Goodbye, Orchid

by Carol Van Den Hende

  “Talk to me about how you’re feeling.”

  What was the point? He had no energy for this. She waited, and he said nothing.

  “Don’t tell me you just wanted to see me twice this week.”

  “Humor? You came to make me laugh?” He turned to throw her a sour look.

  “That’d be a start.”

  “And when’s the finish?” He watched her keep her face even. Damned professional.

  “I don’t think it’s your time yet, my friend. Haven’t you always been a fighter?”

  She crossed her knees and bent a hand to cup her chin. Her long arms and legs mocked him.

  “Phoenix, how long have you been thinking about this?”

  “Thinking?” He choked out derision. “I’m not thinking about anything. I’m just trying to make it through each day.”

  She frowned. “Do you want to talk with the doctor about increasing your meds?”

  “No. I can’t think straight on that stuff.”

  Her rigid back eased. “And how about now? Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

  “If you keep asking me questions, I might think about hurting you,” he mocked. The thought of how little half a man could do to this wiry woman made him chuckle instead.

  She tilted her head. “Okay, no more questions.” She smiled. “Just a promise.”

  He groaned. What does she know with her able hands and feet?

  She leaned towards him. “Will you call me or tell someone if you feel like hurting yourself?”

  “That’s another question.”

  “Nope, that’s a request for a commitment.”

  “Smoke signals or carrier pigeons, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Cell phone works, too. You know a lot of people care about you?” She paused. He didn’t answer, so she kept going. “I’m going to send your mom back in. She’s going to be here with you over the next few days, and let’s not discharge you to outpatient status just yet.”

  Great, a prolonged sentence in rehab, as if the life sentence of limb loss wasn’t bad enough.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promised. To Phoenix, it sounded like a threat.

  That night, Mom’s cot was put back in place, next to where he lay in bed. “I shouldn’t have left,” she muttered. She put an arm around him. It felt like a restraint. “I love you.”

  He’d been her pride and now was her burden.

  She prattled on. He couldn’t listen. He’d found a solution and now just needed a plan that he could execute.

  CHAPTER 25

  JUST ONE DRINK

  Phoenix

  Nadine sat on the side of Phoenix’s bed, her tresses freed from the usual elastic. A knit shirt hugged her contours. Her normally smooth face puckered between the brows, mouth drawn at the corners to ripple her chin in worry, more somber than cheery.

  “Hey, there.”

  He said nothing, twisting under the sheet to find a place of comfort.

  “Are you having pain?” she asked.

  She got up, headed for the amber bottle just out of reach of his bed. He shook his head, so she sat down again.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  His therapist, his mom and now Nadine. He had no words left.

  “You know you’re important to me?”

  He groaned. “Stop with the head games, the lies. I’m not going to get better. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  She looked around the room, adjusting the little ruffled sleeves. “Look at all the progress you’ve made. Faster than most. Before you know it, you’ll be back home, and back at work. You’ll have accomplished all those goals we set.”

  “You and your stupid goals. Just go. This is your day off. Go see your boyfriend.”

  She read the hitch in his voice and slumped shoulders, spot on as usual.

  “Phoenix, I promise it’s going to get better.”

  She sat for a long time waiting for a response. He had none.

  That afternoon, his brother barreled into Phoenix’s room. Caleb’s face was twisted, eyes shot through red. He ran fingers through his hair as if grappling with a hidden beast.

  Mom was only willing to relinquish guard with another blocker in her place. Phoenix wasn’t even allowed to use the restroom by himself.

  Silence. Just the two of them. He didn’t know how long Caleb sat there without talking. When Caleb finally spoke, his voice was low like he was trapped in an old church confessional. “You know, there was a time I thought the same thing.”

  Phoenix glanced at his brother, and then away from his devastated expression.

  “I was so fucked up. Everything about me hurt. Everything was too hard. And it almost seemed like death would be better than living my hell.”

  “Really, when?” Phoenix struggled up onto one elbow to get a better look at his brother.

  “It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I wanted to end my suffering.”

  Good. One family member who would understand.

  Caleb continued. “But then, I saw that was a lie. Because what comes after? Nothing. And nothing’s worse than at least fighting. Fighting whatever demons.”

  Phoenix laid back and closed his eyes. Shit, he was on their side, too.

  “Part of me thinks your accident was my fault. Like the universe making you save someone because someone saved me.”

  “Nah, stop it,” Phoenix said, his voice hoarse.

  “Maybe I’m wrong to tell you this. Mom probably wouldn’t want me to talk about it at all. But listen, if fucked-up me can make something of myself, well, look at you, with your degrees and brains and all those badass ad ideas. You’ve got more going on than ninety-nine percent of the population who have their legs and arms.”

  Phoenix rolled over, pressing into his pillow, throat closing in on him. His mind was a jumble, the meds he needed making it even more confused. He couldn’t see Caleb’s perspective. He saw a wheelchair, obstacles in every staircase, rotating door, and curb, stares of pity and horror, and the pathos of not being able to look at himself.

  Caleb kept talking. He persuaded. He cajoled. Phoenix couldn’t listen.

  In the evening, Sascha replaced Phoenix’s brother. She sported flamboyant red latex Saran-wrapped around her short, curvy figure.

  She sat on Phoenix’s hospital bed instead of the vinyl visitor’s chair which would probably adhere to her plastic-wear. The thought made him laugh. The sound, erupting with air like a choke, was rusty, unheard of in the past dark days.

  “So, luv,” she said, cupping his cheek to kiss it. “Sorry it’s been rough.” Her light touch smoothed a little part of the hurt inside.

  She produced neatly folded clothes from her shiny backpack. With her head-to-toe synthetics, she’d stay dry in a monsoon.

  “You’ll feel better in these,” she said, shaking out dress pants and a dark linen button-down. He didn’t take the familiar articles from his wardrobe. “You want a hand, or do you want me to give you some privacy?”

  He stared at her. “You’re smarter than this. You think clothes are going to make a one-handed guy better?”

  “It’s not for you. It’s for me. I like going out with a well-dressed man.”

  He turned his face away, the thought of going out anathema.

  “Aw, honey, try for me, okay?”

  He lay still, eyes closed, for long minutes. He tested the paths of his thinking. There was no flaw in his conclusion. No one needed him. Most days, the pain was unbearable. There was no point in pressing himself, no point in forcing others to try to do for him. He got that other people in his situation needed to keep going. They had children, responsibilities, people who counted on them. I have no one.

  Then Sascha laid a warm hand on his. She applied a little pressure. Hey, I’m here, the friendly motion
seemed to say. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

  He felt his lungs fill and empty in a pattern that said in no uncertain terms that he was still alive. Even a train couldn’t kill him. Little by little, Sascha’s connection brought him from the dark path of his thoughts to the concrete present, into the room that was his prison.

  Phoenix had always had a soft spot for Sascha. The pit in which he languished had no foothold up. Yet for her, he opened his eyes.

  “Can I do anything for you?” she asked, hazel irises piercing his. Her dark gaze reminded him of Orchid.

  He pushed to a sitting stance. Maybe action would erase the memories. “Help me with the buttons, okay?”

  “Sure, luv. You want your leg?” she asked, pointing at the temporary prosthesis next to his bed.

  She helped him with everything, from liners to leg, buttons to belt, until he felt nearly whole—only seated.

  “You know I’m not allowed out? I’m on a suicide watch.”

  She shot him a pointed look. “Promise me not to do anything rash and I’ll sneak you out the service elevator. I’ve got the place scoped out, and Caleb’s told your mom I’m watching you.” With her there, taking charge, putting him back together, his rash impulses simmered rather than raged.

  “You are something,” he said.

  In between shifts as the nurses talked, around the corner out of their sight, Sascha guided Phoenix to the right, away from their station. The two fugitives rode down the padded elevator and wheeled out the wide revolving door.

  “See? No problem, and there’s no lie. I am watching you.” Sascha bent to whisper in his ear, voice giddy from their successful escape.

  The night air kickstarted his brain. He’d forgotten there was anything other than the repetitive struggle of rehab, living in an institution, and his family treating him like bone china in bubble wrap. Here shined the contrast of streetlights against dark skies, and yellow taxis against neon-signed storefronts. He stood and slid into the front seat of her Fiat, just as Nadine had taught him. Sascha folded up his chair and whisked it away into her trunk without any questions.

  “Next time, I’m driving,” he said, looking down at legs clothed in tailored pants, feeling almost like a normal guy with a better-than-normal girl.

  “Promise?” she asked, not expecting an answer, looking in her side mirror to pull onto the wide avenue.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. He observed drunken passersby swerving in more acute angles than he ever challenged Nadine with in their mat-lined rooms.

  “Rockwood Music Hall.”

  “I see, it’s a night out for you,” he said, teasing.

  “Of course it is, and I picked you over that sourpuss brother of yours.” He liked that she tossed his teasing right back, no kid gloves.

  Sascha had arranged nearby parking. They reversed the routine with the chair and wheeled up a ramp to enter. A hostess led them to reserved seating at a table to the far right, just in front of the stage.

  A gorgeous pale waitress, golden hair piled high, making a black apron over dark leggings look good, came over. Catching sight of Phoenix, she exhibited perfect white teeth.

  “I’m Ana. Do you know what you want to drink?” she asked Sascha, not breaking eye contact with Phoenix.

  “Club soda. I’m driving,” Sascha yelled over the band warming up.

  “How about you, doll?” The blonde leaned down, ostensibly to hear him. The tops of her breasts peeked over the v-cut of her fitted T-shirt.

  “Blue Sapphire martini, dirty.”

  She flashed her teeth like the drink order was inspired.

  “Sure thing, doll,” she sang, sashaying away. A funky electronic beat started up. The band featured one guy surrounded by drums and a keyboard, and another with an electric guitar.

  “You’re not even my boyfriend and I’m jealous.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.

  Sascha cocked her head with an exaggerated stare. “You didn’t notice the waitress falling all over you?” she enunciated. “She may be working but she’s still flesh and blood with perfectly good eyesight and libido, apparently.”

  “You kidding? In this chair?”

  “Who cares about the freaking chair? I’m with the hottest guy in this place.”

  He looked around at the eclectic crowd, interspersed with beatnik, casual, punk and posh. A redhead caught his eye and winked. Something familiar tugged at his insides. He looked away. “Do you know her?” he asked, shrugging towards the pinup-styled beauty.

  “Another fan,” she filled him in, deadpan.

  “Oh, c’mon. What is this, a set-up? Did you pay these people?” he huffed over the music, now low and moody.

  The waitress glided over, tray in hand. “Club soda. Dirty martini, extra olives,” she beamed. She placed small bowls of mini pretzels and nuts on the table. “A little something in case you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks, Ana,” he said, returning her smile.

  “Are you always so good with names? Can I get you anything else?” Was he imagining the innuendo in her perfectly reasonable remarks?

  “No, thanks,” Sascha answered for them, dismissing Ana with a scowl.

  She turned to him. “You think I paid these people? They’d pay me to hang out with you.”

  “You are too clever. Taking me out to show me I’m okay, instead of all those crazies at the hospital trying to convince me through words.”

  He dredged up sarcasm, but did feel better. The familiar memory clicked into place. That redhead’s wink was flirtation. He’d been holed up in rehab for so long, and before that, starting the agency, he’d nearly forgotten the simple interplay between strangers. And of course, that short period in between, when two professionals nearly became more, needed to be banished from his thoughts. He sipped the cool gin, face wanting to split over unexpectedly high spirits.

  Sascha twisted towards him, her latex straining with the movement. “You think I’m taking you out for you? My friends know, I always said I dated the best-looking guy’s brother. Now quit the questioning, it’s not all about you. I’m being selfish here so let me enjoy myself.”

  The salty olives reminded him he’d not eaten since the morning, despite his mother’s pleas. He popped a pretzel in his mouth.

  “This band sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before. What are they called?”

  “Paris Monster.” She palmed a handful of peanuts.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. Why?” She raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

  “Ha, seems ironic is all. I was in Paris in July, before my monster of an accident.”

  Ana returned, brushing his arm as she leaned between them to retrieve his glass, empty except for a lone olive. “Would you like another?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Ana beamed.

  Paris Monster’s sounds wreathed and writhed, its ethereal layers welcoming Phoenix back to the dream house of the living.

  CHAPTER 26

  I CAN’T WAIT

  Phoenix

  “I don’t care if the arm’s going to give me more function, I want that damned leg,” Phoenix insisted as he wheeled down a familiar corridor.

  “Okay, fine. We’ll do it your way,” Nadine relented. She walked beside him, toting his accessories. “The occupational therapist will work with you on your arm. We need to work on your gait anyway. You’re putting too much strain on your joints. You don’t want to end up with a hip replacement.”

  “I feel crappy enough and you want to talk about hip replacements?”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You know, the leg made me feel so much better this weekend.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s heard about your dramatic break-out.”

  “Ha.”

  “You know
they’re going to really clamp down on you now, right?”

  “Well, there’s no need. What’s wrong with a guy wanting to go out?”

  They pushed through the doors to the windowed room with the parallel bars. Once inside, she arranged his “spare parts” on the ground. She bent and lifted a rounded silicone liner from the pile.

  “Nothing wrong with wanting to go out. But everything wrong with wanting to hurt yourself, you hear?” She cleared her throat and straightened. “That’s against the rules.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you feel that way again, you have to tell one of us. Promise?”

  He nodded. He’d already promised his psychotherapist, occupational therapist, and Mom. So what was one more?

  “You’re going to think about the prescription too, right?” she asked, handing him the liner.

  He shook his head. “No happy pills. I’m off the pain meds, I’m not going to start something new.”

  Phoenix leaned down and crossed his right hand over his left side, starting the awkward process of rolling the silicone sleeve up his left calf. The liner was needed to protect his skin before locking his leg into the socket and prosthesis.

  Nadine watched. “So what’d you do after sneaking out?”

  “Sascha, my brother’s ex, you know?” He looked up and she nodded. “Took me out to see a live band. They were just two guys. Amazing what they could do. One guy played the drums with one hand, a keyboard with the other, and sang lead vocals.”

  “All at the same time?”

  “Yeah. He made the other guy, a guitarist and sound engineer, look lazy.”

  “You could play an instrument too, you know. Especially if you get used to using your arm prosthesis.”

  “I wasn’t musical before the accident, and an artificial arm sure isn’t going to help matters. . . . Do you play?”

  “My mom made me take piano when I was young. I wished I’d stuck with it and practiced more. I met an amputee during my physical therapy internship. He could play better with one hand than I could with two.” She blushed, perhaps afraid she’d hurt his feelings.