Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  It’s about someone I don’t even know. This woman, girl really, is obviously in trouble. Something’s wrong with her. Really wrong. She says she’s not into drugs. I don’t know if I believe her. Let’s just say my faith in all things female is not at its apex.

  It’s okay that I wait for her, right? I mean, she obviously has nowhere to go. I need to make sure she has someplace safe to stay. My mom raised me better than to leave now.

  Speaking of my mom, I need to check in with her. I pull my cell out of the bag on the side of my chair and call her.

  “Hey Mom, what’s up?”

  “Michael, where are you? Dad and I stopped by but you weren’t there.”

  “Yeah, I’m out. I’m at the hospital actually.”

  I hear her breath catch and realize what I’ve done. “No, Mom, I’m at the hospital, but it’s not for me. I brought, uh, someone in. I’m just waiting to find out what’s going on.”

  “Who is it? Is it anyone I know? Are they okay?”

  “You don’t know her. I just met her last night. She needed a ride.”

  “Michael,” she admonishes. “You can’t go picking up strange women. You don’t know who will try to take advantage of you in your condition.” My family members are the only ones who don’t call me “Sally.” Since their last names are all Salinger too, it would be odd if we all went by Sal or Sally. I don’t know why I told Sam my name was Michael. It just popped out. Maybe subconsciously, I’m trying to be someone new. Or, just ‘cause it’s my name.

  “Mom, it’s not like that. I sort of met her last night.” Thinking back to hitting her with Lainie’s ring, I’m overcome with shame. I tell my mom what happened last night and then about seeing her still outside this morning. “No matter what I’ve got going on, she’s obviously got it a lot worse. I hope she’s not seriously ill.”

  “Back up. Lainie gave you the ring back and you threw it out the window?”

  “Lainie’s marrying Phil.”

  “Philip MacGregor?”

  “The same.” I lean over, doing my pressure relief. I prefer to do chair push-ups to accomplish this, but while holding the phone I can’t. I’m going to have to go to the rest room and do my catheter soon. I hate doing it out in public, but it’s better than the alternative of pissing my pants. I cath four to five times a day, depending on how much I drink. I’d gotten a lot of bladder infections early on and they are the worst. The absolute worst. They make me so sick, and I feel like I’m going to die. My doctors have me on a drug cocktail, including Botox injections every few months. Sounds unpleasant, but the benefit of having no feeling is that the shots don’t hurt a bit.

  If Samirah comes out while I’m in the bathroom, I don’t want her to think I’ve deserted her. I leave word with the desk and head out to the lobby to take care of business.

  I hate the way the hospital smells. Between this hospital and rehab, I spent almost three months as a patient. I’ve had enough of this particular odor to last a lifetime. I owe everything to the staff at the two hospitals, but if I never had to set foot, uh wheel, in this place again, it would be too soon. I can only hope Samirah’s done soon, so we can go.

  We.

  Where’d that come from?

  I’m not part of a we. I’m me. I don’t think I’ll be part of a we again. Not that I don’t want it, but who will want me? Jesus, now I sound like a whiny girl.

  Having an injury like this, even though located in my back, it has seriously fucked with my head. That’s one thing that Michele helped me figure out. She runs a group for spinal cord patients. I think she likes me. And if my dick weren’t limp, which she knows all about, she’d want to get in my pants. I’m not being cocky (more paraplegic humor); I’m being real.

  When I was first injured, I worried about the logistics of how it all would work. I figured Lainie and I would figure it out together. I didn’t think I’d be starting from scratch. Not that I’m bitter.

  I know I should be happy to be alive. I was waiting to cross the street, minding my own business. That’s what I was doing. I wasn’t even jay walking. But the driver of the car was drunk and trying to make a phone call, and didn’t stop in time, making me a hood ornament. I’m lucky it wasn’t so much worse. My brains could have been scrambled eggs on the pavement. In rehab, I saw quite a few people with brain injuries. Losing the ability to walk has been a tough pill to swallow, but to me, a brain injury would have been a game changer. I can still work. When I’m not hosting a pity party, my life is pretty good.

  I finish up in the bathroom, pitch my supplies, and wash my hands. I miss standing to pee. The stalls in men’s rooms are always gross. Makes me wonder what guys do in there. I sort of want to go into the ladies’ room and see if it’s as bad. I try not to enter if I think anyone’s in there. Guys always stare at me. Plus, I’m wiener height at the urinal. I don’t want to look, believe me, but it’s right in my line of sight. Lots of uncomfortable moments. Yeah.

  Back out in the waiting room, there’s still no word from Samirah. I wonder what’s going on with her. She didn’t say what the problem was, only that she had an infection. She was probably lying about the drug thing. I need to pace, but that’s not really a possibility at this point. I roll from one end of the room to the other. I can push with a few firm strokes and use momentum to carry me. Somehow, it’s not as satisfying as pacing.

  I look at the clock on the wall. It’s only been an hour and a half since she went back. I signal to the lady at the front desk that I’ll be right back and head to the cafeteria. I swore I’d never drink hospital coffee again, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Not that she truly complained about it, but I remember my mom talking about waiting being the hardest part. My situation was different. I was her son, not a stranger, and there was that little matter of whether or not I would survive. I put the watered-down coffee in my cup holder and head back to the Emergency Department.

  Once back in the ED, there’s still no word on Samirah. My phone starts pinging. Mitchell is texting me. Mom must have told him the wonderful news about the happy couple. He’s texting all sorts of profanity, and an ass kicking is certainly on the menu for Phil. Nice.

  If it hadn’t been for the accident, Lainie and I would be married by now. We’d have purchased our own home. When I think about it, I’m picturing my house. I can’t imagine not living there. Had I not been injured, I’d have no need for that house. I love my house. It’s mine, down to the positioning of the light switches and electrical outlets. Huh. So, while I can picture coming home to Lainie, I can’t imagine calling anywhere else home. Interesting.

  Yeah, I do need to get back in with Michele. She’d have a field day with this.

  I wonder what she’d make of me picking up a stranger and spending my Sunday waiting for her. She just looked so bad. It’s pretty apparent that she’s homeless, but I find myself with a desire to know why. She hasn’t been forthcoming with any sort of information. I can see that she’s been hurt. She’s scared.

  What happened?

  I need to know; I don’t know why. Wait, maybe I do. Maybe I want someone else to have a story. Maybe I don’t want to always be the one that people remember with the past shrouded in tragedy.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: SAMIRAH

  What the fuck did he—they—do to me?

  I start to struggle against the doctor and scramble up the table, trying to cover myself with the flimsy gown. The doctor and nurse have stepped back and are holding their hands up.

  “Ms. Lundgren, please calm down. Can you tell me what happened?” The doctor is speaking soothingly and his accent has a delightful lilt to it.

  I can’t find my voice. The doctor and nurse are speaking in gentle voices and the exam has commenced. Words float through the air. “Vaginal trauma.” “Rape kit.”

  “Ms. Lundgren—”

  “Samirah. Call me Samirah.”

  The nurse continues. “Do you know what happened?”

  They’ve stepped back an
d are looking at me. I sit up and try to focus. I’ve never felt so detached from my body before. She repeats her question, her eyes narrowing.

  “Sort of. I don’t know.” I’m staring intently at my hands in my lap, my hair again shielding me from the outside world. “I was pretty drunk.”

  “Who were you with?” It’s the doctor this time. I can hear the clicking of the keyboard as I speak.

  “My boyfriend.” I almost say his name, but stop myself in the nick of time.

  “Did he do this to you?”

  Lifting my head, I look blankly at them. How do I tell them I don’t know? I mean, I sort of know, but only because I saw the snippet of the video Meadow showed me. Even squeezing my eyes shut can’t stop me from seeing those images again. “There were others too.”

  “Do you know who? How many? Will you be filing charges? Did you take a shower? Can you start at the beginning?” Despite the barrage of questions, the pity in their voices is unmistakable.

  “No, I don’t want to file charges. I … I don’t want to tell anyone. You can’t tell anyone, can you? Isn’t there doctor-patient confidentiality and all that?”

  “If we do a rape kit, it goes to the police. However, you can do an anonymous rape kit, and the hospital will hold it. You can choose to file charges, if you think a crime was committed.”

  This gives me pause. “I honestly don’t know if a crime was committed. I … I’d had a lot to drink. My boyfriend might have given me something. I don’t do drugs, but I think there may have been something in my drink. I don’t know.”

  “When was this?” The doctor’s trying to be gentle while examining me. It hurts so much. Standing on a large sheet of paper while they try to brush off evidence. I see the nurse taking out a camera.

  I have to stop and think about his question. Such a simple question, but I’m having a hard time thinking. “What day is it today?” Time has escaped me.

  “It’s Sunday, Samirah.” I try not to see the worry on the doctor’s face.

  “Um, Friday night, I guess. It seems so long ago.”

  The doctor removes his gloves, washes his hands, and returns to the laptop, furiously typing in orders. “I’m going to order some blood work, just to be sure. Cipro for the infection, hydrocodone for the pain.”

  “Do I really need that? I don’t like to take pain pills.” I’d seen too many people become addicted and the last thing I needed was a drug habit.

  “You’ve suffered a fair amount of trauma. There’s significant tearing and bruising.”

  The doctor’s words hang in the air, thick and heavy.

  “Am …,” I can’t continue. Tears choke me, and the nurse takes my hand. She gives me a quiet smile, urging me to go on. “Can I still have kids?”

  “You’ll need to follow up with your regular gynecologist in a few weeks. They’ll be better able to assess. And, in the meantime, would you like emergency contraception?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Levonorgestrel. Plan B. It’s one pill that you take that may help prevent pregnancy.” He goes on to explain the side effects of nausea and cramping, not like I’m not already having that. “Obviously, it doesn’t protect against sexually-transmitted diseases, which is why we are running the other tests.”

  “Is all this really necessary? I mean, I don’t even know what happened.”

  The doctor’s face becomes dark. “Ms. Lundgren—Samirah—you were raped. Even if it was your boyfriend, you may not have been in a physical capacity to consent to sexual activity. You mentioned there were others. I assume you did not agree to have sexual activity with multiple partners.”

  I shake my head slowly.

  “That is rape. Whether or not you choose to file charges is up to you. We’ve collected the evidence and will hold it in storage here. We’re taking measures to protect your health as well. We are also providing you with some phone numbers for counselors and hotlines. Do you have someone you can stay with right now?”

  Rape. Hearing that word is like a knife shooting through my gut. The word fills me with terror, and I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that feeling.

  Even though I don’t remember the act, I remember the terror.

  I move through the procedures in a fog. The blood tests, the administration of medication. They let me shower after the exam, although I have to put my same clothes back on, which makes me feel dirty again. Clutching pamphlets, prescriptions, and privacy policies, I shuffle back out to the waiting room, unsure of what to do next.

  I have no home. No family. No friends. I’m not even sure that the guy—Michael—won’t have taken off with my stuff. My money is in my big bag, which is in the trunk of his car. Dammit. I’m a fool.

  The waiting room is empty, just as I’ve feared. I am a fool.

  A fool for trusting a stranger. A fool for loving Chase. A fool for thinking Meadow was my friend. A fool for thinking that I mattered to someone, anyone.

  I will never be that foolish again.

  I have no tears left to cry. No heart left to break. I’ve got a little cash in my wallet, and I hope it will be enough to fill the prescription for the antibiotics. I’m not going to take the pain pills. Plain old ibuprofen will have to do.

  I start to head toward the wide sliding door that will release me into the cruel world again.

  “Hey, wait up!” I hear the voice coming from down the hall. I turn to look, but am moving as if I’m in quicksand.

  “Samirah, where’re you going? Are you okay? What’d they say?” Michael deftly strokes the wheels, pulling up to me and spinning slightly to a stop.

  “I, uh, I have to get some antibiotics. I was going to find a pharmacy.”

  “Your stuff’s all in my car.”

  “Yeah, I thought you took off with it.”

  He’s rolling alongside me as we walk. It makes me feel uncomfortable to look down on him. I don’t want him looking at me either. I don’t want anyone looking at me.

  He laughs. “Aww, c’mon. You didn’t think that, did you?”

  I stop and do finally look at him. My expression makes the smile fall rapidly from his face.

  Quietly, he says, “Samirah, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But if I say I’m going to do something, dammit, I’m going to do it. You can trust me.”

  His big brown eyes hold a look of earnestness that I haven’t seen in a while.

  “I’m tired, and I still don’t feel well. I need to find someplace to crash for a day or two. Are there any motels in this Podunk town?” I don’t know why I feel the need to be nasty when he’s obviously being so nice to me. Oh, that’s right, I’m not a nice person.

  “I don’t know what your story is Samirah, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I don’t think you should be alone right now. I’m going to take you, get your prescriptions filled, get some food in your stomach, and then you can stay with me until you figure out your next move.”

  I nod in agreement and follow him to his car.

  Apparently, I’ve learned nothing. Here I am, trusting in someone again.

  I am a fool.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: MICHAEL

  She doesn’t look any better for having seen the doctor. In fact, if anything, she looks worse. Her hair’s hanging down wet, and she looks older than she did three hours ago. Maybe not older but more tired. She waits for me to get the chair loaded up and climbs in the passenger seat.

  I try not to notice that if she were sitting any further over in her seat, she’d be outside the car. I don’t think I smell or anything.

  It may be rude, but I don’t ask her where she wants to go to eat. She’s in need of comfort food, and there’s only one place in town that offers that. Well, that’s not true, there are lots of good places, but Mama’s Diner is the best. Breakfast all day, sandwiches that practically dislocate your jaw. Whatever she’s in the mood for, it will be on the menu. Me, I’m getting the hot roast beef, extra gravy on the fries.

  I have
a tendency to talk when I’m nervous. Today is no different. I fill the car with idle chitchat, only garnering the occasional monosyllabic reply from Samirah. She looks up dully as I pull the car into the drive-through at the pharmacy.

  “Don’t consider me rude, but I don’t feel like getting out of the car.”

  A look of realization crosses her face. “Oh my God, I didn’t even think that you can’t get out of the car. Just park and I’ll go in.”

  “It’s not that I can’t get out of the car, I just don’t feel like it.”

  “Because it’s such hard work?” Her brows are knitted.

  “No, because I’m lazy. Even before my accident, I always preferred the drive-through.”

  “Oh.” Her voice is barely audible, and she seems a million miles away. Then I see her look at me out of the corner of her eye. The wheels are turning, and the new clarity is virtually palpable. It finally occurred to her that I wasn’t always broken.

  “Is this okay? You don’t look like you’re up for any more walking than I am.”

  She shakes her head slightly. “No, not really.”

  Cold air rushes in as the window rolls down. The pharmacy tech takes the prescriptions and begins typing. I’m a regular here, and this has stymied her.

  “New patient.”

  Very softly I hear Samirah say, “I don’t have insurance.”

  I address the tech again. “No insurance; it will be cash.”

  The tech goes back to typing furiously. “Date of birth?”

  I can’t help on this one and turn toward Samirah.

  She leans over the console, and in the loudest voice I’ve heard from her yet, “Two, twenty-one, nineteen-ninety-one.”

  The tech types some more and tells us the order will be ready in thirty minutes. Samirah nods and as she does, her long hair brushes my right arm. She looks down, realizes her proximity to me, and shrinks back against the passenger door again.

  If I didn’t know better, I would think she was afraid of me.