Iris-tible Recovery

Zach had had it. Seven weeks, the doctor said. Seven weeks of resting with his leg elevated. No walking on it. Nothing. He still had three weeks to go.

If only I hadn’t slid into home. If only the throw to the catcher had been wide. If only the hit had been deeper to left field. Only if... He’d replayed the scene in his head over and over. There was nothing to do differently. It was an accident of baseball, pure and simple.

But why now in the last seven weeks of his senior year? The playoffs were out. He knew that right after the play when he couldn’t stand up and had to be carried off the field. The trainer spent several minutes talking to him, touching gently, but Zach could read his expression. This was serious. It was all confirmed when they let his mom drive onto the field as close to the dugout as possible. 

He didn’t want to talk on the ride to Urgent Care. His mom said all the right things, but he didn’t want to hear it. None of it. He might have sworn a few too many times at his mom. Actually, that was probably true of the last four weeks.

And the playoffs did happen without him. Oh sure, he could have gone to watch, in a wheelchair, pushed by his mom. His coach told him he should be a team player and show the younger boys how to show up even when injured, but it was too humiliating to even consider. He wasn’t going to open himself to ridicule, or worse yet, pity. Pity that might make him cry, or punch someone. He wasn’t sure which would be worse. 

This sucks. Three weeks with more things to miss, like the prom and graduation both. 

Lucky for him, his teachers said. He wouldn’t miss finals. They could send his exams home. Yeah, I’m so lucky.

***

He was stuck at home. Every day. All day. 

From his seat at the kitchen table with its window facing the backyard, he could see his mom tending to her garden. She was weeding around a tall clump of green grass. How did she even know what was a weed and what wasn’t? 

Zach sat and watched. He couldn’t move until she came back into the house anyway, since his wheelchair was across the room. 

He opened his phone and looked at his calendar app. Oh yeah. Prom was in a week. Sure, he could go in his wheelchair, but the chance of someone drunk crashing into his leg was near certain, knowing his friends. And he certainly couldn’t dance. And any girl would have to stoop to kiss him. No way.

His date, Kate, had called a few days ago to see if he changed his mind. “Come on, Zach, we can still have fun.”

“Oh sure, with me tucked away on the side so no one runs into me,” he said. “Forget it.”

“But I want to go with you,” she said.

His heart skipped a beat. They were friends; not so much girlfriend and boyfriend, but you never know what can happen. Maybe he could make it work. She would be kind at least. Not tease him, be OK with dancing without him. 

He put her on speakerphone while he slid both hands under his cast and strained upwards. It moved a few inches and hurt when he eased it back down. 

No way he could get in and out of a car. His voice thickened. “Sorry, Kate.”

They talked for a few more minutes, but he sensed she wanted to hang up. She’ll probably find another date. That hurt.

***

A week later, back at the breakfast table, his eyes wandered to the outside garden and the bright green shoots. They didn’t look like grass anymore. They were thicker, with pointy leaves and a darker section poking up through the middle.

“What are those green leaves, mom?” he asked and pointed to the garden.

“Iris,” his mother said, following his gaze. “Said to be the goddess of rainbows, or maybe messengers. No one is really sure.”

“But they’re green,” Zach said.

His mom smiled, “Just wait, the color will come. Now, what do you want for breakfast today?”

Zach watched his mom move around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, getting out a pan to fry some eggs, untwisting the bread tie and extracting a slice.

“It’s not fucking fair,” he said and slammed his hand on the table. The salt shaker jumped and tipped over, spilling a spray of crystals onto the wood tabletop.

His mom put down the egg carton and came over to him. She towered over his sitting form. It felt odd, backward. He’d been taller than her since he was 14.

She bent and hugged him, wrapping her arms around the wheelchair. “I know it’s hard, but you will heal.”

“It’s forever,” he said.

“It’s just a blip in your long, long life ahead,” she said. 

He looked back outside the window at the messenger flowers. No prom. And no graduation in two weeks. “It’s a long, fuckin’ blip.”

***

Two more weeks passed and although he didn’t like to admit it to his mom, he was getting better. He could use crutches to move around; stairs were out of the question, and still no weight bearing, but it felt good to be upright. And at least he could strengthen his arms and his right leg. He maneuvered from his makeshift bedroom in the office into the kitchen. “What are you making?” he yelled over the sound of his mom’s mixer whirring in the kitchen.

“Some cupcakes for Mrs. Smalley,” his mom answered. “She’s hosting a graduation party for your class later today. Are you sure you don’t want to go? I really think you should.”

“I just can’t, mom. I just can’t. And you know that. Stop pestering me.”

Zach limped to the breakfast table and opened his phone. Instagram pictures of his friends in their graduation outfits flooded in. Shit. 

Outside the window, the garden with the long green grasses had changed again. The irises, his mother had called them, spouted a vibrant purple flower bursting from within the green stem. The spring breeze rocked the flowers back and forth gently, bobbing like a player avoiding a tag at the plate. He liked them. They were spunky, growing up in the sun, showing off their colors. “Mom, are these iris things new?”

She laughed from the kitchen as she placed the cupcakes into the oven. “Hardly. I planted them the year after you were born, so they are about 16 years old.”

“Hunh. I never noticed them before.” His mom moved from the oven to the stove to get his breakfast ready. What else hadn’t I noticed?

The flowers outside impressed him. It’s odd. I mean, they are flowers after all. Maybe it was their color. Or how much they had grown in the last three weeks. Or how they were sturdy and standing strong even in the wind. An idea formed.

“Mom, I think I could go to graduation today.”

His mom moved from the kitchen and sat in the chair next to him. He felt her eyes boring into his. “Are you sure?”

“But before you help me get there, can you please go cut one of those irises down? I want to bring it with me.”

She tilted her head. “For Kate?”

“Yeah, for Kate.”

His mom helped him get his pants on and he added a clean shirt and tied his tie. 

“I’m glad you changed your mind. I really wanted to see you graduate,” she said. “This way you can celebrate all your hard work over the past four years: AP history, baseball captain, and strong friendships.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “I’m proud of you.”

“Come on, mom. No crying,” Zach said with a smile in his eyes.

They loaded into the car. Zach sat tall. It felt odd to be back in the car after weeks in the house. The grass, trees, and mountains all looked greener and more energetic than he remembered.

As they pulled into the high school parking lot, angling the car as close to the main stage as possible, he rolled down his car window and shouted out, “Hey, I’m back!” A cheer sounded as a bunch of classmates surrounded the car, thumping on the exterior in approval. 

Zach turned his chest toward his mom and stretched out his hand with the iris she had wrapped in a cool paper towel. “And, Mom. This isn’t for Kate. It’s for you. Thank you.”

His mom’s eyes welled with tears and a huge smile lit her face as she took the flower from him. 

“I know that I might have been difficult these last seven weeks…,” Zach started.

She shrugged as she wiped her eyes. “Nothing compared to the last sixteen years.”

“I just want you to know that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been paying more attention to some things lately,” he said.

“My little boy, a high school graduate,” she said. “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Zach said. 

All of a sudden, the passenger car door opened and his team stood outside the door. “Ready to go, bro? We’ve got you,” his first baseman said as he unloaded the wheelchair from the trunk and held it next to the door.

“Yeah. I’m ready,” Zach said.

Photo credit: Benjamin Maxant