Broken (17 page)

“Do you want to hold him? I have to pee.”

“Sure. Of course.”

We made the trade. Katie got out of bed gingerly and disappeared into the bathroom. I stared down at my armful of infant.

James Trevor Harris had ten perfect little fingers and toes, and a rosebud mouth, pursed now, perhaps in dreams of milk. He had perfect golden lashes shut over sweet, smooth cheeks. He had perfect little brows, furrowed a bit in the effort of existence outside the womb. Everything about him was perfection.

He startled when my tear dropped onto his small face, but didn’t wake. I wiped it away before it could slide down his forehead to his cheek. His skin felt like rose petals. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and I held mine in anticipation of a wail that didn’t come.

“You don’t have to leave before Mom and Dad get here,” Katie said quietly. She got into bed with a wince and a groan. “You know they’re going to want to see you.”

“I know.” I didn’t want to be there, though, to watch them fussing over Katie. Simple and selfish, but true.

Katie gave a weary laugh. “Sure. Abandon me to the smothering. Thanks a lot.”

“You’ll live. Maybe they’ll focus on James.” I returned her son to her arms. “He’s beautiful.”

Katie smiled, lost in contemplation of her son. “He is.”

“Congratulations.”

She looked up. “You sure you have to go?”

“I do, actually, I have to—”

“Get back to Adam. I know.” She nodded. “Okay.”

I hugged them both, mother and son, and slipped away.

“Everything looks good, but we’ll need to keep an eye on that pressure sore starting on his left buttock.” The visiting nurse was new and borderline manic. She smiled so fiercely it looked like she was baring her teeth instead of grinning, and I thought, she must be new to this.

“I’m over here.” Adam’s didn’t waste his efforts trying to sound falsely genial.

The nurse turned to look at him. He gave her a harder version of the grin I fell in love with. It was like watching a puppet with my husband’s face. The same expressions but slightly off.

“Beg your pardon?” She had to be new, unless she was just one of those irritating caregivers who should know better but insist on thinking spinal cord injury means brain damage.

“I’m over here. You can address me.” He was in his chair, as he preferred to be when the homecare assistants came. It was because it made him feel more in control of what was going on.

The nurse turned to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danning. As I was saying to your wife, everything looks good, but we’ll have to—”

“I did hear you,” Adam said, impatient. “The first time.”

I said nothing. I was there to observe and make note of this one small piece of the immeasurable amount of care he needed on a daily basis. I was there because it was my job as his wife to know what was going on with his health, even though the nurse’s breezy, tossed-aside commentary only served to make me more anxious than ever.

She seemed chastened. “I’m sorry.”

Adam was entirely out of sorts, and she didn’t know him well enough to realize when it was a good time to leave him alone. She blathered on for another few minutes about matters so basic I didn’t blame him for being insulted she felt she had to instruct him upon them.

“My accident was more than four years ago,” he told her, voice dripping with sarcasm when she explained for the second time how it was important for him to drain his bladder every four to six hours. “I know all about how to piss through a tube.”

“Well, all righty then,” I broke my silence to say in a bright tone I could see set his teeth on edge. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Carter, but I think I can take it from here.”

Bless her do-gooding heart, she still didn’t get it. She kept chirping as merrily and irritatingly as a parakeet about bowel programs and intermittent catheters as I escorted her down the stairs and out the front door. I bid her goodbye on the front porch and shut the door against her unfailingly cheerful advice.

I didn’t mean to be rude, but she’d put Adam into a bad mood. A brilliant mind trapped in a body that doesn’t work the way it should leads to inventive cruelty. He couldn’t hit out with his fists, so he lashed out with his tongue, instead.

I heard him cursing before I entered the room. I was almost a coward and didn’t go in, but Dennis wouldn’t be on duty for another few hours, and I had no choice. Adam needed me, much to his disgust and my despair.

As if he heard me outside the door, he stopped muttering, and I went inside. He had his face turned away, toward the window. Bars of late afternoon sunlight striped his cheeks.

“Don’t have her back again,” he said.

“All right. I’ll make sure.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“I know that.” I was never sure what to do for him when he was like that. In the past. I’d have left him alone to work it out, but I couldn’t leave him alone now. Even if I left the room, he’d be calling me back in a few minutes to help him with something. Sometimes, maliciously.

“Do you want some lunch?”

He grunted an answer that I took to be yes.

“Anything in particular?”

Another grunt. I didn’t push. I made sure the intercom was working and clipped the monitor to my pocket before going downstairs to fix him some food.

Marriages fail all the time from lesser disruptions than the unexpected disability of a spouse. It takes work and compromise to keep even an untested marriage strong, and ours was anything but untested.

When Adam had his accident I was working part-time as a junior counselor at a college health center until I could get my license. The money was bad but the hours made it possible for me to spend most of my time at the hospital. Adam had woken from his coma and taken the news of his injury without even blinking. He’d taken on recovery like a man shot from a cannon in flames. He’d been determined to heal, to function. Despite all advice to the contrary, I’m sure he was determined to walk.

As time passed and Adam began his hours of physical therapy, I was able to spend more time away from the hospital. The few hours I spent at home became a refuge, a haven away from the stink of antiseptic and human waste. A quiet place where I could weep or scream as loud as I wanted, where I didn’t have to keep on the brave face. I broke down at home, or spent hours looking through our photo albums, or simply made myself a meal that didn’t taste of the hospital. I guarded those precious few hours jealously, as the key to my maintaining sanity.

We had insurance and we qualified for grants, but we were two years away from the settlement from the company whose faulty ski bindings had caused Adam’s accident. We had enough to pay for a few hours of care a day while I was at work or school, but the bulk of his care fell to me. In the hospital I’d been his voice when he didn’t have the strength to speak. The blanket to shield him from the cold. I was his nurse, his maid, his advocate, his door and his window. Now, I was the wall against which he could throw his fury and frustration and the hands he used to smash it.

I thought I was ready for him to come home. It was all we’d spoken of from the time he could talk again. Of how it would be when he could be home again. Of how it would work, what we’d do, how it would be so much better when he could be in his own environment again. When we could again maintain the happy bubble of exclusivity we’d enjoyed for so many years. When we could have our privacy back.

The doctors assured us that though our lives were forever changed, they didn’t have to be ruined. Adam had an excellent outlook. There was no reason why he couldn’t, when he’d healed, work. Make love. Be a person again instead of a patient.

I cried when I moved myself out of the bedroom I’d refinished and loved so much. I wept when the work crew began reconstructing the bathroom, when I had to sleep alone in our bed staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.

I didn’t weep when Adam came home. I was Superwife. He needed everything done for him. It was a job, a duty—a role—and I did it without complaint.

We’d never experienced what Katie called “baby blur,” the state of mind caused by lack of sleep from being woken every night. Adam was not an infant, but he needed as much, if not more, care. He had to be rolled every two hours to prevent bedsores. Our budget didn’t allow for the special bed that inflated or deflated, or for overnight care. It was up to me to set the alarm and take care of him. Night after night, until I no longer knew quite whether I was awake or dreaming, I woke and stumbled to his side to make sure he was taken care of. Every muscle ached, but I dared not complain because at least I could feel the pain. Adam couldn’t feel anything.

Adam needed constant attention. He could do nothing for himself; not until after the settlement were we able to afford the mouth and voice operated equipment that gave him the independence he had now. No sooner did I sit to eat, to read, to go to the bathroom, when he paged me via the monitor.

For two years, we’d struggled together, the extent of his injuries making anything else but struggle impossible. But we’d done it, worked hard, and he’d made such progress it was difficult to believe he wouldn’t really get up and walk again, someday. When the settlement came from the ski boot company and we could hire Mrs. Lapp and Dennis to take some of the burden off me, when I could return to work and when we could afford the adaptive equipment that allowed Adam to explore his independence again, I thought our lives would improve even more. Yet that was when he started to change. Surrounded by machines and gadgets that could let him read and watch television, operate a wheelchair and answer the phone, Adam began to withdraw. The more he could do, the more apparent it became there was so much he couldn’t do. That was when the anger began.

Four years later, I’d gained more empathy for my patients than I ever could have before. I understood the need for oblivion so great it drove people to drink and drugs. I understood affairs. How the simple need for touch could obliterate rationale, how the desire for passion could override everything else.

I didn’t want to know this.

“Sonofafuckingbitch,” Adam said when I brought in the tray of Mrs. Lapps’s good vegetable soup. “I’m hungry, Sadie. I don’t want that.”

I didn’t let him rile me. “That’s what I made. If you’re still hungry after you’re done I’ll make you something else.”

“I don’t want goddamn soup!”

“Then you should have told me what you did want when I asked.” I kept my voice even, calm.

“You know I don’t like soup,” he gritted out.

I paused in laying out the napkin and spoon. “Since when?”

“Jesus, Sadie.” Adam’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Since fucking forever.”

He wasn’t being truthful. He was trying to bait me into argument. I steadfastly refused to look at him as I stirred the soup to cool it and settled into the chair, ready to feed him.

“I don’t want it.”

“Adam,” I said. “You have to eat something, and this is what I made.”

“Fuck you, Sadie. Shove the fucking soup up your goddamned ass!”

My hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “That’s uncalled for.”

His eyes gleamed. “Why? Because I’m not allowed to be pissy, is that it?”

“Of course not!” I put the spoon down. My shaking hand made it clatter on the tray before I let go of it.

“Because I should be the happy crip, right? Look at how brave? I’m not disabled, I’m differently abled, right?”

His words were as sharp as glass, dripping poison. His mouth twisted with their bitterness. High color rose in pallid cheeks as his head jerked in the only range of motion he had.

I had to fist my hands in my lap to keep them still. My stomach churned and my throat got tight.

“Say something, Sadie!”

I shook my head, mouth clamped shut, doing my best to refuse to rise to his challenge.

Adam sneered. “What, you can’t shout back at me? You’re going to let me talk to you like that? Just sit there and take it, because why? Because you don’t want to upset the crip?”

“Stop it, Adam!” I got up and made to take the tray away.

“Fuck you, Sadie! It’s true, isn’t it? Fuck you and fuck your soup and fuck that nurse!”

I lifted the bowl before I knew it. It shattered against the wall and left a stain. The spoon landed on the carpet and bounced, reflecting a stray bar of sunlight.

“Fuck you!” I shouted so loud it hurt my throat. “You can fucking starve for all I care, you bastard!”

“Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Let me starve to death? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about any of this anymore, right? No more taking care of me—”

“You shut up!” I screamed it into his face, kissing distance. “Shut your goddamn mouth, Adam, and quit being such an asshole!”

His eyes, those blue eyes, blazed. “Quit being such a fucking cunt and tell me the truth!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice was cold as I bent to begin cleaning up the soup. Giving him my back was about the worst insult I could give, since he was powerless to do anything to make me face him.

Adam launched into a tirade of insults so inventive and vile I would have admired his creativity if that venom hadn’t been directed at me. He hit me in every place he knew would hurt, pushed every button I had, played upon every insecurity I had ever shared and many he only guessed at. He dissolved me into weeping, on my hands and knees at the base of his chair, and even though I knew he did it out of hatred for his situation, it felt too much like he did it because he hated me.

“Admit it,” Adam said finally, his voice cracked from screaming. “You wish I’d died.”

I got to my feet. Again, I got in his face, giving him the aggression he was giving me. He couldn’t shrink away. I think he wouldn’t have, even if he could.

“Yes,” I told him. “Sometimes I wish you had.”

We stared at each other for what felt like a very long time.

“So do I,” Adam said.

I didn’t know what to do with him when he cried, except to hold him as best as I could. To stroke his hair, to shush, to kiss his mouth that tasted now of tears. I could hold him, but he couldn’t hold me back. There was no one to hold me when I cried, nobody to tell me it was going to be all right. There could be no room for selfishness in this marriage any longer. No room for anything but struggle.