Jonas put the car in park as soon as it had stopped, bumper to bumper with the car in front of him. He didn't try to back up from the car; the thought didn't even cross his mind (or maybe it did but got lost in the rapid fire of his brain's synapses).
With the car stopped, it was easier to extricate his foot. He glared at it in disgust. He imagined shoving it back into the corner of the closet. Or better yet, under his bed, where it could gather dust, completely out of sight. Prosthetic piece of crap, he thought, his hand massaging the point where the remaining part of his left leg met plastic. Jonas ignored the pins and needles sensation in his leg and turned his gaze back to the car in front of him.
Whoever he'd hit wasn't getting out. Jonas could tell it was a she, but nothing else about her. Would she be angry? Most likely. I'd be angry if someone hit me, he thought. Well, I was angry when someone hit me.
Jonas wondered whether or not he should tell the truth about what caused the accident. He decided he would just say he hadn't been paying attention. What was he supposed to say? Um, sorry, I have a fake foot and mental issues with semitrucks, and I rear-ended you because I was trying to decide if I was having a panic attack or dying. Better Jonas look like an incompetent driver than tell her the truth and watch her expression morph into that look of pity that people inevitably got whenever they learned that he was an eighteen-year-old with only half a left leg.
He saw the other driver turn her hazards on and decided that he should probably do the same.
After doing this, he steeled himself to the inevitable conversation that would have to occur between him and the girl. So he slid over to the passenger side (having enough sense left to know that it would be inconceivably stupid to open a door into oncoming traffic, no matter how slow it was going) and opened the door. Jonas felt like every other driver on the road was watching him. He tried not to think about it. Who cares? he told himself. Not me. If anything, I'm used to being stared at by now. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the lie. Carefully placing both feet on the ground, he got out. With his pants covering his prosthetic leg, the view looking down was almost normal; there was no way to tell that one of his feet was plastic, except for the way it felt. Like it's dead. He wished that he was wearing almost anything other than plaid pajama pants and a too-big sweatshirt.
Jonas stepped forward. He stumbled when his left foot hit the ground. Instinctively, his arms went up, to catch himself if he fell. (Parachute reflex. He remembered reading about it when he still wanted to be a doctor. It developed sometime during infancy—you fall, the arms go out.) He regained his balance and limped onward, hand pressed against the Bus for balance. He tried to match his walking as close to normal as possible, ignoring the discomfort and pain that shot through the missing part of his leg with each step. A majority of amputees have phantom pain following limb loss, Dr. Andy, his counselor, had said, back when he first went to see her. She'd brought out a mirror. He'd obliged her, sitting on a couch in the office and holding the mirror in front of his left leg so that it reflected the right. He'd pretended he had two whole legs—normal. Be normal, be normal, he told himself as he made his way along the side of the Bus. Jonas told himself to watch where he was putting his feet, due to lack of sensation in his prosthesis, so that he didn't step too hard or trip forward. Still, he tripped a few more times, fighting his parachute reflex in order to avoid flailing his arms any more. It was like he was stumbling around with impaired depth perception or something. He couldn't help but feel like the leg might buckle; might not hold him up.
When she saw Jonas coming toward her car, the girl rolled down her passenger-side window.
"Um, hi," Jonas said, rather lamely in his opinion. He leaned one hand against her car, holding himself up, running the other shakily through his hair before gesturing toward the back of her car. "Look, I'm really—I'm really sorry," he choked out, fixing a half smile on his face like a piece of armor and hoping he didn't look as unhinged as he had in the mirror that morning. "I just . . . I looked down for a second and then I looked up, and the light was red—" Half truth. He had been looking at the semitruck. Don't think about it, he mentally ordered himself, trying to ignore the way his heart sped up at the memory.
"Oh," stammered the girl. "It's fine. You know, accidents happen. I just need your insurance information I think? And your name, probably."
It struck Jonas that she wanted to be anywhere but here, talking to him. She looked like, if she could, she would have just driven off. She was staring forward as if it might kill her if her gaze deviated from the windshield. When she did look at him, it was at a point slightly to the right of his head, off in the distance.
"Of course," said Jonas, keeping his lips fixed in the contrived smile, although he was now sure that his eyes weren't cooperating with his mouth. He wondered how he wasn't better at fake smiling by now. Rhys always said he frowned too much, even before The Accident. Afterward, Jonas wasn't sure when the last time he'd really smiled had been. He glanced at the traffic that seemed to be backing up as more and more people slowed down to see what was going on or to let the cars stuck behind the accident into the open lane.
Jonas shifted his weight on the hand propped against the car— the metal was hot under the sun. Uncomfortable. He turned back to the girl in the car. She was still refusing to look directly at him. "I think that both vehicles look moveable," he said calmly, hiding his discomfort behind a veneer of pretend confidence. "I think if we pull into the parking lot over there"—he gestured to the mostly empty parking lot of a nearby Walgreens—"we should be able to inspect the damage a bit better, and I'll give you my information. This really is my fault, and I apologize."
The girl had been staring at Jonas until he made eye contact to apologize, at which point she blushed even redder and looked away once more. "You're not supposed to admit fault in an accident," she mumbled under her breath, almost so Jonas couldn't hear her. "I think it can be used against you or something." Her voice trailed off.
Jonas frowned. "What?" he asked. What was wrong with this girl? Logic would say she'd be glad to have him admit to being at fault.
"Nothing," she mumbled even more quietly.
"All right," he said. "You go ahead, and I'll follow you."
She nodded, then turned her hazards off and shut her window. Jonas turned away, allowing his shoulders to slump and the fake smile to disappear. The few steps back to the Bus seemed like a mile. All he wanted to do was sit down and remove the stupid prosthetic leg. The remaining part of his leg was clearly not used to having to bear weight, and every step was painful. He was also regretting not taking the extra time to find the newer liner, as the inside of the ill-suctioned plastic socket was starting to slicken with sweat. Jonas took a deep breath and a quick step forward, just enough to get his hands back against the Bus, back against support. He made it back to the still-open passenger-side door and slid across to the driver's side.
He broke things into steps:
1. Start the car.
2. Keep his left foot as far from the brake pedal as possible.
3. Put the car in drive.
4. Go into the parking lot.
He turned in and stopped behind the girl—perpendicular to her so he could see the back of her car. She had gotten out of her vehicle and was inspecting the damage.
It didn't actually look that bad, Jonas realized with relief. Maybe the cost to his parents wouldn't be too much. He was still on their insurance. He'd have to pay them back of course—but how would he earn the money? Jonas tried not to think about how the monthly insurance bill would increase after an accident. He shook his head. I'll worry about that later, he thought.
He got out of the Bus once more, relieved not to have to slide over to the passenger side again. He leaned his back against the side of the van, alternating between putting his hands in his pockets and crossing his arms. He settled on hands by his sides and tried to stand as straight as possible while still leaning against the side of the vehicle.
The girl came around her own car to meet him. Now that she was out of the car, he had a better look at her. She was the type of girl who most people wouldn't really remember if they passed her on the street. Quiet and unassuming. Not trying to stand out. Not that that was a bad thing. She had brown hair, the majority of which was tied up into a haphazard knot on top of her head, except little pieces that frizzed around her ears and forehead in little wavy tendrils. And glasses— round glasses that seemed a bit too big on her round face. They made her eyes look bigger, like she was afraid or nervous. An animal in the headlights, Jonas thought. She was dressed in a slightly-too-big-for-her blue collared shirt and black pants; tennis shoes completed the outfit.
Jonas's eyes went to the badge pinned to her shirt. Brennan. He resisted the urge to tell Brennan that there was a hole in her left sneaker, right where the side of her little toe would be. It might be weird for her; it was weird, right? The way he subconsciously noticed people's left legs now?
"I'm making you late for work, aren't I?" he said instead, somewhat worriedly. It was bad enough that he'd crashed into her, now he was making her late. Inconvenience. This leg is always an inconvenience.
"It's fine," Brennan said, blushing again. She always seemed to be blushing. Her glasses were fogging up around her nose too. It was humid outside. She took them off, awkwardly rubbing them clear on the corner of her uniform shirt. Kroger. She worked at the grocery store. Jonas's mom did all their weekly grocery shopping there. "I called my boss, anyway," she said.
"Okay," Jonas said. He didn't know what else to say.
He wanted to walk around to the front of the Bus and see what damage had been done to his own car. He wanted to, but his leg didn't want to, so he stayed where he was. Whatever it was couldn't be worse than any of the Bus's other attributes. Whatever it was would probably fit right in.
Jonas noticed Brennan looking at him strangely and redoubled his efforts not to slouch against the Bus, ignoring the painful rubbing of the sweaty liner against his residual limb as he straightened his left leg. Blisters, he imagined, already dreading the thought. He didn't need blisters on top of everything else. Where in the world did I put the new liner?
Jonas bit back a frustrated curse and inspected the back of Brennan's car more closely. There were some scratches in the paint, but it wasn't noticeable with the light blue-gray color of her car. The most concerning thing was the dent in the back of the vehicle.
Brennan was standing next to him now, having come forward quietly. The heat was starting to get a little oppressive in the Wash U sweatshirt, and Jonas held his breath, hoping he didn't smell like sweat.
He tried to remember when he'd last showered. A day ago? Two? He couldn't remember. The last two days had been gray days, as his mom called them. Bird's having a gray day, he'd heard his mom tell his dad yesterday. Gray days meant that Jonas locked himself in his room and alternated between playing video games and staring at the wall or the ceiling.
He brought himself back to the present when Brennan spoke. "I think it's really fine," she said a little breathlessly. "I thought it would be much worse. This isn't even as bad as the time my mom backed into one of our cars with the other one." She took a deep breath. "And that dent popped out within a week. I don't even think I need to take your insurance information." She said all of this too quickly, with only the one breath between, as if she had to get it all out before she lost the nerve.
"Are you sure?" Jonas asked, frowning. "If I've damaged your car, I should really pay."
She looked like she'd rather be anywhere but there; as if letting Jonas off was the fastest way to get away from him. It didn't ease his conscience.
"It's fine," Brennan said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You can't see the scratches in the paint and the dent is hardly noticeable. Not worth the rise in your insurance premium, is it?"
He shrugged. She was watching him. He tried not to think how he must look to her: messy hair and pajamas, like he'd just rolled out of bed. You did just roll out of bed, Jonas reminded himself.
She turned to leave. "I'd better get to work, though," she said.
"Wait!" Jonas pulled out his wallet, opening it and taking out a lone twenty-dollar bill that had been there since before The Accident. It wasn't much, but it was all he had at the moment. "At least take this." He held it out to Brennan, and when she didn't make any move to take it, he inwardly groaned in frustration and took a stumbling step forward. He pressed the bill into her hand, admittedly a bit roughly.
"For the trouble," he said. "For the work you missed. For—" For something; he just couldn't let her leave. It felt too easy.
"I don't need . . ." Brennan spluttered weakly. Her glasses were half fogged up again.
"Take it," he said.
"It's really fine."
"Take it!" he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice, "I don't want it!"
She looked startled by his change in tone, and she took the bill. "Okay," she said, still watching him carefully, brown eyes wide behind her glasses.
"Okay," he said, letting out a breath. Unhinged. Calm down. "All right. I'm sorry. Again." He just wanted away—away from here, out of the heat, back in his room.
"I'm really not upset about it," she said quietly. She looked a little uneasy, and made eye contact even less than she had before (if that was possible). He wondered if she was just shy.
"All right," he said. "I guess I'd better head off then. I've got something I need to drop off for my sister."
"Okay," she said. "Just pay a little more attention to the road." She laughed uncomfortably, as if she had been trying to make a joke or a witty comment.
Jonas stared at her blankly for a moment and then forced an awkward laugh, not because he found it funny, but because he felt awkward on her behalf.
He got back into the Bus and pulled forward enough for Brennan to get past him. She got into her car and pulled out of the parking lot, driving away, on her way to work. He sat there for a few moments, letting the Bus idle. Eventually, he shook his head and put the van into gear.
Taylor looked absolutely shocked to see him when he pulled up to give her the form. Jonas had expected her surprise; why should she expect her brother—who never left the house except for visits with his doctor, his prosthetist, or his rehab therapist—to actually be out and about? She would have made a big deal about it, but Jonas shut her down with a frown and a shake of his head.
So Taylor just thanked him quietly and took the permission slip.
Jonas drove home and locked himself in his room, throwing the fake leg back into the corner of his closet and settling in to play video games, trying to drown out the pain in his missing left foot.
He didn't leave the room for the rest of the night except to use the bathroom down the hall. His mom brought him a plate of dinner (homemade pizza, his dad's specialty), but Jonas just muttered, "Not hungry," from his place in the bed, staring at the wall. His mom set the plate on his desk and walked over to the side of Jonas's bed. He didn't turn over. She hesitantly touched his forehead with the back of her hand. "No fever. Are you feeling okay?" Her words were laced with concern. Guilt squeezed his stomach again.
"Yeah, fine," he said. "I'm just not hungry. Thanks, though. I'll try to eat some in a little while."
Elise Nguyen-Avery was quiet. She sighed and gently ruffled his hair (that was how he'd woken up in the hospital after it happened—to his mom ruffling his hair). "Okay," she said. "I love you. I'm here, okay?"
"Okay," he whispered. Whispered because he was afraid that if he spoke any louder, some of the churning inside him might escape and he might cry again. He didn't want to cry right then. You're angry, not sad, he chided himself.
His mom's hand stilled, entwined in his hair. She seemed like she might say something, but she just turned and left the room.
Later she peeked in again. "Thank you for taking the permission slip to Taylor."
Jonas hadn't told her about his fender bender. He wouldn't tell her; she'd just feel bad about asking him to go in the first place. She'd think it was her fault, and it wasn't.
"You're welcome," he mumbled. He heard the door shut and turned over so he could see the poster on the closet door, with its sloppy mass of black ink. Irrevocable. Un-take-backable.