Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  As if that’s not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

  I turn on the radio to break the tension in the car. The 80s station is playing some Def Leppard, and I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. Mitchell and me, jamming out in our rec room. I can’t keep myself from banging my head a little. Maybe a little air guitar too. Sounds juvenile, I know, but a song has that power. On the other hand, trying to play air guitar while driving with hand controls may not be the smartest thing, either, especially when I accidentally hit the horn. The noise makes Samirah jump, and I immediately feel horrible.

  “Sorry, I … I have no excuse. I love this song.” I turn the volume down with the controls on the steering wheel.

  “No, it’s okay. My mom listened to this sort of thing.”

  “How old are you?” I know I heard her date of birth, but I didn’t compute it fast enough.

  “Twenty-four. How old are you?”

  “You’re a youngster. I’m thirty.”

  “Old man.” There’s the smallest hint of smile in her voice, but when I look at her, it’s already gone.

  We get to Mama’s only to find some douchebag has parked in the space next to the handicapped parking space. News flash—there’s a reason why the handicapped spots have extra pavement next to them. It’s so people like me have room to unload themselves. I don’t need tons of room, but I need to be able to open my door fully and have a little more room to maneuver. I curse under my breath and drive around, looking for two spots next to each other.

  The problem there is that if someone pulls in next to me, I won’t be able to get back into my car. See, there really is a reason why handicapped spots are the way they are.

  An elderly couple exits the diner and I see them heading toward the other handicapped spot. Jackpot. I’ll have to back in, but it’s no big sweat.

  Of course, I’m narrating all this to Samirah. I’m sure by this point, she thinks I’m insane. I’m no stranger to people thinking that. Okay, not insane per se, but I’m certainly marching to my own drum. I own it.

  We’re finally able to park. She sits there, as if getting out of the car is too much effort. I can’t get out until she does. Otherwise, I’d whack her in the head with my chair. I think that’s the last thing she needs. Gently, I remind her that I need her to exit my car.

  Finally, we’re headed in. The ramp to the diner isn’t quite A.D.A. compliant, which means it’s steeper than it should be. I don’t know how they get away with it, and I’ve thought of complaining before, but the food is too good to alienate them. I don’t want them to spit in my gravy. Normally whoever I’m with will push me up the ramp. I’m not about to ask Samirah—she seems too delicate.

  Plus, I still want her to think I’m relatively able-bodied, even though it’s pretty apparent I’m anything but. Sad, I know.

  We’re seated and my regular waitress, Joyce, greets me with a hug.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Sally?”

  Feeling clumsy suddenly, I stumble. “Um, Joyce, this is … uh …”

  She interjects before I can. “Sam.”

  “Well, Sam, nice to meet you. Any friend of Sally’s is welcome here. What’re you drinking today?”

  “Um,” she pours over the sticky menu for a moment. “Do you have cranberry juice?”

  Joyce smiles. “Well, aren’t you a pair? Two cranberries coming up.”

  When Joyce walks away, I say, “I didn’t forget your name.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Her head is down, and her shoulders pull in, making her look smaller.

  I’m uncomfortable with her discomfort, so I fill the silence with chatter. “Mama’s is the perfect greasy spoon diner. The blueberry pancakes are out of this world. I’m getting the hot roast beef. I shouldn’t. I have to watch what I eat, and that’s a lot of sodium.”

  “Why does the sodium matter?”

  “Makes me have to pee more.”

  “Speaking of which …” she gets up and hurries to the rest room.

  Joyce comes back, bringing our juice. We’re catching up when Sam returns.

  “Do you know what you want, sweetie?”

  “I, uh …” She glances down at the menu. “An omelet with Swiss cheese and tomatoes, please. And can I get a water as well?”

  Joyce bustles off and Sam meets my eyes, just briefly. Her eyes are a light blue-gray. I’ve just noticed this. They’re blending in with her skin, which has taken on a grayish pallor. I hope some food and sleep will make her feel better.

  “Is there anything you need? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  In a voice barely above a whisper, she says, “Can you just keep talking? Tell me about when you were a kid. Tell me anything so I don’t have to think about –” she breaks off.

  I don’t know what happened to her, and at this rate, I may never know. But for once, I have the chance to help someone out. If only she’ll let me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SAMIRAH

  By the second dose of antibiotics, I’m starting to feel better. I’m not peeing blood anymore. I’ve showered three more times. It’s weird. No matter how many times I soap myself up, I don’t feel clean. Maybe it’s because I keep putting on the same oversized sweatpants and sweatshirt. They’re the biggest things I own and the only thing I feel safe wearing.

  I really want a drink. I really need one. Is there anything in the fridge?

  No, I don’t. I can’t. I’m never drinking again.

  I keep waiting for my hands to shake or the delusions to start. I probably wasn’t that dependent upon alcohol. At least not physically.

  Mentally I’m dependent on alcohol to stop my brain from whirring and whizzing. To stop it from playing the same scenes over and over in my head. My father telling me to leave. Being so afraid of the sickness in the hospital that I let myself believe my mom was going to be okay. Leaving her to die alone.

  I deserve what happened to me. Karma.

  I was a bitch and life bitch-slapped me good.

  I don’t know if I still am a bitch. Being nice never got me anywhere. Being mean was even worse. So now, I’m nothing. If I thought I had been in some weird limbo-like existence before, then this must be hell. I can’t move forward. I’m stuck, reliving the past. Scenes playing in my mind, over and over, on an endless loop. When I can sleep, the nightmares come. I can’t see what’s there, but it’s holding me down. I can’t move.

  I wake up drenched in sweat and have to take another shower.

  Day three, more of the same. Food is tasteless, life is meaningless.

  Day four. Day five. Day six.

  By day seven, I consider my UTI cleared. A phone call to the hospital reveals my test results. HIV negative. Not pregnant. Positive for chlamydia. I need another antibiotic to knock that one out.

  I wonder if Meadow has the clap too. I hope so, and I hope she doesn’t know it. I hope her twat falls off.

  Suddenly, this influx of anger is accompanied by my appetite. I can’t eat enough. Michael is gone during the day. I walk all day while he’s out. I don’t want to be in his house while he’s not there. It feels wrong.

  He’s been so nice. I don’t understand why. Why would anyone be this nice to me? He doesn’t even know me.

  Day eight. Day nine. Day ten.

  In my mind, I mark the days with slash marks, like on a prison wall. Except my mind and my body are my prison, and I have no parole in my future.

  Late on the eleventh day, Michael knocks gently on my door. Of course, it’s really his door. I don’t know what to make of him. He opened his home to me, a total stranger. He doesn’t ask anything of me, and doesn’t ask me questions. He comes, he goes, he leaves me alone. He’s perfect. Well, perfect for letting me wallow in my own misery.

  “Sam?”

  I’m huddled on the bed, trying to ignore the filth I’ve created around me. Food wrappers litter the floor. I’ve never been a slob before. This behavior baffles me. “Yeah?” I look away before I can
see the disgust that will march across his face. The revulsion at the condition of his beautiful room. At the filth and dirt that is me. I need to meet his gaze, but I can’t. “What do you want?”

  “Um, nothing. Just seeing how you are. Seeing if you need … anything.”

  His voice is non-judgmental. It’s oddly soothing. For once, the chaffing inside calms slightly. Looking around the room, I see what he must see. Filth. “Um, I was just going to get picking up in here. I know it looks bad. I’m sorry.”

  I hustle off the bed and start scooping things up, stuffing them down into my duffel.

  “Feel free to use the closet space. Let me know if you need more hangers. Lord knows I can’t use this closet.”

  Taking the two steps to the closet, I pull open the folding doors. It looks typical with white wire shelving. A few lonely hangers dangle from the bar. A box is in one corner. It’s a lot of empty space.

  “I would have killed for this kind of space in my apartment.” I don’t want to think of my apartment. What used to be my apartment. The tiny closet stuffed and overflowing with tight, revealing clothes.

  “This house does have lots of storage. My dad and I fought over this closet. He wanted to make it accessible to me, but I told him it was for guests, and they wouldn’t need that feature. If you actually use the closet, you can help prove I’m right to my dad.”

  His voice is light and I glance over to see a smile on his face. Imagine being able to smile when thinking about your father. A novel concept.

  “Do you need anything else? Can I do anything for you?”

  I look at him squarely, actually making eye contact this time. “I don’t think you can help me.”

  I see his eyes fall a bit, but he maintains the smile on his face. It looks a little forced. “Just let me know. After you get cleaned up, why don’t you come out and watch some TV with me?”

  “Um, okay. It may take me a while.”

  He turns and rolls out the door. I attack the room. It doesn’t take me long to hang up my clothes in the closet and put my underwear in a dresser drawer. My empty duffel, lifeless and deflated, sits in the corner of the closet. Quickly I dart out to the kitchen and grab a trash bag, filling it with ease. I hate that I have to pass through the living room to get to the kitchen. My room is at the front of the house, while Michael seems to hang more toward the back. He’s not in the living room. Good. I want to wash the sheets on the bed. There’s nothing better than getting into bed when the sheets are fresh and tucked tightly in. My mom used to wash the sheets every other week. I loved those Sunday nights, crawling into bed with the smell of fabric softener drifting up around me.

  I strip the bed and then stop before I get to the door. Where do I wash these? I know Michael’s told me to make myself at home here, but I’m not. I don’t have a home. Crap.

  Tiptoeing out to the living room, I see Michael now stretched out on the couch. I wonder how he got there. I didn’t hear anyone come in to help him. It’s odd seeing him there. I’m used to seeing him upright in his wheelchair, so seeing him lying down makes me uneasy. Not that it takes much these days.

  “Um, Michael?” My voice is softer than I intended. I have to call his name again. His head arches back so he can see me.

  “Wha’s up?”

  “Can I do a load of laundry?”

  With one hand gripping the back of the couch and the other the front, Michael hauls his body up to a sitting position. I notice that his legs slide back but are lifeless and limp.

  “Sure. You don’t have to ask.”

  “Um, okay. Thanks,” I mumble. I return to my room, located at the front of the house, to gather up the sheets. Clutching the pile to my nasty sweatshirt, I know I need to wash these clothes too. I think about this as I walk to the laundry room, not looking at Michael as I pass through the living room. Washing my clothes. That means I have to take them off. My armor. I’m paralyzed for a moment, unable to proceed. Then I think of seeing Michael on the couch, his legs motionless. He can’t hurt me. I can get away. He cannot hold me down.

  That thought gives me the strength I need to peel off my sweatshirt. I’ve never undressed while Michael was in the house. The air hits my shoulders and I can take a deep breath.

  It might just be okay. I might just be okay.

  Might.

  I act quickly so I don’t have to think. I scurry to the back of the house. The laundry room is just off the kitchen. The washer is a front loader. I toss my sheets and sweatshirt in and dash back to my room. Stripping off my bra and camisole, sweatpants and underwear, I move fast, hoping the panic doesn’t set in.

  It does.

  I make it to the bathroom and collapse over the toilet, the heaving forcing my body into convulsions and spasms. There’s nothing in my stomach to come up. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I look down at my body, naked and curled on a stranger’s bathroom floor. Breathe in, breathe out.

  How has my life come to this?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MICHAEL

  It takes Samirah over an hour to finally join me. She’s been back and forth to the laundry room a few times, and her hair is wet, piled high on top of her head. She’s changed her clothes. For the first time, she’s not wearing her oversized sweats. If I had to guess, I’d think that’s what she was washing.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with Samirah. I have a few guesses, but I could be way off base. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out something bad happened to her. I wonder if she’s mentally ill or unstable or something. I don’t think she is.

  At least, I hope she’s not.

  I’m sort of screwed if she goes nuts on me or tries to steal from me. I’m pretty much defenseless.

  Of course, I never thought about any of this. Oh no, that was Mitchell. He went ballistic the other day when I told him about Samirah. He couldn’t believe that I not only picked up a strange woman from the side of the road, but then that I invited her to stay with me. Joyce told Mitchell that I brought a girl in with me, and he jumped all over that like white on rice.

  Then, the interrogation began. “Who is she?” “Where is she from?” “Where does she live?” He got really pissed when I answered that question with “My guest room.”

  I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know why I picked her up or offered to help. I don’t know why I insisted that she stay with me. I didn’t stop to analyze. I just acted. And I’m not sorry. At least not yet.

  I’m lying on my stomach when she finally comes into the living room. She moves timidly, like she doesn’t want to be noticed. There’s an unease about the way she moves. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not quite right.

  My couches are perpendicular to each other, and she curls herself into the corner of the other couch. My head is facing the left so I can watch TV. If I crank it a little further, I can see her balled up. Her presence is surrounded by a vacuum of silence that I feel the need to fill.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up. I spend so much time on my ass every day that I need to relieve some pressure there. This is the most comfortable.” It’s true. Even before the accident I’d been a stomach sleeper. Prone. That’s what the therapists called it. Prone means the skin on my butt gets a break, and that’s important. No one wants to get skin breakdown on their ass. It means you can’t sit in your wheelchair, which means you’re out of commission.

  “No, you’re fine. Don’t get up.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, a look of shock takes over her face and both hands fly up to her mouth. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  “Mean what?” I have no idea why she’s upset, but it’s obvious she is. Horrified is more like it.

  Her face turns a deep scarlet and her voice drops even lower. I have to strain to hear her over the TV. Reflexively I turn down the volume. “About getting up. I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.” I see tears forming in her eyes. Aw shit. I hate tears.

  “Samirah, I don’t know wh
y you’re upset. You didn’t say anything to offend me.”

  She looks at me for a moment, her gray eyes huge. “Not even, ‘don’t get up?’ I know you can’t so I don’t know why I said that. It was just … I didn’t think. I know there’s no one to help you up right now, and I don’t know how to do it.”

  She’s got me totally lost. “What do you mean there’s no one here?”

  “Like your nurse or aide. I don’t really hear them come in, but that’s probably because I’ve been a little lost in my own world. Plus, my room’s in the front of the house. I don’t hear much up there.”

  Enough of this lying down shit. I push my body up and flip it over. It’s effortful and I don’t think I’ll win any points for gracefulness, but I sure as hell am independent in it. Once on my back, I pull my body up into sitting, like I’d done the first time she came into the living room asking me to do laundry. “What are you talking about with a nurse? I don’t have a nurse.”

  Her mouth is slack in astonishment. “I thought you were paralyzed.”

  “I am. It doesn’t mean I can’t move at all. I just can’t move from the mid-chest down. My upper body works fine.”

  “So, you don’t have someone who gets you in and out of bed and dressed and stuff?” Her words are slow, like she’s somewhat incredulous.

  “Nope, that’s all me. I even dress myself too. I do pretty much everything I did before the accident. I may do it differently, but I still do it by myself.”

  Please do not ask me about going to the bathroom. I don’t want to get into that.

  “Can you cook?”

  “As well as I ever could before. I’ve got my few standard recipes that I can do.”

  “What about cleaning?”

  I smile. “Got me there. I’ve got a woman who comes in and cleans once a week for me. In my defense though, I had that before the accident too.”

  She smiles. “Must be nice.”

  It occurs to me that in the almost two weeks since Samirah’s been here, Maybelle hasn’t been in. “Maybelle’s been on vacation. She’ll be back this week.”

  “Oh, okay. Let me know so I can be gone when she’s here.”