Head Case

by Sarah Aronson

  “That seems light.”

  Freeberg rolls closer. “His old lady thought so, too. Said that the judge took pity on him ’cause he said he was abused. After his sentencing, she pulled a gun. Shot him in the head.” Freeberg looks like he’s gaining some of his spark back, but I feel sick.

  “Apparently, they swept up half his gray matter off the courtroom floor.” He chuckles. “The guy comes here, spends some time in a coma. Then he wakes up and bam—he’s a goddamn diva. Every day he walks up and down the hall, singing. Even plays the piano sometimes. Sings all…” I think he’s going to say, “fuckin day,” but he doesn’t. “The guy sings all day. He doesn’t remember his wife, the kid he raped, or anything else, for that matter. All he cares about is the music.”

  He chuckles. I can’t help looking at his hands again. His hands. Freeberg says, “You gotta wonder. It’s like he was destined to go bad. What if his name had been Rogers or Smith or even something like Rosenhorn…” He laughs. “Then maybe he wouldn’t have turned out so bad. He might not have raped the girl. He might have been a stockbroker or a doctor or a janitor. He might have been a great man.”

  I nod. “But what chance did he have with a name like Orifice?” It’s hard not to snicker.

  “Actually, it’s pronounced, Or-i-fee-kee,” Freeberg says, and we both laugh harder than we should. Considering.

  “Really, Marder, what chance does a guy like that have?”

  We listen to him walk back down the hall toward us, this time singing Aretha Franklin. “He has no idea. Before he got shot, his life was a wreck. Now he’s so happy. How’d he get so damn lucky?”

  Zoe the nurse comes in. “You’re late,” she says. No smile. No jokes. They are definitely not kissing in the back room anymore. He swipes his face with his shoulder and rolls slowly out the door. Real slow, without bravado. No wheelie.

  He pivots and smiles weakly. “I don’t really remember what I wanted so bad. I don’t know why I thought I could get away with anything again. I really…”

  Fucked up.

  I don’t know what to say. Freeberg doesn’t need to hear it from me.

  * * *

  My mother finds me and puts her hand on my cheek, wipes away my tears. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I was so jealous of him. I wanted what he had. But I don’t gloat now. We squander chances; we miss opportunities. The Hole makes his way down the hall. “Don’t let the sun go down on me.”

  I follow my mother to the doctor’s office.

  Drock checks me up and down. He stands in front of my wheelchair and pats my head like I am a dog who understands the commands here and sit.

  “You know, Frank, there are a lot of people with quadriplegia who get some return, sometimes a whole level.”

  “Yes, I know. Victoria tells me that every time I see her.” I think, why not me? Why am I still waiting?

  “How’s the therapy? How’s Sunset?” He stands back while a young Asian man pokes me and shifts me, pulls me forward out of my chair. “We’re going to lift up your shirt and pull down your pants. Take a look down there.” He hums The Hole’s last tune, but his tone is pitchy, off-key.

  The Asian guy says, “I’m going to test your sensation. Tell me if you feel anything at all.”

  Presumably he’s touching me somewhere.

  He moves my arms, my legs. Tap, tap, tap. Been there, done that. No improvement.

  “Hey, your skin sure looks nice,” he says. He puts me back in the chair. Then Drock himself pokes my belly. He shows the Asian guy something. They nod. They make small doctor sounds, but they do not talk—not to me.

  His finger goes in and out, in and out. Do it all you want, Drock.

  “Gotta little paunch there, Frank.”

  We think we’re done, but we’re not. Drock looks behind him to the door, and Stacey appears. “Frank, do you remember Stacey?”

  I nod. Yes, streaky Stacey, the flirt, PT, great ass. She walks in and I can’t help looking head to toe.

  She is all dressed up. Like a professional.

  “Well, Frank, recently, Stacey was awarded a grant.”

  Stacey corrects her posture. I check out Drock’s hand. No more ring. Not even a shadow of a ring. She takes two steps away from him. I wonder what that means. “Would you like to hear about it?” she asks.

  “Uh-huh.” Sure. What the hell. You’re looking good. I’m here. Got the time. Let’s do it.

  Drock pipes in. “Stacey is going to go to area high schools to talk to students about head and spinal cord injuries.” He smiles at her, and she looks away. “And how to prevent them. We all feel like you would be an excellent candidate to help out.” He rubs his stubbly pepper-and-salt chin like he’s thinking about something. Maybe her. Maybe someone else.

  “Frank, we are hoping that you will go with Stacey into the schools and talk about your life since your injury.”

  Stacey jumps in. “We know you haven’t been home long, but I’m willing to wait until you are ready. You are everything we are looking for: smart, articulate—”

  “A head,” I add.

  “Person with quadriplegia.” She looks a little uncomfortable. “Frank, the candidate must be able to speak in front of large groups. You were the captain of the debate team. You could do it.” I wait, expecting her to say please. Pretty please, Frank, with sugar on top, please be my official head for a day.

  Drock closes the gap and squeezes Stacey’s shoulder; she takes another large step away. He doesn’t flinch. “I can find someone else to do it. No problem,” he says. “It won’t change anything. You will still be paralyzed. Kids will still do stupid things. But maybe this happened to you so that you can do it. Maybe this is a way you could find meaning for your life.”

  I look at my mom. She is nodding almost ferociously, yes, yes, Frank, make a difference in someone’s life. Do something for someone else. Make me proud.

  I should do it, just say yes, do the right thing, but I can’t. They want me to get up on a stage and talk about the most intimate, depressing details of my life. Putting me on display. Using me.

  I say, “I’ll think about it.”

  When I get home, I send Harry a message. Chickenshit e-mail.

  Quadking: Hey! WU? R U anonymous? Can I apologize?

  His return comes minutes later. At least some things haven’t changed—Harry spends a lot of time at his computer.

  Harrycarry: I’m not anonymous. I don’t want to talk on the phone. IMS. I don’t have anything to say. Seeing you was weird.

  Mom revs up the vacuum in the hall. I shout his number into the speakerphone. “Come on, man. I know I’m a jerk.” She peeks into my room. “Did you say something?”

  “No, Mom. I’m on the phone.”

  She smiles. “Tell Harry I said hello.” He says nothing.

  “I know what I said to you was awful.”

  “Right.” We breathe together, out of sync. No words.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry, really, don’t hang up.”

  He hangs up.

  Five minutes later, Mrs. Lassiter tells me Harry is doing homework. “How are you, Frank? Tell your mom I’ll definitely see her next week.” I listen to her breathe. “Frank, please call another time.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

  Generous me, I give him an hour. I hear his mother bark, “It’s Frank. Take it.”

  Harry’s voice sounds dull. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “Maybe someday, but not right now. Right now, I’m still feeling strange. Not pissed. Just uncomfortable. Like you’re going to set me up. You … you just can’t do that, say what you said to me, and expect me to run back when you say okay, I’m cool, I’m ready to act like a human being. I feel for you. I’m sorry for you. But I’m still … I’m…” We sit quietly on either end of our phone lines. “I’ve got a date with Joss tonight. Maybe I’ll call you later. But, honestly Frank, maybe not.”

  My e-mail stays empty. I check it every hour, every half hour, every ten minutes. He will change his mi
nd. He always does. He is my best friend.

  My e-mail stays empty.

  Mom uses every opportunity to drop hints about talking at the high school. If I mention an audiobook, she tells me I can order it from the school library. If I ask her to cook something special, she tells me she’d be happy to make it for a young man who faces his fears.

  “Stop it, Mom. I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “You have to go back sometime,” she says. Hint, hint. “It would be nice to show everyone how great you’re doing.” Hint, hint.

  “It’s too hard,” I tell her. Ten times a day. “I’m not going to let them use me like that.”

  Dad comes home for dinner three nights in a row. “It would be an honorable thing to do.”

  The way he looks at me, I almost believe he knows what honor means.

  Just before midnight, a message appears:

  Harrycarry: Someone at school sent me this:

  Frank Marder was recently seen entering Valley Medical Center. Word is that they are looking for improvements in his body, and are hoping for future research possibilities. Look for Frank Marder to speak at many local high schools, including ours. Word is out that Valley Medical is starting a safety awareness project and that they have asked Frank to participate.

  I’m glad, Frank. This would be good.

  Harry is glad. My parents are hopeful. Stacey is enthusiastic. It would be the honorable thing to do. I motor to my window. It is finally snowing, tiny flakes, the kind that stick to the grass but not to the trees, swirling in the wind.

  I sit at the podium of an auditorium filled with students. I hear shouts: Murderer! Crip! Drunk! Loser! I try to talk but no one will listen. Someone yells, “Faker!” He begins a chant: Walk, walk, walk, walk. I cannot get up. I cannot speak. The auditorium is too loud. Walk, walk, walk, walk.

  * * *

  I sit at the podium of an auditorium. No one is there. No one wants to hear what I have to say.

  * * *

  I sit at the podium of an auditorium. Naked. My parents are there. So is Harry. Everyone in the room points and laughs.

  * * *

  I sit at the podium of an auditorium. One person in the back raises his hands. It is Anonymous. He stands, arms above his head, the whole time staring at me. He walks through the silent crowd and joins me on the podium.

  “Frank Marder is a sinner,” he tells the crowd. “A killer.” The crowd cheers. They throw things at my head. I start to speak, but Anonymous covers my mouth. “You have no right.” The crowd yells louder.

  * * *

  “Your bed is soaked.” Mom strokes my forehead until my breath is normal.

  “It’s four in the morning,” Dad says. They heave me into the chair so she can change my sheets.

  Dad wipes my face with a cool sponge. “You had a bad dream.” He takes the sheets from my mother. “Here, Rose, let me help.”

  He steps to the plate.

  My mother moves back and watches him smooth the sheets three times with large, strong hands. Then together, they transfer me easily from the chair and into the clean sheets and blankets.

  In the morning, I’ll call Stacey and say yes.

  week eight

  Mom does not stop dusting until every surface reflects. She restacks the bookshelf. She vacuums twice. She makes a fresh pot of coffee and arranges a plate of cookies in the center of the kitchen table.

  “I am so proud of you,” she says, plugging in the lemon-scented room deodorizer. She does not talk about God. She does not say, “I love you.”

  “Let me know when the fumes clear.”

  A vase of fresh flowers sits on my nightstand. My computer screen is dust-free. “Check e-mail,” I command. An empty inbox appears. The doorbell chimes.

  “Frank? Are you decent?” as if I could possibly be doing anything illicit. Mom stares at the empty screen; her breath is hot on my neck. Did she think I had an active e-social life? Hey, baby, yes, you in that sexy wheelchair.

  “It’s been a while since I got my last death threat.”

  She doesn’t know I’m joking.

  “Stacey’s here.” Okay, she does know, but I’m not funny.

  I say, “Shut down,” and motor to the living room. Dad is in the middle of showing Stacey the pictures. Mom turns off the TV. They exchange formalities: How are you, I’m fine, and you? Yes, thank you. Isn’t the weather just dreadful? Mom takes Stacey’s jacket, and Dad fiddles with the TV guide. The game is starting soon. Stacey better not take all day.

  We form a tight circle. “Before we begin, I just want you to know how pleased I am that you have chosen to participate.” Stacey puts on her best professional smile. They smile back. All three of them look at me and nod. I look back and grimace. She smoothes out her clingy pink tracksuit and opens a large notebook onto her lap. Around her neck is a thick silver necklace with a dangling heart.

  “Dr. Rockingham was sure you would do it. You were our first choice. He knew you would be perfect.”

  Meredith had a similar necklace, only hers wasn’t so shiny. “My aunt Anne gave it to me for my Bat Mitzvah,” Meredith had said. “Pain in the ass to polish.”

  Stacey turns around and rifles through a big canvas tote bag and pulls out a stack of papers. Freeberg was right. Nice butt.

  “Would you like a soda?” Dad asks. She nods and he practically runs to fetch three cans of Diet Coke. “You want some lemon?” he yells from the kitchen.

  Stacey pulls back a loose strand of hair. “Thanks.” She sniffs the air. “I love lemon.”

  When Dad returns, she picks up her riff. “Let me tell you what will happen.” She sips the Diet Coke. Dad sits at my side, back straight, head up, excited and ready to go for the first time in a very long time. “I will speak first. The principal will introduce me and I’ll talk about spinal cord and head injuries.” She waves four pages of neurology, physiology, and psychology in my face.

  Dad scans the packet. “That’s interesting, very interesting. Comprehensive.”

  Mom puts her copy on my tray table. Technical, yes. And precise. Excellent, for a journal article. “It’s long.” Stacey has clearly never spoken in an assembly at George Washington High. Nobody’s going to listen to this.

  “Too long?” she asks.

  “Yes. A little long.” This is a freak show, baby. They are coming for me, the main event. She takes a pen out of her purse. “Maybe you should stick to the most important facts.” I suggest massive cuts. She scratches out a few paragraphs at a time until we’re down to one page.

  She scans what’s left, then dumps it in her bag. “After I’m done, I’ll introduce you.”

  Mom gets up and retrieves the plate of cookies, plus some cheese and my favorite snack, a hunk of plain chocolate. She’s got straws and little napkins and about a dozen of her oatmeal cookies. When did she bake those?

  “Dig in,” she says. Dad grabs a cookie, crosses his legs.

  “You need to be prepared,” Stacey says. “Most of the people in the audience have never seen a person with quadriplegia before.”

  “Do you have a plan to deal with hecklers?” Mom asks. “You’ve seen the papers.”

  “We will only take pre-approved questions. The teachers will collect them ahead of time on index cards. We don’t want to deal with any surprises.” She covers her mouth and coughs. “You’re very brave to do this, Frank.”

  “They can ask anything they want.” I mean it. They want to hear about my pathetic life, who am I to stop them?

  The phone rings, and both my parents get up. Stacey stuffs a corner of one of the cookies in my mouth. It takes me at least a minute to chew the thing. The whole time, she keeps talking, faster than earlier. “I am so excited about the project. Next month, if this takes off, Physical Therapy is going to do an article about spinal cord injury prevention. Maybe I’ll get an interview.” She squeals. “I have this fantasy about being on The Morning Show.”

  “That’s great,” Dad says, back in his place. He eats th
ree more cookies, one after the other. Like drinks.

  Mom comes back; she stands next to me and rubs my head in a continuous circular motion. “Do you really think it is smart to start at George Washington? Frank hasn’t been back since the accident. There’s still a lot of talk.”

  Stacey nods. “Absolutely. Sunset and I debated starting someplace else, but you have to remember, GW is a magnet high school. We have to go there. We want maximum impact.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better to start somewhere else?” Mom is insistent. She stops rubbing. Dad eats another cookie. “Where they don’t know him? Where they didn’t know Meredith?” She looks to my father. “Will it be safe?”

  “Of course it will. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll talk to the principal.” Stacey jots some notes in her book. “We ultimately decided that it was more important to reach as many people as possible, while we had the funding.” She turns to me. “Face it, Frank, wherever we go this year, people will know who you are. They’ll know about Meredith.” She waits for me to protest, but I don’t.

  Let them use me.

  They finish the snacks. “Frank, I know you haven’t been home long, but it isn’t too soon to start thinking about your future. Your life. Maybe not now, but soon—sooner than you think—you’re going to get antsy.” My father looks like a bobble-head doll sitting on the dashboard of a drag racer. “Pretty soon, Frank, you are going to want to start thinking about what you want to do with your life. College. You might even want to get out and have some fun.”

  I laugh. Yeah, right. Fun. That’s a good one.

  * * *

  Meredith said, “You think fun is the new f-word.”

  I shook my head. Not true. “I love having fun.” She got off the couch and zipped up her sweater. I pulled her back close. “But Halloween parties are not fun. I told you. I’m not into false faces.”

  “Everyone will be there.” I reached for her hand, but she pushed me away.