Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “You don’t get shit. Samirah, this is my brother Mitchell. He’s an asshole, so don’t mind him. Mitchell, this is Samirah.”

  She gets up quickly and moves over to my couch, tucking herself into the corner. My legs are folded Indian style, so there’s plenty of room for her. This is the first time she’s ever sat on the couch with me. Of course, I’m usually lying down, taking up the whole thing. The only reason I’m still sitting up is because I’m trying this tea thing. Samirah swears by it.

  I see the questioning on Mitchell’s face, wondering what the hell is going on here. Where do I start? Mitchell’s sitting on the edge of the couch, his body forward, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands. He’s watching me. No, he’s watching us.

  “And here I was, worried that you’d be all lonely and looking for some good company tonight.”

  “So how did you think you being here would solve that?” Mitchell doesn’t smile at my witty retort. I see the tension in his face. It’s the same expression I saw when I looked up from my hospital bed in those dark days—months—after my accident.

  Samirah doesn’t say anything. I can feel the tension radiating off her body. I wish I could comfort her. I know I can’t. All I can do is try to diffuse the situation.

  It’s not the most comfortable of circumstances. In fact, it’s pretty damn uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Samirah excuses herself and retreats to her room.

  “What the hell, Mikey?” I’m not sure she’s even out of earshot when Mitchell starts in on me. “This is why you’ve been hiding? Why is she still here?”

  “Her name is Samirah.”

  “Yeah, I got that. That’s all I got.”

  “I’m just trying to help her. She’s got no one.”

  “And you’re going to be that person for her?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Kick her out when she has nowhere to go?”

  “I can’t believe you brought her here in the first place.”

  Oh great. We’re going to have this argument again. “Don’t give me shit. It’s fine.”

  “Do you even know anything about her?”

  “I don’t need to. She was sick. She’s getting better. She needs help. I can help her. End of story.” My tone tells him I’m not in the mood to discuss this issue.

  “Do you even know her last name?”

  I think back to the hospital and going to get her prescription. “Lundgren.”

  Mitchell’s on his feet. “I still can’t believe you’re letting her stay here. I thought it was a temporary thing. What else is going on? She’s wearing your Sox sweatshirt. You never even let Lainie wear it.”

  “There’s nothing going on. We barely even talk. She just needs a place to stay while she gets back on her feet. That’s all. She can stay as long as she needs. And don’t ever mention Lainie’s name to me again. That bitch is dead to me.”

  My outburst of emotion is enough to quiet him for a minute. “You know he asked Trev and Marco to be in the wedding. They didn’t know what to say. It’s an ass move, putting them in the middle like that.”

  “It’s an ass move marrying your friend’s fiancée.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Do Mom and Dad know?” He nods in the general direction of Samirah’s bedroom. I told my mom that day I was in the hospital with Sam, but never brought it up that she was staying with me.

  “That she’s staying here?”

  He nods.

  “No.”

  “You gonna tell them?”

  “Maybe at some point. Listen, I don’t even know what’s going on here. She was sick. She’s been through something—something big—and she’s trying to get past it. I sort of know what that’s like.”

  “I’m worried about you, man.”

  “Don’t be. Just worry about yourself. I’m fine.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  Mitchell stands up. “And what the hell is that?” He’s looking at the teacup. I don’t know where Samirah got it, but she insists that if she’s going to drink “proper tea” she needs to do it out of a “proper teacup.”

  “It’s tea. What do you think it is?”

  “So, lemme get this straight. It’s a Friday night. Instead of hanging with me or going out with friends, you’re here, drinking tea outta a freakin’ teacup with some crazy homeless chick.”

  Nothing he says, no matter how crass, is inaccurate.

  “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “Are you still seeing that shrink lady? Maybe you need to talk to her.”

  “And tell her what? I’m doing a nice thing? I’m being a nice person? How is that a problem? Listen, I don’t mind hanging with you. I’m a little pissed at Trev and Marco. But going out, cruising for girls? I don’t think so. In case you didn’t notice, I’m in a fucking wheelchair. That’s all anybody sees. That’s all anybody will ever see. So sue me if I would rather feel useful and helpful than shitty about my shitty run in life. I don’t think that means I need to have my head shrunk.”

  He doesn’t respond, just turns and leaves.

  I grab my chair and hop back in it. I try to leave Samirah alone when she’s in her room, but I really need to make sure she’s okay. Because I know, overall, she’s not.

  I may be a dense guy but even I know there’s something really wrong with Samirah. What to do about it, that’s another story.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SAMIRAH

  I used to be a people person. I mean, it was my job—literally—to greet people. I was good at it. Well, when I wanted to be. I could make the ugliest man feel like a stud. Now, I can barely speak. It’s the oddest thing, because the words are all there, in my head. But then, when someone like Michael’s brother, is in the room, everything freezes up. I freeze up.

  All because of Chase and his asshole friends.

  I don’t think I’m ever going to get over this.

  The knock on the door startles me. Everything startles me right now. I don’t know who I would expect it to be. It’s not like rapists knock.

  Rapists. Rape. It’s the first time I’ve even admitted to myself what happened.

  Michael rolls in. Before I can control myself I blurt out, “I … I was …” and then the words fail. I hang my head. I can’t say it. Not out loud. “I can’t say it.”

  “Can’t say what?”

  “Why I’m so messed up. I don’t know what to do about it. I know it’s bad, but I … just …” I can’t even finish my sentence.

  “It’s okay. I get being messed up. I feel ya. Well only from the mid-chest, but you know what I mean.”

  “You can’t feel anything?”

  “Not below here.” He motions to his chest. Based on what I saw of him with his shirt off, it makes sense. It’s right where his body turned from stacked to scrawny.

  Perched on the side of my bed, I start to relax. I motion for Michael to come in more, as I scoot back to rest my back against the pillows. “Are you okay in your chair right now, or do you need to get out? I know you like to lay down about now.”

  “I’ll be okay right now.” Periodically, I’ve seen him hook his upper arm around the back of the chair and lean the opposite way, just as he’s doing now.

  “Why do you do that? Lean like that?”

  Returning to upright, he says, “Pressure relief. I can’t feel my butt. I need to unweight it periodically to relieve the skin. Otherwise, it will get breakdown.”

  “What’s that? Breakdown?” Jesus, I must sound like an idiot. “All this medical stuff is foreign to me. I’m not good with it. I can’t handle it.”

  “That’s what I always thought too. Before my accident, I used to get nauseous at the sight of needles. I got over that quickly.”

  “So it was an accident? When?”

  “Two and a half years ago. I was waiting to cross the street when a drunk driver drove up onto the curb. I’d bent down to tie my shoe and was starting to come back
up. He plowed into me, pretty much throwing me up onto his hood. I guess he was trying to make a phone call and didn’t see me. When I came down, I broke my back, right between the shoulder blades. Pretty much severed my spinal cord.”

  I can’t speak. It sounds so horrific. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, it certainly put a damper on that day.”

  “Are you ever going to walk again?”

  He shrugs. It’s meant to be a careless gesture, but I don’t think it is. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “So, you can’t feel anything?”

  “Not below the level of the injury. That’s why when you were touching my foot the other day, I didn’t know.”

  “Is it weird, not being able to feel?”

  “Yeah, especially when I think about what it used to be like.”

  I’m quiet for a minute. “I’ve never met anyone in a wheelchair before. This is all new to me.”

  He smiles. “I’ve never picked up a stranger on the side of the road and invited her to live with me. This is new to me too.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” From the argument I overheard with his brother, I doubt he does. He’s made reference to an ex but not to anyone current.

  “My ex-fiancée is marrying my ex-best friend. That’s the current state of affairs.”

  I think about the ring in the top drawer. No wonder he didn’t want it. “Did she break up with you before or after the accident?”

  “After.”

  “What a bitch.” Hello, kettle. You’re black.

  “She couldn’t handle it. Trust me, if I could have run far away from this, I would have. But wanting it not to be real doesn’t make it not real. This really happened. And we really had to deal with it. She didn’t want to.”

  “So when did she get together with your friend then? How did that all shake down?” I’m indignant on Michael’s behalf, which is ironic considering I got into a relationship with Chase knowing full well he was married. I didn’t care. Now it bothers me that it didn’t bother me.

  “I don’t know the timeline, and I don’t care to. It doesn’t matter. Neither one could hack my reality. I guess that brought them together.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does. What about you? Anyone in your life?”

  How do I tell him what a piece of work I am? I can’t utter those words. But I need to. I need to open up and share even a little something that is sitting in my chest, eating away at me. “I was seeing a guy. He was married. I knew it. What I didn’t know is that he and his wife were having a much-anticipated baby and that he never had any intention of leaving her for me.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, none of it was good. I should have known better. I did know better. My mother would be appalled at my behavior. It’s a good thing she’s not here to see it.”

  “I take it you and your mom were close?”

  “Yeah, sort of. My dad left when I was seven or eight. I’ve only seen him once or twice since then. It’s not a good situation.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, it’s just me. I always wanted a brother or sister. My mom lost a baby when I was a kid, and that was it. My dad left. There wasn’t another chance.”

  “So you don’t talk to him or anything?”

  I stiffen. “He kicked me out and cut me off at my mom’s funeral. He told me he was selling the house. There would be no more money for college. I bet he was hard up for the money. Again.”

  “How did he get the house?”

  “My parents never officially divorced. I think my mom spent her whole life waiting for him to come back. Turns out he finally did. But only for what he could gain from the situation.”

  He’s quiet for a minute. “It sounds sad.”

  “And you sound sad. Not being able to walk is sad.”

  “We need to stop being sad. It’s depressing.”

  “Are we getting depressed about how sad our lives are, or are we sad at how depressing we are?”

  He laughs. “I’m not sure I can even follow that.”

  I can’t help but smile a little. It feels so unnatural on my face. “You know what I mean.” I toss a pillow at him.

  “Sadly, I do.” Another grin. He lobs the pillow back at me.

  This is the lightest I’ve felt in years.

  “Hey—I’ve been meaning to ask, where’d you get those teacups?”

  His abrupt change of subject gives me pause.

  “Oh, I picked them up at a garage sale. I hope it’s okay. There’s no chips or anything. I was trying to replace the mug I broke the other day. I’m so sorry about that.”

  “But at a garage sale?” His face is puckering on one side. I guess you could consider it a sneer.

  “Have you ever been garage saling?”

  “Is that even a thing?”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s, like, when you go to a bunch of garage sales looking for good stuff. It can be work, but it’s so much fun. My mom and I used to do it all the time. She was like, a pro. You should have seen the stuff she got.”

  Memories of different finds dash through my mind. Her collection of medicine bottles. The sideboard that she sanded down and painted turquoise. The eclectic kitchen chairs that made the room funky and homey all at the same time.

  I miss my house. I miss my mom. I miss feeling like I belonged and was accepted.

  “I’m tired. I think I want to go to sleep.”

  Michael watches me for a second, not saying anything. Finally he tells me “okay” before wheeling to the door. Spinning around, he looks concerned. “Can I get you anything? Do you need anything?”

  “I need a drink.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even stop it.

  “Want me to get your tea?”

  I just look at him. I’m pretty sure I have a nasty expression on my face. Like the one I’d use when people asked me to bump them up on the waiting list.

  “What? I can get you your tea. It’s not like I’m crippled or anything.”

  I can’t say anything. I’m pissed because all I want to do right now is drown my sorrows in a bottle of vodka. I’m pissed that I feel like I need that to get through. I’m pissed that Michael doesn’t know that about me. I’m pissed that he has to make lame-ass jokes about himself because someone broke him in half.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Aww, c’mon. It’s a little funny.”

  “No, it’s not. Not at all.”

  “You sound like Mitchell. He always has a giant stick up his ass when it comes to stuff like that. If you can’t laugh, where does that leave you?”

  “I can’t laugh. I don’t laugh. There’s nothing funny about my life.”

  “That’s when you need to laugh even more.”

  “I need a drink. That’s all I need.”

  “I’m guessing you weren’t talking about your tea.”

  I shake my head.

  “I will find something for you if you really want me to.”

  I nod.

  As he leaves, I sit on my bed, thinking about what I’m about to do. I haven’t had anything to drink in over a month. Before I know it, he’s back. He places a can of beer on the nightstand.

  “Really? Pabst Blue Ribbon?”

  “It’s all I’ve got. You need to think, is it worth it?”

  *******

  Now I know why they say ‘one day at a time.’ That damn can of beer has been on my nightstand for three days now. Taunting me. Giving me strength at the same time. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blacked out. I can’t tell you how many times I drank until I puked. I can’t tell you how many poor decisions I’ve made while drinking.

  All I can tell you is how numb I feel when I’m drinking and how I’d give anything to feel that numbness right now.

  Sort of ironic that all I want is to not feel, and I bet all Michael wants is to feel.

  We have plans. We’re going to watch some game in the living room. I don’
t even know what sport is in season. I just know Michael is always watching something. That is, after he drives me to the post office to get my mail forwarded to his house. I’m sure I have overdue bills. I haven’t touched my cell phone since I left the city. I don’t even know if I still have service.

  A large sign in the storefront next door to the post office catches my eye. “Cash for Gold.”

  Once I pay my bills, I’ll be almost out of cash. I need to bring that ring in. The stone looks pretty impressive, at least a carat. He has good taste. I wonder how much I’ll get for it.

  I mean, I could just get a job. Barbara’s daughter’s wedding is still three months away. I haven’t even received the real invitation yet, but it might be because all my mail is—God knows where. Knowing Meadow, she has thrown everything out just to spite me.

  Which I don’t get.

  I try to see things from her perspective. Scott dumped her. She wanted him back. She sees a video of—I can’t even describe it. But if she really watched that video, she should have seen it for what it was.

  I need to get past this, but I have no idea how.

  I’m going to stay until the wedding, at the very least. I don’t know why, but I’m sort of okay in the moment. Michael is helping. He talks. A lot. I think he’s been very lonely, shut up in his house. It’s not that he can’t leave. He certainly can. He goes to work but doesn’t like to go out. I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I don’t like to go out. He doesn’t have those same issues.

  While I was in the post office, Michael was busy on his phone, switching from talking to swiping online. He was mid-negotiation when I got back in the car.

  “Mitchell will be over later. I wanted to let you know.”

  “Is he watching the game with us?”

  “Yeah, probably. He’s bringing a standing frame over for me.”

  “A what?” He can’t stand. What the hell is he talking about?

  “It’s called a standing frame. It’s a chair that then lifts me up into standing. I need to be upright a little more. My bones are getting thin.”

  “What does standing have to do with your bones? Shouldn’t you just drink more milk?”