When Aspen's mom got home from work on Thursday, she was surprised to see her daughter alone at the kitchen table. Her brown mess of hair was hunched over one of her textbooks, her fingertips plucking at the corner of the page as she read. She didn't even hear her mother come in.
The older woman cleared her throat, causing her daughter's head to snap up. Once the initial shock had faded, Aspen smiled. "Hey Mom. How was work?" she asked in a mousey voice. It didn't take much to see the clouded look in her eyes.
Mrs. Folsom just shrugged as she dropped her keys onto the counter. "Same old. How was school? Where's Jay?" The questions seemed to be never ending with her, but they were ten times worse when she suspected that something was wrong.
Aspen shifted almost uncomfortably, dropping her gaze back to her work. "School was fine," she murmured, her fingers returning to their absent picking, "and Jay's at Elle's hockey game."
It seemed as though the air was sucked from the room. Those few words were all it took. Aspen wasn't looking at her mother, something that the woman was grateful for. She didn't know if she could handle the forced look that was surely on her face. Aspen always appeared unbothered when it came to the hockey discussion, but everyone in their household knew exactly how hurt she really was. She had never explicitly told either of her brothers about her emotional turmoil, but there were plenty of nights where she had cried in her mom's arms after her fears forced her to miss yet another of her brothers' games. No one knew just how terrified she truly was -- no one except for her mom.
With a deep breath, Cassandra lowered herself into the seat across from her daughter. Aspen noticed that she had sat down, but didn't raise her head. She had to brace herself for the conversation that she knew was coming. She had been expecting it all week. "Asp," her mom cooed. When the girl didn't budge, she reached out and moved the textbook out of the way. "Aspen, look at me."
Begrudgingly, Aspen lifted her gaze. Her mom's brown eyes -- a gene that only Caine had received -- were clouded with concern. Aspen couldn't tell if it annoyed her or broke her heart. The woman heaved a sigh. "You should be with Jay right now. You know that, don't you?" she murmured gently, her eyes never leaving the girl's face. Her tone wasn't accusatory, but there was a certain degree of exhaustion to it. This was a race they had been running for far too long.
Aspen dropped her gaze, her foot anxiously drumming against the ground. After a moment, she shook her head. "I didn't want to go," she said simply, though there was a weakness to her voice that dignified the untruthfulness that the words held.
"Aspen, baby, how long is it going to take for you to try?" her mom asked quietly, a sense of exasperation seeping into her voice. When Aspen just shrugged, Cassandra reached out to place her hand atop of her daughter's. "I know that your accident was hard -- and I know that living with it has been even harder. But someday you have to stop running from your fears."
Aspen snorted. "I'm not exactly running anywhere these days," she joked grimly. Her mother didn't laugh, and Aspen didn't expect her to. The joke was in poor taste, but if Aspen couldn't joke about it herself, then how was she ever supposed to deal with the other kids who surely did behind her back? At this point, it was the only way to diffuse the conversation when her mom began to get teary.
Another soft sigh left her mother's lips. "Aspen," she said firmly. When the girl muttered an apology, her mom continued. "You know I don't want you to be uncomfortable. But you used to love hockey. Nothing else makes you smile the way it did."
"Did," Aspen emphasized, her gaze returning firmly to her mother's. The woman frowned at the indifferent look on her daughter's face. Her tone had a bitter bite to it, something far more abrasive than was expected. Aspen swallowed, her throat dry. "How is hockey going to make me smile if the only memory I can think of is the one that causes me more pain than anything else I've ever been though?"
Tears welled in Cassandra's eyes as Aspen's pain slipped into her voice. Her sentence had cracked at the end, and even though she had tried to maintain her blank countenance, a tiny flash of dismay had crept onto her face. "You had so many good memories," the woman reminisced, her fair brows pulled together. She shook her head gently, "How can you not think of any?"
Aspen gave a tiny shrug, her eyes focusing on her hands, which she had at some point gathered into her lap. She picked at her fingernails uncomfortably. Usually this conversation made her cry. Today she just felt empty. "It's just the first thing I think of," Aspen answered truthfully. A small sigh left her lips, "It tends to make me sick to my stomach. Or it gives me the shakes. After that point, any other memories just circle back. It's not worth it."
Cassandra opened her mouth, only to promptly shut it. She was at a loss of words. They had been running in circles with this for years. This conversation always ended the same way: Cassandra would push until Aspen finally mumbled some rendition of "maybe next year." It was always "I'm just not ready" or "I can't do it." Nothing the woman said seemed to give her daughter the confidence boost she needed. Perhaps some fears just weren't meant to be conquered.
"Can I go back to my homework?" Aspen asked abruptly, her blue gaze returning to her mother. There was a coldness on her face that made her mother uneasy. When the woman frowned, Aspen did her best to put on a reassuring smile. "Mom, it's okay. I'm okay. I don't need hockey to be happy."
"It's not hockey that I'm worried about," Cassandra admitted, her voice heavy. It was clear that the weight of Aspen's pain rested in great part on her shoulders as well. "I just wish I could fix it for you," she mumbled sadly, the glossiness returning to her eyes.
Aspen hurriedly shook her head. She didn't want her mom to dwell on something she couldn't change. "Mom, it's fine," she promised, reaching over to rub her mom's arm. She smiled, "Really. I don't mind the limp anymore. It has it's charm."
While she had hoped that her words would placate her mother's woe, Aspen became frightfully aware that they seemed to do the opposite. A pained look flashed across the woman's face, and she broke. A tear slipped from her eyes, slowly running down her cheek. "I wasn't talking about the limp, Asp," she murmured as more tears fell onto her face. Aspen watched helplessly as her normally resilient mother all but fell apart. Cassandra shook her head distraughtly. "It isn't fair. You're so young. You shouldn't have to be so... so... haunted." Aspen's blood ran cold. She opened her mouth to attempt to calm her mother's woes, but the woman continued, "You're practically traumatized, Aspen. And you're fifteen." A sob tore through her last word. Aspen's hands began to shake.
No response came from the girl. She didn't have any idea what she was supposed to say to that, but her heart was hammering in her chest. She could hear her blood pulsing in her head and her skin pricked. All she could do was stare at her mother as she broke out into a cold sweat.
Her mother didn't say anything else. She stood from the table, leaning over to kiss her daughter's forehead before excusing herself to go clean herself up. Aspen blankly watched her leave, her entire body eerily frigid. She had never thought to use either of those two words. The accident weighed on her, yes, but she did her best to push it away.
Haunted. Traumatized. Maybe she was. And it wasn't fair.
There was no changing the past. There was no picking herself back up and dusting herself off. There was no reclaiming the memory and allowing it to reinforce her backbone.
There was only carrying on as though it were okay. And that was what she did best.
- -
The phone rang twice that evening. Both times, Caine answered it. And both times, he hollered up to tell Aspen that it was for her. Both times she let the line go dead.
It rang for a third time, but Caine didn't even bother answering. Instead he poked his head into Aspen's bedroom, glaring at her angrily. "Aspen, if you don't answer that damn call, I'm going to punch a hole through your wall." Though she knew he'd never get away with it, she didn't doubt that he'd try. With a heavy sigh, she made her way to the phone.
She mumbled a soft hello into the receiver, only to be met with a boisterous, "Finally!" It was Elle, out of breath and exasperated. Aspen grimaced when the girl's tone didn't soften. "Three times, Aspen! You made me call three times! Not only that, but I had to talk to Caine! Caine!"
Aspen wanted to chuckle, but nothing left her pursed lips. When Elle was quiet, she realized that conversations typically relied on a two-way effort. Aspen coughed, "Yeah, um, sorry about that. I was, erm..." She racked her brain for an excuse, but came up empty. She just sighed.
"Asp?" Elle asked gently, her voice reaching a rare, uncharacteristic softness. Aspen could imagine the concerned look on her face. "Are you okay?"
Aspen swallowed the lump in her throat. She suddenly had a really bad headache. "Yeah," she breathed, "I just had a bit of an argument with my mom earlier. It put me in a bad mood." The lie was an easy one to tell, though she had a suspicion that Elle didn't believe it. Aspen got into arguments with her dad. She got into arguments with Caine. Hell, she even argued with Joey. But her mom? Hardly ever.
Elle began to ask if she was certain, but Aspen interrupted. "How was the game?" she asked quickly, trying to keep her thoughts blank. She didn't imagine Elle on the ice or the ducks scoring goals. She instead forced images of Roland and Peter and Jay sitting in the stands into her head. It was a safe thing to focus on -- them innocently sitting at the top of the bleachers. It was nice.
Elle launched into a lengthy description, squealing over her team's goals but huffing when she admitted that the two teams had tied. She purposefully left out any and all injuries. She knew Aspen had become rather squeamish.
Aspen listened to her talk, offering small reactions here and there. She was trying her hardest to be supportive, but both girls could tell that her heart wasn't in it. She couldn't force any laughter or jokes, but she remained fairly calm and composed. That is, until Elle finished the conversation.
"Sorry to hear about your night, but thanks for letting me rant," Elle said sincerely, causing Aspen to smile softly.
She nodded her head as though the girl could see her. "Yeah, of course. That's what I'm here for."
"And you're the best at it," Elle chuckled happily. She paused for a moment before taking a breath. "Well, I should get going. See you tomorrow. Oh, and Asp?" Aspen murmured a small "hmm?" to signal for the girl to just continue. Elle sucked in a breath. Her voice became eerily quiet. "I wish you had been there. It's never going to be the same without you."
Aspen couldn't respond to that. As soon as the words hit her, a tear rolled down her cheek. The words had such finality to them, as though Elle had accepted that her best friend had given up trying in this fight that she didn't understand. Aspen hadn't cried all night, but for some reason, the gentleness of Elle's voice ripped her apart from the inside out. With a shaky voice, all she could say was, "I'm sorry."
She wasn't sure if Elle could tell that she was crying or not. If she could, she didn't directly address it. "It's alright," she responded softly, though there was an unspoken agreement that acknowledged it was anything but alright. Elle sighed,"It's just not your thing anymore. I get that. I'll see you tomorrow."
Aspen returned the farewell, but didn't hang up the receiver. She kept it pressed against her ear long after the line had gone dead. She sat on that same stool, her hand gripping so tightly to the phone that her fingers ached. Her eyes were focused on her feet as she lost the strength to move. Tear after tear dripped down to her chin. But all she felt was empty.
Her arms began to shake as the image in her head shifted. It wasn't her friends in the stands anymore. It was the junior varsity team against their opponents. It was Elle checking a boy into the boards. It was Connie passing the puck to Charlie. It was someone tripping and falling over their own stick.
And then, almost as though she were watching a horror film, it was that same, all too familiar crunch.
For a moment she thought that she felt her foot ache, but she knew that she was imagining things. It didn't do that anymore. Not unless she put too much weight on it or stumbled or bumped into something. The aches were gone. If there was ever pain, it was the stinging kind -- the kind that started at the root of her ankle and shot throughout her entire lower leg. The sharp kind, demanding that she acknowledge the fact that it's there. Demanding to be felt.
Sometimes that pain was in her foot. But more often, it was in her heart.