Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “Putting weight on your bones is what helps make them thick and strong. My bones have already lost density. I need to be standing more than I am.”

  “You can’t stand.” I still don’t understand what he’s talking about.

  “You’ll see. I have a standing frame for the office, but found an extra one on Craigslist. Mitchell is picking it up for me and delivering it.”

  “You know, Craigslist is like the online version of a garage sale.”

  “I know.” He looks over at me in the passenger seat and smiles. He smiles a lot. I wonder how he can do it. “Our conversation about garage sales the other day made me think of looking on there. I got a good deal. Mitchell’s gonna bring it over. That’s okay, right?”

  “It’s your house.”

  “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. As long as you’re there, it’s your place too.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do.”

  He pulls the car over. “Samirah, I promise you. Mitchell won’t hurt you.”

  His words take my breath away. “How do you know? Have you seen the video?” The panic rises up. I’d been doing so well, two whole days without a nightmare, without panic. And now it’s all back.

  “Video? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything. I don’t mean anything. Just drive.”

  “Samirah, I don’t know what your deal is. You don’t have to tell me. But it’s obvious that you’re physically afraid of people getting close to you. I promise you. I will never hurt you. Mitchell will never hurt you. He may be crass and gruff, but he’s one of the good ones. I promise.”

  I believe him. God help me, but I believe him.

  He’s right, of course. Mitchell hauls in this contraption. There’s another guy out in the driveway with the truck, but he doesn’t come in. I would bet money that Michael won’t let him in because of me. The machine looks heavy and like it’s going to take a while to set up. The driveway guy leaves, which makes me wonder how Mitchell is going to get home. I see the goings on as I pass to and from the kitchen. I see the death glares I’m getting from Michael’s brother. I get it. He doesn’t want me here. Too damn bad. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just here. It’s not like I’m using Michael. I mean, I’m not contributing either. Maybe I should start being a productive member of society again.

  But first on the agenda is dying my hair. I’m going back to my natural color, which is almost black. I can’t believe I let Meadow talk me into trying to be a blond. My hair is pretty thick and hangs down below my bra, so I bought two boxes of hair color. As I’m in my room, waiting for the color to process, I think about the last time I got my hair colored. The whole process took about five hours and cost over three hundred dollars. Now I’m wrapped in a towel I bought from Wal-Mart, where I spent about eighteen dollars total on color.

  Forty-five minutes later, my hair is rinsed and conditioned, and I feel like me for the first time in a very long time. I blow dry my hair, using a tiny folding hair dryer that Michael has provided for his guests. It takes me almost an hour to blow it out and use a brush to straighten. But I love the results. I’m tempted to put a little makeup on even, but then I remember I left it all behind. It doesn’t matter. I put on jeans and a sweater. It’s the most put together I’ve been since that night.

  I feel good.

  I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ll go into town tomorrow and get a new job. New hair, new job, new life.

  I know it won’t be that easy. I know because just walking into the room with Mitchell is difficult. How am I going to work when I can’t be around half the population? I need to do this, for me.

  I walk into the living room and am shocked at what I see. Michael’s totally vertical. I’m looking at him, eye to eye. Actually, I have to look up to make eye contact. He’s a lot taller than I would have thought. I don’t know what to say. Anything I can think of to say would probably come out sounding insulting.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  He’s asked, so I say it. “I don’t know. It’s weird seeing you like this. I don’t know what to think.” It may not be nice, but it’s the truth.

  Mitchell scoffs and walks out to the kitchen. I’m not going to lie. This looks odd. Michael’s a lot taller than I thought. His feet are on what look like pedals, about four or six inches off the floor. There are handles, like on an elliptical machine. Big black pads stabilize Michael’s knees, and an even larger set of pads sandwich his torso, squeezing him tight. As he moves the handles, his feet glide slightly forward and back.

  “How tall are you?”

  “I’m six-foot-one.”

  “I … I’m having trouble wrapping my head around seeing you upright. I don’t know if I like it.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mitchell comes charging out of the kitchen, a beer in his hand. “What kind of thoughtless, heartless, free-loading bitch are you?”

  “Mitch, easy.” Michael holds his hand up, as if to halt his brother. It works. I step behind Michael and his standing contraption. “She’s fine. It’s fine.”

  “I … just … it’s … I never …” I’m having trouble with a coherent sentence. I can’t think. My brain is shutting down again.

  “Never thought you’d be looking up to me, did you?” Michael’s trying to twist his head around to see me. The machine really limits his movement, so I step around to look at him.

  “I’ve only ever seen you sitting or lying down. This is different.”

  “I’ve only ever seen you blond, but darker is better.”

  “Okay you two, enough.” Mitchell’s still pissed. Of course, I’ve never seen him not pissed. Maybe this is his baseline. Or maybe it’s just me.

  “Doesn’t Samirah’s hair look nice?” Michael’s voice is sounding a little breathless.

  “Are you okay? You sound weird.” I’m focusing on Michael, but it’s hard. Mitchell’s making me uncomfortable. I’m having trouble focusing. My brain is telling me to leave. Leave now.

  “Jesus, why do you have to be so negative with him? Can’t you see how much being able to stand up means to him? Lay off, will ya?” Mitchell again. Okay, maybe he has a point. I should probably try to be more positive for Michael’s sake. But Mitchell is fuming. He seriously has an anger issue. I can’t deal with him. I need to get out. Now. I head back to my room.

  And cry.

  There I was, feeling good for a few minutes. I should know better. I don’t get to feel good. Happiness is something that’s not meant for me. That’s the thought that envelops me as I cry myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: MICHAEL

  “Samirah?”

  She’s lying on her bed, not moving. Shit, she’s asleep. I start to roll backwards out of her room, but then I see she’s starting to stir. I freeze. I don’t know what to do with her. Around her. About her. Every time I think she’s starting to get better, something comes along and sets her off. Mitchell.

  The only time I’ve ever seen him more upset was right after my accident. It’s like he has a lot of pent up anger and resentment, and he’s taking it out on Samirah. I get why she thought me standing was weird. She’s only ever known me sitting. I have a stander at the office that I use. Mitchell is used to seeing me upright. He’s not used to me sitting all the time. I still think he expects to see me walk into a room. I think the wheelchair is the unsettling object for him.

  “I’m sorry about offending you.” She says the words slowly, as if she’s unfamiliar with them. Her eyes are puffy and swollen with the tell-tale signs of crying. “I just didn’t know what you were talking about with the standing frame. I guess I just hadn’t thought about you being able to stand.”

  “Most people have known me forever, so they remember me standing and walking and playing baseball.”

  “You played baseball?”

  “Yeah, I was a pitcher in high school. Mitchell and I played in a beer league. You know, for the guys who can’t give up the dream.” It makes me t
hink. “I think they still expect me to walk into the room. Mitchell especially. I almost think this is harder on him than on me.”

  “But isn’t this the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

  I’ve never really thought about it like that before, and it gives me pause. “Actually, no. My life isn’t bad. Not at all. It’s different, and it’s not what I expected, but it’s not bad.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s the truth. There are some things about it that suck. But I’m lucky to be alive. And I know that. Every day I have is a gift.”

  “I feel like every day I have is my penance.”

  “Penance for what?” What could she have possible done?

  She shrugs. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I don’t know why my little brother died before he was even born. I don’t know why my mother had to have such crippling depression that she missed over a year of my life. I don’t know why I wasn’t enough for my dad to stay with us. I don’t know why my mom got cancer. I don’t know why I wasn’t strong enough to see how much she needed me. I don’t know how I could have left her to fight it on her own. I don’t know how my dad could have cut me off the moment my mother died. I don’t know how Chase could have …” she breaks off.

  “What did Chase do to you?” This is the first time she’s mentioned his name.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe it’s what I deserve for trying to break up his marriage. The irony is I met his wife, and she’s awesome. She’s so nice. I don’t know how he could do something like that to her. I don’t know how I could do that to her. I sort of want to call her and tell her who she’s sleeping next to every night. She doesn’t deserve to live with a monster. She shouldn’t raise her daughter around that.”

  Her words make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I thought I had anger toward Lainie and Phil. They were just selfish asses. They weren’t evil. This Chase guy sounds downright evil. I can’t imagine exactly what he did, but it had to be horrific. Every so often, I get glimpses of who Samirah might have been were she not this shell of a person. It makes me angry that someone did this to her.

  “Did he know what he was doing?” Maybe it was an accident.

  Her laugh is bitter. “Oh, yeah. He knew. The fucking bastard recorded the whole fucking thing.”

  “That’s the video you mentioned?” I’m glad I can’t feel the pit that must be in my stomach. She nods. “Samirah, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you may need some help. I know I did after my accident. If you want, I can set you up with Michele, my therapist. It might help to talk to someone.”

  “I’ll be okay. I just need to do something. I’m going to get a job. If I have something to do, I’ll feel better. I can’t stay here forever. I need to move on. I’m only here until the wedding, and then I’ll be finding somewhere else. I’m thinking one of the Carolinas or Florida. Somewhere warm.”

  “What do you do? What kind of job will you be looking for?” I start thinking logistics. She doesn’t have a car, and I don’t live on a bus line. Her walking distance options are limited. Of course, she walks to and from the store daily, which is about eight miles round trip.

  She stands up. “Can we continue this out in the living room? I need to get a drink. I think I cried all the liquid out of my body.”

  I back out and she follows me. I stop in the living room and transfer myself to the couch. I stand most days at work, but it still tires me out. I’m hoping having the standing frame at home helps me build up more stamina.

  She’s back and places a glass of cranberry juice on the end table within my reach. It’s the first time she’s ever done anything to help me. Not that I need help, because I manage just fine on my own. But she’s never come into my space or reached out to assist me. Most people hover and get up in my grill all the time. She’s the opposite.

  “So, where were we?” she asks.

  “You were telling me what you do for a living.”

  She chuckles. “Right now, I’m focusing on making it one day to the next. But I suppose you mean that whole career thing. I still don’t know. What do you do?”

  “I’m a project engineer for my dad’s contracting and construction company.”

  “Did you have to change jobs when you were paralyzed?”

  “No, I was doing this before. It’s a lot of office work. I go to the sites a lot, and that gets tricky. Otherwise, it’s not a lot different.”

  “I’m stupid. What does an engineer do? I thought it was something with trains.”

  I can’t help but smile at that one. “A project engineer is the guy who has to make all the building plans for a project. I have to research the land, the traffic flow, make sure the curbs and what not going into and out of a site are right, check the condition of the land. I make sure we have the permits we need and keep everything flowing with the designers and crews.”

  “So, are you in charge?”

  “No, my dad is. I do most of my work before the project gets going. If I’ve done my job right, once the project is underway, I’m starting the next one.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It is. The funny thing—I didn’t really like it before my accident. I went into it because I was expected to, ya know? It’s the family business. There wasn’t really a choice. My great uncle had been the P.E., but he was getting up there and looking to retire. I did it, but I didn’t love it.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, it’s different. I don’t know if I’m just so happy to still be able to work. Most of the guys with me in rehab couldn’t go back to their jobs. I’m lucky.”

  “Yeah, totally lucky.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and attitude.

  “No, I am. Since my accident, Salinger Homes has shifted focus to making accessible buildings. We’ve exploded. We can’t keep up.”

  “I thought everything had to be accessible already?”

  “There is accessible and then there’s accessible.”

  Her upper lip curls. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  This is when I feel real passion for my job. One of those things, when my body could feel everything, there was a lot I didn’t feel. I was blind to the nuances and subtleties of life. Now that my vantage point had changed, I realize there is so much I was missing out on in life. Like being inspired to go to work most days. “When you go to the movies, where do you like to sit?”

  Her lip drops and a slight frown crosses her face. Samirah looks puzzled, like she’s not following my train of thought. “Um, it’s been a long time since I’ve been to the movies.”

  “Think back. Where do you sit?”

  “In the middle, about halfway up.”

  “Do you like to sit in the front?”

  “No,” she scoffs. “Those seats are terrible.”

  “Now, where are the handicap seats?”

  She pauses, her eyes glancing upward, like she’s trying to picture it. “Right up front.”

  “Right. So, it’s accessible, but it’s not the same.”

  “Sort of like the South used to be.”

  “Exactly. Well, not really, because no one’s doing it intentionally. But sort of the same. We work on a lot of older buildings, making them not only accessible, but functional and with a good design aesthetic.”

  “Okay, I get that.” She’s quiet for a minute. I can tell she’s thinking. She’s twirling hair from behind her ear in her fingers. She does this when she’s deep in thought. I can’t believe how much better her hair looks dark. It makes her eyes jump out. They’re striking. She’s striking.

  “Does your brother work there too?” Her question startles me out of my reverie, getting lost in her eyes.

  “Yeah. He’s the site manager. He still does some actual construction and hands-on stuff.”

  “So you’re the brains and he’s the brawn?”

  That makes me laugh. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “I
know. He might not like me.”

  “Is that a sense of humor I detect?”

  She looks a little surprised. “I don’t know where that came from. I’m not usually funny. People don’t expect me to be funny.” Her face clouds over.

  “What do they expect from you?”

  “They expect me to be pretty. Sexy.”

  I’ve never seen this woman out of sweatpants or leggings, and today is the first time her hair hasn’t been tossed on the top of her head in a mess. I’ve never seen her wear makeup. But I can see what she’s talking about. She’s one of those women who exudes sex appeal. Even without trying. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she tried. “Surely they know there’s more to you than that.”

  “Not since I grew a chest.”

  It is an ample chest. She keeps it hidden under big sweaters and sweatshirts. But it’s there. And you’d have to be blind not to notice. I may not be able to feel my dick, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still think with it.

  She continues. “Funny, really—I can get men to do anything I want. Except the man who was supposed to love me unconditionally. He’s never wanted me or anything to do with me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It is. It’s fine. Whatever. I’m over it.”

  “I don’t think you are.”

  Shit. That was too blunt. She’s going to cry. Again.

  “You’re right. That’s why I make them pay. I use them, take everything they’re willing to give. And then I take some more.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: SAMIRAH

  I’m wearing Salvation Army clothes on a job interview. This is my life. It’s shit. And it’s what I deserve because I’m shit. I haven’t talked to Michael all week. Not since Saturday night, when I was the rudest bitch on the face of the earth. I can’t even believe I said that to him. He has wanted nothing from me. Asked nothing of me. Done nothing but be super nice and supportive and try to help me.

  And then I say that.

  I honestly don’t know what’s come over me. Why I do these things. You’d think after what happened to me, I’d want to turn over a new leaf and be a better person.