Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “Like what?”

  “You’re pretty attractive for a wheelchair person.”

  “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

  “I guess if your legs don’t work, you are automatically ugly?”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “So is assuming that because you’re attractive, all you’ll ever want is for a guy to take care of you.”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Um, this? You’re taking care of me.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you’re pitiful and hopeless. Not because of your face or body.”

  She flashes a brief smile. “Can you—” she breaks off. We’re pulling into the garage, and any levity we’ve achieved vanishes instantaneously. Mitchell is gone, thankfully.

  “When we get inside, I need to go to my room for a while. Get settled,” I add, “and I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks with concern.

  “Yeah, just have to take care of some stuff.” How do I tell her that I have to stick a tube up my dick to empty my bladder, or risk pissing myself? There are things she doesn’t need to know.

  While I’m reassembling my chair, she’s getting her bags out of the trunk. She disappears to her end of the house and I to mine.

  We’re home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: SAMIRAH

  My mail has caught up with me. There’s a large pile of bills and an inordinate amount of junk mail. And one fancy envelope, with even fancier writing. The invitation to Barbara’s daughter’s wedding.

  I can’t think about this now. Tonight, Michael is making me have a sit-down with Mitchell to hash things out. I’m not looking forward to this. But something’s got to be done. I started working at Salinger Homes this week. I’m the assistant to the interior decorator, Nikki. I don’t see Mitchell that much, but when I do, it’s tense.

  I feel like he’s watching me, waiting to catch me with my hand in the till or something. He won’t. I may not have been a good person in the past, but I’m trying to be better. And I’m not going to screw that up by doing something I shouldn’t.

  I know the argument with Mitchell isn’t sitting well with Michael either. I don’t want to come between them. The discord is hurting Michael, and he’s been hurt enough.

  If I ever get my hands on that Lainie chick …

  Whoa. It’s almost like I care.

  I can’t afford to care. Caring hurts.

  But so does not caring. So does being alone. When I’m with Michael, even if it’s just watching TV or eating dinner, things aren’t so bad. It turns out Michael has spent a lot of time in therapy, and he’s sharing some of that wisdom with me.

  Some of it’s actually pretty good. And I may need some more after Mitchell’s visit.

  I need a drink.

  It’s been sixty-two days since I had a drink. Not that I’m counting.

  Sixty-two days.

  I hope I can make it to sixty-three. We’ll see.

  Mitchell knocks once on the garage door as he’s entering. I feel every muscle in my back tighten and my stomach clench. I don’t want confrontation. I don’t want to do this. But I’ll do it for Michael. I’m in the laundry room, which connects the garage and the kitchen, tossing my wet clothes in the dryer. Mitchell slides by me as he passes through on his way into the kitchen. Please don’t let him touch me.

  Once my clothes are spinning, I make my way to the living room. I had been hungry, but now my stomach is too tense to eat. Michael’s on his couch, sitting up but with his legs stretched out in front of him. Mitchell’s on my couch—the couch where I usually sit. It’s perpendicular to Michael’s. They’re both at a good angle for the TV but also allow for good face-to-face conversation. There’s no place for me to sit. Looking around for a moment, I decide to grab a chair from the dining room.

  “Sam, sit here.” Michael’s reaching down and folding up his legs to make room for me. The only other time I’ve sat on his couch was the last time Mitchell visited. Most nights, after Michael’s done standing, he lies down on his stomach or his side, taking up the full couch. He can’t seem to get comfortable with his legs folded. He’s struggling, which is not something I’m used to. Although I know it couldn’t be, he usually makes being paralyzed look easy.

  His legs are bent at the knees but flop open. He picks one, the right one, up and pushes over onto the left, but this ends up twisting his upper body so he faces the back of the couch. Michael reaches down again and tries to get his legs into a cross-legged position.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t just sit there. Help him,” Mitchell growls.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help. My hand reaches over and grabs his right ankle. I pull his leg down, straightening it onto my lap. The same then with the left leg. With his legs straightened out, Michael uses his arms to lift his butt and torso. I feel his legs press into mine. He’s shifted onto his back with his head on the armrest. His feet are in my lap.

  “I’d ask you to take my mocs off, but I don’t want to kill you with the smell.”

  “I can, if you want.” I look over at him. Despite the fact that we’re touching, he seems so far away.

  He puts his hands behind his head and smiles. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Okay, can we get on with this?”

  “Why, Mitch? You got a hot date?” Michael doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Didn’t think so.”

  “Burn.” I can’t help myself.

  “Samirah, I don’t think that’s going to help.”

  “I know, but I … sorry.” I can’t believe I’m apologizing. Not after what he’s done to me. But I know it’s important to Michael.

  “It’s fine.” More grumbling from Mitchell.

  “Mitch, now’s your time to talk to Samirah. Get to know her. Tell us why you have such a strong objection to her being here. Air your grievances now or forget about them.”

  “She stole Lainie’s ring, first of all.”

  “I did not steal it! How many times do I have to tell you? He threw it away. I picked it up.” My defense is immediately activated. I don’t have high hopes for this intervention.

  “Mitchell, you need to get over it. I tossed the ring out the window. I didn’t want it. I don’t want it. Anyone could have found it. Anyone could have sold it. Samirah just had the misfortune of trying to sell it to the jeweler who designed it.”

  “I don’t like that she’s staying here, mooching off you.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I don’t like that I’m doing it either. The funny thing is that in the past, I wouldn’t have thought twice about mooching and taking advantage of someone. In fact, it’s about the only thing I was good at. But that’s not what I’m doing here. Really. Mitchell, you have to believe it. You have to believe me.”

  “You’ve admitted that you’re a user. Why should I believe you? What’s different now?”

  “Because I’ve—I’m changing. I’m trying to change. I can’t promise that I won’t mess up, but—”

  “So, basically you’re saying that you’re going to fuck up, and that should be okay because you’re trying. That’s not gonna fly. Michael’s been through enough. He can’t be hurt again.”

  “Whoa—this is about me?” Michael pushes himself to a more upright position.

  “Yeah, dumbass. What did you think it was about?”

  “Why is it about me?” He’s as perplexed as I am.

  “After everything you went through, after everything Lainie put you through. I can’t watch anything bad happen to you again.”

  Michael shakes his head. “I thought you were just worried about her stealing my stuff. Not about me.” His voice lowers to a mumble. “Like feelings and crap.”

  “Why do you think I’m bad?” I’m not good, but that doesn’t mean I’m bad.

  “I don’t know anything about you. You just appear, and then you’re here. Two months go by,
and you’re here. You’re working for my company and living with my brother. And I still know nothing.”

  I can’t help but get defensive. “What do you want to know? That I’m a college drop out? That my dad cut me off and kicked me out before my mother’s body was even in the ground? That he’s a loser gambler, but I’m no better because alcohol is my addiction of choice? That I use people and take advantage of them and that I take and I take and I take? Well all of that is true. But it doesn’t change the fact that Michael is the first person in a long time to show me any decency. And I’m not going to do anything to hurt him.”

  I begin to stand, but Michael leans forward and puts his hand on my arm. I look at him touching me. I feel his hand on my body and his legs heavy in my lap. And I’m okay. I’m not freaking out. I’m not having a panic attack. I don’t feel like a caged animal. He’s touching me and I’m okay.

  My shoulders sink back into the couch and I close my eyes for a minute. I confronted and was confronted by Mitchell. I let Michael touch me. I touched Michael. And I didn’t need a drink. Score one for me. I feel the other end of the couch shift as Michael returns to lying down, his hands once again under his head.

  “Is there anything else you want to know Mitchell?” I can meet his eyes finally. He drops his head, just a little, but enough for me to know that I’ve won, at least this round.

  “Just don’t hurt him, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “You guys know that I’m right here. My legs don’t work, but that doesn’t mean my ears don’t.”

  “Aw, shit. I thought you couldn’t hear us.” I elbow his leg.

  “You know I can’t feel that, right?”

  “Dammit, I can’t even mock you appropriately.”

  “Samirah, I’ll teach you how to do it.” He turns to face Michael. “We just thought you were too stupid to follow the conversation,” he quips.

  Michael’s right hand reaches over and grabs something—a ball—from a side pocket of his wheelchair that’s parked right next to the couch and lobs it at Mitchell. Mitchell doesn’t react quickly enough, and it beans him in the head.

  “Jesus, dammit! That hurt!” Mitchell’s clutching his forehead.

  “Now imagine that was a two-carat ring.” I’m pleased that I can add to the fun.

  Michael laughs. “Hell, more than half my body’s dead, and I’m still a better athlete than you are. Pitiful. Maybe that’s why you can’t get laid.”

  “At least I can satisf …” Mitchell trails off. His face falls. I look quickly from Mitchell to Michael, wondering what I’m missing.

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatever. It is what it is. Let her make Phil miserable for the rest of his life. He deserves no less.”

  I get that we’ve suddenly switched topics, but I don’t know why. All I know is that the mood is tight and heavy again.

  Mitchell stands up. “I gotta bounce. Catch you tomorrow.”

  I should stand up, but Michael’s legs are still on my lap. I don’t know how to move them. If I should move them. What do I do here?

  My hands are hovering, spastically moving back and forth over his legs. Finally, I let my hands drop onto my stomach and I nod at Mitchell. “See you soon.”

  He’s gone, and Michael still hasn’t said anything. He’s staring at the ceiling. I watch him for a minute and then see his eyes close. He’s motionless. Like truly still.

  Jesus, he’s broken, just like me.

  *******

  “I’ve got a crazy thing to ask you.” It’s been a little over a week since the meeting with Mitchell. Things are better there. Seventy days sober.

  “What’s shakin’ bacon?” Michael wheels up next to me and puts a bowl on the counter. I’m cooking. Well, I’m trying to cook. He’s trying not to stress out that I’m such a bumbling idiot. Sure I know basics, like making pasta and heating frozen things. Tonight I’m trying a chicken Florentine. From scratch. The recipe is more complicated than anything I’ve ever tried and involves a meat hammer. I didn’t even know what one was. I can’t believe Michael has one.

  “So this is how you beat your meat?” I ask for clarification as I’m pounding out the chicken breast.

  “These days, it’s the only way I can beat my meat.”

  That stops me mid-strike.

  “You mean, you can’t …”

  He smiles. “I’m surprised that it’s taken you this long to ask. People usually want to know about that stuff right away.”

  “I, ah … it’s none of my business.” But now I can’t stop thinking about it. Does it work at all? Can he do it? How does he go to the bathroom?

  “Put down the mallet before you hurt yourself.”

  I comply. My brain is now working overtime, flooded with a deluge of thoughts. I’ve been here over two months and these things have never occurred to me. I’ve been so lost in my own head that I never stopped to think about any of this.

  “What do you want to know?”

  I turn back to the chicken. There’s no way I can look him in the eye while I ask these things. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Can you have sex?”

  “Sort of. Depends on whose definition you use.” He pauses and I hear him inhale. I still can’t look at him. I focus on the meat. “I can’t feel anything, you know? But there’s still some reflexive activity there.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “If I really thought about it, I could probably get an erection. Also, if … well, if something rubs on it, it’ll react.”

  “Oh, well, that’s … good? Right? It still works.” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, and I can’t believe I want to know. But I do want to know.

  “Eehhh, it kind of works. It goes up, and I have no control over when it comes down, if you know what I mean. It literally has a mind of its own at this point.”

  “Oh.”

  He turns around and starts digging in the fridge. From the depths, I hear him say, “And I can’t … complete … if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “That was one of my first concerns. That’s everyone’s concern. But it turns out, for a lot of us, it’s a moot point, since there’s no one around for us anymore.” There’s a sadness to his voice that I haven’t heard before. He’s usually so upbeat. “I was so smug at the beginning, because I had Lainie. I never thought she wouldn’t stick around because of this.”

  I don’t want to talk about her. “Has there been anyone else since?”

  He’s back, next to me at the counter, putting the eggs down. “Nah. Not a lot to offer.”

  I still can’t really look at him, but I need to say this. “Are you kidding me? You have so much to offer. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Look at me! Just your friendship has literally saved my life. You took me in when I had nothing. When I was at my absolute lowest.”

  Then it occurs to me. I’d hit rock bottom. Which means I’m on my way up. I can’t control the smile from spreading across my face.

  “What? You’ve got a goofy expression on your face.”

  “It just occurred to me—I was at rock bottom. I found the bottom. I think I’d been searching for it for a while, and I found it.”

  “And hitting bottom makes you smile?”

  “Because I’m on my way up. I’m heading up instead of down.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a good way to look at it.”

  “Now what?”

  “I think you keep working. Do things that make you happy.”

  “Happy? I’m not sure I know what that is.”

  “Let me ask you this—and don’t let my situation sway your answer. Promise me you’ll be honest.” He looks at me expectantly. I wonder where he’s going with this. “Promise?”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  “What would you rather do—win the lottery or be a paraplegic?”

  Is he kidding? Why would he ask me this? “Um, win the lottery.”
Like it even requires thought. “No offense.”

  “None taken. It’s a no brainer, right? But a study showed that after a year, the paraplegic is happier with life than the lottery winner.”

  “Seriously?” It can’t be true. I don’t know much about studies but that one has to be crap. I look at Michael as he rolls over to the sink and starts washing the dishes I’ve already stacked up. He does seem pretty happy. At ease. Settled.

  Over the water he says, “Seriously. The lottery—it’s synthetic happiness. Buying stuff, luxuries. But lottery winners lives are filled with false friends, pressures, being pulled in different directions. With someone who becomes paralyzed, they adapt and change. They can find happiness in their lives.”

  “Are you happy?”

  He shrugs. “I think so. I’ve adapted to this life. And I think it’s a pretty good life. True happiness comes from within. Synthetic happiness is manufactured. It doesn’t last.”

  “So is that why all the stuff I had—the clothes, the shoes, the jewelry—didn’t make me happy?”

  “Bingo.”

  Wow, that’s a lot to process. “Okay, so now what?”

  “Get some therapy. Be prepared that there will be bad days—bad times—along the way, but you keep working toward getting better.”

  “No, I meant, now what do I do with the meat? It’s all flattened. Do I layer the spinach and cheese? What do I do?”

  He turns away quickly, busying himself getting his tablet out of the pocket on his chair. He sets it up on the counter and with a few swipes finds a video on YouTube.

  The video loads and begins playing. I lean over Michael’s shoulder, trying to watch the chef’s hands as she’s telling me how to roll and stabilize the chicken. It doesn’t seem so hard. Then, after she spears it with a toothpick, she rolls it in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs. She makes it look easy. I don’t know why I thought it was so difficult.

  “Um, I’m moving this,” Michael tells me. He’s referring to my hair, which has fallen over my shoulder and onto him. He reaches up and moves it so it cascades down the other side of my body. His touch is gentle. And it doesn’t scare me. Not in the least.