First Steps (A Short Story)

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  Brian Hartman

   

   

  Copyright 2010 Brian Hartman

  First Steps

  By: Brian Hartman

  Dr. Stevens closed the door behind him.

  "Hello, Dave. I'm Dr. Stevens. Nice to meet you."

  "Hi."

  "So, Dave, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

  "Whadda ya wanna know?"

  "Whatever you want to tell me."

  Dave rattled it off in the name-rank-serial number style he'd known since his first remembered doctor's visit.

  "Okay. My name's David Riggler. I'm in seventh grade in Garfield Elementary School."

  "How's the school year going so far this year?"

  Dave looked nervously at his fingers, cracking his knuckles, shifting in his wheelchair.

  "My grades're okay, I guess. Mostly B's. An A in English."

  Dr. Stevens smiled. "So things're going pretty well for you this year?"

  "Not really."

  "Why not? It sounds like they are."

  Dave sighed in exasperation. "I've got other problems. I'm sure my mother told you why I'm here."

  Dr. Stevens nodded slightly. "Actually, I was hoping to hear it from you."

  "Okay, it's something like this: The school board pays for my physical therapy. They want me to walk on a walker. I don't want to. They don't understand why, so they sent me here. So they could find out, or so that I could find a way to explain it to them. That's what I think, anyway..."

  Dave gripped his armrests tightly.

  "Listen, do you have to write in that notebook? I'd rather you didn't write a damn book about this."

  "It's only to help me remember our sessions."

  "It makes me really uncomfortable."

  "Do you want me to put it away?"

  "Yes. Please."

  "Alright."

  Dr. Stevens opened a drawer in his desk and laid the notebook inside.

  "So what were you saying? About physical therapy?"

  "It's stupid. The physical therapist and the school want me to walk on a walker. I don't want to."

  "Why not?"

  "Listen, everything I say here stays here, right?"

  Dr. Stevens leaned forward a little. “You're not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?”

  “Of course I've thought about it. I'm handicapped, for Chrissake, and I'm almost thirteen. But I'd never do anything about it. A, I'm an atheist, and for an atheist, there's nothing but oblivion after death. And B, I'm a chickenshit. The idea of oblivion doesn't really appeal to me.”

  “But you feel sad and hopeless a lot?”

  “I dunno. I wouldn't say 'a lot'. What's a lot? Anyway, you didn't answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Everything I say here, stays here?”

  “If you tell me you're thinking of hurting yourself, I have to report that.”

  “People who talk about killing themselves don't do it. My mother's a therapist. She told me.”

  Dr. Stevens nodded. “That's true, but if you told me, I couldn't just ignore it.”

  “Yeah, well, don't worry. You know how many pills I have access to? If I wanted to be dead, I'd be dead already.”

  “Then don't worry about it. You can say whatever you want.”

  Dave looked towards the door, motioning with his head.

  "It's so quiet in the waiting room. Can anyone here what we're saying?"

  "You didn't hear any noise outside?"

  "I dunno. There was a noise like an air conditioner'r something..."

  "That's a white noise maker. It isn't loud, but it keeps people on the outside from hearing. It blocks all sound coming from here."

  "So I can say what I want?"

  "Of course. It's part of my job to be someone you can talk to without worrying about it."

  Dave took a deep breath and pushed himself up straight in his wheelchair. His braces clicked against his footrests.

  "Okay. Here's the deal. I hate walking. I hate the walker. I hate everything associated with it."

  "Why?"

  "Do you know what I have to do to do what they call 'walking'? I have to lock my knees. Then I have to pull myself to a standing position on my walker. After that, I have to lock my hips. All for what? So that I can perform this pathetic little act they call 'walking'. Who needs it?"

  "There must be some reason they want you to walk."

  "They say they want me to be more independent. The physical therapist keeps pushing the fact that it's good exercise. They even try to convince me that it looks better, as if I care."

  "When you say 'they', I assume you mean the school board."

  "And the therapist, but not only them. My parents like how it looks and the fact that it stretches my leg muscles."

  "You don't like those reasons?"

  "I guess you do, then..."

  "It's not important what I think."

  "But I'd like to know."

  "Your parents are paying forty dollars an hour. You don't want to sit here listening to my opinion."

  "I guess you're right. Forget about it."

  "What do you think of the reasons they have?"

  "They're crazy."

  "Why?"

  "How can it make me independent? I move about ten times faster in my 'chair than I do with the walker. It just slows me down."

  Dr. Stevens pointed at the wheelchair with his pen. "You can't get up stairs in a chair."

  "Ever try getting up stairs using a walker? Besides, that's what elevators're for."

  "What about crutches?"

  "I've tried them. They don't work. I don't really have enough balance. And as far as looking better, that ship's sailed already. It's not a lot different being known as 'the kid on the walker' than being known as 'the kid in the wheelchair'. What the hell's the difference?"

  "Your parents think there are other benefits. You don't agree?"

  Dave smiled sarcastically.

  "Yeah. I do."

  "So...?"

  "Dave glanced down at the floor and the looked back to Dr. Stevens.

  "Walking helps keep my legs straight and improves my circulation down there. But I don't care."

  "Why not?"

  "My legs aren't a real part of my body."

  "They're as much a part of your body as anything else."

  "Bullshit. What've they done for me? I can't even feel them! The only time I notice them is when there's something wrong with them. Why should I worry about them? If they fell off tomorrow, it'd just mean a few less pounds to me."

  "That's an interesting attitude."

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Calm down, Dave.”

  Dave gestured at the walls. “You think 'cause you have some degrees on your walls, suddenly you're an expert at everything about me? Who in the hell're you?”

  “It was just an...”

  “It was just an arrogant thing to say.”

  “Dave calm down. I'm trying to help. That's my job.” He pointed to the diplomas on the wall. “I worked for those degrees. They don't make me some kind of know-it-all, but my training does help me help people. Isn't that what you're here for?”

  “I'm here because people don't get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “I just told you. The whole walking thing.”

  “What walking thing?”

  Dave looked away, one hand gripping his right wheel, rubbing his face in frustration.

  “Look, could we just change the subject, please?”

  "Whatever you like. What would you like to talk about?"

  Dave settled back.

  "You don't kn
ow anything about my social life."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Well, I'm the only handicapped kid in my school."

  "Okay."

  "Yeah... Makes things interesting."

  "How so?"

  Dave leaned down, picked up his right foot, and then threw it over his left leg. “Like I said, I'm 'the kid in the wheelchair'. Not just to other kids. To the teachers, too. Some of the teachers actually talk louder and slower to me, like I'm deaf or something. It's so dumb...”

  Dr. Stevens just stared.

  “I'm handicapped, in a world of walking people. I mean, if they know any other people in wheelchairs at all, it's people who're disabled. Y'know...They've been in car wrecks, broken their necks in diving accidents, that kind of thing. They've got no idea. No clue. The therapist and the school board want me to walk on a walker. They have this idea that it'll be good for me, or that it will make me independent, or look good. They don't see it."

  Slowly, Dr. Stevens removed the notebook and pen from his desk. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes in the notebook, furiously scribbling notes.

  "See what?"

  "Every time I have to get up and walk, they think I'm winning a victory. That I'm closer to 'normal' 'r something. But I'm really suffering a defeat. For all the pain in my hips, the trouble of locking my knees, the frigging hop-drag motion of 'walking' itself, nothing happens. Nothing I can measure or appreciate. For all the work, I end up with nothing but a greater sense of being alone. Sure, maybe I look better. Maybe I look a little less handicapped, but looking a little less handicapped doesn't do a damn thing for me. And that's not how I feel, anyway. When I walk, I feel more handicapped, more helpless. That's what it does for me. Nothing else. "

  As the buzzer went off, Dr. Stevens looked up.

  "I think we're done for today."