Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “WHAT THE FUCK?” I hear the voice from outside, in the darkness.

  Looking out my window, my eyes struggle to make anything out. And then, through the rain, I see it—her. She’s standing off in the ditch about ten feet away, rubbing her head. Her hair hangs down and I can barely see her face.

  “What the hell, man? You could have killed me!” She shouts at me.

  Oops.

  “Sorry.” I have no other words for my actions.

  As she bends down, I see she’s got a large pack on her back. She must be hitchhiking or something. There’s no other reason for her to be out here like this. I don’t see a car around.

  Great. I’m officially a gigantic asshole. She’s probably homeless or something, and I bean her in the head with a diamond ring.

  “You okay? You need to get your head checked or anything?”

  “Yeah I do, but not because of this.” She picks up a bag at her feet and shifts the large bag on her back. “Watch what you’re doing next time.”

  “Um, that looks heavy. You need a lift somewhere?”

  I can’t really see the look on her face, but her entire body stiffens.

  “No. Just leave me alone.”

  I know I should be a good guy and make sure she gets to where she needs to go. “Are you sure?”

  Her shoulders sag slightly. “Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t need anybody. Leave me alone.”

  Fine. Whatever. I’m in no mood for any more attitude. “Suit yourself.” I roll up the window, release the emergency brake and pull out, squealing the tires as I accelerate faster than I need to.

  My mood has not improved by the time I reach the shelter of my garage. However, now I feel lousy for a different reason. I left that poor girl—woman—standing outside in the rain. She obviously needed help. I don’t know, maybe she’s homeless. Maybe she’s a mental case. Maybe she’s a prostitute. It shouldn’t have mattered. I should have helped her. I let my anger toward Lainie and Phil cloud my judgment about helping another human being. I am a piece of shit.

  CHAPTER NINE: SAMIRAH

  I sort of don’t mind the throbbing in my head. It’s taking my mind off other pressing issues, namely in my bladder. I squat to pee for the fifth time in about twenty minutes. It feels like razor blades coming out, and I’m sure, if I could see what I was doing, I’d see blood in my urine. My whole crotch aches and throbs and burns. My body hurts, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I got hit by a truck. It occurs to me for the hundredth time that I probably should go to the hospital or something.

  Like what I really needed right now was for some jackhole to nail me in the head with—whatever it was. I feel like I was hit in the head with a rock. Why he would be throwing a rock out his car window is beyond me, but he seemed like a jerk, so it’s a good possibility. I haven’t moved since he pulled away. I had stopped to pee, and had just gotten my pants back up and back pack back on, when I was struck. Thank goodness my pants weren’t down.

  My legs are tired, my crotch is on fire, and I just want to sleep. I have no idea where I am, other than the middle of nowhere. I’m definitely on the outskirts of town, as fields and brush are more prominent than business and buildings. I’d passed a bus stop shelter a while back, before I got to the sticks. With the rain pelting down on me, I make the decision to turn around and head back to that shelter. At least I’ll be out of the rain for a bit.

  Shuffling my feet in the grass as I turn, my foot kicks something. I bend down, almost falling due to the weight on my back. My hand touches something soft and velvety. It’s a ring box. That asshole threw away a ring box. Holy shit, there’s a massive diamond ring inside!

  Well, he threw it away. I’m keeping it. Totally legit, right? I drop the box into the bag on my arm and continue on. It’s hard to be excited about finding something so valuable when the rest of my life sucks so hard. Maybe I can sell it and get some decent money for it. That would help.

  Maybe this is a sign. Of course, I had to get nailed in the head, but maybe it’s a sign that things will turn around.

  The bus shelter offers little in the way of warmth, but it prevents the rain from continuing to soak me. I’m cold, and the chills shake violently through my body as I try to curl up on a bench, leaning on my pack for support. I don’t think the chills are just from being wet. I’m fairly confident that I have a urinary tract infection. The only way to make it go away is to get antibiotics. I wonder if there’s a Planned Parenthood in this rinky-dink town. I think they would treat me, and I wouldn’t have a huge bill.

  As the night fades into dawn and a gray light washes the sky, I know I’ve got to do something. I’m sick and sore. I wonder if I could die from this. It certainly feels that way. The chills and shaking overtake my body. Walking will be a challenge but I must try.

  I stand and a wave a nausea passes through me. I have to go to the bathroom again, so I duck behind the bus shelter. I pray that it’s early enough that no one drives by. My earlier suspicions are confirmed as my urine is full of blood. Great. Of course, not being able to wipe or clean myself doesn’t help either.

  Taking a deep breath, ignoring the growling of my stomach and the dryness in my throat, I pick up my bags and head back toward town. My progress is much slower today than yesterday. I honestly don’t think I can make it.

  The sound of a car approaching on the road startles me. I’ve forgotten that I’m not all alone in this world. As the white van whizzes by, it occurs to me that maybe I should try and hitch a ride. I don’t care if there’s a free clinic in town or not. I need medical attention. That’s obvious.

  At the sound of the next car, I extend my arm, barely able to hold it against gravity. The black sedan speeds past, and my arm sinks as defeat washes over me. But then I see it. The car slams on its brakes and after a moment, begins to back up.

  I see this car backing up, and I know I’m going to have to ask for help. That, in and of itself, seems impossible to do. The car is now in front of me, and the window descends, revealing the driver. His chocolate brown eyes widen as he takes me in. He looks familiar.

  “Jesus, were you out here all night?”

  He just sits in his car, looking at me. Is it the same guy who threw the ring at me?

  I nod.

  “You need a ride?”

  I nod again. Fear washes over me and grips my insides. I can’t get into a car with some strange guy. I know I’m a mess right now, but I don’t think I can get in close proximity to someone. What if he tries to touch me? What if …

  I can’t move. I’m paralyzed.

  “Are you okay?” Something about his voice sounds familiar. But I can’t think straight. If I weren’t already shaking from the fever, I would be quivering from fear at this point.

  “Come here.” He motions for me to cross the street and approach his car. I shake my head.

  “I can’t,” I manage to sputter out.

  His brow furrows for a minute. “Are you afraid?”

  I wonder what’s giving him that impression. I glance down at myself and see that I’m practically cowering. The panic is racing through me. Once he knows I’m afraid, he’ll have all the power. I can’t be powerless again. But I can’t move.

  He sighs and turns off his car. “I need you to watch for cars for me. Tell me if something’s coming. Can you do that?”

  I nod. I think I can do that.

  He opens his door, and piece by piece, pulls out the makings of a wheelchair from the back. With a few quick moves, it’s fully assembled, and he scoots over into it, as if his body weighs nothing. He rolls across the road with a few strong strokes on his wheels.

  “Let me help you.”

  I don’t know how he can help me. He can’t walk.

  But he can’t hurt me either. Not like I’ve been hurt.

  “I’m Sal—Michael.” He’s stumbling over his words.

  “Michael,” I breathe, barely able to find my voice.

  “Do you have a name?” He’s
right in front of me, looking up expectantly.

  I can do this. “Sam.”

  “Samantha?”

  Samantha. That’s what Scott called me. I inhale sharply, my throat threatening to close. “No, Samirah.”

  “Samirah.” He says the name like he’s swirling wine on his pallet, tasting it and trying it out. “That’s beautiful.”

  “It’s Persian. My mother was half Persian.”

  He looks intently into my eyes. “I can see the influence.”

  I look away, unable to hold his gaze. It’s too much. I can’t look at him. I don’t want him looking back at me.

  “So, Samirah, do you want a ride?”

  I nod. The panic is starting to abate, and I think I’ll be able to get into the car with him. “I need …” It’s hard for me to say, to admit. “I … is there a free clinic in town? I don’t have insurance.”

  “What’s wrong?” He’s leaning forward, trying to see my face. My head is down and my hair hangs like a shield.

  “I … I have …” How do I tell him what’s going on? “I need help.”

  He sits upright in his wheelchair. “Well, help I can provide. Let’s go.”

  We turn to cross the road and a car approaches quickly. Without thinking, my arm shoots out, blocking Michael’s chest. “Watch out!”

  The car whizzes by, and out of the corner of my eye I see Michael looking up at me. “And here I thought I was the one taking care of you.”

  *******

  I don’t know what to do with myself. This guy—Michael—does he need help? Do I offer? Is that offensive? Am I an asshole if I don’t help him?

  I’m an asshole anyway, so I don’t offer.

  He rolls back to the car, opens the door, and reaches in. The trunk opens and he sets about reversing the process of getting in the driver’s seat and disassembling his wheelchair. I stand there, sort of in awe. He just does it. It seems effortless. It can’t be, though. After transferring into the driver’s seat, he lifts up his legs and flops them into the car. One wheel off, then he pops the other off. They go in the back seat. I don’t know how he can reach back there, but he does. The seat cushion comes off the chair and the frame folds down. Michael lifts them piece by piece with one hand and moves them into the back seat.

  Finally, he flips the passenger seat upright and leans out. I’m still standing there like an idiot.

  “Throw your stuff in the trunk and hop in.”

  Behind the car, I put my stuff in the trunk. I take a minute to catch my breath. The panic is slowly subsiding, but I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. If he tries anything, I can just get out of the car. It will take him two to three minutes to get his wheelchair together. Okay, I can do this.

  I open the door and gingerly get in. In the wake of the waning adrenaline rush, now everything hurts even more. My energy is sapped causing me to sag against the door.

  “Samirah, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look so good.”

  “I don’t feel so good.” I lean back, putting as much distance between him and me as I can. My eyes flutter closed and I almost feel like I could sleep here in the warm safety of the car. Despite my efforts to stay awake, fatigue wins and the next thing I know, the car has stopped and Michael is cutting the ignition.

  Through heavy eyes, I can see that we’re at a hospital. “Isn’t there a clinic in town? I don’t have insurance.”

  “There is a clinic, but I wouldn’t bring my dog there. You’re not looking so hot. They’ll help you out here. Trust me, I know a lot about hospitals.”

  I can’t help my eyes from darting down to his legs, lying there motionless in the car. It’s then I notice that he drives with a hand control. Huh. I’m really having trouble focusing and the chills have returned with a vengeance.

  “I need you to get out so I can get my chair out of the back. But wait a sec, and I’ll come in with you.”

  Numbly following orders, I struggle to open the car door. It feels like it weighs a ton. I really just want to curl up and die. I’ve never felt so terrible in my life. The fog in my head is making it hard for me to think and my feet don’t want to move.

  Michael is out of the car already and has approached me without me even noticing. “Um, Samirah …” he looks uncomfortable. “Um, are you going through withdrawals? I don’t know that I can find something for you, but I can try. But, I think you can stick it out and get clean.”

  He thinks I’m a druggie. Well, I probably look like one. No probably about it. I’m sure I look like one.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t do drugs. I, um, I think I have an infection.”

  Relief washes over his face and he relaxes back into his chair. “Okay, good. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “No offense taken.” Surprisingly, I’m not offended. That would require me having pride and dignity, and I have neither.

  We’re walking slowly. I mean I’m walking and he’s pushing himself. Should I offer to push him? I don’t think I have the strength to help him out. Plus, frankly, the wheelchair freaks me out. It reminds me of the last time I saw my mom. She was in a wheelchair, too weak to walk. But she told me she would be fine, and she needed some time to recuperate.

  I didn’t want to touch my mom then either.

  If only I had known it would be the last time I saw her. But I was scared.

  “What are you thinking about?” His deep voice breaks my reverie.

  “My mom.”

  “Do you want me to call her? I take it you’re not from around here.”

  “She’s dead.”

  The silence is uncomfortable. He pulls ahead of me and yanks open the door in a well choreographed maneuver. I’ll be damned if he doesn’t even hold it for me.

  I can’t figure out why he’s being so nice to me. What does he want from me? In my experience, people are only nice when they want something. Me included.

  I approach the check-in desk and receive the necessary paperwork. I’m confounded as to how to fill it out. I don’t have health insurance, so I can’t fill out that section. Not to mention the other equally tough questions, like my address. The pen hovers, unable to make contact with the paper.

  The clipboard rests heavy on my lap as I stare at it. Michael has pulled up next to me and appears to be trying very hard not to look at what I’m doing. He’s a nosy bugger though and can’t seem to help himself. There’s no one else in the waiting room, so he can’t even pretend to be distracted by anyone else.

  I look at him and he holds my gaze. “I don’t have anything to put.”

  “Put my address.”

  “But …”

  “But nothing. You need to see someone, and you can’t until you fill this out. Fill this out and stop worrying.”

  As if I could stop worrying. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being afraid again.

  Unable to think of a better solution, I scribble the address he tells me and turn my paperwork in. After a few minutes, the triage nurse calls me back and I leave Michael in the waiting room. I wonder if he’ll still be there when I get done.

  “What seems to be the problem?” The nurse is all business. Fine by me.

  “I, um, I think I have a urinary tract infection.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  I have no patience. Can’t she just give me something for the pain? “I’m peeing blood and razor blades, and I think I have a fever.”

  She takes my temperature and confirms my fever. She hustles me into the back where I get a cup to provide a specimen and a lovely hospital gown.

  Cleaning myself for the urine test is painful. I must really have a raging infection. I’ve had them before, but never like this. It took a bit of trial and error, but I found out I was allergic to the lubricants in condoms. Chase had to stop using them. I’m on the pill, so it’s okay. Oh shit, my pill. I don’t remember the last time I took it. Not since that night, I don’t think. Oh no, what does that mean? I don’t even know where m
y pills are. Maybe I should ask for a test? No, it’ll be too soon. Oh shit, what would I do? I curl into a fetal position on the exam table and try to get warm by hugging my legs to my chest. My back is killing me too. I just want the pain to go away.

  The doctor, a middle-aged Indian man, bustles in. “Ms. Lundgren? I see you’re not feeling so well today.”

  I want to say, “No shit.” Instead, I mumble a semi-pleasant, “Not so much.”

  “Your urine culture is positive for infection.”

  Again, no shit. It was cloudy and smelly and red with blood. Doesn’t take a med school degree to figure that out.

  “How long have you been—” he stops mid-sentence. His eyes are transfixed on my neck. “Ms. Lundgren, what happened?”

  “What do you mean, what happened? I have a UTI.”

  “Please lie back so I can do an examination.”

  “Can’t you just give me an antibiotic or something?”

  “Ms. Lundgren, you have bruising on your neck consistent with a hand print. Did someone hurt you?”

  My hand flies up to the front of my neck where it does indeed feel tender. The doctor opens the door and calls for the nurse, who comes bustling back in.

  “Ms. Lundgren, what happened?”

  My lips purse tightly together as I shake my head. I can’t even begin.

  The nurse holds my hand and gives me a sympathetic smile as the doctor begins his exam. I hear words like “tearing,” “ecchymosis,” and “contusion” float through the air. It’s as if he’s talking about something else, in a language I don’t understand. If it weren’t for the pain when he pokes and prods, I would drift off into sleep. With the help of the nurse, he examines my upper body as well. I look down and then quickly away, as a smattering of bruises and bite marks dance across my breasts.

  Those sons of bitches bit me.

  CHAPTER TEN: MICHAEL

  Being in the hospital, even if it is only the waiting room, is difficult for me. Some days, a lot of days, I’m okay with where I am. I’ve made peace with the direction onto which my life has turned. Today, I’m waiting to hear, but this time it’s not about me.