my head vehemently. “Listen to me!
It’s not just because of my legs.”
I pause to gather the courage
to continue the sordid confession,
and Ronnie actually sits there
patiently, not saying a word,
eyes glistening. “Please don’t cry,
or I’ll never be able to do this.
Look, it isn’t just my ‘condition.’
it’s the stuff I was doing that
resulted in my being here. I told
you things that weren’t true, and
didn’t tell you things that were true,
and all I did for months was lie to you.
I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,
but I was gambling, and couldn’t stop,
and when I tried to dig myself out,
the only way I could come up with
was . . .” Goddamn it, how can I tell
her this? Fuck it. Just go for it. Push
her totally away. “The only way I could
come up with was working for an escort
service. That’s what I was doing when . . .”
I let my voice trail off, certain I’ve said
more than enough to make her run.
Instead, she looks me in the eye. I know.
Okay, I Did Not Expect That
Her acknowledgment is a complete
surprise, as is her calm acceptance.
“How?” Does Mom know, too?
From Vince. He told me everything,
at least everything he knew, and
the police, too. That guy, Chris,
was at the poker game, remember?
He followed you to that hotel room.
Killed his girlfriend, and the other
man. They said you were lucky
you didn’t die, too. He definitely meant
to kill you. Oh. I’m not sure you know,
but the other guys at the game were
all called in as witnesses. It wasn’t hard
to track Chris down. When the cops
knocked on his door, he went out
a window. There was a high speed
chase out into the desert near Red Rock.
Finally the dude ended up stuck
in the sand. He jumped out of his car,
shooting. The cops took him down.
“He’s dead?” Her nod brings
relief, and also elicits a small sense
of satisfaction. Extremely small.
He Got What He Deserved
But you couldn’t exactly call it
an eye for an eye. It was a two-
for-one deal, and that doesn’t touch
what he did to me.
I hope it hurt.
I hope he screamed.
Most of all,
I hope he didn’t die
quickly. I close my eyes,
picture him lying
on a bed of hot sand,
bleeding out slowly,
listening to the cops
discuss the relative merits
of glazed versus jelly
doughnuts while a dozen
buzzards circle above him,
edging lower and lower as the cops
move into the shade to wait
for the coroner, who’s sitting
in an air-conditioned office—
Earth to Cody
Ronnie’s gentle urging elevates
me out of my trance. “Oh. Sorry.
I was just thinking about . . . him.”
Let’s talk about you and me instead.
I’ll admit I had a pretty tough time
when I found out about the stuff
you were doing. But then I started
thinking about me, and where I was
then—getting high, cutting school,
hanging out on the strip with my
friends, and fighting with my parents
when they called me on it. Who knows
how far I might have gone if I’d kept
down the same path? Not to say
I’m perfect now, but it was a wake-up
call, and one I seriously needed.
I love you, Cody. I should’ve seen
you were in trouble. Should’ve asked.
You probably wouldn’t have admitted
it. Forthrightness (that’s a word, yeah?)
isn’t your best thing. That has to change.
I’m Speechless
Is she really going to stay with me,
despite my treachery, not to mention
my disability? “Does this mean you’ll
give me another chance? That you
forgive me?” I can’t believe she’ll jump
right in and agree, and she doesn’t.
In fact, she sits for way too long,
silently studying my face. Finally,
she says, I’m not sure forgiveness
is possible, Cody. Trust is the core
of commitment, and my faith in you
has been shattered. Whether or not
it’s repairable will take time for me
to decide. But if I walk away now,
I’ll never know for sure, will I?
She, at least, could walk away.
Which kind of brings me back to,
“What are you, some kind of saint?”
Ronnie spits laughter. You know
me better than that. Now she turns
serious. What I am is in love with you.
What I’ve learned is just how resilient
love can be. You can beat it, pound it
into pulp, but killing it is hard to do.
Little flickers of hope sizzle
like sparklers inside me. Can it really
be possible to move forward from here,
finish school, build a career, with
a girl as perfect as Ronnie by my side?
Can love even survive, let alone thrive,
immersed in the dreary details
of living with someone like me?
“But what about . . . about . . . ?”
I don’t know, Cody. I’ve never
considered myself especially strong,
and I’ll have to be, won’t I? This
isn’t just a storm. It’s a freaking
tornado, and it’s doing its best
to blow our world apart. I guess
the question is, do we kneel down
and let it wipe us out, or hang on
tight and work our asses off to rebuild
what we can and start again? She stops
to draw breath, and I’m struck by
the way the curves of her breasts expand
and contract, expand and contract.
Hey. What are you staring at? Good
to know your eyes work okay, I guess.
Yeah, My Eyes Work Fine
But other things don’t work at all,
and the truth is, sex with Ronnie
was an important part of who “we” were.
“I so want to believe it’s possible
to have some kind of future with you.
But you have to understand that
my legs aren’t the only things
that might be lost to me. I mean . . .”
I take a couple of deep breaths.
“My favorite memories are lying
in bed with you, holding you close,
touching you, and you teasing me,
making me hard, but making me wait
so it would last a very long time.
And then, being inside you, God!
You are just so incredible, all I want
is to make you feel half as good as
I feel, remembering. What if I can’t?”
She has listened patiently, those
pretty eyes never veering away
from mine. Now she says, I liked
that, too. Bu
t it isn’t what made me
love you. Besides . . . She grins.
Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.
We Laugh Together
Warm. Soothing. Remembered.
And that invites another kiss.
Honeyed. Luscious. Reinvented.
She puts on the brakes too soon. Better
stop before someone takes a picture.
Besides, we’ve got work to do.
Déjà vu. “Uh-oh. I don’t think
I like the sound of that. That’s what
Federico says every time I see him.”
I know. And he swears you refuse
to cooperate. Just to be clear, with
me you have no choice, and from
what I hear the PTs at the rehab
hospital don’t take crap from patients,
so you’d better be prepared to give
it your all. I’ve been doing some
research, and I want to share a few
videos with you. She reaches into
her backpack, extracts a tablet, and
turns it on. First, there’s a website
you should check out. It’s got a ton
of interviews with people with spinal
cord injuries, both paraplegia and
tetraplegia—that’s the new word for
quadriplegia, did you know that?
Apparently she thinks I haven’t heard
anything these people keep telling me.
Mom hustles back into the room
just as Ronnie starts touring the site.
She pauses to show us several short clips
of SCI patients, doctors and therapists.
Visiting hours officially end during
the marathon, but apparently my team
thinks this is more important than
rules. Maybe they’re right. My biggest
takeaway from the session is knowing
I’m not alone with either my injury
or my reaction to it. It’s normal
to feel like a freak when that is, in
fact, what you’ve become. Still,
every single one of them insists
it’s possible to move on and create
a fulfilling future. It’s a regular
SCI house party. Wonder how much
is bullshit. Hey. Wait. What if
they’re all ringers, not paralyzed
at all, just paid to say they are, and
no worries because hey, it gets better?
Go Ahead, Label Me Cynical
Okay, considering that website
is an SCI resource clearinghouse,
they’re probably mostly legit.
I’ve bookmarked that site for you,
but now I want you to watch this
video. It’s by this amazing woman. . . .
It’s a long glimpse into the rebound
of a lady who broke her neck in a car
crash. They told her she’d never so
much as move her fingers again,
but by sheer strength of will, and
forcing herself to tap into her muscle
memory, she managed not only that,
but using swim therapy, taught herself
to walk unassisted in water, where gravity
can’t interfere. Ronnie holds my hand
until it’s over. “That’s incredible.
Only problem is, I’m not that strong.”
Don’t say that. You are, and I’ll be
here to help you. She places the tablet
on the table next to the bed, stands
and pulls back the sheet, not even
wincing at the too-obvious tube. First
things first. It’s time for you to sit up.
A Poem by Iris Belcher
Sitting Up
Who’d have thought this
simple thing would become
an impossible chore?
I’m
very sure I managed it
while in my crib,
when my bones were still
pliable, my muscles soft.
Yet here I am today,
not
able to prop myself upright
for more than an hour at
a time. I’m only thirty-four
and being tugged toward
a distant doorway I’m not
ready
to enter. My mother
won’t say it to my face, but
I notice the blame in her eyes,
know when Ginger comes
home I’ll see it in her, too, only
magnified, and I will carry that
to
the cold sandy pit
they’ll lower me into
without forgiveness when I
die.
Ginger
I Keep Thinking
About Iris dying, withering
into the dried-up flower she’s always
aspired to be. I keep thinking
I need to manufacture the tiniest
spoonful of sympathy—elixir
for me. No amount of medicine
can help her now, and I don’t feel
the slightest bit bad about that.
Instead, I keep wishing she’d go
ahead and take that long, scary walk
before Gram can manage to pick
me up. Gram tells me it’s a matter
of days now, that the final paperwork
giving my grandmother custody
of all of Iris’s children will arrive
any time. Does our mother have any
regrets, other than doing the guy
who infected her, obviously without
protection? Considering the state
of her deterioration, that had to have
happened seven or eight years ago,
probably soon after Porter was born.
Baby Sandy was carried in her HIV-
infected womb. Luckily, the stats
were in his favor, at least that’s what
Gram told me when I asked why
he wasn’t born positive. Only one
in four babies will pick up the virus
in utero if the mother goes untreated,
Gram said. Iris didn’t even suspect it.
Ob-gyns don’t test for HIV as standard
procedure, but even if they did,
Iris wouldn’t have known because
she never was one for prenatal care.
I remember her whining when she
was twin-carrying Honey and Pepper:
All those tedious office visits,
and the outcome will always be
the same. It’s just a way to take
money from people who don’t have
enough to start with. You’re healthy,
right? Somehow, all six of us
mostly were, despite the fact that
Iris smoked at least a pack a day.
Well, healthy except for Mary Ann’s
asthma and Porter’s heart murmur
and my ridiculous attraction to the very
substances I hated to smell on Iris.
Iris Has No Regrets There
I’m sure. She loved smoking.
Needed to drink. But what
about any of the rest? Does
she realize Sandy might have
come into this world cursed
with a shortened life span?
Does it bother her at all?
What about leaving her kids
behind when she heads on
down to the brimstone-heated
whorehouse? Oh, and how
does she feel about putting me
up for sale? Does she carry
even the smallest thimbleful
of remorse for that at all?
My guess is the only thing
she’s sorry about is having
cut her life in half. I suppose
it’s a little sad that she’ll die
before her thirty-fifth birthday.
Wonder if the kids even know
she’s dying. Wonder if they’ll miss
the mother who’s been nothing
but a negative presence in their lives.
I Only Hope
She never auctioned off my sisters.
Mary Ann would tell me if it happened
to her, not that I can do one damn
thing to change it. And now a big
old knife of guilt rips through me.
Running away accomplished zilch,
especially considering where Alex
and I ended up. It was totally selfish,
and what if it only opened the door
to one of the kids being traded
for cigarette money? I could probably
forgive the fact that Iris was a sex
worker, but making one out of me,
and profiting from the rapes
that ground my childhood into
oblivion? What do I say when
I see her? “Hey, Iris, I’m home.
I’d like to tell you I’m sorry
you’re dying, but that would be
a lie. Could you hurry the process,
please?” And how much do I confess
to Gram? I haven’t said a word to her
about why I ran off. Do I want her
to hate her daughter as much as I do?
Play It by Ear
That’s what I’ll do, like every
girl here, pretty much. One day
feeds the next, and the routine
grows exponentially more boring.
I never really learned how to deal
with routine. We’ve always moved
around a lot, never put down roots
in a town or school, Iris chasing
dreams with penises, one after
another. You can’t keep friends
like that, which is why I’m so close
with my sisters and brothers.
Alex was the first outside person
I’d ever truly connected with. God,
I miss her. But I guess she’s moved
on with her life, totally independent
of me. For all the texts I’ve sent her,
she’s only bothered to answer a few.
I try one more time now. HEY GIRL.
STILL PUKING IN THE MORNING?
BEEN THINKING ABOUT U AND
HOW WE MET. DID I EVER TELL
U I NEVER HAD A REAL FRIEND
BEFORE U? MISS TALKING TO U.
NOT THE SAME SWAPPING
STORIES WITH STRANGERS.
HEARD SOME GOOD ONES
THO. WELL, SO BAD THEY’RE