by S. C. Megale
I parked next to a steel kiosk where sugar-glazed almonds emitted a dizzying aroma. The man tending it wore brown gloves and a paperboy hat. When he exhaled, his breath was just slightly visible. I was at the corner of Williams Sonoma, where KC told me to meet him. No matter how dumb I might look just waiting here, I forced myself not to check my phone. Cole had gone totally AWOL after last night’s sexting. I needed to stop checking for him and let him just … take his space, or do whatever he needed to do to reboot us.
And anyway, this would be great. Nerves filled my stomach a little; I hadn’t ice skated in, like—
“Hey.”
I jumped. KC was there. Quiet, gentle as always. Only a half a foot taller than me. He wore a plaid scarf, and his face was pink from the cold. His Mjolnir amulet still dangled far enough down to be seen. I eyed it and decided I kind of like this pagan, primitive-male-power vibe going on with men lately. Cole had that wolf paw print talisman dangling on a masculine silver chain too.
“How’s it going?” said KC. He held a stained, beat-up pair of off-white ice skates. Sniffled.
I think he might have been wearing cologne, but there were way too many delicious food smells from the roasted nuts and restaurants to tell.
“Hey, you.” I punched his arm playfully, and regretted it when it took me a huge inhale to pull my arm back. KC looked down at the pathetically soft punch for a dry beat.
“Sorry … that was embarrassing,” I said. Awkwardly sincere.
He waved me off.
“What are those?” I pointed to the skates, which were clearly from his home. “Doesn’t the rink make you rent them for safety reasons?”
“My buddy is about to let a three-hundred-pound motorized wheelchair on the ice,” said KC. “So nah.”
I laughed. “True. Do you skate?”
“No.” He glanced off at a couple pushing a stroller.
I arched an eyebrow. “Why do you have skates, then? That’s random.”
KC’s eyes stayed on the stroller until he just shook his head. “You wanna hop on?”
I continued to study him with a curved expression. But he tossed his head and led us towards the rink.
As we got closer, I suppressed a groan at the Christmas music playing from the rink speakers—two weeks before Thanksgiving. The scrape and clop of the skaters’ blades on ice ground satisfyingly in my ears. Chill rose from the rink to our faces as we approached the glass doorway.
The employee sitting on a stool there—KC’s friend—had an acne-ridden face and wispy beard. It reminded me in contrast how effortlessly thick and rugged Cole’s was. The employee mock-saluted KC and opened the rink door with one hand for us, not even standing from his stool.
KC tugged on his skates and entered first. I reeled in an excited breath and rolled over the small lip and onto the ice.
Worried glances from moms and dads drew my way as they rotated around, but fuck them. They’re just as dangerous. I deserve fun just as much.
I surged forward.
My wheels skidded and felt like they were spreading apart. The ice was jelly beneath them, and for a moment they spun in place. KC cruised backwards on his skates a few feet and watched me as if to make sure I was okay.
I cracked an enormous grin.
A smile twitched on KC’s lips too. He continued to slide back as I eased forward.
After a few wordless moments grasping the hang of things, KC fell in line at my side. Everyone else gave us a huge berth, and when I watched our reflections floating along the glass sides, it was almost like we were alone.
“Have you ever done this before?” said KC sweetly.
I paused. The truth was, I’d skated in my chair on real ice. Like, pond ice. Ice where you die if you fall through. My grandpa (The Admiral) had stomped on the ice at the bank one winter and said Good ’nuff and I’d rolled on there like a panzer crossing the frozen Rhine. Because I wanted to flirt with death, I even did a loop around the spots Grandpa said were not good ’nuff.
Normally I’d boast this fact. I like the shocked looks of awe and admiration this live-hard reputation of mine evoked. But something about KC’s tone made me think he wanted me to say no. That this was a first, extraordinary experience. Instead, I said, “Not like this,” as breathlessly as I could.
KC smiled wider.
And damn! It was fun! I laughed and swerved. A few times I bumped into the glass sides, wobbling them. My wheels left tracks that I tried to follow, but I zagged and must have looked drunk. After a while, it felt as smooth as driving on the glaze slipping down a pound cake.
KC and I talked about Elliot and Mags, our show-and-tell memories from second grade, and then we talked about how pretty everything was. I was finally grateful for my encumbering coat; my fingertips were swelling from the cold.
When KC and I exhausted all the topics we shared interests in, he sobered and we seemed to slow.
“Do you need any props again for the reshoot?” His voice was a little flat.
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, we need all of it again. The uniform shirts, bucket, the museum docent badge. How did you find all that random shit anyway?” I smiled at him.
KC nodded but didn’t answer the question. “I’ll drop a bag off to Elliot tomorrow.”
“You won’t be there?”
“Nah.”
A beat. I frowned. “Okay.”
The lights were shutting off by the time we left, and the Zamboni was rattling and making its final lap. I bumped over that lip at the exit again and my wheels found rough, solid ground. It was weird, like a sailor experiencing land wobbles.
“See ya, man,” said the employee. KC waved.
I could see my soccer-mom van already parked at the curb of the shopping center, fumes chugging out of it while it shook with the inside heater. That heat would feel nice.
KC walked me towards it while I lusted for its warmth.
“This winter is gonna be, like, The Day After Tomorrow,” I said.
“Wednesday?”
I laughed. “No, the movie.”
“What movie?”
“You haven’t seen the movie?” I mock-gasped.
“No…” He hung his skates by their laces over his neck and held a boot in either hand like a boxer would hold a towel in the locker room.
“Oh my God, where were you during the 2012 apocalypse scare? The Mayan calendar thing? It’s the millennial generation’s Y2K.”
“Our world could use a good cleaning out,” said KC gravely. “Maybe I’ll build you a handicapped-accessible bunker.”
“Well, it never happened, and people got, like, therapists for nothing. Anyway. The movie was good.”
“We should see it sometime,” said KC.
“Yeah,” I said. “I could bring it to your house and watch it.”
“That’s not a good idea,” said KC.
I looked over at him. “Oh?”
“My house is not a good place for people to be.” He stared ahead and didn’t say anything more.
I paused for a second. “That’s kind of a weird way to think of your house.”
He glanced over at me and then rolled his shoulders as if to wriggle some warmth back into his body.
“It’s—remodeling. Noisy.”
My brow stayed low. I hmmed and looked ahead too. I think he knew I didn’t buy it, but I didn’t pursue.
Before I got in the van, I hugged KC. He kept open his eyes and wrapped one arm around me gingerly. It was so different than Cole’s unintentionally but unapologetically engulfing embrace. KC was careful and calculated. He was wiry and thin but familiar, and now I definitely could tell he wore a cologne far too sophisticated to match his personality.
When people hug me, or even when I request hugging them, the only role I can play is the ask. I can ask. They get to decide everything else: to oblige, the duration, and how tight.
Cole’s hug was tighter. But KC’s was longer.
That night, I fell asleep with the BiPAP mask strappe
d over my mouth. I jolted awake to the sound of a ding on my phone, and for a second it felt like my heart slipped on ice again.
I pawed at the phone and squinted at it.
2:00 a.m. The text was from KC. Not Cole.
I closed my eyes without reading it, and the mask buzzed me back to sleep like the thrum of the Zamboni.
When I woke in the middle of the night again to a beeping, I groaned and reached for my phone. Who the hell now?
But there were no messages on the screen. That was when I realized it wasn’t my phone.
It was the BiPAP machine’s alarm, and Mom and Dad came bursting in.
15
Dad tore me out of the bed with the covers still on me and flung me into my chair. The wheelchair was cold and stiff compared to my warm bed; I swayed and blinked. That beeping noise shut off when the BiPAP mask was pulled off me.
What’s wrong? I feel fine.
“Maeve,” said Dad. He lifted my chin and looked into my eyes. I winced and shoved him off. Mom toppled over books and clothes hangers in my closet and emerged with an old albuterol machine I hadn’t seen since elementary school. I used to suck on this vapor-steroid that cleared my lungs through that machine.
“Guys.” My voice was groggy. “I’m fine.”
“Are you breathing?” Mom demanded. She stared at me fiercely, in her slippers.
“I mean, obviously.”
“Don’t talk to Mom that way,” said Dad. But they both seemed to relax at the sight of me lucid and not struggling.
“You guys just ripped me out of bed because the stupid BiPAP broke. I didn’t stop breathing. I’m fine.”
“How do you know?” said Mom. “The purpose of the BiPAP is to keep your lungs functional at night and detect when they aren’t.”
“Let’s take a little albuterol just in case,” said Dad. He waved for Mom to bring forth the machine.
“No.” I threw my arm down on my knee in objection. “No more masks! If my lungs gave up, I’d literally recognize the feeling of suffocation.”
“In sleep?” said Mom. “No, Maeve. It doesn’t work that way, all right?”
Yes, Mom, in sleep. I’m pretty sure I recognize the feeling of an orgasm in sleep when I dream of Cole and a dark room. I’m sure this would be no different.
“I’m calling the insurance company tomorrow for a new one,” said Mom. “Then we’ll see.”
I huffed. I could hear myself having too much of an attitude—Mom and Dad only cared about me—but I just wanted to sleep. I hated this mask already. And I wanted everyone to not treat me like I might die. They might too.
I glanced at the red digital clock at my bed. It was 5:44 a.m. I had to get up at 7:00 to be at Quinten’s by 8:00, and I groaned.
“I’ll just stay up,” I said defiantly. “Just leave me in my room.”
Dad pursed his lips. He didn’t approve of my behavior, I could see, but sometimes I just can’t be gracious and demure. Sometimes I need to be mad. Mom shook her head and thumped the albuterol machine on the shelf and marched out of my room.
There was a pause with just Dad and me in the room.
“Do you want some tea?” said Dad tightly. I shook my head. He left.
I took a deep breath and watched out my window the navy-blue sky glow into dawn. It bloomed light over the bare branches of the trees like a heart surging blood back into dead veins.
With a click of my wheelchair motor, I went to my bedside and retrieved my phone. Turned it on and looked at the 2:00 a.m. text from KC.
My brow pulled together. My thumb hesitated at the keys, and then I replied.
It circled for a moment and then sent. My mouth sagged in a confused frown.
* * *
François and I trotted up to the front door of Riverside Assisted Living. A garden statue of St. Francis stood in the mulch to the right, and some elderly ladies sat on the bench next to it. They didn’t talk to each other, only looked around. In their hands were dried boughs of lavender that reeked. François’ nose wriggled towards them.
Behind us, a field trip bus pulled in, the lavender farm’s name decaled in purple over the side of the doors. Nurses led the residents towards the shuttle for their big day at the farm. I imagined the farm had a greenhouse, or these ladies on the bench still had their boughs from last year.
Inside, the smell of greasy breakfast made François give an enormous shake and wag his tail. Staff crossed the carpeted lobby from the cafeteria with food trays in their arms. I’d never been to the home this early; it seemed to be their busiest time of day.
I signed in and told the receptionist I was supposed to meet Quinten in the Breakfast Investors Club. The woman made a face.
“The BIC? That club is all women.”
I shrugged. “I’ll make sure they don’t fight over him.”
She stood and pointed me to the room down the hall where the club met. I nodded.
All right, time to go over some points. I was fifteen minutes late, on purpose. I told Quinten to be inside the meeting already. There was only one way I could confront Patricia without her running off, and I’d practiced my plan in the morning hours I had to kill thanks to the busted BiPAP. I went over a few of my planned lines and then headed for the BIC.
A cute, flowery sign with real lace trim hung over the door. MEETING IN SESSION—DO NOT DISTURB <3
I disturbed.
With all my strength, I twisted the doorknob with one arm and commanded François to push it open with his nose. He surged forward and wiggled with happiness to oblige. We burst through.
“Sorry I’m late,” I boomed. Everyone jumped and turned to me—a semicircle of about a dozen old women with clipboards and horned glasses, their checkbooks handy next to their beige flats. Smack dab in the middle was my planted agent; Quinten looked over at me and smirked. His grey hair and moustache were combed neat as horse’s hair. The Life Alert button necklace hanging to his chest made me flash to Cole’s wolf print and KC’s Mjolnir, and I had to file that amusing comparison away for later.
But most importantly—Wheelchair Charity Woman herself froze with her hand in midair. Her mouth was open, and she blinked at me. She wore a brown pantsuit and beside her was a presentation board of Caring Hands Camp. Photographs and rainbows and all sorts of shit. An 8×10 image of a bronze statue at the camp entrance of a girl named Ginger was tacked to the board too.
“Traffic was insane,” I continued and moved in, right to the front, next to Patricia. The heavy door fell closed behind me automatically.
“Ex-excuse me?” said Patricia. She leaned down and hissed in her heavy New York accent. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I ignored her and turned to the old ladies. “Morning ladies—gentleman.” Quinten bowed and looked back at up at me. He grinned and his eyes sparkled. I noted how pink his skin was. He looked healthier than before. “My name is Maeve Leeson, and I’m a Caring Hands Camp alumna. Patricia asked me to come this morning to talk about the camp.”
Just as Patricia gasped in a breath to refute me, the ladies cooed a collective “Awww.”
“Precious.”
“What a dear.”
I looked over to Patricia, heart pounding. She glanced at everyone, heat rushing visibly into her skin.
“Right,” said Patricia. “As I was saying, Caring Hands Camp welcomes campers with all sorts of disabilities. Maeve here has an intense social disorder.” Patricia shot me a meaningful glare that said, Get out or else, sweetie.
“Oh yeah,” I said, “intense. But you know what, Caring Hands Camp helped me with that tremendously. Stripper Saturdays really brought me out of my shell.”
Patricia’s eyes popped as the old ladies’ expressions clouded with elderly disapproval. Murmuring spread, and I could hear Quinten’s poorly suppressed cackling over the whispers.
“No, no,” Patricia said. “Maeve is kidding.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m not shy about my sexuality anymore, Patricia. Fabrizio w
as so patient with me. You guys really only hire the best.”
Patricia gasped to rebuke me again, but I placed a dramatic hand to my heart.
“I owe so much to Caring Hands Camp.”
“Now that sounds inappropriate,” one of the old women said, and the others nodded seriously.
“What kind of camp is this again?” One adjusted her glasses and squinted at the presentation board of smiling, giggling disabled children.
“Y-you know what?” said Patricia. “Could you ladies wait here for a few minutes while I talk to my former camper outside? We’ll be right back.”
The muttering continued, but I said, “Great idea,” and waved for Quinten to join us.
As soon as the door closed behind Quinten, Patricia, and me, she spun and pointed a finger in my face.
“Who do you think you are? What kind of person sabotages a camp for the disabled? Where are your parents?”
“Patricia, let me introduce you to former DEA agent Quinten James.” I used his agent name.
“Pleased.” Quinten smiled.
“So?” Patricia placed her hands on her hips. “What is going on?”
“You’ve been exploiting me on your website,” I said, “outside of the ice cream parlor in downtown Fredericksburg. And I know you tried to steal François to flaunt in front of the donors. You’re doing everything you can to manipulate more money into your ‘camp.’” I made air quotes with my fingers.
“Do you have other interests?” Quinten said in a firm, croaky voice.
“Yeah, ’cause he knows people,” I said.
François sneezed agreement.
Patricia laughed. “Oh my Gawd, this is bonkers. No. François was drawn to my food, and I have no other interests but the children!”
Bonkers. Jesus, this woman. “Take my photo down immediately,” I demanded.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” She bristled and removed her Chanel sunglasses from atop her head.
