Page 106 of You Spin Me

“I always wondered why you took those pictures,” I murmur.

She bumps shoulders with me. “So we wouldn’t forget.” She points to the first picture of me, where I barely look human I’m missing so much skin. “And so we’d know we were making progress.”

On the next page, instead of photographs, there are Christmas cards and letters in my mom’s handwriting and clippings from thePhoenixandBoston Globe—announcements of when I was spinning at clubs, even an article from the Worcester paper that ran when I first got a DJ slot at WBAR. Taking the book from her, I page through it. The photos of other people are hard to take in. Some kids I recognize, many I don’t. There are obituaries, but also marriage announcements.

When I raise my head, not only do I find that the room has emptied except for Angie and me, I notice that this isn’t the only scrapbook on the shelf. It’s stuffed with them. “So many kids.”

“So many,” Angie echoes. When she faces me, her eyes are shiny. “All we can do is our best.”

A breath shudders through me, and I take her hand. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Things are better now, Cal. Both in here and out there.” Her hand moves vaguely toward the door, but I get what she means. The treatment is better and kids are adapting better.

I shake my head.Is it too late for me?

“It’s never too late to heal, Cal,” Angie whispers.

I didn’t mean to say the words out loud—I didn’t even know I felt them—but I’m glad I did. Facing the fear that it’s too late for me seems like the first step, but it’s a doozy.

“I wonder,” Angie says, “if there’s any way you could get away for a couple weeks later this month? There’s a retreat, kind of a training for burn camp counselors. We could probably get you a spot.”

“What’s with this burn camp?” I remember Sharon from the Shriners saying something about one. “Send kids away so their parents get a break?”

“That’s a benefit for all families when kids go to summer camp. But for burn survivors, like other kids, it’s time to have fun and gain independence. It’s also time with other kids who know what they’ve been through. Getting to take risks without worrying about being bullied, it gives them confidence, so when they go back home and to school, they have inner resources. Every kid who comes here after that experience is stronger, inside and out.”

Inside and out.To be whole,in here and out there, is that even possible for me?

She takes the scrapbook from me and returns it to the shelf before turning back to say, “I hear counselors get even more out of it than campers.”

Chapter32

Motor here at WBAR kicking off your Monday drivetime lineup with “We Care a Lot” from Faith No More.

JESS

When I finally wake up for real, I’m alone. The pain has subsided to a dull roar in the background. I feel less flu-y, but I’m so, so tired. I don’t feel like I’m going to fade away again, but I’m also not sure I can get up. I’ve got tubes coming and going, neither of which is pleasant. I’m starting to feel panicky about being trapped in the bed when a nurse comes in.

“You’re awake. Good.” All business, she checks the IV and takes my vitals.

“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”

She lifts up the sheet to point at a bag at my side. “We’ve got you on a catheter at the moment, but as soon as the doctor gives the go ahead, we’ll remove that and help you to the toilet.”

“Okay, thanks.”

This lack of power, lack of control, is what I hate about the hospital. One of many things. “Um, what time is it?”

She checks her watch. “Five thirty.”

“P.M.?”

“Mm-hm.” Before I can ask, she smiles. “And it’s Monday.”

Okay, not too bad. I’ve only lost twenty-four hours.

“Dinner will be coming soon.” She checks my chart again. “Do you feel like eating?”

And I’m fifteen again. Nurses and doctors asking me over and over if I want to eat, if I can eat, if I will eat. But I’m not fifteen. I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I can do this. I am in control of some things.

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