For most of the summer I sat. I stayed planted in that chair by the window, the cast on my leg like a ball and chain, keeping me prisoner in my own home, in my own mind.
I remember that chair vividly, not one of the overstuffed armchairs, or even the parlor chairs with the embroidered cushions, I sat in the high-backed, wooden dining-room chair. I can still feel the carved armrests under my fingers and the hard maple slats against my back. My back would ache after hours of sitting in that chair, but it couldn't begin to compare to the pain I felt for Gene.
What had I done wrong? It was a question never far from my mind as I sat in my prison that summer. What was it I had done, said…why did this happen to me? Yet, somewhere, in the furthest reaches of my mind, there was a part of me who didn't want to know. One little voice who still believed that everything was fine, one voice who would silence the others, so I could never know.
So I sat in the chair. I sat with the wood pressed hard into my back, keeping me alert. That chair became as much a part of my memory as Gene himself, always there, never letting me forget.