Lisa Genova eBox Set by Lisa Genova

Author:Lisa Genova
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

CHAPTER 23

Come on,” says Bob.

He’s wearing his blue North Face ski jacket, ski pants, his reflective sunglasses hanging from a black cord around his neck, and his very best cheery optimism. He’s holding my new skis. K2 Burnin’ Luvs. They’re sleek and shiny, sporting a rusty orange swirl design on never-used white, my big Christmas gift from Bob. They’re gorgeous, and normally I’d feel giddy at the sight of brand-new skis, imagining how great they’ll respond, anxious to get onto the slopes as early in the morning as possible. But all I feel is pressure.

“I’m not ready,” I say.

It’s three days after Christmas, and we’re in Vermont. Linus is napping, and Charlie and Lucy are in the mudroom getting dressed for a day of ski lessons. I’m sitting at our dining table still in my pajamas with last Sunday’s New York Times spread out in front of me. Bob’s here through the weekend, and my mother, the kids, and I are staying for the week of school vacation. Bob’s not too keen about leaving me up here for a whole week without him and in a house that hasn’t been professionally Sarah-proofed, but I convinced him that a week in Vermont would be good for me. A week in Vermont is always good for me.

“This was your idea,” says Bob.

“I never said I wanted to ski,” I say.

“Then why are we up here if you don’t want to ski?” he asks.

“I like it here.”

“Come on, I think you should give it a try,” says Bob.

“How am I going to ski? I can’t even walk.”

“Maybe it’ll be easier than walking.”

“How would that be possible?”

“I don’t know, maybe the thing that reconnects you to the left isn’t picking balls up off a tray. Maybe it’s getting back to doing the things you love to do.”

Maybe. Maybe skiing would awaken that dormant part of my brain that doesn’t seem to be jazzed one bit about picking up red balls. Maybe I could simply point myself down Mount Cortland in my new K2s, and my left and right appendages would naturally work in concert, carrying me safely to the bottom. Or maybe, and more likely, I’d fall and break my leg or tear the ligaments in my knee, or I’d veer off the trail and crash into a tree. My red ball therapy may not be my recovery’s magic bullet, but at least it doesn’t carry the risk that I could end up in a wheelchair and even more dependent on my mother than I am now.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” asks Bob.

Two broken legs. Another brain injury. Death. Bob should know better than to ask me, of all people, an extreme question loaded with doom. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. Bob sees that he’s chosen the wrong tactic.

“The only way to know if you can ride the horse again is to get back in the saddle,” says Bob.

A lame cowboy cliché. I shake my head and sigh.

“Come on. Give it a try.

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