Head Case

by Sarah Aronson

  “Not everyone,” I said. “Not me.”

  Meredith got up and stood by the window, somehow ignoring my continuous stream of passionate subliminal messages. She peeled off the little ghost from the corner of the pane, shifted it one inch, and patted it back down. She turned her body away from me. She ran her fingers through her hair. Made me feel weak.

  She was used to getting what she wanted.

  “You don’t have to try that hard,” I said, getting up and grabbing her, bringing her back to the couch. But I thought, Sit down. Watch the game. Do what I want to do, for once. Just once. She smelled like flowers.

  The Steelers were playing the Patriots. Third and six. Two time-outs. Forty-five seconds left in the game. I draped my arm around her. Tight. Flowers, soap, and mint.

  “Fine,” she said, letting her body go limp. “Don’t go. Don’t go to the party. I’ll go alone. No biggie.” Her words were casual, but her tone was fire. She was mad.

  She squirmed away and grabbed her coat. The Steelers were driving; the quarterback was stepping back, he was in the pocket. Come on, defense! Hold them. Or go to a commercial. My girlfriend is pissed. Football, girlfriend, football … Meredith was waiting. She wanted me to apologize. She lingered at the door; she was giving me a chance. I got up and grabbed her, twirled her around. “Okay, I’ll go.” She walked back into the living room, and we sat down together. Pass. Score.

  Success.

  “Time to get up.” Sunset arrives early to bathe and dress me. “Up for a scalp massage?” she asks. Oh yeah. Give it to me, baby!

  She hums and rinses, lets the warm water flow over my ears and scalp and face. I can’t help moaning; it feels that good.

  “Please don’t cut it,” Sunset says. “Ever.” She massages conditioner into my overgrown curls. “A lot of people with spinal cord injuries shave their heads to make hygiene easier. But your hair is so incredible.”

  She sighs. I sigh. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.

  My real clothes—a shirt that buttons, a tie, and a jacket—make Mom start to cry. “Can I take one picture?” she asks. The first time since the accident.

  “No. No pictures in the chair.” No mementoes.

  Sunset begs. “Come on, for my album.” She puts her arm around me and smiles at Mom. Sunset can be such a crip chick.

  Mom smiles. “It’s a day worth documenting.” She turns off my battery. Click. The last time she took my picture, Meredith was alive. Click. We were on our way to the party.

  * * *

  “Smile, Frank.”

  We walked into the party hand in hand, fingers inside fingers. Meredith was dressed as an ’80s diva, complete with black bra, platinum-blond wig, micromini, three wide belts, and pink tights. I wore my father’s old Army dress uniform. Mom had found it in the closet and let me have it, if and only if I promised not to tell or spill.

  I really, honestly wanted to have a good time. My best foot was forward.

  We waved hello, put down our coats in a pile on the couch, and walked into the kitchen, separate, together, separate, together—I held her hand, I lost her hand. She sped up, two steps in front of me; our arms now extended, connected only by two fingers, then one. I held on tight. She tried to squirm away. Tug of war.

  “What’s the rush, Meri?” I pulled her close. She broke away, waving, walking faster into the crowd, finally free. What was the use? I grabbed a beer and sat on the big couch in the living room. Downed it. Fast. Slammed the empty onto the table, but no one heard. No one saw me without her.

  She danced with her friends in a tight circle. No boys allowed. I drained another, maybe a third. She loved to dance. She was having fun. The beer went down easy.

  When a good slow song came on, I stood up and tapped her on the shoulder. “Didn’t you make this CD?” Stupid comment. I was ready to do anything to keep her.

  “Yes,” she said, letting me touch her, putting her hands on the edges of my hips. I pushed my tongue in her mouth. My girlfriend. “Frank,” she complained. Before the song was over, when all around us people were kissing, she let go.

  “See you in a bit.” Her voice was tense. Her eyes nowhere near mine. I watched her maneuver her way through the crowd and stop to talk to Paul Rogers. Somehow he was permitted to wear a football jersey and sweats.

  Harry came to my side. “Why doesn’t she want to hang out with me tonight?” I asked. Jocelyn looked away. I crossed my arms over my chest. Meredith kissed Paul’s cheek. She held his hand. She did not let go.

  Jocelyn whispered something in Harry’s ear. “We should get out of here,” Jocelyn said. “It’s too noisy here. Let’s go to my house and talk.”

  Meredith wiggled by, handed me another beer. I grabbed her arm.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I just want to stay. God, Frank, why can’t you relax?”

  Paul tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you having a problem, Meredith?”

  She shook her head. No. No problem. Together, they walked to the opposite corner. Music blared.

  Harry put his arm on my shoulder. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Come on, Frank, let’s go,” Jocelyn said. “Hang out with us. She’s acting like a jerk. Talk to her tomorrow. When you’re not upset.”

  I shook them off. Meredith was still my girlfriend. I came to this stupid party for her. We were supposed to be here together.

  Another beer. A walk around the house. I found them in one of the back rooms. “Meredith,” I said. “I have to talk to you.” She didn’t look happy about it. She followed me to a quiet space.

  “What do you want?” Her eyes looked like they could cut glass.

  “If you want to break up with me—”

  “Frank.” I didn’t know what that meant.

  “I love you.” An outright lie, but the only thing I could come up with. She faced me and sighed.

  “Let’s go for a drive,” she said. “Now. Let’s go.”

  Stacey’s agenda is clear ten seconds into her talk. “I have patients who were injured in cars, motorcycles, and snowmobiles. Some of them were wearing seat belts; most of them were not.” Her voice shakes. “If you wear a helmet, you improve your chance for survival and quality of life. If you drive drunk, take risks, you can end up with a closed head or spinal cord injury.” A few people get up and leave. Stacey speeds up. “Every muscle in your body is connected to your brain through your spinal cord.” She dims the lights and begins a PowerPoint presentation. From backstage, I watch. Interesting. If it weren’t me.

  “Frank Marder was a student here until he was in a tragic motor-vehicle accident. In that accident, he suffered a high-level complete spinal cord injury.” She points to the giant spine on the screen. “He was injured here. A little bit higher, and he would need a respirator to breathe. He would propel his chair using a device we call sip and puff.” She flashes a picture of some guy moving his chair with a straw. “A little bit lower, and he could bend his elbows, turn his wrists, maybe even make a grip.” Sigh. So close. Another slide. “Frank cannot move his arms or legs. He cannot feel anything below his neck. He cannot walk.” The lights come on. “Please welcome Frank Marder.”

  Simon says, everybody clap your hands. Simon says, everybody touch your nose. Simon says, everyone stand up and gawk at Frank Marder, the head case, who cannot do any of the things you just did.

  I motor onto the stage. The room turns completely silent, as the boys and girls who take their bodies for granted stare at one of their own, the boy who royally fucked up, the boy who is a head. Master of manipulation, Stacey is. From one corner, I hear, “Shit.” From another, “Oh my god. Look at him.” The microphones, stationed around the auditorium, pick up every desperate comment.

  Breathe. My notes are on the podium. Breathe. The room is full; everyone is looking. Mrs. Gallagher, my fourth-grade teacher, is sitting in the second row. Breathe. There are other familiar faces. Friends of my parents
. I look up and down the aisles. Mom. Dad. The principal. Two seats over is Father Joseph. He waves, but I pretend not to see. Behind him is Dr. Rockingham. Jocelyn sits in the corner, an empty chair at her right. I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

  Stacey positions the microphone next to my lips. Sweat forms on my neck and drips to never-never land. Two girls in the front row cry. I can’t do anything but breathe.

  The sea of people waits. Friends of Meredith’s—people from class—people I never knew. They are here. Witnesses.

  Stacey stands next to me. “You can do it,” she whispers. “Talk.”

  Crash. The side doors open. Too hard. They hit the wall. Everybody looks, but the woman does not acknowledge the attention. She does not lean into the wall, the way all the other late arrivers did. Instead, she struts to a solitary spot in an open space on the right side of the auditorium and stops cold, alone, without support. She is wearing a long coat and a hat with a wide brim. Not appropriate wear for the inside of school, in the middle of the day, when the sun is starting to warm the sky. For a moment, she takes off her sunglasses and catches my eye. She wipes them with her sleeve and puts them back on. Not an effective disguise anyway.

  It is Mrs. Stein, Meredith’s mom. Ruth Stein.

  She may not be on display, but she is as alone as I am. A strange couple, we are, each in our separate space, each with our own pain. No one embraces her—maybe they don’t recognize her, maybe they’re afraid. She stands, hands in her pockets, eyes fixed on me. She might have a gun. She could shoot me, and if she did, no one would blame her. In fact, maybe someone should tell her that she has a clean shot. Come on, Ruth, he can’t even get out of the way. Do it for Meredith.

  Stacey brings a can of Orangina to my lips. “You need to say something,” she whispers. “Now.”

  Crash. The old man crosses the street.

  Crash. Meredith flies through my window.

  Crash. Ruth Stein waits for me to speak.

  “What’s the difference between a…” My voice echoes in the hall. “What’s the difference between a…” Stacey shoots me a worried look. “What’s the…” She doesn’t know where I’m going.

  I stop and stare. The hall is completely silent. Every student at George Washington High School waits for me to speak.

  “No one said anything.”

  “What?” Stacey whispers, confused.

  “No one said, ‘Don’t drive.’ No one said, ‘You’ve had too much.’”

  * * *

  Actually, no one even said good-bye. We marched to the car, drunk and angry and confused. I swallowed the last beer as we walked out the door—chucked the bottle into the bushes. The “I love you” was a mistake. It didn’t chill her out. She was not happy, not fine. But I didn’t care. She was leaving with me. Not him.

  In the car, she said nothing. Not “Two hands on the wheel,” the way my mother does when my father drives after two or three. Not “How could you?” or even “We have to talk.” She didn’t break up with me, she didn’t yell. She stayed slumped against the passenger door until we had left the neighborhood.

  Then she turned on the radio and opened the sunroof. She undid her seat belt and lifted herself up, up, up. She ripped off her blond wig and let her long hair whip in the wind.

  “Get back in the car,” I said, my head still full of alcohol and loud music.

  She laughed. “I thought you wanted to have fun, Frank.” She raised her hands in the air, laughing, determined to be happy for that moment, so beautiful when she was smiling, when she was having fun, when she was laughing, even when she wasn’t really having any fun, when she was making herself laugh and act wild, just trying to make the best of what was bound to be a difficult moment. Pretending that everything was fine.

  I was thinking about her and her hair and Paul and the dancing. I kept glancing at her—not the road, not even as we pulled into town. I wanted her to keep laughing with me. Me. Not him. Me—

  That’s all I remember.

  I never saw the man, oh the man, where did that man come from?

  I killed her on a simple drive from a party I didn’t want to go to.

  “I don’t know what might have happened if we had stayed.” The collective sigh is audible from the stage. “There was no good reason why any of this happened. We were not bad people. I had a few beers.” Five, to be exact. Five beers. One, two, three, four, five.

  My script is full of examples and stories of challenges and hardships. Lunch at Mike’s. Eating. Getting into bed. Moving in the house. My injury. My problems.

  But now that I’m up here, I want to talk about her.

  “I killed two human beings. An older man. His name was Lawrence Kitzmiller. And our classmate and friend, Meredith Stein. Dead. Every day, I wake up knowing I killed them. And I am like this.” Silence. “There are days when I think they are the lucky ones. Many days I wish I was dead. Every day, I wish I could take it all back.”

  Stacey stands next to me. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispers. She points to my papers. “Talk about yourself.”

  “How do you sleep at night?” someone shouts.

  “She was one of the nicest people I knew.”

  The room buzzes. Meredith had a great sense of humor. Meredith was nice to everyone. Meredith was so full of life. For a few minutes, Meredith Stein is a saint.

  No one tells me that I should be in jail. Those words are for anonymous places like e-mail lists and Web logs. No one will lynch me in public.

  “Talk about yourself,” Stacey whispers. “They need to see you.”

  “I cannot bathe myself, shave, or drive. I cannot get up out of this chair into bed without the help of my mother and father. Take a piss? Forget it. I cannot do anything but sit and think and talk.” I’m on a roll. “Try eating lunch without hands. Try doing anything without hands or feet or even your trunk. My computer is voice-activated. I use a motorized wheelchair that I control with my chin.”

  Out of air, I cough and gasp. Stacey whispers, “You’re talking too fast.” She gives me a sip of water. “Take your time. Take a breath.”

  The audience waits.

  “She didn’t deserve to die.”

  A girl shouts out, “You should have called a cab.”

  “Yes. I should have called a cab.”

  Other students speak. “Only beer? You only had beer?”

  They ask about Meredith. “Did she say anything? Did she know she was going to die? What do you remember? Was she in pain?” The questions I ask myself each day. I don’t know if she knew. No, I can’t remember. I hope she felt no pain.

  They ask about the car, the beer, the emotion. The costumes, the dark night, the winding roads, slippery when wet. The way we think—we think we’re invincible. Yes, yes, yes. All those things are true. Remember the rules.

  When I drove my car over that old man, into that tree; when Meredith Stein flew out of the car, onto the sidewalk; when my neck broke, snap, in two, none of my prior good acts mattered. In school, we learn about Newton’s Laws of Motion. If you are not pushed, you will continue in one direction, at one speed. An object’s velocity will only change if a force is placed on it. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. We are told to believe that. I believed that.

  “I never thought something like this could happen to someone like me.”

  * * *

  When I am done, some stray people stand and clap. Most file out of the auditorium, talking quietly. Resuming their lives. Stacey may think she got to them, but by the time Saturday night rolls around, the beer will flow. No one will remember to be careful. She cannot prevent the next me.

  As the room empties, Ruth Stein remains. She watches the kids walk by, one by one. The adults congregate in small circles; she is the only person besides me who doesn’t move.

  Finally, when there are only a few stragglers left in the room, she takes very small steps toward the stage, and hands something to my mother. The two women are almost exactly the sa
me height. Ruth Stein speaks, and Rosemary Marder nods. She does not talk back. They do not embrace. They turn together and look at me, but they do not move toward the stage.

  “I am really proud of you, today, Frank.” Stacey organizes her papers; I remain at the podium. My notes sit unread. No one stops to talk to me. No one congratulates me.

  My parents shake hands like celebrities. The principal embraces my mother. This is not what they had in mind last September when they envisioned me at the podium addressing the students. But today, they smile.

  A bell rings. My parents push me back to the car and take me home, no words necessary. Stacey follows in her bright yellow Jeep. She stays for lunch. Chili with cheese and sour cream. Meat, cheese, and pepper in every bite.

  “We have two school visits next week, then one every week after that for the next two months.”

  “You did a good job.” She looks proud.

  My parents look eager.

  When Stacey leaves, they remain at the table. My mother reaches into her purse and retrieves a small piece of paper. She unfolds it and holds it at eye level. “This is for you.”

  It is a letter. My name is written at the top of page.

  “It’s from Meredith’s mother, isn’t it?”

  Her face is expressionless. “Yes, it’s from Ruth Stein.”

  “Have you read it?”

  Mom shakes her head. “I told her I wouldn’t.”

  “Hold it up to my face.”

  Her writing is small and precise, a combination of cursive and block. Square, not loopy. Upright, not slanted. A lot like Meredith’s handwriting.

  “Frank, you did a great thing today. Thank you. From Anonymous.”

  Anonymous. Yes, of course.

  Ruth Stein, the mother of the girl who died, the only person who has the right to hate me, is my supporter. Anonymous.

  For the first time in a long time, I laugh. I really laugh. It doesn’t start out strong, but it is real and so I laugh harder. My mother looks startled. Delighted. She covers her mouth. My father’s eyebrows arch. He smiles, too.