“She usually comes on Thursdays, so that will be tomorrow. I don’t know what time she comes since I’m not usually here. I just know she’s been here because everything smells better and all the dust bunnies are gone.”
I see her looking around, and it’s as if she’s seeing the place for the first time. She’s been here over a week. I don’t know what she does during the day. I don’t ask. She doesn’t tell. There’s never a thing out of place. For all I know, she never leaves her room. I suppose I should care.
I don’t.
There’s a lot of stuff to worry about in life. There’s a lot of stuff you spend energy worrying on. They’re not necessarily the same things. My valuables are in a safe in my room. The rest of the stuff in my houseâit’s just stuff. There are more important things in life. Like the ability to walk.
She’s been quiet. I don’t know if she’s watching TV or not. I try to look at her without looking at her. She’s folded into a little ball, her arms hugging her legs, her hands fisted inside the end of her sleeves.
“Are you cold?”
She nods, the movement barely perceptible. “My sweatshirt’s in the wash.”
“Go grab one of mine. There should be one in my room, on the end of my bed.”
“I’m okay.”
It’s obvious she’s not. I reach over, grab my wheelchair, and slide into it. I try to pretend that she’s not watching this freak show. It’s pretty easy to get in and out of the chair, but I still don’t like anyone to watch me do it. I feel as if they’re either waiting for me to fall or trying to figure out how on earth I can do this.
It’s taken a lot of practice.
I see her trying not to look at me hauling my legs over to the chair like pieces of dead wood. Revulsion crosses her face as she sees them dance and shake as I bend them onto the footplate.
For some reason, people aren’t as fascinated when I get in and out of the car. Maybe I make it look easy. Guess what? It ain’t.
I grab the first sweatshirt I find in my drawer and bring it out to the living room. She’s still sitting there. I don’t think she’s moved a muscle. I would kill to be able to get up and move. She can but doesn’t. I toss the sweatshirt on the couch next to her and head out to the kitchen. As long as I’m up, I might as well get something to drink. I have to cath in a little while, but there’s still time.
Rolling back to the living room, I hand Samirah one bottle of cranberry juice cocktail. She’s wearing my sweatshirt. I didn’t pay attention as to which one I grabbed. It’s my favorite Red Sox sweatshirt. I’ve had it since college. Damn, I hope she treats it well. I toss the other bottle of juice on the couch and, after depressing my brakes, haul myself back onto the couch. This time, I’m sitting up, like an able-bodied person would do. Samirah thanks me in that soft voice and opens her juice. She takes a sip and makes a face.
“Is it okay?”
“It would be better with some vodka.” There’s an edge to her voice. So maybe that’s her issueâshe’s a junkie. Shit. That’s not good.
“I, um, think there might be a bottle in one of the upper cabinets. You’ll have to look. My brother may have left one here.”
Her head shakes. “No, it would be better with vodka, but I’m done drinking. I can’t do it anymore.” There’s an element of surprise to her voice when she says this, like it’s news to her.
“Is this a new thing?”
“Yeah, since I’ve left.” She pauses and takes another sip. “What’s thatâthirteen days sober? Shouldn’t I be getting a medal or chip or something?”
I think this is the most I’ve ever heard her say at once. I wonder if she goes to meetings during the day. Or if maybe she should.
“I don’t drink much anymore, so there’s not much in the house. I can get rid of what I have, if that would make it easier.” Mitchell will be pissed, but oh well. He’s pissed at me for letting her stay here to begin with.
A faint smile passes over her lips. Another first. “Nah, that’s alright. It’s more of a lifestyle change. I’ll be okay.”
She falls silent, apparently engrossed in the TV. There’s a show on about gold mining in Alaska. I can’t imagine she really finds it interesting. Me, on the other hand, I get caught up as they start to weigh in their bounty. Her voice startles me.
“I didn’t realize how much I was drinking. I mean, I think I started to realize it when I would stop for a bottle of Grey Goose on my way home from work. Meadow and I would go out a lot.”
Shit. She’s starting to unload. What do I do? I try to channel my inner-therapistâLord knows, I’ve been the patient enough. Muting the TV, I turn my body to face her couch. “Who’s Meadow?”
“My roommate.” She takes a long drink. “My former roommate. She kicked me out. That’s how I ended up here.”
“Where did you live?”
“The city. SoHo.” She says it with an air that implies I know what she’s talking about. Well, I’ve heard of SoHo.
“This is quite a hike from the city. How did you end up here? It’s over one hundred and fifty miles. You couldn’t have walked.”
“I took a bus.”
“Why’d you choose here?” My whole life I wanted to get out of the sleepy, Upstate suburbs. “I had always intended to live in the city, but my ties to Lainie and the family business kept me here. Now, being chained to the chair, I’m even less likely to leave.”
“I grabbed my mail when I was leaving my apartment. Meadow’s apartment. I guess I don’t live there anymore. Anyway, my mom’s cousin’s daughter is getting married in a few months, and the save-the-date letter was in the mail. I think they live around here. I saw the return address. When I got to the bus station, the destination on the bus rang a bell. It was sort of impulsive, I guess, but I needed to get the hell out of New York.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“I’m from Southern Jersey.” Now that she says it, I can detect the faint accent.
“And no desire to go back there?”
“Nothing to go back to.”
“What about your parents?” Crap. My bad. I try to cover. “I mean, your dad?”
“My mom’s dead and my dad, wherever he is, has no use for me. He threw me out of our house on the day of my mom’s funeral.” She leaps up from the couch and runs out of the room. Her face is ashen. Any wall that was starting to crumble has been immediately rebuilt.
Shit. I am officially in over my head.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SAMIRAH
It’s been two weeks since I watched TV with Mike. Michael. Whatever his name is. I know I shouldn’t be mad at him. It’s not like he knows the saga of my shitty family. It’s not his fault no one wants me. I don’t want me. I don’t want to be me.
I’m a terrible person. You know why? I need money. No matter how many times I count my stash, I don’t have enough money to keep going. Not that I have tons of expenses right now. Michael hasn’t asked for anything. I’ve been buying my own food. I walk the four miles to and from the Wal-Mart to get food. I can’t carry that much, so I end up going every day. But one of these days, the money’s going to run out.
I have that ring that Michael nailed me in the head with. Digging it out of my drawer, I open up the box. It is truly beautiful. And huge. The square-cut stone is easily over a carat. If I had to bet, I would say it’s set in platinum, not white gold. The setting is like nothing I’ve seen before, with the ring band dividing into delicate ribbons on each side of the stone, creating a sideways V-shape. It’s delicate and feminine and beautiful. Despite its beauty, I have no choice. I’m going to sell it. That should keep me afloat until I figure out what I’m going to do with my life. I know I should give it back to him. Especially since he’s been so nice to me all this time. I wonder if he knows I have it. He threw it out the window after all. There’s got to be a story there with that. I should ask.
I should talk to him again. I will, after I cash in the ring.
For once, I feel gu
ilty.
I’m not used to feeling guilty. I never used to let anything bother me. I don’t know how to handle these feelings. I don’t want to have feelings. It’s easier when I don’t. I need something to distract me. Some mindless television would be great right about now.
Sneaking out into the living room, I’m surprised to find it empty. He’s usually out here in the evenings. At least, I think he is. I’m wearing the sweatshirt he lent me. I guess, since I have no intention of giving it back, I should say it’s the sweatshirt he gave me. See, that’s what I doâI’m a taker.
On the other hand, being a taker hasn’t worked out so well for me. Perhaps I should reconsider.
I’ll wash the sweatshirt and give it back.
Michael’s nowhere to be seen. Peeking past the living room, I see his bedroom door is closed. That means I can steal into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. Just like a little old lady. Or my grandmother. I have a faint memory of her Earl Grey tea bag dangling out of a white cup with green trim and yellow and orange flowers. Though Mim had been Persian by birth, she spent most of her life in England. I guess I was born to drink tea.
The cabinets are lower than normal. Even so, I can’t see the top of some shelves without climbing up. I can’t find a kettle, so I heat the mug in the microwave. For some reason, it’s not the same, but it will have to do. I’ve been craving tea but just picked it up on my last trek to Wal-Mart. Three minutes later my tea is steeping away. There’s something therapeutic about dipping the tea bag in and out of the water, watching it progressively darken. I prefer a little lemon in my tea, but I forgot to pick one up.
I don’t hear him approach, so I’m startled by the sound of his voice.
“Heyâ”
I spin around, sloshing hot tea onto the counter. The tea bag falls from my fingers, making a large splotch on the floor.
He rolls up to where I am. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Even though he’s in a wheelchair, he’s too close to me. My throat starts to close up and my pulse races. I gulp at the air, trying to take deep breaths. “Can you back up a little?”
His brows knit together, but he complies. It’s then, with a little distance between us, that I notice he must be just out of the shower. His dark hair is wet, and he’s not wearing a shirt.
With the space of the kitchen between us, I can finally look at him without feeling trapped. His arms and shoulders are well built and defined. Like very nicely defined. The upper portion of his pecs are chiseled and then, it stops. Where the underside of his pecs should be, there’s no definition. His lower torso is skinny but not. He has a stomach that looks like he drinks too much beer. It’s weird. He’s not fat, but he’s got this gut. It sort of sits on his lap, above his black sweats.
He must notice me staring because he turns the chair around quickly and wheels off into his room. He returns a moment later with his shirt on.
“I didn’t mean to scare you earlier.” He’s not quite across the room, but not as close as he was before. I stoop over to wipe up my mess.
“That’s okay. I didn’t hear you.”
“Why did I have to back up?” He cocks his head, his eyes full of inquiry. His hair is still wet and disheveled, and is somewhat sexy like that. I mean, if I were finding people attractive, I would imagine that hair style could be considered sexy.
“I don’t know.” I try to think about what just happened. I mean, it’s not like he can hurt me. At least I don’t think he can. But something about him getting too close to meâinvading my spaceâset me off. An image of hands reaching around my body, more hands holding me down infiltrates my brain and suddenly I can’t breathe.
“Sam? Samirah? Are you okay?”
The mug falls to the floor with a heavy thud. I should register that my feet are wet. All I can feel is the pressure in my lungs. The world is spinning and black is closing in. I need to sit or vomit or something. I slide to the floor, my back nestled into the corner of the cabinet, my head tucked into my knees. Rocking back and forth I wait for this feeling of oppressive panic to cease.
I feel the cool wetness on the back of my neck before I hear him speak. “Breathe, Samirah. Take a deep breath in and then out.”
I look up and he’s pushing back in his wheelchair, rolling away from me to give me space. His body is parallel to mine, about two feet away. I focus on his tan moccasin. The rubber sole. The stitching along the edge. The lace tied on the top. I know the material is suede. Absorbed in every detail of his shoe, I feel my breathing slowly calm down. Overcome by the urge to connect, I reach out and touch his slipper.
My touch is very light, and Michael doesn’t feel it. Or at least, he doesn’t react. Maybe he’s afraid of scaring me again. My hand’s still on his foot. I shake it a little, not sure my voice is there to get his attention. He’s not responding. I shake a little harder.
He doesn’t respond. I look up at him. He’s sitting there, his hands in his lap, his eyes closed. “Michael?”
He looks down at my hand on his foot. I withdraw it quickly.
“I can’t feel it.”
“Oh.” What do you say to that? “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It is what it is.”
“I mean I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry I’m here. I’ll leave in the morning.”
He bends practically in half so his head is more my level. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I’m not asking you to tell me. But I know what it’s like to be fucked up and not be able to do anything about it. I know what it’s like to have no control. I don’t know what you need. Tell me and we’ll see what we can do about it.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why are you helping me? What do you want from me? I have nothing. I have nothing left to give.” My words are raw in my throat, betraying the emotion I can no longer contain.
In a low voice he says, “I don’t know.” I look up at him, surprised at his answer. He shrugs and offers a small smile. “I honestly don’t know what possessed me to pick you up or to bring you back here. I don’t know why I let you stay. It’s probably not for the conversation.” His grin widens, and for the first time, I feel myself starting to smile back.
I’ve made quite the mess with the mug. It’s broken into several pieces and there’s tea everywhere. “I’m sorry I broke your mug.”
“There’s no use crying over spilled tea. Speaking of which, do I even own tea?”
“I own tea.” I’m finally standing. “I bought it today. I’ve missed drinking it.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had tea that wasn’t iced or from Long Island.”
“Tea was a staple in my house growing up. My mom’s parents were from just outside of London. Well, my grandmother was born in Tehran but moved to London when she was in college. Her parents were radicals, letting their daughter go away. She was supposed to be working but went to school instead. Then, because of the revolution in theâwheneverâI never really paid attentionâshe couldn’t go back, even though that had always been her plan. She had married my grandfather by then and my mom was, like, ten. I think my grandmother liked being British more than she liked being Iranian.”
“The Iranian revolution in 1979? Like the whole Ayatollah and Carter and hostages and all that?”
“Blah, blah, blah, blah. That’s all I hear. My grandparents died when I was little. I don’t really remember them. I just know that my dad was pretty condescending about being Persian. Middle Eastern. I never wanted to know about it. I always felt like it was something to be ashamed about. So, I wanted nothing to do with it. I don’t even like to admit that I’m Persian.”
“Your first name kind of gives it away.”
“Yeah, that’s why, for the most part, I tell people to call me Sam. They assume it’s short for Samantha.”
When I say that, I remember part of that night. Scott, calling me Samantha. It stops me in my tracks.
He�
�s watching me closely, probably waiting for me to freak out again. I’m trying hard not to freak out. It’s not easy. I try focusing on the broken bits of mug, just as I did with Michael’s moccasin. The fragmented bits of ceramic, once with purpose, now lay forever fractured. Useless. Just like me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MICHAEL
I am in over my head. What the hell have I done? I should have left her at the side of the road.
That thought stops me cold. Here’s this woman who can barely function. She obviously has no family. I don’t think she has many friends. She mentioned one once, but I guess if she had thought that person would help, then that’s where she would have gone.
I should see if Michele can take her on as a patient. Of course, I can’t imagine how that would go. “Hey thereâyou’re in a heap on my kitchen floor and are obviously a mess. How ‘bout I hook you up with my therapist?”
Probably wouldn’t go over that well.
I did figure out that she doesn’t like me to be too close to her. I’m used to moving through my house how I want and need to. Let’s face itâmy navigation is restricted enough. I don’t need more logistical limitations. But I can try to respect her personal space.
She manages to pull herself together, clean up her shit, and is okay while we watch TV. This becomes our routine. I still can’t figure out what she does all day. There’s food in the kitchen that I didn’t buy, so she obviously leaves the house. She doesn’t complain about being bored. I read the fact that she joins me in the living room every night as a good sign, like she’s making progress.
That is, until Mitchell stops by.
It’s Friday night. We’ve been watching TV every night this week. The opening of the door from the garage makes her jump, instantaneously changing her relaxed demeanor. Her body draws up into that little ball and her eyes dart to the door.
“It’s okay. I think it’s my brother,” I reassure her as I hear him call out. “LIVING ROOM,” I answer him.
“Yo, Mikey, where you been hiâ” the sight of Samirah stops him cold. His eyebrow cocks and a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “Now I get it.”
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