was his golden ticket into the golf world, a ticket that he was sure would buy his way into the world he had been subliminally working himself into since he swung his first club, since he first fell into his loving obsession with a game that would bite him at times, then turn around and hoist him up onto a pedestal other times.

It seemed miles away, being refined to the restrictions of a wheelchair. Everything was a chore, from getting in and out of his mother’s car to simply making a sandwich or trying to clean up after himself at home. Work was impossible. He prided himself in his work, as a hard worker, always on the go. Now, even going was even difficult.
“You ready to meet your therapist tomorrow?” Bruce said over his coffee cup, hearing the banging of a beginner in a wheelchair maneuvering down the hall, swearing intermittently.

“I guess so. Long as she is hot an’ helpful!” Colby said with a smirk after successfully making his way down the hallway, finding his breakfast waiting for him beside his own hot cup of coffee. His father glared at him through a light steam as his own cup neared his lips.

“Colby, do you want milk or water?” His mother asked, trying to cut the tension. He hadn’t lived at home since his argument with his father shortly after high school. His father didn’t respect the way Colby’s decisions affected the morality of the household, causing tension that resulted in Colby moving. It left the house bare of life during the week, with only one soul, Avery, to bear the responsibilities of a homeowner throughout most weeks.

“I’m all set,” Colby said quickly. “Thank you.”

“So you going to work today?” Colby asked in between bites of toast soaked in egg yolk. His father nodded as he pushed more hash on his fork with a piece of toast and shoveled it in. Bacon grease escaped his lips, coating his beard giving the dark brown hair a sebaceous shine. Bits of bread and potato were stuck to the corners of his mouth as he continued to devour the last of his breakfast. The smell of body odor and sex was heavy on that side of the table.

Bruce got up as he laid the fork down and headed for the stairs to fill the woodstove before he left. He came back up bearing his wool, a thick, red wool shirt whose attraction was interrupted by a dark pair of thick wool pants and a dirty pair of chaps. His orange helmet was to his side. He put his hand on Colby’s shoulder and wished him good luck through the week, not breaking stride towards his wife, intent on kissing her one more time before he went out the door.

“Looks like it is us for the week, kid,” Avery said, cleaning the table off and wiping down where Bruce sat with a wet rag. She smiled to the thought of it being the same way it had been a couple of years ago. “So when did you guys clean out my apartment?” Colby asked, now sitting back in his chair and digesting his meal.
“Your father came back from the hospital about two weeks after you got transferred and took care of it. He talked to your landlord and got your contract cancelled, so you wouldn’t be charged.”

Something felt different about Avery this morning. Her long, brown hair looked as if it was dancing along daintily behind her as she walked to and fro. Her hands worked smoothly at the plates in the dishwater, as if she wasn’t scrubbing the plates, but rubbing them softly, gently. When she looked at Colby, her eyes told a coy story, one different than the one they usually depicted, a life resigned to mediocrity.
Avery’s parents told her long ago that Bruce was trouble. They told her repeatedly that he was what was left at the bottom of the barrel, after the barrel was emptied. “There isn’t a brain to be had in that thick skull,” her father told her, sticking his thumb at the closed front door and down the walkway, directly at Bruce’s clanking pickup, idling too high and rattling, waiting for his date to exit.

“At least he didn’t try sticking his nose up your ass trying to tickle your fancy when I brought him, like everyone you say is right for me!”

“I won’t have you ruining your life settling for less than mediocrity!” He shot those words back at his teary-eyed daughter.

Avery stormed out of the hall, acting as if she were going to her room, but instead sneaking out the back door and running up the concrete pads to Bruce.
They got married six months later, just out of high school. They had their first child in another three months, and Avery’s fate was sealed to the man.