chapter 17

Julie

After getting dressed, I made my way downstairs with a gift for Kyle, ready to visit him at the hospital. As I began walking, Alex intercepted me with a message from my mom, saying she wanted me home by dinner for a conversation. Confused about Alex's lingering presence, he explained he had to fix something in Sara's room and was waiting for my dad. Before parting ways, I seized the opportunity and asked for his help with a tricky lock in my room.

I directed him to my study table, emphasizing not to disturb anything on it, and left for the hospital.

Upon arriving, I confirmed Kyle's new room number with the nurse. Standing before the door, I pressed my ear against it, ensuring Kyle's parents weren't inside. Convinced it was empty, I entered, only to be surprised by Kyle himself emerging from the bathroom. He was standing on his own two feet, a sight that brought tears to my eyes.

"are you frozen, or am i just dreaming?" he teased

Overwhelmed with emotion, I hugged him tightly, "ooh kyle, I've missed you so much. I can't even start to explain how happy I am that you're back to your old self."

He chuckled, appreciating the sentiment. "thanks, princess. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you when you needed me most."

"Shut up," I retorted, "you were there for me. I could have cried all day in your arms, and even though you said nothing, seeing you made me stronger. It made me realize that what happened to me wasn't as bad as what happened to you. It made me a stronger person who could stand up for herself."

Kyle expressed his happiness that I could now stand up for myself and be a better mother to Angel. Curious about Angel's well-being, he asked, "So how is she doing?"

I shared, "Well, she's fine. A few days ago, when I was still in Texas, after Mom shipped me off to Miami, I couldn't even call her. She felt sick because she knew it was the only way to bring me back. When I returned, all she could talk about was ice cream, but she's fine."

As we settled into a more relaxed conversation, Kyle delved into the challenges of his recovery. He spoke about the physical struggles, the frustration of relying on others for the simplest tasks, and the slow, sometimes agonizing, progress. His vulnerability opened a door for me to share my own struggles, creating a space for genuine understanding.

"Recovery is a funny thing," Kyle mused. "It's not just about healing physically; it's a mental game too. Every step forward feels like a small victory, but setbacks can be crushing. There are days when you wonder if it's all worth it."

I nodded, empathy coloring my expression. "I can't even imagine what you've been through. But I want to understand. Tell me more about the mental side of recovery. The battles you fight when the physical pain isn't the only thing you're up against."

Kyle leaned back, contemplating his response. "You know, it's the uncertainty that gets to you. The fear of not knowing if you'll ever fully recover. It messes with your head. And the pressure to stay positive, to keep everyone around you from worrying, can be overwhelming."

Our conversation shifted into a deeper exploration of the emotional toll of recovery. We touched on the importance of a strong support system, the moments of self-doubt, and the resilience required to face each day with hope.

As Kyle shared more, I found myself opening up about my own struggles, weaving a connection based on shared vulnerabilities. Our conversation became a therapeutic exchange, fostering a profound understanding of each other's pain and resilience.

Kyle and I continued our conversation, delving into the intricacies of recovery. Our shared vulnerability became a bridge, connecting us in a way that surpassed our previous friendship. As we talked, I couldn't help but admire his resilience and courage.

"I guess recovery is a journey of self-discovery too," Kyle reflected. "You learn things about yourself that you never knew. Like how much strength you can summon when everything feels impossible."

His words resonated with me, prompting me to share my own revelations. "Absolutely. It's like peeling back layers of yourself, discovering resilience you didn't know existed. But there are moments when it feels like you're dancing on a tightrope between hope and despair."

The room became a haven for unfiltered honesty, each sentence reinforcing the connection we were building. We discussed the subtle victories, like Kyle standing on his own, and the setbacks that tested the limits of our endurance.

"Sometimes it's the smallest victories that matter the most," Kyle confessed. "Like the first time I managed to tie my shoelaces without help. It felt like I had conquered a mountain."

I smiled, picturing the triumph in his eyes. "Those seemingly ordinary moments become extraordinary in the context of recovery. I remember the first time Angel called me 'Mom.' It was a simple word, but it carried a universe of meaning."

The conversation naturally steered toward Angel, and Kyle's genuine interest in her well-being touched me. Sharing stories about Angel's quirks and the joy she brought into my life added a lighter note to our discussion.

As our talk unfolded, we explored the emotional rollercoaster of recovery, discussing the role of patience, the necessity of acceptance, and the impact on relationships. Kyle's perspective, shaped by his own journey, offered insights that transcended the physical realm.

"I've come to appreciate the beauty of slow progress," Kyle admitted. "It teaches you to savor each step, to find gratitude in the little victories. And the people who stick around during the tough times, they become your pillars of strength."

I nodded, grateful for the wisdom he shared. "True. It's in those moments of vulnerability that you recognize the ones who genuinely care. They're the ones who don't shy away from the messy parts of your journey."

Our conversation naturally evolved into plans for Kyle's life post-hospitalization. We discussed adapting to newfound independence, facing societal perceptions, and navigating the challenges that awaited him outside the hospital walls.

Concerned about my nightmares, Kyle inquired, "So how about the nightmares? Do you still have them?"

"Yes," I admitted, "but I'm glad I have them in a way."

Perplexed, Kyle questioned, "And why is that? Most people would hate them, so why are you glad?"

"Well, at first, when I had them, things were unclear. But now I know that Angel has her father's eyes. I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday. He had one completely blue eye and the other was more brown. The same thing is happening to Angel; Mary told me her right eye changed color, so we took her to the hospital, and they said it was normal, something in the family."

Kyle pondered, "So what are you going to do now? Look for her father, or what does your heart tell you?"

"My heart tells me I shouldn't look for him," I admitted. "What if he decides to take my baby away, or what if his family doesn't want my baby and tries to hurt her to keep their reputation clean?"

Kyle acknowledged the dilemma, and we shifted the focus to his recovery. As I shared details about my life, my struggles, and family dynamics, Kyle listened attentively, offering support and understanding.

After a while, I remembered, "Oh, before I forget, your birthday present. I didn't know you were healed; if I did, I would have brought you something else to help you recover quickly."

Smiling, Kyle expressed his gratitude for the gift, remarking that he'd wear the jacket and jeans the first day he left the hospital.

As our conversation continued, I couldn't help but wonder about the dynamics between us once he was discharged. Playfully, Kyle asked, "So, when you leave here, am I still welcome at your place, or will your parents push me away?"

"Don't be silly," I responded. "My parents know you've been visiting me since you found out I was here."

Curious, Kyle questioned, "Wait, did you tell them?"

"No," I clarified, "they keep track of everyone who visits me. That way, if something happens during the visit, they know who to ask directly."

"Are they mad I visited them?" Kyle asked.

"No, they're not," I reassured him. "They were actually glad that someone in your family was there for me. My mom loved you from the moment she found out you visited me every day after school. You'd update me on the outside world, from new iPhones to the workings of the world. When I started moving again, the first thing my mom gave me was an iPhone. I was surprised I could work with it, but then I remembered how you'd explained everything to me. She told me how wonderful it was for me to have a friend like you, someone who didn't give up on me like the rest did. The others haven't even called to find out how I'm doing. I don't need fake friends when I've got you, a true friend."

"Thanks for that, Kyle," I expressed my gratitude, but aware that my mom wanted to talk at dinner, I reluctantly concluded, "but I have to go home now. My mom wanted to talk to me about something around dinner time. So, I'll see you at home. When are you going home?"

"In two days' time," Kyle informed me. "See you there. Bye."

"Bye," I replied, and with a mixture of relief and anticipation, I headed home.

Before parting ways, Kyle expressed his gratitude for our candid conversation. "It's not often you find someone willing to dive into the complexities of recovery with you. Thanks for being that person for me, Julie."

As I left the hospital, a sense of connection and understanding lingered. The shared dialogue had woven a bond strengthened by the threads of vulnerability and resilience. Little did I know that our journey was only beginning, and the chapters ahead would hold both trials and triumphs for Kyle and me.