I have to pick up some pages that printed to the copy machine during the afternoon, and I see two of the women in reception, Liz and Heidi, talking in hushed voices at the water cooler. When I hear Matt’s name whispered, I linger at the printer, waiting to hear more.
“…Something’s definitely going on with him,” Liz whispers to Heidi. I remember the way Liz used to hang on Matt’s every word, making goo-goo eyes at him. “I’ve noticed him limping for a long time now.”
“Me too,” Heidi says. “Everyone has.”
“I heard he has Parkinson’s disease,” Liz murmurs. “Do you think that’s true?”
“John said he heard Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Oh my God. Isn’t that the one where you end up not being able to move anything on your whole body?”
Heidi nods gravely.
Liz looks almost like she might cry. “Poor Matt. He’s such a sweet guy.”
Heidi raises her eyebrows at Liz. “Maybe you should reach out to him? You were always so into him, weren’t you?”
“No, I…”
I don’t wait to hear Liz’s excuses. I’ve heard enough of this conversation. None of the people in Matt’s so-called friends truly care about him. It almost makes me glad that I don’t have any friends.
The only exception is Calvin. Whatever other bad things I can say about Calvin Fitzgerald and there are many, he seemed genuinely concerned when Matt showed up with that cane. I heard him demanding that Matt go see a doctor, because it’s clear that Matt hasn’t told his “best friend” the truth.
Tonight I pray for Matt.
I’m not a religious person. When I pray, it’s not to God exactly. It’s more to an unnamed entity that controls the fates of the universe.
I touch each shoulder eleven times, then I touch my chest eleven times, then I touch my forehead eleven times. Then I chant eleven times: “Matthew Harper will not lose the ability to walk.” Then I sit in silence for eleven minutes.
If I am able to do this 121 times without any mistakes, then Matt will be okay. His prognosis will not become a reality.
I will save him.
Year Three
Chapter 23: Matt
I think I’m going to vomit.
I really do. I’ve got this awful, queasy feeling in my gut. I feel lightheaded, like there’s a chance I could pass out. Good thing I’m sitting.
“It’s not that bad, Matt,” Kelly, my physical therapist, says to me. “Geez, you look like you’re going to throw up or something.”
“No,” I say, aware that my voice sounds choked. “I can’t wear that.”
Kelly sighs and puts down the Knee Ankle Foot Orthosis she had been holding up. I started another course of therapy last month because I told Dr. Dunne I felt unsteady again. Kelly’s first suggestion was to try a Knee Ankle Foot Orthosis (KAFO) after I told her my knee had been buckling under me. Last week, I let her measure me for it. And now this… monstrosity.
“Fine,” Kelly says. “Don’t wear it. I’ll have them measure you for a wheelchair instead.”
I glare at her. Bitch. It’s easy for her to threaten me—she doesn’t have to walk around with that fucking thing strapped to her leg.
“Just try it, Matt,” she says. “Try it and see how it feels. If you hate it, I won’t bother you anymore.”
I doubt it, but fine. I let her remove my AFO, and put on the KAFO. Unlike the AFO, which I could wear without anyone knowing, the KAFO has to go on over my pants. It straps across my ankle, just above my knee, and across my thigh. There’s a rigid hinge at my ankle, and a hinge that bends at the knee.
To say that I hate it would be a gross understatement.
“Give it a try,” Kelly says. She hands me a cane that’s not my cane, but one with four prongs at the base. It’s something new—another aide to help me walk better.
And I have to admit, it feels much better walking with the KAFO and the new cane. Considering I had a scary fall last week, the extra stability is appreciated. I don’t feel like I’m going to fall, for a change. The knee hinge takes getting used to though. It locks automatically when I put weight on that leg, then unlocks to allow me to swing my leg forward.
“It’s a stance-control brace,” Kelly explains. She grins at me. “You like it, don’t you?”
I do, dammit.
“Keep it,” Kelly says. Before I can protest, she says, “You don’t have to wear it, but at least have it. Just in case.”
So here’s the worst part: I end up wearing the brace out of there. I’m addicted to the extra support it gives me. And maybe it doesn’t look that bad. The brace is dark in color and if I wear it with dark pants, maybe it won’t look so bad. Or I can buy pants baggy enough that it will fit underneath.
I drive home, although that’s something that’s also become more difficult recently. Working the pedals with my foot was hard enough when I couldn’t move or feel my foot, but now that my knee is weak, I’m genuinely getting nervous. I know what I need is a car with hand controls, but like everything else, I’m reluctant to make the switch.
When I park in front of the house, the sun is just setting. Rosie is sitting on the porch, a bottle of beer in her hand, just staring up at the sky. I sit in my car for a minute, trying to decide if I should swap out the KAFO I’m wearing for my usual, less conspicuous brace. Rosie still doesn’t know that I have MS, nor does anyone else besides my doctors and therapists and Anna Flint. Even my parents still don’t know.
Eh, the hell with it. She’s going to see the brace eventually.
I get out of the car, having to pull my legs out using my arms, which is the norm lately. I grab my new cane, the one with four prongs, and I pull myself into a standing position. Rosie sees me and her eyes widen. She puts down her bottle of beer.
Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here.
Shit. She’s coming over here.
“Matt,” she says as she wipes her hands on her jeans. The tight tank top she’s wearing reminds me of the fact that I haven’t slept with a woman in a year. Hell, I haven’t kissed a woman in a year. Not since I got that goddamn cane. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes flicker down to my legs. To my new cane. “I can help you get the door open.”
“I’m fine,” I say again.
“Let me help you,” she says.
So I let her. She opens the door to my apartment for me, and then follows me inside. I want to be alone right now—the last thing I want is Rosie fussing over me, but I just don’t have it in me to tell her to get lost.
“You sit down,” she tells me. “I’ll make you dinner.”
“You don’t have to,” I insist.
But Rosie isn’t listening. She goes to the kitchen and starts making up some spaghetti and pasta sauce, which is basically the only thing you can make with stuff I’ve got in the house. While she cooks, she puts on some music on her phone—lots of eighties songs. If this had all been happening two years ago, I would have assumed this was all leading up to a one-night stand, but considering she just saw me hobbling out of my car, I’m guessing this is her mothering me. I take this opportunity to pull off my KAFO.
After about twenty minutes, Rosie emerges from the kitchen with two plates heaping with spaghetti. Despite my protests, it’s actually nice that I don’t have to cook tonight.
“Dig in,” she says. “You need your strength. That’s what my mother always said to me. ‘Eat up, Rosie. You need your strength.’”
I laugh at the thick Brooklyn accent she put on to imitate her mother. “Sounds like my mother,” I say.
“No, I doubt it,” she says. “There’s nothing like Italian mothers. I doubt you got one drop of Guido blood in you, Mr. Harper. American as apple pie.”
I shrug. “My mother definitely has her moments.”
Rosie takes a bite of spaghetti and chews for a long minute. “So. You going to tell me what’s going on with you, Matt? You sick
or what?”
“I’m fine,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
“Well,” she says thoughtfully as she looks me up and down. “That part’s true. Even with all you got going on, you are still pretty fine.”
I laugh, but then I notice that Rosie isn’t laughing along with me. She’s just sitting there, her big tits squeezed into a tank top that a middle-aged woman probably shouldn’t be wearing, but you know what? She looks great in it. And she fills out her jeans perfectly. Her body is just as good as any girl that Cal hits on at the bar.
Rosie leans forward and then she kisses me before I have a chance to wipe spaghetti sauce from my mouth. I haven’t kissed a woman in so long that I honestly forgot how great it feels. I forgot how soft a woman’s lips could be. Just her tongue in my mouth makes my whole body tingle.
A second later, we’re pulling each other’s clothes off. I’m still wearing my dress shirt from work, and Rosie undoes a few buttons then yanks the rest of it off. I pull off her tank top and get her lacy black bra open with only a few seconds of fumbling. With her shirt off, the differences between Rosie and a twenty-year-old become more marked—her breasts sag and her skin is loose and floppy. But at this moment, she’s the most goddamn beautiful woman I’ve ever been with.
I’m still wearing the AFO on my left ankle and I’ve got to get the damn thing off to remove my pants. Our lips part so that Rosie can get her jeans off, but I also need to lift my pants leg up and unstrap the Velcro of my AFO before I pull it off completely. Rosie watches me do it, her eyes narrowing.
“The hell you’re fine,” she says. “What is it? Cerebral palsy?”
“Cerebral palsy is something you’re born with,” I mumble.
“So you weren’t always disabled?” Rosie asks.
Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach and my hard-on dies an instant death. So you weren’t always disabled? At first I’m not sure what it is about her words that upset me so much. Then it hits me. It’s because she called me disabled in such a matter-of-fact way. As if I’m obviously disabled. That’s not a point up for debate. Even though I don’t think of myself that way. At all. I mean, I can still walk.
“This is a mistake,” I mutter.
Rosie raises her eyebrows. “What? Why? I still want to do it.”
I button up one of the remaining buttons on my shirt that Rosie didn’t rip off. “I just… I don’t think it’s a good idea.
She bites her lip. “I don’t mind that you got those things on your legs. I’ll still fuck you.”
I shake my head. I can’t get these shitty thoughts out of my head now: that I’m disabled, that this is a pity fuck, that I don’t even like Rosie all that much. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it up when I’m feeling like this. On top of everything else, that would be humiliating as hell. And she’s my landlady—I’d have to see her all the time.
Rosie sighs. She doesn’t seem angry, at least. “All right,” she says as she pulls her tank top back over her head. “But just so you know, if you ever change your mind, I’m still game.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my disheveled hair. I’ll never call her. If I ever get that desperate, I’ll probably have gotten to the point where it really would be a pity fuck. And I don’t want that. I’ve still got some dignity left.
Chapter 24: Anna
I have always been successful in academics.
I was the salutatorian at my high school. I was captain of the math team and got a gold medal in the high school Computer Science Olympiad. I went to CalTech for undergraduate and graduated summa cum laude with a bachelor’s in computer science. I subsequently earned my Master’s degree in computer science taking night classes. I earn an excellent living as a computer programmer and have recently purchased my own home.
My older sister Lisa nearly flunked out of high school. She dropped out of community college and became a waitress. She married a mechanic, and they have a horribly behaved son together.
Would you hazard a guess which daughter is my parents’ favorite? I’ll give you a hint. Her name does not rhyme with “banana.”
So when I see my mother’s name flash on my cell phone screen, I’m tempted to ignore the call. Nothing good can come out of speaking with my mother. But I’ve ignored her last three calls, so the guilt overcomes me and I answer the phone. I already know I’ll be sorry.
“Anna!” Mother says. She sounds surprised to hear my voice. “You answered the phone.”
My mother enjoys stating the obvious. “Yes,” I say.
“I was going to leave a message.” She still sounds flummoxed that I picked up the phone. Needless to say, my mother and I are not close. We don’t have two-hour-long conversations the way that she does with Lisa. I can’t even imagine what the two of them talk about for so long. Our conversations generally just involve exchanging the requisite information. “How are you doing, Anna?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “How are you?”
“The arthritis in my wrist is acting up a little,” she begins, but then clearly senses that I don’t want to hear any more, and says, “How is work?”
“Fine,” I say.
So we’ve exchanged the necessary information. I’ve informed her that work is fine and that I’m generally fine. I’ve done my daughterly duty. This conversation can end.
“Listen,” Mother says. “Lisa, Jake, and Jayden are coming over on Saturday night for dinner. We were hoping you would join us.”
I inhale deeply. I have dinner with my parents on the second Sunday of even months. (An even month would be February, April, June, etc.) It is not currently an even month. And Saturday is not Sunday. This is not our routine at all, and the thought of having to spend an extra evening with my parents and especially with Lisa and especially with her little monster of a son makes me fly into a panic.
“I can’t make it,” I say.
“Why?” Mother presses me.
“I have plans.” I don’t have plans.
“What are you doing? I know you don’t have a date.”
I stare at my phone, struggling to come up with a valid excuse. Maybe I should invent a boyfriend. That would get my mother off my back for at least a few months, until she insisted on meeting the man, at which point I would have to stage a tearful break-up. But I suspect this is more trouble than it’s worth.
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll come.”
One evening. How bad could it be?
Chapter 25: Matt
After Rosie leaves my apartment, I sit on the couch a long time, eating spaghetti and staring at the wall. I turn on the television at some point, but I can’t focus on any television show. I just keep staring down at the KAFO that I abandoned on the floor, wondering if I need it or if I can work up the nerve to actually wear it.
It’s so much easier walking with my new brace. What looks worse—to be wearing a brace or to be practically falling over with each step?
Eventually I shut off the television and strap the braces back on my legs, then I grab my new cane. There’s a full length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door. I hobble over to the bathroom, just to take a look. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.
Fuck.
It’s as bad as I think.
No wonder Rosie labeled me as disabled. That’s how I look. When I look at myself in the mirror right now… there’s no other thought that comes into my mind. I look like a man with a significant disability. I look like a cripple.
Fuck.
I walk over to my bed and plop down on it, because I don’t sit gracefully anymore. I can’t wear this goddamn brace. I’ve barely had a date in the last year, but this brace will be the end of my dating life. The actual end. No girl will ever go out with me if I look like this. Maybe someone like Rosie would throw me a bone every once in a while, but I’ll never get an actual date.
I bury my face in my hands. When Dr. Dunne gave me the diagnosis of MS two years ago, I never believed it would come to this. I
never thought I would keep getting weaker. I thought he was full of shit. But he was exactly right.
And then I think about his prediction:
I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to walk in five years from now.
I can still walk now, but without my braces, I can’t. Even holding on to stuff. My legs don’t support me anymore if I’m not wearing braces on both of them. It’s only been two years, but I can already see his prediction coming true.
This is so fucking frustrating. I want to slam my fist into the wall, but it wouldn’t do me any favors to break the wall (or worse, my hand). Why the hell did this have to happen to me? Everyone else in the whole goddamn world can walk without even thinking about it. They have no clue how lucky they are.
And then my cell rings. It’s my mother. Shit.
Here’s the thing: my mother knows my ankles are “a problem.” I’ve been going with the Achilles lie. I have a feeling they don’t believe it, and my mom keeps saying I need to go to another doctor and get a second opinion. Luckily, my older sister Erin just had a baby, so that’s been eating up a lot of their attention. That and the fact that I live an hour drive away from them (and my parents hate to drive) means I’ve managed to avoid them seeing me for six whole months.
Obviously, they’re going to find out eventually. I can’t hide this anymore. But I still dread the conversation.
I finally answer the phone because I know my mom and she’ll just keep calling until someone picks up. “Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Matt!” she says. “Where have you been?”
“Working,” I say. And coming straight home after work to watch TV for five hours. “It’s been pretty busy.”
“Well, you need to see Haley,” Mom says. “Don’t you want to meet your niece?”
I don’t. I don’t have even the slightest desire to see this baby. Sorry if that makes me an unfeeling asshole. My sister Erin and I have never been close. She’s this ultra-liberal feminist who gave birth at home in some crazy water bath, and I’m (apparently) a misogynistic jackass. So we don’t get along—we never have and we never will.
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