by Lorrie Kruse
There’d be no Abby.
“So what?” he asked as he opened his eyes. With Crystal and Derrick back, he wouldn’t need Abby.
But Crystal and Derrick weren’t here.
Last night had been fun. Even if he’d been too drunk to really enjoy it. He wasn’t drunk now. He planned to keep it that way. The new and improved Matt.
New and improved Matt could call Abby.
Or the new and improved Matt could go back to bed.
That plan had definite possibilities.
He put his palms to the push rims, ready to go back to bed. The telephone rang. His mother, he figured. Or his father. He didn’t even want to talk to them. His father would ask if he had the bid ready. His mother would ask him a hundred times how he was doing.
He reached for the phone. “Hello.”
“Matt, it’s Abby.”
He sat up straighter.
“I was wondering if you had plans for this afternoon.”
“I had a hot date lined up with Jessica Alba, but it can wait. Why?”
“I have a little surprise for you, that’s all.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“A surprise kind of surprise. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“But…”
She’d already hung up.
He wheeled to the bathroom and checked his shave job to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. Should he change his shirt? he wondered as he reached toward the toothbrush holder. His shirt was clean, but it had a tear on the sleeve.
Where the hell was his damn toothbrush? He opened the cabinet above the sink. No toothbrush, but he did find the bottle of glue he’d lost earlier in the week.
Spreading toothpaste on his finger, he thought about the meager supply of shirts he’d brought to Milwaukee. Why hadn’t he brought anything nicer than a T-shirt? Like it really mattered. The shirt he had on was good enough for anything Abby had planned, which was probably nothing more than her giving him a printout of some paralyzed superman who’d conquered Kilimanjaro. You can do this too, she’d say, and then leave, and he’d have changed his clothes for nothing.
He spit into the sink and then wheeled out to the living room where he parked himself by the front window.
A man walked by with a dog on a leash. He’d often thought about getting a dog until the reality of his hectic lifestyle woke him up. That and Crystal, who wasn’t a pet person. An over-active lifestyle no longer stood in his way. Neither did Crystal.
He leaned closer to the window, his eyes tracking the mutt’s bouncy movement. He wondered if Abby liked pets. Maybe she’d want to go to the pound with him. Pick out a dog. Some floppy thing with big feet that little Fido would trip over. He and Abby could take Fido to the park, throw him a Frisbee. Take him camping too. He and Abby could borrow Brad’s boat and take Fido fishing.
“Good lord,” he muttered although he realized he was smiling. Maybe getting a dog was exactly what he should do.
The doorbell rang. His heart beat a strange tattoo. “It’s just Abby.” Just Abby. He drew in a shaky breath and then let it out slowly before he reached for the door.
Abby greeted him with, “You shaved. You look good.”
She did too. Her hair was down and brushed to a brilliant shine. Her plain-Jane jeans were just tight enough to display curves he’d never noticed before. Soft curves. Cuddly curves.
“So, are you ready?” she asked.
“For what, exactly?”
“You’ll see.” She nodded toward the hallway. “Come on.”
Before he could close the door, she yelled out, “Wait.”
“What?”
“Do you have your keys?”
“Yes, I have them right…” He patted his shirt pocket.
“Try the kitchen counter. That’s where you put them last night.”
Sure enough. That’s exactly where his keys were. Right next to the beer he’d started earlier. He looked over his shoulder. Abby was busy fluffing one of Faith’s floral arrangements, not paying a bit of attention to him. He could take a quick draw. Two even.
No, he warned himself as he grabbed his keys and pocketed them. He didn’t need alcohol. He turned his chair around with more force than necessary. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” She led him down the hallway.
“I’ve never been one for surprises. Just ask my mom.”
“Is there a childhood story involved?”
He laughed. She always seemed to love hearing his stories. As soon as they got into the car, he said, “Just before my ninth birthday, I found my presents in my parents’ closet. I opened every present and then wrapped it all up again.” But not before he’d dragged Derrick into the closet to show off his stash.
“Did you get into trouble?”
“Ma never said anything, but she had to have known because I wasn’t exactly the neatest kid on the block. Also, she became more creative with her hiding places after that.”
She looked his way. One corner of her mouth lifted. “Creative?”
“One year I found my presents hidden behind the pots and pans. Another year they were in the laundry hamper. The best one, though, was when she hid them in the freezer.”
“You’ve grown out of this, right?”
He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Of course.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Actually, it is the truth. I quit looking right around the same time I moved into my own house.” The house back in Fuller Lake that he didn’t live in anymore.
He looked out the passenger window. Buildings flashed before him like a sideways slide show. He breathed deeply, trying to ward off the depression that seemed to be an all too constant companion.
The flashing building slideshow came to a crawl as Abby turned into a parking lot.
He eyed the stretched out brick building with the sign reading Hoover Elementary. “Why are we at a grade school?” he asked as she parked between a van and a Toyota truck.
She patted his arm. “Patience is a virtue. Haven’t you ever heard that?”
He followed her into the school and down the hallway lined with empty coat hooks. Laughter and voices came from somewhere down the hall. The sound of a thumping basketball gave him a jolt of anticipation. The sounds grew louder as they made their way past the closed classroom doors. A basketball game in progress. Was that her big surprise?
“This must be the place,” Abby said, stepping through the open doors where the noise was coming from.
With his attention focused on the sight before him, he almost rammed into Abby when she stopped. Ten people were in the midst of a basketball game. The teams were made up of both men and women, their ages from mid-teen to upper fifties. Every one of them in a wheelchair. Four additional wheelchair-bound people sat on the sidelines.
One of the four, a middle-aged man, looked their way. He made his way over to them and extended his hand. “Matt, right? Glad you could come. I’m Ryan. I guess you could say I’m the coach.” He looked up at Abby, his smile growing with obvious appreciation. “And you must be Abby.”
Ryan’s hand was still meshed with Abby’s, and she was making no attempt to free herself. Matt crossed his arms and stared out across the court, but he could still see Abby with her hand nestled in the coach’s. On the court, a man in his mid-twenties wearing a green tank top crowded the teenage boy who had the ball. Green Shirt looked like he was out for blood as he blocked the pass, bringing back memories of Matt’s own aggressive style. He pretended the coach wasn’t gushing over Abby and put himself in Green Shirt’s position on the court. The kid with the ball twisted and then aimed to another player. Matt mentally intercepted while Green Shirt did the real interception.
“We’re always looking for new people,” Ryan said. “Right now we play for fun, but we’d like to form a team for competition. Think you might be interested in joining us?”
Matt shrugged like he wasn’t itching to get on the court. “Yeah,
I guess. Until I go back to Fuller Lake, that is.”
“Abby says you’re athletic. I take it you know the rules of basketball?”
“Lettered three years in high school.” Derrick had been captain.
“The rules are the same with a few modifications.” He motioned to the court. “Watch Alex, the kid in the green shirt. See how he handles the ball.”
Green Shirt bounced the ball and then dropped it into his lap. He pushed against his wheels twice, bounced the ball, and then put it on his lap. He wheeled forward. Green Shirt made it look easy, but Matt knew he could make it look better.
“We can’t push our wheels more than twice without dribbling, passing, or shooting the ball. Got that?”
“Yeah.” Piece of cake.
“Now watch Chuck, the amputee in the blue shirt.” When Alex came close to Chuck’s chair, the man stuck out his only leg, effectively snagging Alex’s chair. One of the bystanders blew a whistle and pointed to Chuck, who raised his hands as though to imply he was innocent.
Ryan nodded. “I knew he’d do that. He’s always cheating. That’s an example of the physical advantage foul. All players must stay seated at all times. If you use a functional leg in any way, that’s considered a foul.”
What he wouldn’t pay to be able to manage Chuck’s maneuver. “Don’t have to worry about that with me.”
“That’s right. Abby said you have no lower mobility.”
Heat prickled the back of his neck and cheeks.
“That’ll come in handy if we ever compete,” Ryan continued. “Each player is rated for mobility. There can only be so many class points on the court at one time, so the teams can stay relatively even. You’re a T1 complete I believe Abby said.”
A T1, as though his injury defined him. But that slid into the background compared to hearing the shotgun blast word “complete.” The equivalent of permanent. He narrowed his eyes at Abby who held her hands out while she shook her head.
“My mistake,” Ryan said. “Abby said you had no lower function.”
“No lower function, my ass. I can move my toes.” The words sounded stupid as they spilled from his tongue.
He wiggled his toes as he looked back at the action on the court. Trying to prove his injury wasn’t complete. Praying that he hadn’t reached the end of his recovery even though it’d been over three months since there’d been any change.
Someone blew a whistle and the players drifted to the sidelines. Green Shirt wheeled toward them. “New blood, huh? Glad to have you.” He put out his hand. “Alex Easterbury.”
Matt raised one eyebrow. “Easterbury?”
“Don’t even go there. You can’t possibly come up with something I haven’t heard already.” Alex looked up at Abby and squinted. “Don’t I know you?”
“I’m a physical therapist at Milwaukee Spine Care Center.”
“No.” He shook his head. “That’s not it.”
“I used to work at St. Luke’s in Bakersfield.”
“That’s it. I was there for a few days until I transferred out. I had…” He snapped his fingers. “Some Brady Bunch chick.”
“Marsha.”
“Yeah. Marsha was my therapist, but I saw you around the gym.”
Chuck wheeled over and kicked Alex in the shin. “Nice shoot’n Tex.” He looked at Matt. “You gonna join us?”
Matt couldn’t wait to get out there. Show off his stuff. He shrugged and tried to look indifferent. “I guess, as long as I’m here.”
Chuck turned around and pointed to the teenage boy. “That’s Noah. He’s pretty good for being a young pup. Sandy, the chick with the purple streak in her hair, she ain’t so good but she sure is pretty to look at, so we let her hang around. Rolland, the big muscular dude, him you got to look out for. He’d just as soon tear out your throat as to let you score. Cheats too. Man does he cheat.”
The names started to blur as Chuck gave a commentary on each person. Matt was relieved when the break was done and Chuck went back onto the court. Except they’d all gone back to the game, and Matt was left on the sidelines. Green Shirt, his name already forgotten, intercepted the ball right away. Matt mentally aimed the ball and shot. Behind him, Abby and Ryan were carrying on a quiet conversation.
“How is Alex doing?” Abby asked.
“He had a rough go of it, but he’s really changed since coming here, more confident, not so moody. Hell, I know it’s helped me feel more normal, if you can believe hanging around with a bunch of guys in wheelchairs could make you feel normal.”
Never, Matt smirked as he watched the girl with the purple stripe reach up to grab the ball. Never, ever would being with this gang make him feel normal. At the last second, the girl brought her hands close to her face. Matt winced in anticipation while wishing he could stop the inevitable. The ball smacked her hard in the face.
“Oh, shit. That’s going to leave a mark.” Ryan moved onto the court and made it halfway to the girl when he turned around. “Hey, Huntz. You want to go in?”
“You bet.”
As soon as Matt hit the court, the big dude Chuck had warned him about tossed him the ball. Matt put it on his lap and then gave his wheels a shove. The ball rolled down his lap and fell to the ground. Chuck stopped it with his foot and then tossed it back to Matt with a bit of advice. “Gotta wedge it in there tight.”
The ball stayed in place through three pushes on the wheels.
“Hey, he didn’t bounce the ball,” the teenage boy yelled.
“Cut him some slack,” another person yelled. “He’s new.”
New. The hair on his neck prickled. New. Like he didn’t know how to play basketball. He’d show them new. He bounced the ball to the right of his chair. It hit the frame and rolled away. Green Shirt grabbed it and headed for the basket, making it look easy as he dribbled every couple pushes.
This wasn’t what Tuesday nights had been like. A hard pit formed in his stomach at the thought of his old life. Back when life was fun and Derrick wasn’t the enemy. Forcing his attention back on the game, he tried to block the pass. Green Shirt spun his chair and then zipped around Matt and scored.
When they got to the other end of the court, Chuck passed the ball to Matt. The teenage boy got in his face. Instinctively, Matt wanted to zig to the left, but the limitations of the chair stopped him. He wheeled backward and crashed into another chair.
“Foul.”
Five minutes into the play, Matt had gained possession for the fourth time without scoring, but he was seconds away from rectifying that record. He aimed the ball and shot. It fell two feet short of the hoop.
“Glad you’re playing for us,” one of the guys on the other team yelled as he scooped up the ball.
Matt held his ground while the rest of the guys turned and moved toward the other end of the court. He didn’t need to put up with this crap. Except, he couldn’t prove himself as a player if he left. Having lost ten feet of ground, he raced to catch up. As soon as he got the ball back, the teenage boy snagged it away. Matt grabbed the kid’s chair and got another foul called on him. And then he got a foul for violating the four-second rule.
Basketball wasn’t supposed to be this hard he thought when he finally got the ball back and tried to manage dribbling and wheeling. When Green Shirt snagged the ball during a dribble, Matt turned his chair away from the action. “Screw this.” He pushed hard on the wheels, eager to be out of the gym and away from these people.
Abby caught up with him halfway down the hall. “Matt, what’s wrong?”
Blood pounded behind his ears. He whipped past the closed classroom doors. “That game is a joke, is what’s wrong.”
She hurried beside him. “I don’t get it. I thought you were having fun.”
“I’d rather have my nuts squeezed in a vise.” He yanked on the door that led to the parking lot and then wheeled for the playground. The woodchips scattered around the equipment tugged at his wheels. Where was a fucking beer when you needed one?
He h
urled one of the swings toward the frame, the chain clanking as it wrapped around the metal tube. He grabbed swing after swing and launched them until every seat was in motion. The anger was still there.
“What was the point in that?” he screamed, turning to Abby while the swings on either side of him careened back and forth in a drunken path. If he couldn’t even do something as simple as playing basketball, how could he ever hope to be any help to his dad? “Trying to show me what I can’t do?”
She crouched in front of him. “No, Matt. It’s to show you what you can do. Didn’t you look at those people? They’re all disabled in some way.”
She didn’t say it, but he heard the words she’d held back. Just like you. His cheeks prickled with heat. He stared past her at the wire fence surrounding the playground. His breath squeezed in and out of a chest that had gone tight. This, being stuck in a wheelchair, was not the real him, and he was getting tired of waiting to be the man he used to be. The need for a beer pulsed through him as readily as the blood flowing through his veins. “Do you know what it means to letter in a sport? It means you’re one of the best.”
“That bothers you to not be the best?”
“Hell, no.” His eyes connected with hers for a fraction of a second before he looked away.
She tilted his face toward hers. Her fingers were soft against his cheek. He wanted to cover her hand with his own. Instead, he pushed her arm away.
The soft edge to her face stayed in place. Without a hint of anger, she asked, “Who do you admire most?”
“What kind of stupid question is that? What the hell does it matter?”
“Just play with me here, Matt, okay? Pick someone famous.”
Dealing with her was so frigging frustrating at times, this being one of those times. He knew she wouldn’t give up so he said, “Fine. Lance Armstrong.”
“Do you think he could have won the Tour de France the first time he rode a bike?”
“You think I don’t know that I can get better with practice? Twenty years of practice isn’t going to change the fact that I’m not the man I used to be.” That’s what hurt the most. No matter what he did he’d never be the man he used to be, not stuck in this wheelchair. If he couldn’t be that man, there was no way he’d ever make his father proud of him. He turned around and pushed toward the car. He made it half way when he heard a male voice behind him.