Everyone was slightly shocked when I chose to go to rehab straight from the hospital, but I felt like it was the best thing to do. It would give me time to work on my attitude. It would give Mom a break. And most of all, it would give me time to get stronger. To see what was possible.
Rehab is no joke. I found that out the first day I was here. They work you out hard, so hard that you can’t wait to go to sleep at night. My first night here, I got a care package from Mom and Dad. The soft sugar cookies I like, new sleeping socks (I hate cold feet), and a letter from Rena.
Jenna,
Mom says I’m not allowed to call or text you when you’re at rehab, that you’re there to work and I am supposed to leave you alone. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. How incredibly awed I am by your strength.
Work hard and come home soon.
Xoxo, Rena
These are the things that get me through. Especially since there have been very few texts from Julian. He told me before I left he was going to a hockey camp over winter break, and that we should both take this time to “get all beast.” His words. I’m sure he’s busy. But I also I wonder if he’s over me? Has he moved on? Maybe he hasn’t forgiven me for catfishing him. I take out his Batman watch.
My physical therapy assistant gets me set up for therapy. Each time the therapist tells me to lift my leg, I listen. I try not to brace. I try not to recruit other muscles to work for my underused ones, weak ones. It’s hard, and sometimes I cry because it hurts so much it makes my head fill with stars, but I keep going. Jennifer’s voice inside me reminds me, “You are her.” And I believe I can be.
They’ve given me a schoolteacher named Mrs. Stein, who has short salt-and-pepper gray hair and dresses like she’s working at a law firm. “Hello, Jenna,” she says when I wheel myself into her office. “Let’s see what we are going to do with you, shall we?”
I nod.
She pulls open a very thick file with my name on it and peers at her computer. She looks at me, back at the reports, and then back at the computer. “Hmmm.” She clicks through the screens some more. Then says, “Strange.”
I sit, ready to defend myself.
“I’m sort of confused,” she says. “It seems like you were in all gifted classes, doing very well and then…”
“Then I sort of gave up on myself.”
She takes her glasses off and smiles. Her red lipstick makes her teeth look so white and pretty. Her smile is like Mom’s; part all-knowing and part hoping for better news. “That working for you?”
I laugh. “No.”
“Well,” she says as she claps her hands together. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Because the good news, Jenna? You’ve got nothing but time to work here. No outside distractions.” She types something into her computer. “No friends. No family. No boys.”
I blush hot as if she’s read my diary or something, even though I don’t keep one. Still, this woman is way too observant for my own good. Except I’m ready to let her help me. I’m ready to help myself.
* * *
Every day is the same. I get up. Go to breakfast. Eat. Go to therapy. Go to the schoolroom. Go to the library. Eat lunch. Go to physical therapy. Go to the schoolroom. Eat dinner. Repeat.
By the end of the first week, I get something unexpected. A letter from Julian.
I rip it open. A picture falls out. It’s of Julian, standing next to a sign that says Trail Magic.
Jenna,
Working hard at hockey camp so we took a day off to hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail and saw this. I’ve been thinking about you so much and this just felt like a sign or something (okay I KNOW it’s an actual sign but also as the other kind of sign, too). Do you still believe in magic? Because I do. I do.
Julian
It’s weird to get an actual letter. An email or text would have been quicker, but something about the permanence of the thing, the formality, and also the time it took to send it to me touches me and makes me hopeful.
I think about texting him that night. Like every night.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but that night as I fall asleep I dream of him. And I can’t wait to get back to see him. Even if he’s over me. I hope he’s not over me. But even if he is, I want to see him. I want to show him that I’m coming back. The Jenna I used to be is returning. Slowly. But no text can show him that. Only I can. In person. In five days when I come home.