Paraplegic

by Troy Dearbourne

  Mother moves in behind me and steers me down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. "He certainly seems like a nice boy, don't you think, Kenzie?"

  "Hmm? Oh. I guess." But deep down inside I couldn't deny it, there was something about Calix, something mysterious. And I started to realize something I previously had dismissed as impossible while being stuck at this place.

  I'd made a friend.

  Chapter 22

  I stay in the van while mother goes into the grocery store. It's the same store Aurora and I went to the day of the car wreck.

  I replay that day in my mind. Graduation was perfect, then the cookout - who would have expected such a splendid day would evolve into an unceasing nightmare. I think of the little old lady who slipped on the moist parking lot and how Aurora ran to help her. I should have, too. Instead, I was too absorbed in my phone, waiting for that text message from Xander.

  One moment. One single moment in time can make the difference between life and death. McKenzie, why did you sneak out and use your car? None of this would've happened if you'd just stayed at home.

  The anxiety quickly returns and my throat shrinks up and becomes as dry as the Sahara, hands trembling. That was the moment everything changed. That was the moment I lost her, the moment I lost myself. Why was it so important for me to feel special, to feel like the world was mine?

  My heart feels painfully suppressed, like someone is driving it deeper and deeper into my chest.

  I jerk at the sudden pounding of mother's knuckles on the window - how long had she been standing there? I unlock the van and she begins to unload the groceries. After she's done, she gets behind the wheel and we drive away.

  The grocery store isn't more than a couple of miles from home, but I somehow managed to fall asleep during the drive, waking up to the bumpy motions of mother guiding the van into the garage. She's still a little intimidated about driving it, I can tell. But with father at work, and I obviously can't drive, she's the only one who can take me to rehab. August offered to drive, jokingly saying it couldn't be any harder than Need-for-Speed.

  I grab a few of the grocery bags and plop them over my lap before descending down the ramp. I've gotten pretty good at going down it and not rolling off the side like I did the first day. I still cringe at the thought of that moment. My head crashed to the cement floor, leaving a throbbing pain that lasted for days thereafter.

  I take my time moving inside the house and on into the kitchen, keeping a steady hand on the grocery bags, while moving my wheelchair forward with just one arm. It's rather difficult. As I arrive, I see Bacon Danger perched on top of the refrigerator, staring at me with those golden-green eyes, his tailing sweeping slowly from side to side and his back arched high like he's poised to pounce. I swear that thing is deriving a plan on how to kill me in my sleep.

  Mother said were having spaghetti for dinner. I'm not that hungry. And I had pasta for lunch at the Center, so I decide I'll spend a few minutes alone at The Bluff before dinner. But before I can move two feet towards the doorway, mother calls to me. "McKenzie, would you like to help me make dinner?" I shake my head, but she ignores my reaction and pushes me toward the dining table, placing the cutting board topped with an onion and cutting knife in front of me.

  Half an hour later the four of us are gathered around the dinner table. Father is talking about recent developments in his case, while August chimes in every couple of seconds, complaining how this new girl at school stole the Oreo cookie out of his lunchbox.

  Father must have noticed my nearly full plate of spaghetti and my half eaten meatball because he pulls me from my thoughts. "Have you thought anymore about college, Kenzie?"

  I shift my eyes to the underside of the table, trying to will my legs to life. Nothing happens. Duh. "Dad, just let me get through this surgery first, alright?" He and mother exchange worrisome glances. What else were they expecting me to say?

  August hangs two spaghetti noodles from the inside of his upper lip. "Look at me! Look at me! I'm a walrus."

  Mother shoots him a disapproving look. "August, don't play with your food." He slurps the two noodles inside his mouth, which makes a disgusting, slimy sound.

  Mother then studies me intently. I really don't feel like answering the questions that are sure to follow, so I quickly excuse myself from the table and guide my wheelchair to the guest bedroom. I'm somewhat sleepy, but I don't feel like asking for someone to help lift me out of this chair and into bed. I still can't do it on my own. Desiree says it should be soon and then I'll be capable of handling simple tasks independently. But how long is soon I wonder?

  I open the pair of French doors and move outside onto the patio. A wave of warmth washes over me as I exit the cool house and into the humid outdoors. A clear, dark sky consumed by millions of twinkling stars looms high above me. Frogs are croaking loudly tonight, almost annoyingly so. I give thought to what all Calix envisions. I hadn't really considered just how blind people have to live. It's almost like they are forced to live in a different world than everyone else. That's a rather sad way to drift through life.

  The patio wraps around to the backyard and from there I move to The Bluff. I lock my wheels and fold my hands over my lap, deeply inhaling the night air. At this hour, it's difficult to tell where the earth ends and the sky begins.

  "Aren't you excited?" an enthusiastic voice explodes nearby. I tilt my head to the right - Aurora is perched on a low hanging tree limb with one foot dangling down below.

  "About?"

  She hops down from the tree and sits cross-legged next to my chair. "Did your brain just take a vacation? I'm talking about your surgery, you silly turnip! You're gonna walk again."

  "And why are you so optimistic? Need I mention the-"

  "Yeah, yeah. Five percent chance. I've heard it all before. I'm optimistic because I believe in you. And I believe you will get your legs back. You're strong, Bestie, and brave. I know you can do it. I know it."

  Strong? Brave? Those aren't exactly the emotions swirling around inside of me. "It's not really about what I can do. It's about what the surgeons can do.

  She throws herself back against the grass, groaning loudly at my lack of faith. "Stop worrying about if it will happen and start believing that it will! You'll never get anywhere if you don't have a little bit of faith."

  "Fine. I believe."

  She frowns at me. "I've heard people say such things about their New Year's resolution with more sincerity in their voice than what you just did."

  Any other day and I would laugh at her attempted joke, but right now I don't have the heart. I'm genuinely scared. I'm not stupid; I know how little a chance five percent is. Every time I think of being forever trapped within the space of this chair, my nerves jolt with fear and my heart sinks with misery. I don't know how I will survive if I am to remain chained to this chair for the rest of my life. I shut down such thoughts from entering my mind.

  Aurora lays her hand on my knee. I think back to the times when I could feel such a sentiment, but now, nothing. Anger revolts from inside of me and I feel like unleashing a drawn-out scream, but I somehow manage to subdue it.

  Aurora looks up at me, seemingly noticing my sudden change in aura. Her eyes wide with hope - genuine hope. "You'll get your legs back. You'll get to walk down the aisle someday. You'll get to chase your runaway toddler through the park. I promise."

  Come surgery day I feel like a person on painkillers; my whole body is numb. Doing the simplest of tasks seems to require greater effort than normal.

  Mother had woken me just before dawn and brought me to The Bluff where we watched the sun rise. I guess she figured I needed something calming to start the morning. Neither of us said a word. We just sat there in silence, watching the summit of the golden sun crawl above the horizon.

  After half an hour or so, she moves me back inside the house, where she then helps me get dressed and ready to leave.

  Father had taken the day off from work so he could be with me for m
y surgery. August had complained this morning about a toothache, but I have no doubt it was so he can skip out on school. Due to the severity of the day, mother didn't see fit to argue, so she agreed to call his school and notify his teachers he wouldn't be going today.

  We pile into the van. Mother fastens my seat belt for me, a task I'd normally feel compelled to do on my own, but being mentally and emotionally occupied with preparing myself for this surgery, I don't fight her on it. She stares at me after she's finished, sorrow and understanding fills her eyes, then sweeps her finger and thumb around the base of my chin before dragging herself in the van.

  The drive to the White Guard wasn't as long as I would've liked, though I'm not sure any extended length of time would be satisfactory. As we arrive at the front gate, father rolls down the driver window to talk to the guard. Father mentions to him that I have an appointment for a spinal surgery. The guard animatedly uses his arms to illustrate which direction we would need to travel, then steps inside the guardshack after he is done speaking. Seconds later, the mechanical arm on the side of the cement post lifts upward and we drive through.

  According to the man, we need to head to White Guard's hospital, which is supposedly located a couple of miles past White Guard itself. I was under the impression the surgery was to take place at White Guard, but I suppose it does make more sense to go to a hospital for such a procedure. I wasn't even aware the rehabilitation center had a hospital. Hospital - I really hate that word. I instantly envision sick people on life support along with those who are in dire need of an organ transplant or something. My body quickly becomes rigid at such a thought - I'm starting to regret agreeing to this surgery more and more.

  As we travel down the wavy pathway, the barrier of pine trees enveloping us draws back revealing an impressive looking building constructed of nothing but reflective glass and steel. The building appears to grow in size as we approach.

  I have no idea what the surgery will cost, but judging by the hospital's opulent exterior, I'm sure it isn't going to be cheap. I kind of feel terrible. Father's worked so hard through his life to earn a savings and this stupid surgery is slashing all of his efforts to pieces.

  I take my time going down the ramp as I exit the van, clearly in no hurry. Why would I be? It's not like I'm eager to be stabbed and prodded with needles and other surgical equipment. I bet it's going to be painful. Like, really painful.

  A massive marble slab is at the entrance of the hospital showcasing all the major monetary donors from greatest donations to least. Engraved into its surface are dozens of names. One name in particular is positioned at the very top and in the center of the slab, clearly the paramount of all others. The name is of some man I'd never heard of, but engraved next to his name is the amount of money he donated to funding this hospital - one hundred million dollars.

  After checking in at the receptions desk, we're guided towards a waiting room where mother and father take a seat in pair of cloth chairs against a blue wall. August spots a Fisherprice plastic table and chair set in the corner and plops down in one of the primary colored chairs. On the table are a handful of toy planes and safari animals to keep him occupied.

  I spend the next forty-five agonizing minutes imaging the horror that's about to come for me. I wonder what it's like? Is it as bad and bloody as it looks on TV? Though, I know that stuff is fake; something always goes wrong with the surgery, but by the end of the episode one of the surgeons does the impossible and saves the patient just in the nick of time before they bleed out like a grape. But I know it doesn't work that way in the real world.

  Two nurses come by at different times while I wait, asking me if I need anything: food, water, the usual. I said "time machine" but I don't think either of them thought it was funny. August, however, jumped at the opportunity and received a juice box and a bag of animal crackers. Just looking at him chewing and slurping, listening to his throat swallow hard after each bite is making me sick. My stomach feels like a cyclone and a volcano all at once. Don't puke, McKenzie. Just don't. Now's not the time. Not that there's ever really a good time to puke, but if there was one, this certainly isn't that time.

  Ten minutes later, the waiting room door swings open and Eric steps halfway through the threshold. My next heartbeat feels twice as powerful, practically leaping out of my chest. It's time.

  Mother and father stand from the waiting room chairs. August slurps the last of the juice from inside the rectangular shaped box along with what little air remained, causing the box to concave on itself. Mother moves in behind me and pushes my wheelchair towards the door. That's when Eric's peaceful expression alters to a regretful frown. He tells us that family members are not allowed in the operating room and that they will have to remain here. Father and mother discuss this between themselves, their voices no higher than a series of sharp whispers.

  Mother cups her hands around both of my shoulders, rubbing gently. "May I at least see her to the operating room?" peering at Eric with a hopeful look.

  "Yes, of course. It's just due to safety and liability issues, operating rooms are reserved for medical personnel only."

  "I understand."

  Eric seems like a nice guy. Each time my vision crosses his face, there's a certain solemn feeling that comes over me. That feeling, however, quickly vanishes as the thought of the surgery and pain take its place.

  Father shuffles around to the side of my chair and crouches to my eye level. He reaches for my hand, his thick fingers curling around my long, skinny fingers. His eyes have a hue of red in them, almost like he's been fighting back tears. "McKenzie, sweetheart, no matter how this surgery goes-"

  "I know, daddy." I can't bear to let him finish. I'm so emotional right now, it's only a matter of minutes before my own eyes turn into Niagara Falls.

  August is still sitting down at the plastic table, now using a toy biplane in one hand to fly around the gorilla in his other hand; weird sound effect noises are coming from his mouth. Pretty sure he's trying to reenact a scene from King Kong. He seems unaware of what I'm about to go through. I guess that's for the best.

  Without further delay, mother grips the handles of my wheelchair and follows Eric out of the waiting room and down the corridor to the operating room.

  I can't believe I'm about to do this. Me. Getting spinal surgery. So many things would be different if you hadn't been so obsessed with answering that text message. You wouldn't have to be in this chair. You wouldn't have to be in this place. Aurora would still be alive . . .

  I cast such thoughts from my mind and allow my vision to lazily pass over each faux tile of the white floor.

  From my peripheral, I see the hem of Eric's lab coat stop suddenly from bouncing around with his motions, and then lift my head. We're here.

  Mother leans down and places her lips inches from my ear. "This is as far as I can go." I suddenly lunge for her hand, like a child not wanting to leave their mother's side on the first day of school. She clasps both of her hands around mine, squeezing tightly. "You'll be fine." I start crying. She starts crying. "And with any luck, we'll all walk out of this place together." She forces a smile. I'm too scared and numb to respond in any way. It feels like I nod my head, but I'm not even certain of that.

  Eric steps forward slowly, not wanting to push mother away, but at the same time I can tell he's trying to hurry the goodbye along. Mother takes the hint, slowly backing away a footstep at a time before disappearing around the corner.

  The operating room is just as expected. A long metal table with a pillow-like material over it stands in the center of the room with small trays of surgical tools positioned around it. There are three other people in the room, one of them a woman; each of them wearing a white coat identical to Eric's. He introduces them one by one, but I don't bother to listen very well, only catching the woman's name: Haley.

  Haley and one of the male nurses loops their arms around my limbs and hoist me onto the table. I shudder as my skin brushes against the cold metal. Eric
slips his hands into a pair of latex gloves and reaches for a syringe filled with this clear liquid.

  "I want you to count backwards from ten, can you do that for me?" his voice is slightly muffled from behind the medical mask.

  My heart is throbbing hard now, the heart rate monitor keeping track of every rapid beat. This is it. This is really happening. Will it work? Will I wake up with a tingly sensation in my legs? I've long since forgotten what it feels like to have the earth between my toes, to stand on the shoreline and feel the waves crash over them, sinking deeper in the sand.

  A sharp poke hits the inside of my forearm. I watch, a little curious, a little sacred, as the clear liquid slowly drains from the syringe - beginning to count backwards.

  Before I even count a couple of seconds, Parker's last words to me unexpectedly storm my brain.

  "It's your fault, your fault she's dead . . ."

  Chapter 23

  Voices yank me from my mental abyss. They're low at first, then slowly increase in pitch. Everything is black. That's when I realize my eyes are closed. I force them open. White light dives in between the slit in my eyelids, causing me to keep them squinted for a long moment until they finally adjust.

  It doesn't take me but a moment to regain my parameters – I'm in a small room of the hospital, but it isn't the operating room.

  The voices continue. I swivel my head to their source and see mother and father seated in front of a window, softly speaking to one another. There isn't very much sunlight shinning through the window; it must be close to dusk. It feels like I'm having a deja vu moment – this is exactly how I awoke when I first found out I was paralyzed.

  Paralyzed!

  That word alone causes me to shake loose of this groggy state. I tilt my head forward and yank the white sheets off my body, examining my pale legs from beneath the hideous hospital gown. They don't move. At first, I consider it might be because I've since forgotten how to command my lower limbs to move from inside my brain, but as the seconds pass, I realize the truth – the surgery failed. I'm still a paraplegic!