Bionic

by Suzanne Weyn

  “I know your name, it was just that—”

  “Forget it! It was me.”

  Jason leans in to kiss me, as he normally would. I lean forward, too. Jason hesitates, then kisses my cheek. Thankfully it’s my good cheek—the left one. “I’ll text you later,” he says.

  Jason blows me a kiss before escaping out the front door. Unexpected tears rim my eyes as he leaves. What did I expect? That everything would snap back to normal once I got home? I mean, how unrealistic is that? But, I suddenly realize, it’s exactly what I expected.

  Leanna texts, offering to visit. She arrives with a carton of Ben & Jerry’s (Phish Food, my favorite!). We eat the ice cream at the backyard picnic bench while she fills me in on who is dating whom, and who’s breaking up, and what everyone has been doing over the summer.

  “Taylor broke up with that boy she was dating for, like, a week,” Leanna says. “She has no luck with guys.”

  “Why do you think that is?” I ask.

  Leanna shrugs. “No idea. She’s cute. It’s not like she doesn’t try. She’s always after some guy.”

  “Anyone in particular she’s chasing now?” I ask, thinking of how she flirts with Jason.

  “Not that I know of. So, how are things going with Jason?” she asks as she licks the back of her spoon.

  “Fine, I guess.” Why did she mention Jason?

  “You guess? He’s been to see you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it weird with all the … changes?”

  “You mean the fake arm, broken nose, lumpy cheek, and red, twisted scar on my nearly bald head changes?” I want to take a lighthearted tone as I say this, but I realize it’s coming out a little intense. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean to sound so weird.”

  “It’s totally understandable. You’ve been through a lot,” Leanna says. She gives an ironic laugh. “That’s kind of an understatement, isn’t it? I mean, I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. It’s not like I know, but I imagine it’s been horrible for you.”

  Leanna checks her phone and starts to rise. “I have to get going. There’s a lacrosse meeting about who’s going to be team captain next year. I want to let Coach Sanders know I’m interested.” She hesitates. “You won’t be playing, will you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  She shoots me a skeptical look, which I understand. I sure don’t look like I’ll be playing a sport anytime in the near future.

  “Well, see ya soon,” she says with a little wave. “Feel better.”

  I wave back as she disappears around the corner of my house. And before I really think about it, I’m dialing Jason’s number.

  “Hey, babe,” he says when he picks up. “Everything okay?”

  “Is it?” I ask. “Between us, I mean?”

  “Whoa, where did that come from?” he asks. “Of course we’re okay. You’ve been through hell and back, but we’re still solid.” There’s a little pause. “Want me to come over?”

  “Would you? That would be great.”

  I should feel better, knowing my boyfriend loves me so much that he offers to come over when I ask him to. So why do things still feel so unsettled?

  Jason’s visit makes me feel better. He brings a gift in a small box. “I wasn’t planning on seeing you today, so I didn’t get a chance to wrap it,” he says. “But you sounded like you could use some cheering up so … open it.”

  It’s a pretty bracelet with M-I-R-A-N-D-A spelled out in beads.

  “I wanted to prove I really know what your name is.”

  “You just want me to wear it in case you forget again,” I tease him.

  He pretends to be offended. “I never forgot it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I say. “Thank you. It’s very pretty.” I hold out both my fake hand and my real one. “I wonder which wrist I should wear it on.”

  He knows I’m messing with him again and rolls his eyes. “That’s up to you.”

  I slip it on the fake wrist. “There, that’s …” I was going to say cute or something like that, but I’m unexpectedly ambushed by my emotions. The bracelet with my name on it on my robotic wrist suddenly strikes me as hideous and sad. I begin to cry.

  Jason puts his arm around me. “I thought you liked it,” he says.

  “I do like it,” I say through my tears.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe I should have put it on the other wrist. I thought it would be funny but … it’s not.”

  Jason slips it off my robotic right wrist and onto my left. “There,” he says. “Is that better?”

  Wiping the tears from my eyes, I nod. “I feel silly,” I say. “I really like the bracelet. I’m so emotional these days. Everything’s so difficult. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to normal.”

  Tears well up again, but I don’t want them to. Everything makes me cry these days. Everything.

  After Jason leaves, Mom comes in holding shopping bags. “Wait until you see the things I got you,” she says happily, unpacking the bags. “I found this cute yoga mat, some weights, these stretch bands.” She pulls out a box containing a blow-up stretch-and-balance ball. “We’ll have to find a pump to blow this up. I think there’s a bike pump in the garage. That might work.”

  Looking up, she stares at my bland expression. “What?” she asks.

  “Do you want me to use this stuff right now?” I ask.

  “Raelene says we should start right away. She gave me the list of equipment to get. You’re going to have to get really strong to use these prosthetics.”

  “I was strong before I got hit by a fuel tanker.”

  Neither of us speaks. The memory of it is too awful.

  Mom shakes it off and returns to unpacking. “I was thinking that in addition to your regular PT and at-home exercises, you might want to try a yoga class. We could take it together on the evenings I don’t work late. It could be fun.” She pulls flowered stretch pants from the bag. “I found these cute stretch pants for you.”

  They’re hideous.

  “Do you like them?”

  “They’re cheerful. Thanks.”

  Mom tosses the pants to me. “Go put these on and we’ll get started. I think abdominal crunches are the first thing. I could use some of those. I’ll do them with you.”

  “Do I have to?” I’ll admit. It came out as a whine.

  “Raelene told me to start right away. This is crucial to your recovery, Mira.”

  “I just got home,” I argue. “Can’t I have a little time to adjust to things?”

  “Raelene said—”

  “I’m sick of Raelene!” I shout. “I’m sick of doctors, and nurses, and IV tubes, and bedpans, and being told what to do every two seconds.” I know I’m being horrible, but I can’t help it. I just explode.

  “Mira, I know it’s not fun but you have to—”

  If one more person says, you have to do this or do that … I’m going to completely lose it. I’ve done everything everybody has been telling me to do for months now. I can’t stand it another second. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do!” I shout at Mom.

  The expression of shock and distress that appears on Mom’s face almost undoes me. But my outburst feels so freeing that I don’t want to stop. Not sure what to say or do next, I grab my crutch and make my usual watery retreat to the bathroom.

  If I don’t get into some water right away I feel I’ll explode.

  Only now, to do this, I have to struggle to take off the artificial leg. I have to do it using my fake arm and hand, which isn’t easy. Taking off the harness that helps hold my arm and then getting the arm off is even more difficult.

  “Do you want help?” Mom calls from outside of the bathroom.

  “No. I’ve got it.” Do I? We’ll find out. Sitting on the edge of the tub with the water running, I lower myself.

  And then I lose my grip an
d slide down with a thump against the tub. The water is rushing in but I can’t pull myself above it.

  Mom’s there immediately, pulling me out of the tub. Water splashes everywhere. Thank goodness I didn’t lock the door. Throwing a large bath towel around my shoulders, she gets me settled on the closed toilet lid.

  She starts crying, which unleashes my tears. I can’t even get into the bathtub on my own!

  “I shouldn’t have let you try that by yourself. It’s my fault. I’m sorry,” she says through small sobs.

  A horrible choked sound comes out of me. I can’t even bathe myself!

  When she wraps my robe around my shoulders, I struggle into it. “Thank you.”

  “This will all get better, Mira,” Mom says. “It won’t always be like this.”

  I nod, but tears stream down my cheeks.

  AUGUST

  Zack knocks on my bedroom door and I look up from The Tempest. I’m actually just going through the drawings, which are really gorgeous. There’s one of Miranda, the wizard’s daughter, sitting on a rock, gazing out at a stormy sea, that I really love.

  He sits on my bed, showing me what he’s holding. It’s a picture frame about the size of a lunch tray. There’s no picture under it, though. Instead, there are about twelve luminous, multicolored butterflies somehow attached to a board.

  “It’s for you. It just came,” Zack tells me. “I spent all my birthday money, but it was worth it.”

  Looking more closely I see that the Latin name of each species is typed below. Each butterfly is different from the next. “Who found all these?” I ask.

  “Butterfly catchers, I guess. Each of these began as a caterpillar,” Zack says.

  “I know,” I say. Metamorphosis is a shocking change, if you think about it: ugly little creatures creeping along the ground, turning into glorious flying insect angels. And all that hard work of metamorphosis, only to be captured by some greedy butterfly collector. Gassed and glued to a board.

  “Are you crying?” Zack asks me.

  I didn’t even realize I was. “No,” I say, wiping my eyes.

  “Do you have a cold?” he presses me.

  “Yes, a little cold,” I reply.

  “I don’t think it’s a cold. I think the butterflies are making you sad,” he says, and I’m shocked because he’s usually not this perceptive about feelings. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I thought you liked the butterflies when I read about them to you.”

  I hug the collection of butterflies to my chest. “I love these butterflies!” I say. “I love that you got them for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely! Yes! You spent all your birthday money on this, really?” He nods.

  Putting the frame beside me, I hug Zack to my side. “You’re the best brother ever!”

  “You’re the best sister,” Zack replies, smiling shyly up at me.

  I tickle him with my left hand, which sends him into gales of laughter for a second. Then he pulls back into himself. “When are you going to start using your other side?” he asks seriously.

  His question is surprising, but he’s right. I’ve been doing everything with my left arm and hand. “I don’t know. I suppose I should start practicing with my right.”

  “You can’t just let it hang there. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

  “I’m going to get a nail so we can hang this up in your room,” Zack tells me. Just as he leaves, a text from Niles buzzes my phone. He’s sent me an old video from Bye Bye Birdie. It’s Dick Van Dyke dancing around singing “Put on a Happy Face.”

  There’s no choice but to smile.

  Corny! I text back.

  But great!

  Lol, I text. And though I’m not literally laughing out loud, I do feel cheerier. I’m lucky to have Zack, Niles, and Emma working so hard to make me happy.

  The band has to start rehearsing again, Niles texts. It’s time.

  Not ready, I reply.

  Sure you are.

  Maybe another time? Ttyl.

  It was nice of Niles to send the video, and I feel bad about the way I shut him down. I have to try to be a little more pleasant to be around or no one is going to want to be around me at all.

  My bedroom window is open and I can hear the cicadas making their chittery summer sounds. Thunder bangs around even though there’s no sign of rain. Gazing out the window, a line of sparking lightning cracks open the sky. Then, more dry thunder, louder this time.

  Hearing all this sound makes me wonder what sounds I can still make. I attempt to sing “Mr. Tambourine Man,” a song I know so well I could remember the words even while in a semi-coma. Forget it! Horrible sounds scratch their way out of my throat. My singing voice is shot!

  The sky suddenly opens, letting loose pounding rain. It soaks the windowsill. Getting off the bed, I reach for the window sash—but with my right hand. Using my left hand, I press the switch near the elbow of my right arm.

  Up goes the arm. A second switch makes it stretch to the top of the raised window.

  It’s so odd to touch something, yet not feel it.

  I press down but it doesn’t budge. I can’t judge the amount of force I need. I press harder. The window drops with a bang.

  Getting used to this thing is going to require a lot of work. I’m not sure I have enough energy left to work that hard. This is all just getting to be too much. I want to forget about all of it, but of course, I can’t.

  “Feeling fatigued?” the hospital nurse asks. I’ve never met her before. Her name is Trish.

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Very often.” Almost always.

  “Feelings of hopelessness?”

  “Depends on the day.”

  “Do you have more bad days or more good days?” Trish asks.

  “I don’t know. When I first got home everything just started to feel weird. It was like everything was the same, but nothing felt the same. And I’m scared of the future. What’s there for me to feel hope about? I don’t know how I’m going to get through school, which starts next week. I don’t want to have to go back and have everybody staring at me.”

  “Do you feel people are staring at you now?”

  “I’ve hardly been out of the house up until now. But I’m scared to go out. I don’t want to feel like some sort of … some sort of freak.”

  “You’re not a freak. It’s normal to be anxious.”

  “It’s difficult, you know,” I say. “It’s a lot of work. It’s not fair. Why did this have to happen to me?”

  “Do you think you might be depressed?” she asks.

  Am I? Who wouldn’t be? This whole situation is horrible. In the spring I was worried about getting a scholarship, now I’m worried about dropping the hand soap because I’m not sure I can stay balanced if I bend to pick it up. “Sometimes I want to give up and just sleep all day,” I tell Trish honestly.

  She writes something and then stands. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  When she’s gone I lean across her desk to read what she’s written. Depression expressing as laconic behavior, feelings of hopelessness. Abandonment.

  The nurse returns with a prescription. “Try these twice a day,” she says, handing it to me.

  “What is it?

  “It’s a mood elevator combined with an anti-anxiety medication. I’ve just called your mother and she okayed it.”

  I fold the script and put it in my pocket, but I’m not sure how I feel about taking medication like this. Will I still be me if my outlook is artificially elevated? I hardly even look like the same girl as the statuette that stands on my bedroom shelf—the six-inch, 3-D–printed, dancing wannabe rock ’n’ roll star. But inside I am still the same girl. I feel her feelings. My sadness is mine to feel. That person who is myself—I don’t want her to go away.

  What if even that disappears?

  A fat tear travels down my face. I don’t even feel it at first beca
use my artificial cheek has lessened sensation. When it hits my chin, I wipe it away.

  “It’ll be all right,” Trish tells me, wearing a kind expression for the first time. “The pills will make you feel much better.”

  Okay. So, I do feel better. My mood, anyway. It took a while, but there’s no denying that the pills finally started to work. I enjoy feeling better, too. I even had Mom drive me to a salon to have my eyebrows waxed for the first time ever because I can’t manage to tweeze them with my left hand. (I even considered asking for a half-price deal on a mani-pedi but worried that the people in the salon might not get my humor.)

  It’s not that I’m unaware of what a disaster my life has turned into. But with the happy pills it doesn’t hurt as much to think about. I’m more focused on the what now? than on everything that’s been lost.

  Maybe my less bummed-out mood is just another part of me that’s artificial, but I’m living in the land of whatever works and I can’t think too much beyond that.

  The next what now? doesn’t take long to appear. “I just talked to Dr. Tim,” Mom comes in to tell me one morning as I’m sitting on the edge of my bed and strapping on my titanium foot. “They want to fit you for a new prosthetic arm next week.”

  “Really?” My calmness at this news is due to the pills, I’m sure.

  Mom sits beside me. “It sounds wonderful, Mira! All you’ll have to do is think about an action and your arm will do it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me,” I say. “How does it work?”

  She reads from the notes she wrote on the back of an envelope. “It’s called osseointegration. They’ll insert a metal implant into the stump of your arm. Then they’ll attach the prosthetic arm using wires and nerve electrodes.” She turns over the envelope to read notes she’s made on the other side. “Targeted muscle reinnervation uses computer algorithms to learn the patterns of the user’s action and can begin to anticipate them.”

  “Like the predictive setting on my phone,” I guess.

  “Could be,” Mom agrees. “Dr. Tim says that these new arms are so much lighter than ever before, thanks to the use of graphite and microtechnology. He says you’re going to love it.”