Traffick

  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