Traffick (32 page)

presence, the room feels empty. He's given me

all kinds of advice, and actual interaction with

someone who's worked through the initial stages

of mobility grief and come out swinging has been

a blessing. As for the staff, they've been great.

The caregivers are kind. Well, except for the PTs,

who give the requisite amount of physical therapist

crap. They're drill sergeants, forcing us to be the best

we can be with our limited skills. I've only been here

a week, with one day off to detour muscle strain,

but I already feel stronger. Mandy is, in fact, hot,

and she's not above flaunting her assets (just a small

tease) to encourage correct behaviors like on-time

arrival for scheduled workouts and giving one

hundred and ten percent every time we meet.

Right now, the work is all about balance, core and

upper-body strength. One day at a time, one skill set

at a time. But this place has the latest, greatest

equipment, and before I leave here, I'll be on

my feet again. Not without help. Not without

braces or crutches or a walker. But I will stand

upright, and once that happens, losing those aids

will be totally up to me. I'll never be what I was,

but come to think of it, that Cody wasn't such

a great guy anyway. What I've lost physically

to injury I've gained in strength of will. At least

on good days, and not every day is one of those.

My brain vacationed in Dreamland.

At first it is a nice place to be. I am

home for Christmas, and Jack is there,

too, and we are drinking eggnog in front

of the fireplace. Christmas stockings,

embroidered with our names, hang from

the mantel, which is a little strange,

because our fireplace is gas and doesn't

have a mantel, but you know how dreams

go. Now Mom turns on her personal

iTunes Christmas playlist, which is

traditional carols jazzed up by a trio

of greats—Frank Sinatra, Elvis, and

John Lennon, backed by Mötley Cruë—

and yeah, absolutely that's weird, but

dreams often are. From weird to

completely whacked, for no real

reason Cory starts shouting at Jack,

Why the fuck didn't you tell me

you're dead? Dead people drink

eggnog. You're totally messed up.

That makes Jack laugh like a crazy

man.
Well duh. Dead is shorthand

for messed up. You'll know all about

that soon enough. You're halfway

to hell already. In fact, I'll take you

back there with me right now.

Jack reaches out with a rotting

zombie hand and shuffles forward

in slo-mo, singing “So This Is

Christmas” in decent harmony

with John Lennon. Cory screams

and the next thing we know, he throws

his ankle monitor bracelet at Jack

and goes running out the door.

“Come back, Cory!” I yell, and

I'm on my feet, running after him,

trying to catch him before the cops

do. The little shit is fast, but I'm

faster. I always have been. Cory

could never beat me in a footrace

and I'm starting to catch up, when
BAM
 . . .

My legs worked fine in my dream,

but when I woke up and tried to jump

out of bed, they didn't remember how.

And it hasn't improved since. Fall

out of bed before breakfast, your appetite

vanishes along with the nightmare.

PT on an empty stomach might work

fine as a weight-loss gimmick, but

halfway through rolling forward and

back over a medicine ball, gravity

trumps form. Abuse your body

long enough, despite lack of feeling,

pain takes center stage. Hard to get,

unless the experience belongs to you.

It belongs to me, and I still don't get it.

So when Mom and Ronnie both show

up midafternoon to visit, I'm not

in the best of moods. At least now

I don't have to be prone and pissed off.

I'd rather be in my chair for Mom's news,

which her scowl tells me isn't good.

Ronnie asks if she should leave, but

Mom says,
No. You're practically

family, aren't you? You might as well

hear this. Cory had a huge meltdown

last night. He found out about the house,

so he went on a tear and started smashing

furniture against the walls, screaming,

“They want our house? How will they

like it now?” He actually threw a chair

at the sliding glass door. Luckily, it

didn't break. It would be hugely expensive

to replace. I called a handyman about

patching the holes and repainting. His

estimate is eight hundred dollars.

If I could, I'd make Cory do it, but . . .

“What the hell is wrong with him?

That kid needs serious help.

He hasn't been drinking, has he?”

Mom shakes her head.
There's no

alcohol in the cupboards, except maybe

in cold medicine or something.

Actually, I never thought about that.

No, I think he's just scared, Cody.

But he won't even talk about it.

I'm frustrated. She needs me at home,

at least as long as we have one,

but I can't even get in and out of

the doors in my chair. “Tell Cory

either he comes here to see me or I'm

coming to him, one way or another.”

I'll do my best to convince him,

but I don't think he'll visit. I'd better

get home before he burns it down.

I watch her go, hunched over as if

she's sixty instead of forty-two.

When I'm positive she's out of earshot,

I tell Ronnie, “Every time I see her

she looks older. I don't know what I

can do to help her. I'm not even sure

which one of us is the most responsible.

Probably me, but maybe not. She has

to deal with Cory the most, and what

he did last night . . . How could he?”

Ronnie looks every bit as confused

as I feel, and almost afraid to say

anything. Finally, she hugs me.
I'm

so, so sorry. Your mom's definitely

been through a lot. But she's strong.

“Staying strong takes a toll, doesn't

it? First Cory. Then Jack. Then me.

And now, the house. It fucking sucks.”

She's quiet for a minute, but now

she asks,
Why didn't you mention

there was a problem with your house?

“Ah, you know. It wasn't like I was

trying to hide it from you or anything.

It just didn't seem like something

you needed to worry about. You've

done enough stressing over me

without tossing that into the mix.”

Cody, I love you. Even if things

were one hundred percent okay,

I'd worry about you, just because.

So, why don't you tell me what's up

with your house? Other than

the newly decorated walls, that is.

I give her the lowdown. “If not

for Cory's intensive supervision

program, we'd probably be on our

way back to Kansas by now. Uncle

Vern said we could stay with him

for a while. Scared the crap out of me.

But if Mom has to sell on a short sale,

she won't have money to invest, and

her income won't qualify her for a loan.

So we'd be renting, and in this city

pretty sure whatever she could afford

wouldn't be in the best neighborhood.”

About that. Mom's done some

scouting, without much success.

And as far as anything accessible,

just, no. “Don't suppose we could

crowdsource enough money for

a house suitable for the disabled,

could we? Yeah, probably a long shot.”

I rotate my chair until I'm facing

Ronnie straight on, knees touching

knees. Today she's wearing bright

green contacts and her eyes remind

me of emeralds. “You are incredible,

know that? Hey, think you could flirt

a little with Cory and maybe convince

him to visit me for Christmas?”

She smiles.
Persuasion is my middle

name. I'll stop by your house on

my way home. But first, let's make out.

Ronnie takes control, and ten

seconds into this very hot kiss,

my day begins to improve.

When she lifts my hands to

the luscious, full rounds of her

breasts, encourages me to explore

the suede skin beneath her sweater,

the bad of this day sizzles away

like water dripped on a hot skillet.

If it wasn't for the float of voices

somewhere beyond the door,

I'd be tempted to see how far

my messed-up body would let me

take her, and just how far it might

follow. I rest my forehead against

the taut muscles of her abdomen.

“I have no clue why you're still

here, after the god-awful shit

I've done, and I'm pretty sure

you'll get sick of me eventually,

but I'm damn sure going to cherish

every single minute together with

you. By the way, you smell amazing.”

She wears her perfume like she wears

her hair—in gentle wisps. The thought

initiates a rush of pleasure, static.

Ronnie lowers her hand and though

I can't feel it, I believe her when

she whispers,
Look what woke up.

Is that what's called muscle memory?

And that is the best gift I can imagine—

the knowledge that I might actually

be able to give Ronnie pleasure, and not

just with my hands and mouth, but

the way an intact man does, and maybe

even come myself. “Thank you, baby.”

Baby,
she purrs.
I like that. But what

are you thanking me for?
Those

gemstone eyes lock onto mine.

“For keeping my hope alive. Seriously,

Ronnie, without you, I would have

given up already. You make me want

to get better. I want to be strong for you.

Will you come see me tomorrow?

It's Christmas, so if you can't, it's okay.”

Baby,
she repeats, redirecting the word.

Would I miss spending Christmas with

you? Anyway, don't you want your present?

We agree that I do, of course I do,

and she kisses me goodbye, flits

from the room, a beautiful hummingbird.

And though our hearts

say this isn't forever,

our brains insist that's

a misrepresentation, as

time

will keep shuffling

forward, wearing us on

its shoulders. Our love

is

young, and perhaps

that's good, because

well-seasoned connection

would sever more

painfully,

scar deeper. We promise

to keep in touch, knowing

our separate journeys

make it unlikely, that the

impatient

erosion of affection

is hurried with distance.

I'm not sure which was harder,

kissing Brielle goodbye, promising

it wasn't the end of us, but knowing

it probably was; or finally, completely

giving up on the hope of Alex and

me together again and happy.

There's a lesson here, and that is

I have to find happiness inside

myself before I try to partner again.

But knowing there's a lesson and

learning it are two different things.

Right now I am torn between the need

to leave and the desire to stay where

I've come to feel safe for the first

time in my life, and where seedling

love took root in my heart, though

I didn't believe it was possible.

It isn't fair. But then, I should

be used to that by now, shouldn't

I? Does life ever get fair, though?

These thoughts tumble around in

my head as Gram steers her new used

minivan onto Interstate 15 South.

We'll be home in less than three

hours, as long as the vehicle

cooperates. “Thank you for coming

to get me. I never thought I'd

make it home for Christmas.”

Christmas Eve, she corrects.

The kids are so excited to see

you. They even made you some

special presents. Can't say what!

I'd forgotten how cheerful

she always is, or at least pretends

to be. “Gram, I'm so sorry for all