Still furious, I pick up my slice and throw it, too.
It doesn’t even make it five feet.
And then I eat my dinner.
It’s small and
white and
tastes like
shit.
My Decision
The front door opens.
Mary Fay.
I can tell by the heavy key chain and
light step.
She heads for the kitchen.
I cleaned my pizza fit,
leaving the last four slices
on the counter.
I hear cardboard slide against
cardboard, and then her
happy exclamation at the little
amount left over.
It depresses me even
further.
Her joy over
nothing.
Two seconds later,
the floor creaks outside my door.
I shut my eyes. My heart,
pounding.
“Hey, Eve?”
“You up?”
I lie stiffly,
aching to respond. To
tell her I love that she made me
homemade fish sticks and
toast to go.
That I’d talk. If I could.
But I can’t.
Because that would mean
surrendering
all one hundred and
forty-four
halves.
The creaks
head off into
silence.
I fill it
with the deep sobs
I’ve been holding back
since I heard her car
pull up and turn off.
“Shhh,” he says.
“Thomas?” My heart
flutters to life.
“Eve.”
He says my name like
he owns me. Maybe
he does.
“The pact.” I sigh, sinking
back onto the bed, suddenly
so tired. “You asked if I cared
about Minnesota.”
“You said you didn’t, Eve.”
His voice is inside my head now.
It’s a part of me.
I feel for the single baggie,
all of my beautiful,
beautiful Roxy
gathered together.
Everything I want.
“I don’t make the rules, Eve,” he says.
“You make the rules.”
Yes.
I decide.
Clutching my Roxy,
I roll sloppily from bed,
slide to my knees, and
drag it out.
The box.
Her box.
I pull it onto my lap.
It’s never been opened.
I never thought I’d open it.
I don’t want to open it.
I do.
There it is.
Nestled in clear plastic
air pillows.
Lidia’s hand.
The truth is
I didn’t want her to have it.
The truth is
I wanted her to be happy
the way she was,
in case I needed to be happy
the way I was.
The truth is
I was happy the
way I was.
So was she.
The truth is
I also wasn’t.
Neither was she.
I reach for it,
afraid to touch it.
She was afraid, too,
reaching out on that long-ago red rover day,
waiting for the hand to arrive,
dressing for the date.
She was afraid, too.
All this, I knew. All this I’d
always known.
I take her hand.
It feels… not at
all like Lidia.
“It’s fake,” he whispers from deep inside me.
“Just like your friendship.”
I look around my room
at my life—tacked,
taped, and glued onto
the green walls.
“No,” I tell him.
“You’re wrong.”
Me and Lidia.
Me and Lidia. Me and Lidia.
MeandLidiaMeandLidiaM
eandLi
dia.
The truth is
we had become bad
for each
other. For now.
For today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But today.
I look down
at an arm
that ends in a hand-
ful of Roxy.
My hand.
I place it
all
in her hand
and close the lid.
“Eve.”
This time it’s my own voice
I hear in the dark.
“Hold on.”
And I do.
Author’s Note
Fix is not a memoir, but it is the most autobiographical novel I’ve ever written. Like Eve, I was born with large, progressive thoracic/lumbar scoliosis. Like Lidia, one of my close childhood friends was born with congenital amputation of the hand. Neither plot nor personality is pulled from our lives, but many of our feelings splatter these pages.
As a child, I was taught to accept, respect, and love myself. Simple ideas that become much harder for folks with disabilities, as hate, disrespect, and nonacceptance are often built into the laws, policies, and social and cultural norms around us. This institutionalized discrimination is so strong that it permeates hearts and minds, including the hearts and minds of disabled people—we call this internalized ableism.
It has been well documented that internalized ableism can be associated with negative health outcomes, achievement gaps, and, of course, poor self-esteem. This internalized oppression is further complicated by race, gender, sexuality, class, and age. As a teen, I found it nearly impossible to separate how society saw me from how I saw myself. I still struggle with this as an adult.
Also, like Eve, acute and chronic pain have been a part of my life. Relieving pain is complex and often includes pain medication (such as opioids), which can be addictive. Balancing pain and the risks presented by opioids is a constant battle. Sadly, part of this battle is dealing with the social disapproval of substance dependence. There are, however, people out there who not only understand but can help.
Resources for Information on Addiction and Chronic Pain
NIDA (National Institute on Drug Abuse)—https://www.drugabuse.gov/
NIDA for Teens—https://teens.drugabuse.gov/
SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration)—https://www.samhsa.gov/
NIH (National Institutes of Health)—https://www.nih.gov/
AHRQ (Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality)—https://www.ahrq.gov/
Living disabled can be challenging, but it’s one of my favorite parts of being me. It has helped to form who I am and how I move through the world.
Acknowledgments
Among the avalanche of advice my great-grandmother Rachel Benson gave me was that all thank-you notes should be written in cursive. I’ve been attempting to follow her advice all my life, even if a bunch of it has gotten me in some pretty hot water over the years. My nana was a self-proclaimed pot stirrer, but she was also one of the smartest and kindest people ever. Lucky for me, I am a magnet for smart, kind people. Without the help and advice of these wonderful folks, Fix would not exist. Eve, Lidia, and I owe you all our sincere thanks!
Patricia Alvarado
Sarah Cassell
Leslie Caulfield
Jennifer Salvato Doktorski
Marisa Finkelstein
Karina Granda
Alexandra Hightower
Maria Hykin
Amanda Jenkins
&n
bsp; Adrienne Kisner
Alaina Lavoie
Cara Liebowitz
Luz Maldonado
M. K. Murphy
Christie Michel
Hannah Milton
Kerry Sparks
Victoria Stapleton
Chandra Wohleber
Lisa Yoskowitz
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J. ALBERT MANN is the author of Scar: A Revolutionary War Tale, What Every Girl Should Know, The Degenerates, and Fix, among other novels. She has an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She invites you to visit her online at jalbertmann.com.
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