Straight is instrumental to my
qualifying, as they’ve “hired” me,
so I have a job that includes room
and board plus necessary transportation.
But Mama and Papa have to agree.
Riling them up now could be bad.
“You mean because my mother
might decide to get even.”
That revenge trumps disowning
her demon-possessed daughter.
She seems like the type, yes.
I’m expecting the notarized
papers any day now. Once I get
them, we file the petition and
secure a hearing date. Then
we still have to serve notice
on your parents, and that’s before
you even see a judge. It’s not really
complicated. It just takes time.
But don’t worry. We’ll make it happen.
Don’t Worry
Everyone keeps saying that,
but nobody tells me how
to make myself quit. Every
facet of my life is stressful.
Thank God I’ve got such great
support at Walk Straight.
Without this place and these
people, especially Sarah,
where would I be living today?
Would I even be alive,
let alone have a solid chance
at a decent future? Which
brings me back to Boise and
Tears of Zion. Because if
Elko County closes it down . . .
“Question. What happens
to Eve if Father packs up
his disciples and moves on?
She’d go home, right?” Yeah,
and if she does, then what?
I’m afraid that would be up
to your parents. As I said before,
usually parents are clueless
about what actually
goes on at these facilities.
It would be very hard
to prove they knew what
went on at Tears of Zion,
and even if you could, it
wouldn’t be enough to make
the state step in and take
custody of your sister. Not
unless they actually took part
in the activities, or somehow
inflicted physical abuse.
But let me ask you a question.
Are you absolutely certain
your mom and dad do know?
Did you talk to your mother
about it when she was here?
“She never gave me the chance.
You don’t talk to my mother.
She tosses words at you,
or in my case, insults. Besides,
no way would she admit it.”
Sarah shrugs. Probably not.
But you never know, and I’m
big on communication, if
for no other reason than to
let the bad thoughts escape.
Once We Get Back
I’ve got around an hour
to kill before Andrew
is supposed to arrive.
I spend it helping Sarah
file paperwork. Earning
my paycheck, and letting
the bad thoughts escape
through mindless office
activity. I can hardly believe,
after this long, I’ll see
my Andrew in just a short
while, and I keep watching
the time. Click. Click. Click.
The hands of the old-fashioned
wall clock barely move at all,
then suddenly it’s twelve
thirty, the appointed time.
But no Andrew. Click. Click.
Twelve forty-five. Click.
One o’clock. He’s not coming.
I keep working, pushing
back tears. 1:10. 1:20.
And suddenly there’s a male
voice outside the office.
The door opens, and . . .
We Stare
At each other for several long
seconds. Oh my God. It’s him.
It’s really him. “Andrew.”
He opens his arms, and I’m in
them, and he picks me up,
spins me round and round
until my head is spinning, too.
Now he stops, looks down
into my eyes. My beautiful
Eden. I finally caught you.
Our kiss is tentative at first,
and not just because he’s wearing
a beard, but then it’s like our lips
remember, and no amount of
facial hair can interfere with
this connection. It’s sweet. And
passionate. And soaked in love.
It lasts for a very long time, until
finally I have to say, “Oh, Andrew,
I love you. Don’t let go of me.”
He keeps his arms wrapped
tightly around me. I’ll never
let you go again. Can this
really be you? I thought I’d lost
you forever. Tears fill his eyes.
And I’m Crying, Too
I can’t bear to pull away.
I lay my ear against his chest,
listen to his heartbeat, which
sparks delicious memories of lying
together under the Boise sky.
That scene fades into another,
out on his ranch, inhaling alfalfa
green while we made love for
the first—and only—time.
And that makes me think of Mama.
I extract myself from his arms,
reach up to touch the hair curling
softly around his chin. “You
grew a beard. I like it. Makes
you look so Idaho rancher.”
He smiles and his eyes glisten.
That’s what I am, ma’am. Or, I
should say, miss. Have to remember
polite talk. I spend an awful lot
of time alone. Not anymore, though.
“Oh, Andrew, there’s so much
to talk about. Some of it’s good,
some I’m scared to tell you. But
I’m strong enough with you here.”
It’s a three-hour conversation.
A Poem by Veronica Carino
Some Conversations
Just don’t happen, no
matter how important
they are.
You
keep putting them off—
let’s talk tomorrow, Cody,
or next week or next year—
because, think as hard
as you’re able, you
don’t
have the right words
to launch them. Or,
you withhold pertinent
facts because you don’t
know
how the person across
the table might react.
But sometimes,
despite everything,
what
must be conveyed erupts
from your mouth
like a geyser you dare
not cap, and once that
happens, there’s nothing left
to say.
Cody
Been Practicing
Transferring myself from bed
to wheelchair and back into bed again.
The first few times were pretty damn
lame. Without Federico on my ass
to show me the ropes, I never
would have figured out the trick,
which has to do with weight shift
and lean, and compensating for what
my legs have lost with the strength
of my arms and core. Both were in
miserable shape until I decided I’m not
g
oing to lie around grieving for the rest
of my life. Screw that. So I asked
for weights I could use in bed, and I’m
looking forward to time in the gym.
Tomorrow I move over to the rehab
hospital, where I’ll work my butt off
every day, gaining what I can. If I wind
up back in Kansas, something I’m real
determined not to let happen, I want
to be the strongest wheelchair jockey
around, in case I need to kick some
farmer’s ass for hitting on Mom or
something. I mean I could always use
a gun instead. But where’s the challenge
in that? The game would be two viable
limbs conquering four. Not great odds,
but that’s where the bluff—playing
the disabled card—comes in. Once
a gambler, always a gambler, I guess.
I’d probably be a better gambler
in the sticks, too, playing poker with
country boys. In Vegas, everyone knows
the rules of the game. Just, please God,
if there is a You, don’t let me go back
to Kansas. “Hey, Jack. You up there?”
I hiss out loud. “Could you please put
in a good word for me? And if you
happen to be looking down, check this out.”
I pull the wheelchair over, very close,
angle it so I don’t have to push up
over the wheel. Lean forward, scoot
my butt back, which puts my weight
forward. Feet flat on the floor, arms
close to my sides. Grab the bed frame
with one hand, the chair with the other,
and lift . . . The wheelchair rolls back
and in one sudden motion, fuck! I find
myself on the floor. Did someone forget
to put on the brakes? Federico sweeps
into the room. How many times have
I told you to do that first? It’s the most
important part. Oh, well. Why not
work on floor-to-wheelchair transfers?
“Really? That’s the best you can do?
Aren’t you even going to ask if I’m okay?”
I’m not really pissed, and he knows it.
Will that make you feel better? Okay,
you okay, Cody? Now shut up and get
to work. Pull the chair up behind you,
and lock the wheels this time. Right
hand on the chair frame, left flat on
the floor. Remember, the farther
forward your head goes, the higher
your ass goes. One. Two. Three.
That’s it! First try. Now, the other way.
He Makes Me Work Hard
For ten minutes. Floor to chair.
Chair to floor. When he says I
can quit, my arms are sore and
I’m winded. “Damn, man. I need
aerobic exercise. I feel like a smoker
on a bad air quality day in Beijing.”
I hear that’s every day in Beijing.
Until you get there, you’ll be able
to work out your lungs at the new
hospital. By the way, I went to school
with one of the PTs there. Mandy’s hot.
I figured you’d appreciate it if I made
sure you’ll get to work with her.
She doesn’t take shit, either.
You’re a match made in heaven.
“Are you saying I give you shit?
Okay, maybe I do sometimes.
But no more than you deserve.”
Federico tsks. Listen to you. That’s
the thanks I get for the vast amount
of hard work I’ve invested in you?
“Dude. Who’s doing the work here?”
Wow. Despite his grumbling,
I think I’m going to miss this guy.
After Lunch
Carolyn comes in dressed in zebra-
striped scrubs. “Interesting pattern
there. Enough to cross my eyes.”
I thought it might distract you
while I take out the Foley. You
still want it removed, yes?
I nod. Since I’ve been here,
a Foley catheter has resided
in my penis, automatically
draining urine into a bag beside
the bed. After an SCI, two things
can happen to your bladder. Either
it will empty itself, all on its own,
and whether or not you want it to
(jeez, just picture that, out on a date
or something!), or it doesn’t know
when to go, and you’ve got to remind
it. After a thorough workup, my doctors
concluded my bladder is the second
kind, and I’ve got to encourage it to
empty several times a day. I want to be
mobile, which means I’ll have to insert
a tube into my joystick (not that it’s so
joyful anymore) so I can use a toilet
instead of wearing a piss bag on my leg.
At least, I’m going to give it a try.
Carolyn extracts the Foley. Not sure
if it would hurt if my urethra could
feel something, but it can’t, so there’s
zero pain. Once, the process would
have embarrassed me, but I’ve kind of
gotten used to health-care professionals
poking, prodding, manipulating,
and otherwise studying my not-so-
private parts. Once upon a time,
that might have turned me on.
Maybe it still does, not that I’d know
without looking, and that would be
perverted. Carolyn gives nothing
away. Okay. Now I’ll show you
the do-it-yourself routine. Always,
always, wash your hands before you
touch anything. That’s good advice
for everyone, but for you, it’s imperative.
Last thing you want is an infection.
As always, she is matter-of-fact, and
that’s exactly how she demonstrates
intermittent catheterization.
So Much to Learn
So much to understand
about the myriad ways
my life has changed.
I’m still swinging between
denial and acceptance, but
the former comes less often.
Before the incident, I knew
a little about SCI—I watched
Superman movies when I was
a kid, and heard the guy
who played him fell off
his horse and wouldn’t ever
go flying again. Now,
the Christopher & Dana
Reeve Foundation is a font
of information on SCI, not
to mention a funding stream
for nonprofits that provide
services to people like me.
So thank you, Superman,
for your personal sacrifice.
I’ve learned a lot from
the foundation’s website
and others like it, and what
the best of them offer
is not only resources, but
the knowledge that I’m not
alone, and that other people
with injuries much worse
than mine have risen above
denial, and even acceptance,
all the way to proving common
wisdom about spinal cord injury
wrong. It was Ronnie who
introduced me to them. Ronnie
who brought me a laptop
to investigate them. I’d pawned
my own when things began
to cartwh
eel out of control.
I asked if she didn’t need
her laptop for school.
She said not to worry, her dad
would get her another one.
Wonder if he’ll get pissed.
Wonder if he knows what
happened to the old one.
Wonder if he knows
what happened to the old me.
Almost Time
To check on out of here—my hospital
home away from home for months.
Ronnie comes in with some clothes.
Got these from your mom. She’ll be
here in a while to sign you out.
She would’ve brought them herself . . .
“Is there a ‘but’ attached to the end
of that sentence?” Ronnie moves
closer, looks at me with concerned
eyes. Eyes the shade of . . . violets?
“Purple contacts? That’s, um, unique.”
Ronnie changes eye color regularly.
She grins. Yeah. They make me look
exotic, don’t you think? Now she grows
serious. Anyway, I guess they’re releasing
your brother from detention. Your mom
had to take care of some paperwork.
Meanwhile, I can help you get dressed.
Cory. Man. I’ve been so focused
on myself, I’ve hardly even thought
about him. “Jesus. Has it been that long?
Poor Mom. Like she deserves something
else to worry about.” Hospitals. Lockup.
Paperwork. Bills. Her job. And now,
trying to keep Cory in school,
and out of the liquor cabinet.
“Mom’s going to need my help.”
Yep. And the best way to help
her at the moment is for you to get
dressed and check into the new
facility. This is prime time for you
to get stronger, and they are experts
at that. By the way, Vince dropped
your car off and Leon says he can
have it finished in a couple of weeks.
You’ll be on the road again in no time.
On the road. Freedom. A measure
of independence. Except . . . “Ronnie,
I don’t know how we’ll pay for it.”
Don’t worry. It won’t be that much,
and I’ve been looking into grants.
If all else fails, we’ll crowdsource it.
“Have I mentioned you’re an angel?
A stubborn, demanding, purple-eyed
angel? And have I told you lately
how very much I love you? More
and more every day. Kiss me. Please?”
My angel kisses like she’s possessed.
By the Time