I hear the door slam shut; father is going to work. August should be leaving for school shortly. In the meantime, I have to wait for mother to finish preparing his lunch—most likely peanut butter and jelly with an M&M cookie for dessert—before she can come in and help me out of bed. To be fair, I'm not normally up this early. Why would I be? There's nothing to do once I'm up, not a whole lot to live for anymore. If I'm asleep, then at least I'm not aware of my disability. Sleep is my drug.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and send mother a text message letting her know that I am awake. About ten minutes later, she raps her knuckles against my bedroom door, then shuffles in. Our eyes lock together for a moment; guilt and sorrow mask all other expressions on her face. I can only imagine what's going through her head. There's only one thing harder than suffering from paraplegia—watching someone you love suffer from paraplegia.
She moves over to the window and draws back the peach-colored curtains. "I'm thinking today is gonna be a bum day; television and junk food. Whaddya say?" She puts on a smile as she says it, but it quickly droops; her lips form into a flat line.
I nod weakly at her proposal, not feeling like using words to respond.
She tucks a hand behind my neck and another under my back, huffing as she drags me off the bed and onto my wheelchair. My bottom lip quivers with suppressed anger. Mother isn't that strong; she's barely able to get me out of bed by herself. How long will it be before she gets tired of this daily routine?
You're such a burden, McKenzie.
Once I'm seated comfortably, I wheel my chair into the bathroom where I drain the ostomy bag in the toilet, then fasten a fresh one to my waist, pulling my green Henley shirt down over it so it's hidden from view. Though, even after doing so, there's a noticeable bulge from underneath the shirt.
What has my life become?
Mother is now in the kitchen pulling strawberry Pop-Tarts out of the toaster. They smell a little burnt. August always likes his that way. He calls it "crispy"; says it caramelizes the sugary fruit inside. I call it what it really is—burnt. The truth is I don't think he even knows how to properly operate the toaster, which results in a burnt Pop-Tart every time.
I park my chair next to the couch and mother brings me a plate filled with two extra crispy Pop-Tarts. I end up peeling off the burnt edging, but they still taste good.
After watching our third consecutive episode of Chopped in honor of Aurora, the doorbell rings unexpectedly. Mother hops off the couch to answer it and I clear the dirty dishware and place them in the sink. I'm barely able to reach it from this seated position, and sort of just drop the dishes inside—they clank loudly as they hit the bottom of the sink. When I return, I'm completely stunned at the person I see standing in the room.
It's Xander!
Mother looks over at me with a sheepish grin. "Honey, look who was at the door."
As if I hadn't already realized that on my own, mother. I'm paralyzed, not blind!
My palms moisten and my heart begins to pound.
What is he even doing here? I thought Xander had already left for college. I'm not dressed appropriately, my hair is a total mess, and I have no makeup on whatsoever. I can't let him see me like this. Why is he even here? He shouldn't be here.
I place my moist hands over the wheels and move to the darkest corner of the room, hoping the shadows will act as a veil. "X-xander. What, um—what are you doing here?" I nervously clear my throat. "I thought you left for Duke last week?"
He sits down on the leather sofa closest to me, which is only seven, maybe eight feet away. I want to disappear into a hole right now. "I had to come back to pack up a few more things," he says. "I'm heading back there tonight, but wanted to stop by to see you first." He pauses, his eyes sweeping up and down my crippled frame.
Someone please kill me!
"I'm sorry." He drops his head in his hands. "I should've called when I heard what had happened to you. I just—I don't know. I wasn't sure what to say, so I guess I decided it was best not to say anything. I know it was selfish of me."
"It's fine, Xander." A nervous chuckle follows my words.
Mother turns toward the kitchen. "I'll go get you two some water."
No! Don't leave me. Don't you dare—she left.
Xander continues to stare at me with those big, sorrowful puppy dog eyes. It's so uncomfortable.
I'm not different, okay? I'm not! So why is he looking at me like I am?
I avoid further eye contact with him and drop my head to my chest, staring at my lap. That's when I realize my shirt is covered with Pop-Tart crumbs.
"So, um, how's—how's life been?" he breathes.
How's life? Did he seriously just ask me that? I don't care that he's lost for words; he didn't have to say that. Ugh! I should smack him right now.
"Uh, well, it's been . . . interesting to say the least." I motion towards my wheels.
He's the one who chuckles nervously this time. "Oh, yeah, I guess . . . I guess that's probably true." Then shoots a glance out the window, as if he's suddenly regretting coming here.
Where in the world is mother? How long does it take to fill a glass of water?
I pass the time by picking the crumbs off my shirt and nibbling at them. Upon raising my head I find that Xander is still staring at me with that pitiful gaze. It's clear this awkward moment won't pass on its own, so I try forcing it along. "So . . . how's basketball been for you?"
"Oh, you know. Fine. Just fine." He pauses again, fiddling with the zipper on his leather jacket. "Um, Duke's coach said that my skills at Stardust High were impressive, which has earned me the position as a starter next season."
"Wow. That's so cool." My voice is filled with anything other than genuine enthusiasm.
More silence proceeds.
Did mother decide to fill every water cup in the house? Where is she?
Xander's phone is laying on the seat beside his knee, lighting up as a phone call comes in. A picture pops up on the screen along with a cute sounding ringtone. From my angle, the picture is upside down, but I don't need to see it right side up in order to make out the image—it's a selfie of Xander and some blonde-haired girl with Duke's mascot photobombing them in the background. The two of them look really happy. And she's really pretty.
I can't believe him! One minute he's ready to take me to his first college party as his plus-one, then one month passes and he's already found a replacement. What a jerk!
Xander's phone continues to ring. His fingers crawl over to it and he flips it facedown, looking at me with an uncomfortable grin.
"You should answer that," I say coldly.
"It'll go to voicemail." It rings a third time; he stuffs it under his leg to muffle the sound.
All at once, my inferior emotions vanish.
Why did I place him on such a pedestal for so long? I put a text message from him as a priority over my best friend, and now she's dead because of it! McKenzie, you're so stupid!
Xander stands up. "Listen, I should go. It's a long drive to Duke. I'm sorry about what happened to you. Truly." He moves toward the door, looking over his shoulder one last time. "Have a good life, McKenzie." Then slams it shut behind him.
Seconds later, mother returns with two glasses of water in her hands, glancing around the now empty room. "Sweetie, what happened?"
I look at her through a veil of tears. "I never want to see him ever again! Do you hear me? Ever!"
* * *
I feel so lost. My past doesn't even seem like my own anymore; the girl I used to be, the friends I used to have. Nothing is the same. Especially me.
When I see photographs of myself in my cheer uniform, proudly standing at the top of the cheer pyramid, I don't even recognize the girl in the photo. I'm slowly forgetting what it was like to be that girl. Popular . . . pretty . . . free. . .
Freedom.
I release an enraged scream, throwing my hands skyward; the veins in my neck convulsing. My outburst fades as it drifts out over The Bluff. I'm positioned beneath the shade of the oak tree; its limbs cast swaying shadows over the rough grass. This is the only place I feel remotely calm, almost as if it's my safe haven, my place of refuge.
"You look worse than normal. Everything okay, Bestie?" Aurora moves out from behind the oak tree and sits down beside me.
"Xander left me!" Those words come out with such force, like I can't hold them back any longer.
"What?" She gasps, cupping both hands over her cheeks. "Kenzie, that's terrible. What happened?"
"He found someone new, someone better, someone . . . uncrippled." I glance down at my ugly, useless legs.
I just want to chop them off.
"Well, he's going to be uber sorry when you get your legs back," she says.
"No, Rora! Don't you get it? I'm not getting my legs back! It's impossible."
"Five percent."
"Oh, don't you give me that five percent nonsense! The doctors simply told me that so I wouldn't commit suicide. They figure they'll give this girl a little bit of false hope to lead her on, to hang on to that silver lining where it will always be just out of her reach. That's the truth of it. It's not real. It's not possible. It's not happening."
Aurora sighs, turning her head towards a colony of dandelions. She plucks them from the earth, then braids their stems together. "Tell me about the place."
"What place?"
"You know, that place you're visiting to get better."
"The rehab center? It's a glorified prison filled with a bunch of loonies."
"You mean people like you?"
I scoff, which turns into a laugh. "Hardly! I'm not crazy. You should see this one boy: Maverick. He has vertigo so bad; he needs these meds in order to keep him upright. The only problem is the side effects make him . . . loopy. And that's an understatement."
"Reminds me of the time we rode those spinning teacups at the county fair." She smiles reminiscently. "Sounds like you're making friends at least, right?"
"I wouldn't call them friends. I barely know them. And there's another guy there: Calix, who keeps showing up and is always eerily nice to me. He's like gum on the bottom of my shoe—he won't go away." I pause for a long moment, absorbing the orange glow of the sunset. "I just want things to go back to the way they were."
"Teddy Roosevelt said 'Complaining about a problem without proposing a solution is called whining'."
I arch an eyebrow her way. "I'm not whining."
"Then what are you doing?"
I don't know the answer to that question. Aurora's right; it doesn't feel good to admit it, but I am whining. But how does someone like me propose a solution? It's not like I can become unparalyzed at will. If I could, then I would have shoved this wheelchair off The Bluff weeks ago and never looked back.
"There's hope," she tells me. "You're still getting surgery, aren't you?"
"Mom said we're meeting with a specialist tomorrow to see if I'm a candidate."
She finishes braiding the dandelions together, then slips the stems in between my strands of hair. "As long as there's air in your lungs, then there's hope. Don't forget that, Bestie."
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