Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  I can be touched. At least a little.

  The proximity of our bodies doesn’t bother me. In fact, being near him is comforting. It’s been a long time since touch comforted me. I used to like being the aggressor. I liked to control the touch with the men I was with. That’s why I thought Chase was different. I let him control me. I let him dominate me. But it wasn’t a healthy—or shall we say functional—domination. There were no rules. There was no safe word. Even “no” didn’t stop him.

  How did I not see this about Chase before it was too late? I thought the manhandling, the demands, the roughness were sexy. I wonder if he’s hurt Grace. God that seems like a lifetime ago, that baby shower. I bet Grace has had the baby by now. Chase is a father to a little girl. I wonder how he would feel if someone treated his daughter the way he treated me. Does he even equate my worth to that of his wife or daughter? Probably not. I don’t—didn’t—value myself that highly. Why should he?

  I didn’t bring a lot to the relationship, other than my looks. I didn’t care enough about myself to try. I didn’t think I had anything to offer.

  But I’m starting to re-think that. I’m starting to think that maybe I am worth more. That I can do more.

  And, apparently, I can cook. I can make a mess too, but the chicken Florentine is a success. The kitchen is a disaster. It takes me longer to clean it up than it did to cook. Michael disappears into his room. I don’t ask what he’s doing. I don’t want to know. I suspect it has something to do with the bathroom. Our conversation earlier has got me wondering about all that, but in some ways, I’d rather stay in the dark.

  I can’t believe I was so self-centered all this time; it never even occurred to me he has issues with all that stuff. God, his life has got to be so difficult. But he makes it look easy. And he never complains. I could learn a lot from him. I should learn a lot from him.

  I’m not religious in any way, shape, or form. My mother’s mother had been Muslim, but she renounced her faith when she married my Protestant grandfather. My mom was spiritual but not religious. As far as I can tell, the only religion my father practiced was how to be an asshole. It occurs to me that maybe I’m here due to some divine intervention. Maybe I had to go through everything I did so that I could meet Michael. Maybe instead of knowing everything, like I thought I did, I’m here to learn. And maybe, just maybe, Michael will be able to teach me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MICHAEL

  Baseball. Baseball. Baseball.

  Mother fucker. This cannot be happening. It’s got to be because I was talking about it with Samirah. That’s why. Probably any other time, I’d be relieved that I can still get a hard on. They’re few and far between these days. In the hospital, it was one of my main concerns. I’m pretty sure every guy who wakes up and finds out he’s paralyzed, asks first about sex.

  I don’t want to have sex with Samirah. Frankly, I haven’t wanted anyone since Lainie. The one time we tried it, it was awkward and uncomfortable. It was a pity fuck. I knew it. She knew it. It was the last time we ever did it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have sex. I just want to have it the way I used to.

  It was Samirah’s hair falling down onto my shoulder. It tickled and stimulated and now this. Baseball. Baseball. Baseball.

  I think it got something going, and then I started thinking about it during dinner. I had to excuse myself. I can hear her out there, cleaning up. I feel like a shit for leaving her with all that. We made quite the mess.

  It’s the most fun we’ve had. Even talking with her about the serious stuff—it’s getting more fun. She’s getting more fun. She’s definitely still messed up. Bad. But I think she’s doing better. The feedback I’m getting at the office is that she’s doing a good job. Nikki can be hard to please, and I haven’t heard too many complaints yet.

  My chub finally goes flaccid. It’s maybe a little early, but I decide to take care of my bowel routine and shower as long as I’m in here. My bathroom is my haven. It should be—I spend enough time in here. With one look, there’s no way you wouldn’t know a disabled person lives here, but I’m working on it. Someday I would love to replace the white, hospital-grade commode and shower chair with more stylish pieces. At least we did kick-ass tiling in the shower.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m cleaned and in my boxers. It’s easiest for me to put my pants on while I’m lying on my bed. It’s only nine. There’s part of me that wants to stay in bed once I’m there. But a larger part of me wants to go hang with Samirah some more. I’m mid-transfer from my wheelchair to my bed when I hear a soft knock on the door. Without thinking, I yell “Yeah.”

  Of course, Samirah enters.

  I’m in my boxers.

  Her face flushes immediately and she turns away. “Oh my God. Sorry. I … uh …”

  “Samirah, it’s fine. I just got out of the shower. I have to put my pants on. No big deal.”

  She turns around to watch me. I’ve gotten over to the bed. I feel her gaze as she watches me fold up my legs and fall back. There’s an intrigue on her face as I then throw my legs out straight. They convulse for a moment, dancing like beads of water in a hot skillet.

  Samirah rushes forward. “Michael, are you okay?” Her hands are up in a high guard, like she wants to help but doesn’t know what to do.

  “Yeah, this is nothing. Before I got my pump, the spasms were really bad.”

  “Pump?”

  “Yeah, I have a baclofen pump. It’s about the size of a hockey puck. They implanted it in my abdomen.” I point to the horizontal scar to the right of my navel. “It has tubes going right into my spine to deliver medicine that stops me from having muscle spasms.”

  “What are spasms? I thought your muscles didn’t work?”

  “Ever get a Charley horse?” She nods. “It’s like that, all over my legs. And for hours. The pump helps. But it’s also why my legs are so floppy. The bright side is I can toss them around pretty good, and it’s easier this way.” While talking, I’ve been putting on my sweatpants. This involves a lot of rolling from side to side and pulling my underwear down so it doesn’t get bunched up under my butt. There’s really no way to be suave about adjusting your underwear in front of someone, so I tell her why I’m doing it. “If I sit on bunched up material, I’m more likely to get a pressure ulcer. That can be deadly.”

  “A pressure ulcer?”

  I’ve got my pants on, so I transfer back to the wheelchair and pull on a T-shirt. Once my mocs are on, I’m ready to head back out into the living room. “Yeah, you know, like a bed sore. If your weight stays on the same spot without shifting and moving, the skin can break down. If there’s something piled up under there, it’s going to make more pressure. My butt and butt bones are especially susceptible. That’s why I’m always leaning and lifting my body up. To provide relief. I can’t feel it if I start to get a sore.”

  “There’s so much to know.”

  “Yeah, a lot of rehab is spent learning everything over. All the things you’ve done your whole life, you can’t do the same way. At first, you think you can’t do them at all—can’t do anything. But it’s just a matter of learning a different way.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.” She’s watching me intently, as if she’s seeing me move for the first time. “Is it hard to move?”

  I shrug. “It certainly takes more effort. Things are becoming rote now, but for a while, everything I did required thought and planning. It’s the little things though. Like being startled in the middle of the night and trying to jump out of bed only to realize that you can’t.” I’m dressed now, so I start to head toward the door. Samirah turns and walks out to the living room. I follow her and get myself on the couch.

  “No standing tonight?”

  “Eeeh, I don’t feel like it.”

  “That’s how I always used to feel about going to the gym. I never wanted to go. My roommate was a model and pretty much bulimic. She mad
e me go, no matter how tired or hungover I was.”

  “So you really drank a lot?”

  “Every day. It got to the point where drinking to a blackout was commonplace. Even if I didn’t go out, I’d stop on the way home from work for a bottle of Grey Goose. It might last a day or two. Plus, I went out. A lot.”

  “Was it a problem?”

  “Well, it certainly didn’t solve any problems.” She’s quiet for a minute. “I think I drank so I didn’t have to think. Now I can’t seem to do anything but think.”

  “Are you solving problems?”

  “Not yet, but you can help me, maybe?” She looks at me expectantly.

  I’m skeptical. “What?”

  “So, I got the invitation to my cousin’s wedding. It’s in a few weeks. That’s why I came here. Because I knew the wedding was coming up.”

  “Are you close with her?” She hasn’t really mentioned her at all and hasn’t gone to visit her. At least, not that I’m aware of.

  “No. I haven’t seen her since I was maybe eight or so. She’s a few years older than me. But, at a time in my life when I had no direction and nothing tying me to this world, I got this save-the-date. That’s why I came here. That’s why I met you.”

  “So, after the wedding?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I should figure out what I’m going to do with my life. Where I’m going to end up.”

  It occurs to me for the first time that she’s going to leave. At some point, we won’t spend our evenings, her on her couch, me on mine, watching mind-numbing television. Talking. Cooking. Driving to work together.

  I’ll be alone again.

  “But, in the meantime, I was wondering if maybe you’d go to the wedding with me?”

  This is not what I expected at all. I don’t know what to say.

  “Free dinner, free drinks. My treat for once.” She smiles.“Plus, not to guilt trip you or anything, but I sort of need the help. I don’t know that I can be around all those people yet.”

  “Have you considered that you may have PTSD or something?”

  Her mouth had been in the process of opening, and that causes it to snap shut. “I probably do. But I’ll be fine. I’m doing fine.”

  Her guard is up. I said the wrong thing. Shit.

  “I’d be happy to go with you. What’s for dinner?” Relief washes over her face and the tension leaves her body as she sinks back into her couch.

  “Um, I have to check the invite but I think it’s like a prime rib, some chicken dish, or a vegetarian option.”

  “I’ll have the prime rib.”

  She’s quiet for a while. When I glance over at her, she appears to be engrossed in the television show we’re watching. But in reality, I feel like she’s a million miles away.

  *******

  “Well, Sal, it’s been a while.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” Michele is busy at her desk, typing away into her computer. I know she’s making an entry for the session and then will listen intently. She records the whole thing as well, in case she wants to go back and listen for something. I don’t think she ever does. Either that, or I’m so clichéd that she doesn’t need to for me. Her office looks the same. Comfy couches and overstuffed chairs in a warm pallet of oranges and browns, with a splash of cool teal.

  “I got upset today. Really upset. And it was totally stupid, but the anger—I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You haven’t had this in a while, have you?” She’s frowning as she scrolls back through my file.

  “No, and even with Lainie and Phil, I didn’t feel this kind of rage. So, it blindsided me. I didn’t know what else to do, other than to call you. So thanks for fitting me in.”

  “I was sort of surprised to see your name on my calendar today. I was going to sneak off and get a pedicure. After I ate my bon-bons, of course.”

  That’s a long-standing joke that Michele and I have. The perception that because you sit in a chair all day, you don’t do anything.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been to therapy. It was literally a lifesaver in the beginning. All of my therapy was. The physical, occupational, recreational all played a role. The psychotherapy was big too. Michele’s been there with me through all of it, really pushing me to get better. And it worked.

  Until today, when I just want to throat punch someone. Anyone. Everyone.

  “What brought this about? And what did you mention about Lainie and Phil? What’s going on with them?”

  “They are getting married. To each other. But, I’m sort of okay about it.” I give Michele the run down about the ring, hitting Samirah, taking her in.

  “And I don’t know what happened to her, but it was bad. I think he may have been physically abusive to her. He was married and I don’t know. She can’t even talk about him. She used to freak out if I even got too close to her, but she’s a little better now.”

  I tell her about the erection.

  “I’m not attracted to her. I mean, she’s an attractive girl. She’s gorgeous. But it’s so obvious that she’s not remotely open. And really, I’m not either. I mean, how can I trust someone again after what Lainie did? I thought what we had was real, but apparently, ‘real’ was not that important to her.”

  “So what set you off today?”

  “Samirah works for Salinger Homes. I got her a job there.”

  Michele raises her eyebrow.

  “I know what you’re thinking. She literally had only the bags on her back. And she was looking for jobs and not having any luck. She works as an assistant to the decorator, so I never see her at work, for the most part. Anyway, today, Logan approached me about her.”

  “Who’s Logan?”

  “The construction foreman.”

  “Okay. What did Logan have to say?”

  “He wanted to know if she was available. To date.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t say anything. The anger is returning.

  “Sal, why is this a bad thing?”

  “Well, she’s not ready to date. If he approaches her, chances are she’s going to freak out.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t want her to get upset.”

  “And what if she doesn’t freak out?”

  “Then she goes out with Logan.”

  “And?”

  I pause. I don’t want to say it out loud. “And I’m alone again.”

  Michele doesn’t say anything. She lets it sink in. I continue. “I’m helping Samirah. I’m doing it.”

  “And she’s letting you, which is good. Do you think she would let Logan?”

  I think about Logan for a minute. I’m a guy. I don’t usually go around sizing up other guys. But I have heard women in the office talk. Even my mom, which I’m trying to forget. He’s a big guy, built like a brick wall. He’s got a fair number of tattoos, which must work for him.

  “I think Logan’s going to scare the shit out of her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s afraid of men. She was even afraid of me … but now she’s not.”

  “I think Samirah lets you help her because you aren’t a physical threat. And I think she means so much to you because you are able to help her. She gives you validation.”

  “And if she starts dating, then she won’t need that from me.”

  “Right. You’ll be going through another loss.”

  “Why do I keep losing?”

  “If I knew the answer to that question, you’d never be able to get an appointment with me!”

  “Should I ask Samirah what happened to her?”

  Michele shakes her head. “She’ll talk about it when she’s ready. She may not be ready for a long while. It’s bad enough when someone you love betrays your trust. But when they physically hurt you, especially if you stay with them, you don’t even have trust in yourself. She’s got to find that first.”

  Michele’s words rattle around
in my head for the rest of the day. And I know there’s something Michele didn’t say. I’m jealous. Jealous that Logan can literally waltz in there and sweep Samirah off her feet. I’ll never be able to do that. I know most guys just want to be able to have sex after a spinal cord injury. I want that too; don’t get me wrong. But I want someone to want to have sex with me. To find me attractive in spite of the chair and all that goes along with it. I know it’s not going to happen, but I’m envious of people for which it does. I’m only thirty. That leaves me with many years being on my own.

  Pity party, table for one. As long as it’s wheelchair accessible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SAMIRAH

  “What’s wrong?”

  Michael is in a foul mood. He’s been slamming things around and hiding out in his bedroom instead of hanging out with me while I cook. I’ve only gotten a few grunts out of him today.

  Fine. If he wants to be that way, fine. I don’t need him. I don’t need anybody.

  I need him.

  That realization makes me sit down for a moment.

  No, it’s not true. I don’t need anyone. I will never rely on anyone again. I would just like to share my day with him. That’s all. Just to be friendly. Not because I have to. Because I want to.

  But if he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’m not going to force him.

  I will, however, get pissed that he’s not eating the dinner I made. This time, it’s beef braciole. Meadow’s grandmother used to make this for Meadow. She would come back from visiting home with the rolled up steak and a container of sauce. We had several in the freezer. Meadow made it one night for dinner. Then she promptly went and threw it all up. She never cooked one again.

  I don’t think mine is quite as good as Meadow’s grandmother’s, but it’s pretty tasty nonetheless. I don’t want to eat by myself. I guess I should be used to it by now.

  I had a really good day at work. I wanted to talk to Michael about that, but I guess that’s not gonna happen. I wish I knew why he was upset. I hope I didn’t do anything to bother him. He left work early. I don’t know why. Mitchell gave me a ride home. He didn’t say five words to me. Go figure. On a day when I have news to share, I have no one to tell.