I hadn’t lived even one second of my life that way; conversely, I worked hard at sprinting from one place to another. I mentally berated myself for aspiring to be like a fleck of chalk, but the absurdity of its unimportance was largely overshadowed by the truth of it all.
I liked to think it was my dad’s fault. That’d he’d pushed me to this.
But I really had no one to blame but myself. Because my dad was just pandering to the version of myself I’d allowed to run rough-shod over what could have been a fucking life.
I’d been the one too cowardly to admit to him and myself that plans had changed.
By focusing all of my energy on each destination, I’d done a pretty good job of ignoring the journey. I’d competed in three Olympic games for shit’s sake. And all I could think about was making a bigger splash than each time before.
Ha, I thought as the paramedics took positions at each end of the board, my immobile body sandwiched in between. I’d sure as hell done that.
I watched as my piece of chalk met another, flitting and floating together then from one place to the next and landing safely on some asinine surface connected to one another.
I was surprisingly unaffected by the fact that my gymnastics career was over, and had ended in a fall no less.
I was worried about the lack of feeling in my legs, but when I really considered the consequences that stretched out in front of me, there was only one thing I was scared to death not to have.
And that was—
Nik.
A gentle shake to my shoulder woke me from what could only be described as a fitful sleep.
“Nik?” the flight attendant asked, having learned my name after looking at me with what I guessed was a reflection of my own sad eyes and asking.
I’d driven like a madman to Atlanta to catch the first flight in time, not grabbing clothes or belongings or more than the passport I thankfully kept on my motorcycle all the fucking time. It would have cost me a round trip of about six hours which wasn’t the end of the world, but it very well could have meant the difference in my precarious mental health.
Despite my parent’s loose affiliation with their international relatives, they’d always carried theirs with them just in case and preached the habit to me.
International travel took time, something I was finding out for myself first hand, and they always wanted to be ready and able to get there as quickly as possible if something happened.
In my entire lifetime, I’d only known of it happening one time, for the death of my Grandfather.
I didn’t go with them, as I’d never met the guy, and the reception when they got there wasn’t exactly warm, but my parents believed in doing what was right—even if that meant doing the opposite of what was easy.
“We’re about to begin our initial descent.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, sitting up taller and wiping an agitated hand across the sleep in my eyes.
I peered over the person next to me to the view of Brazil, not that I could point anything out to you technically or with skill. Lush green peppered the landscape outside of the city, and my knees bounced with unconfined anticipation.
I just wanted to see her. Talk to her. Touch her perfect skin and look into her chocolate eyes and know that she was okay.
The rest of it didn’t matter. Not what she wanted from me or didn’t or the circumstances under which we’d parted ways.
Not the disapproval of the people around us or her reluctance to commit.
Not time or distance or some misspent effort to do what was right.
All that mattered was her.
All that ever mattered to me anymore was her.
Navigation through an airport and one cab ride later, and I had never been more thankful for the “Speak to Translate” app in my life.
I knew Portuguese was the language in Brazil, and I knew I didn’t speak it.
What I learned pretty quickly when I got there was that it was a problem.
I couldn’t find an English speaker anywhere, and I didn’t have time to seek one out. So instead, I spent what was probably five hundred million dollars and downloaded an app using international roaming data on my phone.
Luckily it had gotten me here, but under the duress of the situation, hours upon hours of travel, and the crushing relief of finally ending up in the building where Callie was, my memory did a good job of fleeing.
I rushed through the doors and to the front desk without one single look back to the cab, starting to speak as soon as I got within five feet.
“Callie Nickleson, please. Calia. You have to let me see her,” I pleaded with the woman at the desk, waiting foolishly for her to answer me.
She shook her head in the negative, her understanding of even a single word I’d said failing.
I groaned to myself, grappling with my pockets and digging for my phone.
Before I could get it out though, a woman in scrubs approached the desk and looked at me appraisingly.
“Who are you here for?” she asked in perfect English, stopping the frantic search for my phone and freeing up a hand to squeeze the back of my tension-filled neck.
“Calia Nickleson.”
“Are you family?” she asked, the dread that filled my stomach nearly sinking me to the floor when I realized that they weren’t going to let me back there. Not only wasn’t I family, but Callie was a public figure. There was no way they were going to just let any old schmo back there to see her.
“No, I’m…”
Looking over my face again, she interrupted me. “Are you Nik?”
My chin sank back into my chest.
“Yeah.” Excitement made me stutter. “Yes.”
She pursed her lips to the side. “Look, I’m sorry to be a pain, but I’m going to have to check your ID to make sure.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I agreed easily, “No problem.” I reached quickly into my back pocket and pulled out the waiting passport.
She smiled warmly at the confirmation of my name, taking my elbow immediately and starting to walk.
“She’s been waiting patiently for you.”
My eyes teared up and very nearly spilled over. I wiped at the corners just in case.
“She’s in surgery right now, but she made sure I knew to bring you back as soon as I could. Keep checking to see if he gets here, she told me over and over again before they took her back.”
“Surgery?” I asked, forcing a swallow past my tight throat and scratching almost violently at the skin of my forehead. I felt positively itchy with anxiety and worry.
“On her back,” she confirmed slowly.
Pulling me to a stop, she measured her words, cringing slightly as she lowered her voice.
“She was having some trouble feeling her legs.”
Oh God.
I felt sick and uneasy on my feet and, given her reaction the evidence must have been splashed pretty clearly across my face.
Pushing me to the wall, she helped me settle my back against it and slide down, my butt hitting the floor and leaving room for my head between my knees.
She pushed actively on my neck, coaching me to keep my head down if I felt like I was going to pass out.
And I did.
I followed instruction and let the thoughts swirl endlessly like a bad loop of a nightmare on repeat.
I stewed and stewed, worrying every muscle so much they practically separated from the bone, knowing this kind of disability would break her.
She lived her life bottled inside herself most of the time, but her internal emotions were messy, fucked up, and relied heavily on the one thing she’d always held steady—her ability to release aggression and feeling through movement.