Finally, he says, Since we’re friends
now, here’s a story I don’t tell
many people. My high school
sweetheart was this amazing
girl. Smart. Gorgeous. Going
places. A week after graduation,
a semi hit her car. She survived,
but lost a leg, and her face wasn’t
ever going to be as beautiful
again. I did everything I could
to persuade her life was still
worth living, but she killed herself
that summer. You want respect?
Get your ass up out of that bed
and onto your feet again. You can.
Add Vince
To my cheer squad. Weird.
So goddamn weird. “Sucks
about your girlfriend, dude.”
It was a tragedy. What about you?
You’ve thought about suicide,
yeah? He looks at me intently.
“Strangely, no. I mean, I did
ask the Great Squash to please
haul my ass home to the pumpkin
patch in the sky, but he ignored
me, and I’m way too much
of a coward to do the deed myself.”
He laughs, but then grows
serious. But . . . All right, I know
this is really personal, but any
chance you can have children?
Not that you need a dozen
next month or anything, but
historically the Carinos are big
on offspring—you know, like
populating the planet with Italians.
“I don’t need a dozen, ever,
and I’m not sure I’ll even want
one or two. But I felt that way
before this, and if I change
my mind, apparently the semen
factory is still functioning. It’s
the delivery method that’s in
doubt. Anyway, you’re not saying
you want me to knock Ronnie up?”
His amusement grows. You do,
and I’ll kick your ass. Unless
that’s what she wants one day.
“Just so you know, my ass can’t
feel a thing, so kicking it would be
irrelevant.” Am I really joking
about this? “As for the rest,
I guess it’s one step at a time
(figuratively, of course) for now.
Tomorrow is a long way away.
The challenge is figuring out
how to get through today.”
Fair enough. Listen. I’m happy
to get hold of your mom about
your car and the house renovation.
But would you please let her know
I’m going to call, so she doesn’t think
I’m out to scam her or something?
I Agree
And Vince says goodbye, and as
I watch his retreat an odd sensation
settles over me: contentment.
Not at my condition, or the things
that led me here, but at the vague
possibility of a meaningful future.
The first step is acceptance, that’s what
they keep telling me, and I understand
that my only real choices are to accept
or take the quick way out, like Vince’s
girlfriend. My seventeenth birthday
is still a month away, three days after
the current year melts into the next.
I should be thinking about football.
Junior prom. Geometry, chemistry,
and American history. Psychology.
I should be worrying about Christmas
and what to buy for Mom and Ronnie.
Those things are lost to me, but what
remains is more important, and vital
to my struggle to, as Vince said,
get my ass up out of bed and onto
my feet again. I’ve got love. Support.
And at least a couple of friends.
Funny, but I never really thought
about my friends—or lack of them.
I had lots back in Kansas, and I
probably would have qualified
some of the people I knew from
school here in Vegas as buddies,
but no, not really. And of the girls
I went out with, only Ronnie
qualified. As for Vince, I saw him
as a means to an end. I had it all
bass-ackwards, and in hindsight
I see everything I did, every damn
goal I set, revolved totally around
me. Why did it take something like
this to clear my vision, shine
a spotlight on what’s truly important—
not money or dope or winning a bet,
but treasuring the people who love
you? Figuring that out is the upside.
The downside is I didn’t get it while
Jack was still around, or before I could
step in and stop Cory’s downslide.
But any chance of that has evaporated.
Ditto the happiness I felt moments ago.
A Sudden Jolt
Zaps my spine, electric pain
just south of my disconnection.
“Jesus!” I fling the word toward
the wall, and it bounces back, too
loud in the hospital silence.
The effort sends another bolt
down, where I have no feeling
to speak of. How is it possible?
My finger starts working the call
button again and again. Overkill,
and I know it, but I want relief now!
Footsteps come pounding and Nurse
Carolyn hustles in. What’s wrong?
She hurries to the side of the bed.
Pain? What kind, and where?
I’m familiar enough with the vocab
to tell her, “Lumbar region, neuropathic.”
The kind initiated by my short-circuited
nerves, rather than musculoskeletal,
which is muscle or joint discomfort,
caused by overloading them. This is not
overwork. “It’s bad. Real bad. Please,
can you give me something?” She nods
and goes to get permission while I sit
here wondering if the source of this
searing static isn’t my stressed-out
brain informing my body that I
deserve to hurt. Maybe I should
keep my appointment with the shrink—
the one I’ve been avoiding, as if I
don’t need a psyche adjustment.
Carolyn returns with both meds
and my mom in tow. Mom watches
me swallow a dose of relief, and
waits for the nurse to go. I need
to talk to you about the house—
“Hey. Ronnie’s brother, Vince,
stopped by. He says he has a cousin
who can help with the alterations. . . .”
Another sharp stab in my lower
back makes me wince, and Mom’s face
creases with concern. “Don’t worry.
I’ll be okay as soon as this pill
kicks in. Anyway, Vince says maybe
he could have it done by . . . what?”
She pulls a chair over close to me.
Takes my hand. I didn’t want to worry
you about anything outside of here, but . . .
But There’s a Lot
To worry about, starting with Mom
hasn’t been able to put in very many
hours at her already low-paying job.
She’s behind on bills, chief among
them the mortgage. Jack’s life
insurance kept her head above water
for several months, but she can’t see
a way to satisfy the bank. She’s thinking
about letting the house go to a short sale,
which means we’ll have to live
somewhere else. Uncle Vern will
let us move in for a while. There isn’t
a rehab hospital close by, but there’s
a gym not far away. Hopefully we can
find a decent physical therapist.
“Go back to Kansas? No fucking way!
What will I do there? I can’t farm. I can’t
fix tractors. Hey, I know. Maybe I can
find work as a scarecrow.” Anger carves
into me, a white-hot blade. “No, Mom.
I won’t leave Ronnie or give up on my rehab.
I’ll figure something out.” Where can I
find a big wad of cash? Is there a market
for sex with a guy in a wheelchair?
A Poem by Brielle Scott
Scarecrow
That lovely name
is what I was called
in elementary school.
All it took was one
vile
boy informing everyone
on the playground
that my clothes were Goodwill,
and my face was
ugly
enough to scare
crows dead off a high
wire, and the other kids’
laughter
inspired a whole line
of barnyard jokes. It took
years to understand how that
defined
the way I looked at myself
and perhaps explained
why I changed myself so
drastically. I became one of
the painted
women I saw on TV,
and that inspired
all the wrong people to steal
piece after piece of
me.
And then Ginger came along.
Ginger
Stealing Time
To spend with Brielle has totally
been a challenge. You’re not
supposed to hook up with other
residents here, and since we’re all
girls, that isn’t a problem for most.
At first, it wasn’t an issue for us, either.
But kissing led to touching led to
the overwhelming need to explore
each other in the most personal ways.
And that means sneaking around,
something I hate. I’m an in-your-face,
this-is-me-take-it-or-leave-it kind
of person. I’d rather just let everyone
know that Brielle and I have connected
because this feels like we’re living
a lie, and dishonesty sucks most of all.
Still, after dinner, rather than follow
the group down the hall to watch TV,
I go to my room, wait a few minutes
for the others to settle in, then I slink
the opposite direction, to Brielle.
She’s waiting for me on her bed in
a fuzzy blue robe. She opens it, and
there is nothing underneath but
toasted-oat skin stretched over soft
flesh. She is all curves, a complete
contrast to Alex’s taut, straight lines.
Turn off the light, Brielle whispers.
Darkness shades the room, but
not completely. The moon is bright
through the window, offering just
enough illumination so we can see
each other’s silhouettes. Brielle
coaxes me closer. I’m nervous,
but more about someone finding
out than about what we want to make
happen. I approach slowly, peeling
back my blouse and dropping
my skirt to the floor. “What about
your roommate? Should we worry?”
No need to rush, she purrs. Sonya
is cool, and I asked her to please
give me an hour alone in exchange
for some help with her algebra.
“Good. I do appreciate a smart
woman, not to mention excellent
planning. But I’ve got something
more exciting than algebra in mind.”
I Climb into Bed
Beside her, open my arms, and
she settles into them like a warm
mist. Her lips seek mine, and our kiss
is sweet and gentle at first, but quickly
blossoms into passion. Brielle rolls
onto her back, urges me on top
of her, and the skin-to-skin contact
lifts the rich scent of cocoa butter.
“Mmm. You smell like chocolate.
Hot chocolate.” We giggle softly,
like little girls, though the response
of our bodies is all woman. With Alex,
I was never in control, something
that always bothered me. I take charge
now, and it’s a feeling like no other
to give pleasure before asking for it
in kind. Emotion wells up, seeking
release along with the rise and fall
of her breasts. I don’t dare admit
to having fallen in love, though,
not to her or to myself, so I find
other words, hope they convey
how very much I care: “You are
beautiful, do you know that?”
Unreasonably, her muscles contract
and grow tight. Don’t say that.
Don’t lie to me. I’m ugly enough
to scare crows dead off a high wire.
My initial reaction is to laugh,
but I stifle it, knowing she means
what she said. “When was the last
time you looked in a mirror?”
She sighs. Every time I look in
a mirror I see that girl—the one
my classmates made fun of. I can’t
find anyone else there. Just her.
“That is so wrong. Whoever told
you that you were ugly was obviously
blind. I wish he—or she—could see
you now. You are amazing.”
I kiss her to prove it, and she relaxes
again. “That’s better,” I soothe, then
spend thirty minutes convincing
her how wrong that person was.
I Only Think About Alex
Four or five times.
I try to keep my mind
solidly here with Brielle,
but comparisons seem
to be inevitable. Alex
made me take, take, take.
Brielle opens herself to
my giving. Truthfully,
I have always been on
the receiving end, whether
by invitation or because
I had no choice. This is so
new I might have no idea
how to enjoy it, except it’s
instinctive. My own joy
comes from making Brielle
sigh with pleasure, and at
last cry out that yes, this
is right, and yes she feels
beautiful. And I love
that I can do that for her
when I couldn’t manage it
for Alex. I am turned on,
alive, because I am powerful.
Post-Pleasure
No time to revel in afterglow,
we slip back into our clothes
before Sonya can return to claim
her bed. “I wish we could sleep
together.” Thinking about it,
I’ve rarely slept alone. Before
I left Gram’s, there was always
at least one sister tucked in beside
me. And then there was Alex,
> who I loved to snuggle up against,
though as time went on, she pulled
away from me more and more.
That would be nice, says Brielle.
But that will probably never
happen, and it makes me sad.
Why did we have to connect now?
“The natural cussedness of things,
that’s what my gram used to say.
It’s like the good stuff always hits
at the exact wrong time. Sucks.”
She comes over, slides her arms
around my neck, kisses me sweetly.
Are you really leaving day after
tomorrow? Why do you have to go?
I push her gently away, look
down toward the floor so I can’t
see the sadness in her eyes. “Gram
needs me. And I have to figure
out who I am. I don’t know who
that is, or who I want to become.
I only know who I was, and this place
is a constant reminder of yesterday’s
Ginger, the one I have to leave
behind. I just wish I didn’t have
to leave you, too. I never expected
to care about someone again.”
Brielle pushes closer, lifts a hand,
and her fingertips flutter against
my cheek. I’ll go you one better.
I never expected to care for anyone,
period. I’ve worked very hard to
avoid it, in fact, which is why
everyone thinks I’m cold. Maybe
I am, but it’s because I’m afraid
of getting hurt. Love wasn’t meant
for people like you and me. You
have to be strong and brave to fall
in love. And maybe a little stupid.
Before I Can Figure Out
How to reply, we hear footsteps
outside the door. Brielle pops up
onto her bed and I hustle over
to the cracked vinyl chair near
the window, making sure my
clothing is straight and buttoned.
My butt is barely planted when
Sonya comes in, humming
a Maroon 5 song I recognize
from back when I still listened to
music. She stops when she sees me.
Considers. Smiles. Oh. Hey, Ginger.
I don’t really care if she suspects,
so I meet her expression head-on.
“Hi, Sonya. Thanks for giving us
a little space. We were just talking
about how you have to be brave
to fall in love, or maybe stupid.
What do you think?” I address
Sonya, but give Brielle a wink.
Sonya laughs. I think you have