by S. C. Megale
What the hell do people keep buying me shit for? Do they write it off on their taxes?
Still, I guess my heart sort of warmed at the way Mags paid it no mind and stared ahead at the crosswalk. Before I could thank-chastise her, she said, “I feel like I know those boys in there.”
“The preppy ones?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I think one of them asked me out one time and wouldn’t stop messaging me, so I blocked him.”
“That’s annoying,” said Elliot. “Damn, this is good!” He grunted and crunched into the waffle part.
Mags gnawed her lip, and I watched her for a beat before another wave of young kids skipped up the steps. When they opened the door, laughter and music poured out.
For some reason, this little ice cream lounge became the hottest place in Fredericksburg overnight. Half the guys I knew made this their first date go-to, and Elliot once recommended it be our hangout for film planning before he remembered it had no handicapped accessible entrance.
In this day and age, it pissed me off that the extra buck wasn’t spent to even hammer a ramp into a sketchy back entrance for me. It wouldn’t bother me so much if it didn’t seem to pop up a middle finger at me with the swarms of kids going in and having a great time. Usually in a situation like this, I’d write a letter and toss in the Americans with Disabilities Act threat as if I totally knew what ADA policies were. Lately I’ve been using it a little generously.
Sorry, Maeve, we only serve Pepsi products.
The fuck do you mean you only serve Pepsi products? Do you want me to get the ADA involved?
I worried I’d just be making bitter noise now. I wanted Mags and Elliot to think I was blasé about it all.
I finally ran my tongue along the ice cream. It was thick and creamy. François chose that moment to sit nicely in front of me and stare.
“Wow,” said Elliot. “I’m getting another.”
“Go for it,” said Mags, still gazing absently ahead.
Elliot pushed himself up and brushed off his black shirt. “Hey, Maeve. You text Cole yet for the reshoot?”
Mags jerked her eyes towards me. I swallowed.
“No,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
“Cool. Be right back.” He jogged up the steps.
“So … that’s exciting,” said Mags when the door closed behind Elliot. I felt heat rush to my cheeks.
“I’m kind of excited,” I admitted. Of course I was. I’d be shooting Cole Stone.
“Yeah,” said Mags. “You deserve to be excited.”
Pause.
“I don’t know. I really feel something with him.”
“Like what?” said Mags.
Like he might be different.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Yeah.”
Despite what it seemed, Mags and I had just exchanged a lot of information. She knew I meant a lot more than I don’t know, and I sure as hell knew she was processing bigger things than Yeah. Her reservation and too-understanding tone were indicators of her caution. Mags always tried to protect me from my own eagerness.
“How was your movie with KC?”
“It was good.” I beamed. “I love KC.”
“What’d you guys talk about?”
“Not much, we mainly watched the movie. But he was really cute for taking me.”
“Hmm…” Mags picked at her shoelace. I let my hand drop so François could lap my melting cone with his tongue, his brown eyes popping wide.
“Do you want to have dinner with me and my dad Thursday?” said Mags, out of the blue. She pawed a hand over François’ fluffy head. “He’s in town from North Carolina.”
Mags’ dad was an awesome veterinarian and used to treat François for free before he divorced and moved to Charlotte. He gave Mags a cat named Zipper before he left. François is weirdly afraid of her, and KC is allergic, so we don’t go over there too often.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’d love to, but I have this stupid appointment.”
“What stupid appointment?”
“My annual physical with the specialist at Hopkins.”
Mom had reminded me of this appointment once a week since she scheduled it three months ago. She’d had to practically threaten the secretaries with lawsuits and bad press releases to squeeze me in. This doctor was the only specialist on the East Coast primarily focusing on my disease, and once a year had to perform mad-professor measurements on me.
“No problem,” said Mags, but she seemed disappointed.
The bell tinkled again, and Elliot came down with a milkshake this time. “They have a literal mechanical bull in there,” he said.
“Ha.” Mags snorted.
“It’s lit.” Elliot bit his straw.
I tried not to look up into the glass door.
“Hey,” said Elliot. “You want me to carry you in there to see?”
A smile twisted my lips. I loved when men offered that. You know. It was one of the perks. Usually I’d be tempted to take it up.
But maybe I’d save that for Cole. Maybe he’d want to take me here.
* * *
“I’m putting the tissue box right next to the bed, Maeve,” said Mom. “Look.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, scratching the dried tomato soup off my shirt from my place at the TV dinner tray in the living room. Dad took my bowl away, half of its contents spilled on my front.
“You’re not looking,” said Mom.
I groaned and pivoted to look through my first-floor bedroom door and watch her place the box of tissues on the shelf next to my bed. “I want you to see it in case Daddy asks where it is.”
Mom is a more vital organ in my body than at least three arteries and a kidney. Nobody can keep me alive like her, and nobody would slaughter a longship full of Vikings to do so like her if she had to. I love her and would hide behind her leg as she mercilessly burned peasant strongholds. It was her strength (and a lot of PTA meetings) that got me off the short bus and onto a regular bus in elementary school, and her strength that made a lot of other dreams come true. But she had this habit of being so super-practical about providing for my needs that she sometimes forgot when they were kind of sensitive.
My disease affects every muscle in my body, and that includes the minuscule ones in my mouth and jaw that slacken even worse when I sleep. Slack, atrophied mouth during sleep means I pretty much need floaties to keep me from drowning in drool. It is one of the many side effects I am less than proud of.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said.
“No problem. And don’t forget—”
“Appointment Thursday, got it.”
“Right.”
I wheeled into my room and gave her a wry smile, prepared to close the door.
“And I bought you fresh sheets,” she said. “With lilies on them.” Mom remembered my favorite flower. My heart softened.
“Goodnight, honey,” said Mom. She kissed me. Then she hurried out with one hand scrolling on her BlackBerry.
I closed the door, and it clicked.
That sound of confirmed privacy usually made me buzz with lust and tugged me towards some websites with a shitload of pop-ups. But I had a much better mission tonight.
I ambled to my desk and pulled out my phone.
Sent Cole a text.
There’s the ambiguous hey. The tentative head poking into the door with no inflection or punctuation whatsoever. The “I want to talk to you but I’m not sure where we’re at so your response will totally determine the mood of our conversation” hey.
Cole didn’t reply right away, so I handled some other business. I replied to Fred, my OMF pen pal. It’d been embarrassingly long since I’d written back, and I knew that made him sad. I opened a new email thread—I think the last thing he’d asked was if I’d had any boy action and if he’d need to pull out his shotgun.
I’ll be honest, I wrote, action is few and far between.
More like nonexistent.
But I’m into this one guy.
I told him a little bit about Cole.
I think I’m going to ask him out soon. So to answer your question, I’d load the shotgun but not cock it yet. How’s the farm doing?
It was short, but I fired it off.
Replying to this OMF made me remember my other elderly friend. I scrolled to my voicemail and pulled up the new one, in bold, from Quinten.
My arm trembled lifting the cell phone up to my ear.
“Maeve … it’s Quinten.” His voice seemed so much frailer and squeakier on the phone. I had to really press the phone hard against my ear to hear him. “That woman came by again today. I asked the front desk about her. They gave me this website.”
He read aloud a website address slowly, and I scrambled to copy it onto an old English Composition I packet on my desk.
“I don’t have a computer, so no idea what it’s about. Thought it might be sound evidence to report, though. Keep me posted. Over and out.”
I huffed a laugh. I loved that Quinten still managed humor.
Just as I was about to type in the website address, my phone vibrated.
Smiley face! Yes! We were good to go.
I shifted and pounded out a text, grinning. The English packet even whisked to the ground past my footplate accidentally.
I wanted to get that elephant out of the way.
Nothing more. Good. I didn’t really want to ask him about the movie’s content or have him bring it up. I gave him enough time to elaborate if he wanted to, though, because I didn’t want it to look like I was running from it. When he didn’t, I changed the subject.
Period. Take that, Cole.
I shook my head and smirked at that emoji.
My fingers drummed on the desk. I took a while to think of a response to that, but he beat me to it.
I drew in a shaky breath.
I sent it separately.
I clamped my jaw. My muscles tightened as I stared at my phone and the blinking text cursor.
I could ask him about the reshoot. Right now. Or I could ask him something else.
Minutes passed. The longer I waited, the more I bet Cole expected the latter.
I started to type. This is a total shot in the dark, but would you want to …
I stared.
And stared.
And stared.
My eyes watered from not blinking.
I erased the whole thing.
Disappointment filtered through me like sour duck sauce. Heat prickled around my fingers, and I pursed my lips. Rapidly, I texted Elliot.
I threw my phone onto the bed before anyone could reply again.
After a few minutes, Dad carried me into bed and turned off the lights. My cell phone flashed a tiny blue light as it charged next to my pillow.
It buzzed.
I figured an all-caps reply of happiness from Elliot.
Instead …
9
I breathed in incense. The heady scent made my head lift. It was a couple days later, November first. A Catholic day of obligation—aka, church on a weekday. All around me the congregation stood at their pews and sang, heads hung over the hymnals in their hands. I let mine flop to the side in my lap and stared ahead as the altar boy held the cross high. The white-and-gold robed priest marched up behind him.
Stained glass and mosaics decorated the walls, and I was parked halfway in the center aisle because the only handicapped space available was in the first row. I felt like too much of a sinner for that.
When the priest neared me, my hand inched for my joystick and instinctively switched it off. I knew what would probably happen.
The priest’s eye caught mine, and he swerved from the parade.
Without warning or permission, he folded me into his vestments and bowed his head over me. The cool, smooth fabric pressed against my face, and suddenly the sound of the hymn muffled away so that all I heard were his robes and breathing.
I closed my eyes and let him hold me. It lasted longer than I remember.
When he pulled away and murmured a blessing, I realized from the corner of my eye that I was being watched.
I turned my head.
Mom and Dad stood in the pew beside me. Mom held a hymnal and Dad had his wrists crossed in front of him—he never sang. They looked over and down at me. They were too used to this for their eyes to be watering, but for some reason, today, pause was in them. Dad’s eyes were a little deeper.
I leaned forward and stuffed my hymnal back into the pew.
Later, Dad revved the van engine and Mom flipped down the car mirror to pick something from her eye. Midday sun poured through the windows and made me squint as we pulled out of the church parking lot.
I used to wonder if priests gave me extra attention just for my parents. Like this weird belated thank-you card for not having an abortion and taking care of me. I’m older now and think maybe it really is for me. Maybe they’re looking for a way to apologize.
I guess I let them try.
“If we don’t hit traffic,” said Mom, consulting her GPS, “we should get to Hopkins a half hour early.”
“Perfect,” said Dad.
“Are you serious?” Mom’s voice was granite. “We should be there at least an hour early.” She had wanted to skip Mass.
“We’ll be fine.” Dad turned onto the exit for the highway.
I poked in my earbuds, and soon no words matched their moving lips. I smiled as music began, and I gazed out the window.
Mags texted me a low-angle, orangey selfie of her and her dad. She was beaming and resting her head on his shoulder. His expression was confused and speculating the lens, mouth parted, as if he didn’t think the camera would work. My lips pursed and I shook with the movement of the van as we picked up speed on the highway.
Soon vehicles were charging by as we headed north to Baltimore.
Mom tapped her window, and I paused my music.
“Look at that enormous plane. Think it’s going into National? Look, Maeve.”
I tried to duck low enough to see into the sky, but because of the position of my wheelchair, couldn’t. “Can’t,” I said.
Dad glanced at Mom and then straight at the road before him. I studied him to see if he would follow Mom’s gaze.
“That’s got to be a double-decker.” Mom shook her head.
Dad still didn’t look.
He didn’t because I couldn’t.
* * *
I pushed the colorful wooden beads down the metal wire in the waiting room. Grimy toys littered the fire engine–themed carpet in the corner. I was way too old for this junk, but I couldn’t think of one good reason not to fiddle. Well, besides Mom squirting gallons of hand sanitizer on me every ten minutes.
Dad was asleep on the waiting room chair with its back against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Baltimore concrete jungle. Mom read a magazine called Hope dedicated to families of my disease. I could spot the page she was on from here. It was the beginning of the ten-page spread featured in every issue with pictures of smiling kids: kids in Halloween costumes, kids on field trips to petting zoos, kids who all died from the disease. Well, the severe side effects of it. Respiratory or malnutrition complications.
I returned to the bead maze and twirled four of the beads through wire loops. They clacked to the bottom satisfyingly.
“Johns Hopkins Neurology,” the secretary at the desk kept repeating when she answered and transferred calls. A man in his sixties paced the waiting room, pushing the wheelchair of what I assumed was his adult son whose head lolled. White plastic braces clamped the son’s legs and only childish striped socks covered his feet.
I glanced down at my Converse.
“Maeve.” The office door had clicked open and a nurse waited there. Mom stood and Dad jerked awake. “Dr. Clayton will see you now.”
I watched to make sure my wheel didn’t graze the nurse’s foot as I squeezed through the door and down the hall. The tile screeched
below my chair as I rounded the bend. Magazine covers framed on the wall boasted the “Top 100 Doctors,” and over one door read GINGER T. DUKE MEMORIAL LAB. Mom and Dad followed behind.
We reached a room I was familiar with; I stopped and looked through the doorway. The smell of rubber and antiseptic wafted from it. A Yale diploma hung in Old English font. A muscle-skeleton model guarded the corner, and cabinets lined the wall. Tissue paper lay over a tan bed.
All around were newspaper clippings tacked to the drywall of children with musular dystrophy doing various things. Graduating college, going to camp. One was a front-page spread filled with balloons, chronicling a $300,000 fundraiser.
I was trying to understand what this all made me feel. I can’t promise I was feeling anything. I just didn’t let it in.
The sound of a wheeled office chair rumbled and Dr. Clayton’s dress shoes squeaked as he rolled himself into view.
With a salt-and-pepper circle beard and hair, he was in his fifties, sturdy and athletic. His brown eyes twinkled as they set on me and crinkled up when he smiled. He clicked his pen and tucked it into his white coat pocket.
“Dr. Clayton,” I said.
“Maeve. Welcome to my house of madness.”
“Have you harvested the abnormal brain?” I moved in. “I’m ready for the procedure.”
Dr. Clayton groaned and stood. “The staple gun will have to do.”
I inclined my chin and hummed disapprovingly.
Mom and Dad filed in. Their smiles at our immediate banter were lukewarm. Dad sighed a little shakily and leaned on the wall.
“Mom, Dad,” said Dr. Clayton. He extended his hand, and they shook it firmly. He sobered and slid on a pair of glasses that looked a lot like Dad’s. Clicking his tongue, he consulted a clipboard and licked his finger to turn the page over. “Maeve is due for—”
“Pretty much all my shit,” I said.
Dr. Clayton’s eyebrows rose and he gave me a mischievous smirk like, Are you allowed to say that in front of them?
