Paraplegic

by Troy Dearbourne

  Some time passes before mother finally comes over carrying a tray full of food. She places a plate full of penne pasta lathered with red sauce in front of me. I stir it around with my fork for awhile, taking a bite here and there, but mostly just stirring.

  "Kenzie, sweetie, something wrong? You've hardly touched your food." I shrug in response, not sure I want to tell her what's on my mind, not entirely sure what is on my mind.

  The elderly wife finishes feeding her husband, pulling the napkin out from inside his shirt and then dabbing the corners of his lips. She speaks softly to him. He doesn't seem to notice, but she keeps on despite the conversation being obviously one-sided.

  If I never get my legs back, will someone do that for me? Will they care for me, love me, help me survive each day? Or will I be alone, forgotten, left behind?

  That's the reason why I'm afraid. I don't want to be alone.

  I lift my head. "Mom, what will happen if I don't get my legs back? I mean, like, ever get them back." I don't meet her gaze as I ask the question. It takes her a good fifteen or so seconds to respond.

  "Well, I suppose you'll live with your father and I until the day you get married and live with your husband in a house of your own."

  "But what if - what if no one wants me? What if they can't see past these ugly wheels and my disability?"

  She puts down the plastic fork and sighs. "McKenzie, love is an unconditional commitment to an imperfect person. Don't worry yourself with problems that haven't yet occurred. Now eat your food before it gets cold."

  We sit in a rectangular shaped office waiting for the specialist to come in. The Center's President, Jamal, is here, too. Not sure why. It's not like he's an expert on paraplegia - at least I don't think he is. And I really don't want to discuss my dour future with him, or anyone for that matter - it's just awkward.

  Jamal and mother continue chatting while we waited for the specialist to arrive, and he apologized for what had to be the eighth time for the specialist's delay. Can't imagine what's the hold up. It's not like there's that many plegics at this Center - are there?

  The minutes pass and I remain silent while listening to the two of them chat about little things like favorite restaurants and hobbies. I find it overly hard to understand Jamal's Jamaican accent, but mother doesn't seem to miss a beat - carrying on the conversation as if she's known him most of her life.

  The specialist finally arrives, straightway apologizing for his tardiness. Mother and I introduce ourselves and he introduces himself as Eric, which I find it interesting that he doesn't refer to himself as Doctor; he must prefer a casual title. We then exchange handshakes - his hand is cold and moist, as if he's just washed them, followed by a healthy grip. I should expect no less from a world class surgeon. He takes a seat in the red overstuffed chair opposite from me, crossing a dark denim pant leg over the other.

  His features are fair - his ebony colored slick-back hair and almond shaped blue eyes remind me of someone on the cast of Grey's Anatomy. He's younger than I envisioned; though, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure who or what I was envisioning. He's American and looks to be in his early thirties; his well-tanned skin gives him a youthful appearance, but considering the extensive years of education it requires to become a surgeon, he's probably closer to forty. I suddenly feel a little more at ease knowing the fate of my walking life will be in his hands.

  Eric turns his attention towards me as we discuss my candidacy. But first we delve into the backstory of how I became a plegic. I feel like I've told this story a million times before, so I give mother a helpless glance and she fills him in for me - nodding every so often at mother's explanation, but not breaking his fixed gaze from me.

  He clears his throat and scoots to the edge of the overstuffed chair once mother had finished. "Yes, as you probably already assumed, you are indeed a candidate for surgery, Miss Barlow." He clasps his masculine hands together, seemingly studying me for a response. I'm lost for words as to what I should say.

  Mother speaks for me. "When is your earliest availability?"

  Eric tilts his head back, as if mentally evaluating his schedule. "We can do it as early as next week." My heart gallops to my throat at his answer.

  Next week! I think that penne pasta might come back up.

  Mother looks over at me, no doubt awaiting some sort of reaction from me. I can't locate the energy to lift my head - I just stare at the swirly patterns in the burgundy and beige carpeting.

  Next week! That soon? I wasn't prepared for that answer.

  All eyes are still on me. My mouth opens, then quickly closes, still unsure as to what I should say. My mind is a foggy mess. "May - may I be excused?" I shift my eyes toward mother.

  "But Kenzie, aren't you excited to hear that? It's good news."

  "Please!" My hands start trembling.

  "I guess that would be alright. I'll meet up with you in a bit."

  I place my hands over my wheels and hurriedly leave the room - not looking back.

  It takes me a good twenty minutes before I feel my anxiety subside. I had found a quiet spot behind the Center next to a wooden bench that looks as if it's been here since the Center's grand opening - the wooden planks are all worn and cracked. The sidewalk is slightly elevated, overlooking the hedge maze. In the distance, I can vaguely hear the soft trickle of the fountain flowing over its edges at the core of the maze. A man and a woman are holding hands as they saunter down each grassy aisle, listlessly trying to find their way out of the maze.

  The sound of plastic being scrapped against concrete comes into earshot. Shifting my head, I see Calix strolling down the sidewalk with a long pole held loosely in his right hand - a red tip is on the end of it. He sways his head from side to side, seemingly in sync with the sweeping motion of his walking stick. Must be a blind thing.

  His face lights up with a small grin as the end of the stick bumps into my wheel. He moves past me and takes a seat on the bench, using his stick to lower his body towards the seat much like an old person would use their cane for the same purpose. The bench creaks as he slides into it. I feel an irritated sigh escape my lungs - I really don't feel like talking to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.

  "Did you know that Pluto is no longer considered a planet?"

  I shoot him a quizzical look, not that he can see it. What a weird conversation starter. "Um. Yeah. I think I remember reading that somewhere," trying to keep my answer brief in hopes he'll take the hint that I'm not in the mood for stupid conversation. He doesn't.

  "I mean, what kind of a person does that?" he seems genuinely hurt by such facts.

  "Tragic."

  "We should do something about it."

  "We?"

  He snaps his fingers together. "We should protest! We'll find a street corner, craft posters and banners, get a megaphone. Do you think we can rent a plane and have the pilot spell out letters in the sky with those smoke signals thingamajigs, you know the ones, right? We can have him spell something like Save Our Pluto, or SOP for short."

  I can't suppress the sarcastic chuckle that's halfway up my throat. "I don't quite understand your specific kind of crazy, but I do admire your commitment to it."

  "Right-O! That's the spirit."

  "So I guess there's no getting rid of you, huh?" He turns to face me, then shakes his head from side to side. It's kind of creepy not being able to see past those dark glasses. "How'd you know where to find me anyway?"

  "A little birdie with one ear told me you were out here all by your lonesome; said you were lookin' a bit glum. And so I intend to fix that and make everything all cheery again. How may I be of service, Milady?"

  I sigh irritably. "I don't have the crayons, nor the patience to explain it to you."

  My acerbic retort doesn't phase him. "I happen to have a whole box of crayons right here in me pocket." He reaches into his crème colored cardigan and withdraws an imaginary box of crayons from its deep pocket.

  "Those better be the ninety-
six count, 'cause the twelve count is just offensive."

  "Only the best for you, Milady."

  "And the white one is useless. I mean, really, who colors with white? White!"

  "Ah, I must respectfully disagree. White is far from useless. In fact, it may be the most important color of all."

  My brow furrows. "How so?"

  He leans his walking stick against the armrest. "White is the end result of all colors blended together perfectly. Without white, all you have is darkness. And then you'll be known as a white hater, and you'll be grouped amongst the Pluto haters. You don't want to be known as a Pluto hater, do you?" The corners of his mouth curl into that goofy smile I've grown accustomed to seeing.

  "Fine. You win." I figured this was all just a ruse to get me to open up to him. "But you first. What's your story, huh? How'd a guy like you end up in a place like this?"

  "Ah, tis a long story, that one."

  "Does it look like I have anywhere else to be?"

  "Fair point." He leans deeper into the bench, the rusty joints croaking with his motions, and clasps his fingers together, placing them behind his head. "I was born and raised in Wales until age eight when mummy and daddy decided they wanted to escape the life of monarchs and over fried fish and chips. So one day they came to me and said we were moving to a place that I had previously believed to be a fairytale: America; the land of the free, movie stars, and human obesity. A few days later, we packed up the few belongings we owned, and with aeroplane tickets in our hands we headed for New York City." He sweeps his hand in a circular motion at our surroundings. "Clearly, we never made it."

  "What happened?"

  "Can't really remember all the tiny details. Something about an engine not working properly, so we had to make an emergency landing here in Maine. We loved the quiet countryside of life so much we never got back on that plane. Before too long, I came here to White Guard where I met Mav and earned me my very own Teddy," he pats his walking stick trustingly.

  "I'm sorry. Teddy? What's a Teddy?"

  "Teddy is what I call my white stick in honor of your lovable president: Theodore Roosevelt - his most famous words were 'Speak softly and carry a big stick'. Well, Teddy here is my big stick."

  "Then how come I haven't seen you use - Teddy - until now?"

  He shrugs thoughtlessly. "I've been here for so long I know those corridors like the back of me hand; don't really need it, I guess. Only when I'm outside the Center do I use it."

  So long? He's been here for so long? Those words strike my curiosity. "How long have you been here exactly?"

  He smiles mischievously. "I think we've talked enough about me. Now it's your turn. What's your story, eh?"

  "My story? Uh . . . It's complicated."

  "I like complicated." I swear he's staring directly into my eyes from behind those sunglasses, and for a moment I question if he is truly blind. I shift uncomfortably in my wheelchair at the thought.

  "In order to tell you correctly, I'd have to detail everything that's happened in my life. Like, everything, and that'd take a really, really, really long time." Maybe he won't be interested in a long story?

  "Does it look like I have anywhere else to be?"

  I laugh lightly. "Fair point. Well, I, um, come from a small household - just the four of us: me, my mom and my dad, and my little brother, August. I was head cheerleader at the high school I attended where I spent the next couple of years cheering for my favorite basketball team alongside my best friend. And, yeah, that pretty much sums this girl up."

  He leans over and gives my wheels a good shaking. "Doesn't very well explain how you got these, now does it?"

  "Yeah, and you never told me how you became blind."

  He glances skyward, as if churning my retort in his brain. "Touche! But it isn't so much how I became blind as much as it is why I am blind. I was born this way, you see; my retinas never fully developed during the months that I was in my mum's tummy."

  "So you've never been able to see?" I suddenly almost feel . . . appreciative for my disability. I mean, not being able to walk is agonizing, sure, but I can't imagine not being able to see the beautiful world around me.

  "Never. But tis alright. Instead of feeling discouraged because I can't see your world, I choose to look at it from the perspective of you not being privileged to see mine - and it is a pretty amazing world. The way I'm forced to envision things: what a mockingbird looks like whenever it's morning melody sails into my ears, or the way a fresh batch of chocolate chip biscuits look after being pulled from the oven. I could let it sadden me, but that would make for a very cheerless life, don't you think?"

  "Yeah," I say simply. Calix's optimistic perspective on life makes me give thought to my own and how I'd cope if I never actually get my legs back. I cringe at the thought. Guess I'm not as positive as him.

  "So now you again; what's your real story?"

  "It's a pretty depressing story. I don't want to turn you into my own personal shrink."

  He sits up straight and fluffs the collar on his shirt. "Well, you're in luck, Milady; Doctor Calix will see you now."

  I suck back a deep breath, then drain it from my lungs slowly before beginning. "You know that best friend I told you about?" He nods. "Well, she really was a best friend, a better friend than I ever was to her." I can feel the pressure building in my eyes just thinking about her. "She's dead!" those words explode from my mouth.

  "Blimey! I'm deeply sorry for your loss."

  "And it's my fault." Every part of me is screaming to not open up, but I can't help it. These emotions have been held captive inside of me for so long. "I was behind the wheel that day. Our car slammed headlong into a tree. I don't think she felt it. Neither did I - that is until I woke up three days later to find myself the lone prisoner of this wretched chair. That's why I'm here. I've been told there's hope, minimal hope, but still hope; all I need is surgery."

  "That's wonderful news!" I don't respond. "Isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't sound too sure."

  My vision is a watery mess now. I tell myself to not cry, but Calix won't know as long as I stay silent. "I'm just scared," my voice a whimper. "The surgeons could mess up, or the surgery itself could fail. Either way I'll be stuck like this forever! And then no one will want to hang out with a girl and her cumbersome wheelchair. I'd be forced to spend the rest of my life trapped, alone, always off to the side watching everyone else fulfill their dreams."

  Calix doesn't say anything for a moment. He turns his head away and stares straight ahead. Have I dumped too much information on him? I have haven't I? Ugh! McKenzie, you're such a freak sometimes.

  But to my surprise, Calix then loops his fingers with mine. "I won't let you become a Pluto."

  My image stares back at me in the reflection of his dark sunglasses. "That-" my voice croaks, "that very well be the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me."

  Before he's able to say anything more, Maverick bursts through the exit doors of the Center, panting heavily. "I've got it!"

  Calix and I quickly let go of each other's hand. "And what might that be, mate? The answer to finding Bigfoot?"

  Maverick wildly shakes his head from side to side. "Better. I know what happened to the dinosaurs! You see, I've had a lot of time to think since my first day here, and I'm positive I have the answers to their sudden disappearance millions of years ago."

  "You don't say?" I try to hide my disinterest.

  "Oh, but I do! Dinosaurs are actually . . ." he pauses for a long moment, no doubt dragging out what he feels is suspense, "extra terrestrial!" his fingertips twitch with excitement.

  Calix looks over at me and I to him before returning our attention back to Maverick. "And what's your theory on this?" It's hard not to stare at the hole in the side of his head where his ear once was - it's all crusty and hard, like what super glue looks like once it's cured.

  "Think about it! One minute there's dinosaurs roaming the earth, and the next there
isn't. Then suddenly we're witnessing tangible remnants of superior life from the great beyond. It totally fits! I need to call CBS, NBC, CNN, Oprah! They're all gonna want to hear this. My mom's gonna be so proud of me!" he dashes back inside the Center just as quickly as he'd came.

  I wait a few seconds, desperately trying to process the insanity that I've just heard, before saying anything. "Has he ever been prescribed any other medication. Ya know, like something that doesn't make him so . . . loopy?"

  Calix laughs long and hard at my words. "He's on a scad of different medications, most of which I can't pronounce for life of me, nor comprehend the never-ending list of side effects on the side of each bottle. But hey, he's a good bloke and my friend and I love him flaws and all. There's nothing wrong with being a little different, Milady. Nothing at all. Don't ever forget that."

  I take another glance at my wheels; my gut wrenches in disgust at the sight. "Yeah. I won't forget."

  A few minutes later mother exits the Center and makes her way over to us. "It's beautiful out here," her voice filled with surprise, sweeping her gaze over the hedge maze.

  Calix snaps his head at the sound of a new voice. I introduce the two of them. "Mother, this is Calix; he's a resident here at White Guard. Calix, this is my mom." I move my hand up and down in front of my eyes just in case she didn't get the obvious hint that Calix is blind. It'd be totally embarrassing if she tried to shake his hand and he wasn't aware of it.

  "Calix, it's nice to meet you. How are you?"

  "Better than I deserve, ma'am. And may I be so bold to say that blouse looks lovely on you."

  I'm taken aback by that statement. Why would he say that? He can't even see it. And why was he so elusive when I asked him how long he'd been a resident here? Very strange.

  Mother looks at me with confusion in her eyes. I wave my hand dismissively.

  Calix stands from the bench, wrapping his fingers around Teddy. "I could go for a cup of tea right about now. Would you ladies care to join me?"

  "Oh, we'd love to, but unfortunately McKenzie and I have to go pick up groceries for dinner."

  He nods his head politely. "Then I bid the two of you a fair evening," then heads inside the Center to find himself a cup of tea.