by Nancy Werlin
“I have a picture.”
“Do you remember her yourself?”
Sometimes, he thought. Sometimes when I’m about to fall asleep at night. If I don’t try too hard. And that time at the supermarket, when I called, when that woman turned around, if it had really been her I would have known. I would have recognized her. I would have remembered what she looked like.
But there were many Margarets to remember. The laughing one, before she got sick. Then the thin, tired one who held him too tightly and scared him with her talk of death. And then, finally, the one his father still talked to when he thought no one was listening.
That one was not his mother. That one belonged only to his father. He hated that one.
Dr. Jefferies had been silent, watching Harry’s face. He knew she was waiting for him to answer. He knew he couldn’t. He looked away from her. He looked down at his hands, at where they lay on his lap, on top of his useless legs. They’re ugly hands, he thought. Ugly legs.
“Does your father ever talk to you about your mother?” Dr. Jefferies asked.
Harry looked at his watch. There were eons left of the fifty minutes. He looked at his hands again. He didn’t care what she did. He wouldn’t answer.
Dr. Jefferies was tapping the pencil again, silently. “Your father never talks about your mother with you, does he?”
He wouldn’t answer.
“Nod if that’s right, Harry. Just nod.”
After a minute, Harry nodded.
“Do you know why he doesn’t, Harry? Just shake your head yes or no. Do you know why he never talks about her with you?”
Yes, Harry thought. He doesn’t need to talk to me. He talks to her. He stared at Dr. Jefferies. He said nothing.
“Do you ever wish he would? Even once?”
Harry swallowed. He kept his eyes on his hands. They were fists. Finally he nodded.
“Have you ever asked him anything about her, Harry?”
He shook his head. No.
“Why not? Did you think that he didn’t want to talk about her?”
A nod. Yes.
“You didn’t talk about her because your father didn’t want to talk about her?”
Yes.
“Do you know why he didn’t?”
No.
“Do you talk with anyone about your mother?”
No.
“Does your father?”
Harry shrugged. He doubted it. He tried to take a deep breath. To relax his shoulders. His hands hurt from being clenched. He flexed his fingers.
“You don’t know?”
“No,” said Harry aloud. His voice sounded creaky. He cleared his throat. “No,” he said again. That was better. He wasn’t going to cry. He looked up at Dr. Jefferies. She was watching him steadily. He looked down again. He wasn’t going to cry. She had enough in her files about him.
“Did you love your mother, Harry?”
All the air left Harry’s lungs. He felt like Dr. Jefferies had just punched him in the stomach. He stared at her, speechless.
“You loved her, didn’t you?”
He stared. If he kept his eyes wide he wouldn’t cry.
“I know you did. Nod if I’m right. Just nod.”
Harry looked down at his hands, but they were around his arms now, clutching tight. He hugged himself harder. He blinked rapidly.
“Just nod.”
If he could only get out of here. He closed his eyes. Please, he thought. Leave me alone. I thought we were supposed to talk about my legs. Let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about how I’ll never walk again. Hell. Let’s really go for it. Let’s talk about weird sex for cripples. Let’s talk about how I’ll never have a girlfriend, a life. Never get away from home. From him.
“Just nod.”
Harry nodded. He wasn’t even sure what he was agreeing to.
Dr. Jefferies sighed. She leaned forward a little, toward Harry. “And you miss her, Harry?”
He nodded again. That was what she wanted. And he couldn’t explain. How could he explain that it was more complicated than that? She’d think he was a monster. He’d never get rid of her.
Dr. Jefferies sat back. There was silence. Harry concentrated. He hadn’t really let go; there’d been only a few tears. He accepted a tissue from Dr. Jefferies, but he wouldn’t look at her. He breathed.
For minutes he sat there. Finally he tried his voice. “I’d like to leave now,” he said. He didn’t look at Dr. Jefferies.
“We have some more time,” said Dr. Jefferies. Her voice was soft. “I’d like to talk more about your mother and what you remember.”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” snapped Harry. He could feel himself getting angry. He raised his head and glared at Dr. Jefferies. She was looking at him thoughtfully. There was another silence.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Another time, then.” She got up. “Look. I need to run an errand in another part of the hospital. Why don’t you stay here until you feel comfortable about leaving? I haven’t got another appointment here for an hour. Okay?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. It came out in a whisper. He waited for her to leave.
“By the way, Harry,” said Dr. Jefferies suddenly, pausing in the doorway.
He looked up, in her direction but not directly at her.
“I noticed, during this whole session, you did lifts regularly. Even when things got rough. That’s great.”
Harry’s eyes focused on her for an instant. He was suddenly indignant, shocked out of his misery. It wasn’t her business . . . how had she noticed . . . the mirror...
But it was true. His watch had beeped, he’d done the lift, every five minutes throughout the session. He hadn’t thought about it at all. It had been automatic.
ALISON
December
On a Sunday two weeks after Rabbi Roth had first proposed that he tutor Adam privately in Hebrew, Alison found herself with her mother and Adam in the Chevy van, about to be dropped off with Adam at Rabbi Roth’s—and Harry’s—house. “Adam won’t be comfortable there alone, not at first,” her mother had said to Rabbi Roth. “And he’s used to being dropped off places with his sister.”
Alison didn’t mind. She had a Tolkien book with her. More, she had to admit to a certain curiosity. She wanted to see Harry’s house.
At first, her father had been incredulous when his wife explained that Rabbi Roth thought God wanted him to tutor Adam. “The man is insane,” he had said, flatly. “I’m not going to let a religious maniac near my son.”
Mrs. Shandling had disagreed. “Jake, he’s just distressed. He realizes he was wrong, and this is his way of making amends.”
They had argued for over a week. At one point they had even asked Alison’s opinion, but she had evaded them. And finally they had compromised: one or two sessions, just to see how it went. “Roth will give up fast,” Alison’s father had predicted. “He has no idea what it’s like. What if Adam has a tantrum? I’d just like to see him try to cope.” Listening, watching, Alison had thought that her father almost wanted Rabbi Roth to fail with Adam.
Petersboro Road, where the Roths lived, was in a fifties-era development of tiny, look-alike capes built on lots scarcely big enough to hold them. It was a far cry from the street on which the Shandlings lived, with its half-acre lots, new, self-consciously varied houses, three-car garages, and pools. It made Alison uncomfortable. They had so much, thanks to her father’s Sphere. And this neighborhood was only ten minutes by car from theirs.
They pulled up in front of number fifty-three, a gray house with nothing to distinguish it from its fellows except its color. “I’ll be back to get you in an hour,” Mrs. Shandling told Alison.
Alison nodded. “Come on, Adam,” she said. She opened her car door and got out, glancing up the walk toward the front door. Rabbi Roth had opened the door of his house and was standing just outside on the front steps, waiting for them. He waved.
“Adam?” said Alison. He hadn’t moved from the backseat. For a mo
ment she thought he would simply refuse to get out, but then, without looking at Alison, he did, slamming the car door behind him.
Alison could feel her mother’s concern. “Maybe I should come in too,” Mrs. Shandling began. “After all—”
“We’ll be fine,” Alison cut in. She didn’t want her mother with them. And it wasn’t like it used to be, when Adam refused to go anywhere new, even if one of them was with him. She took Adam’s hand. “Come on.”
Adam pulled his hand away. But he came with her, up the walk. On the top step, Alison turned and waved to her mother. Then they went in. After a moment, Alison heard the sound of the car driving away.
Rabbi Roth ushered them into the living room. Alison looked around. Adam stood on one foot and fixed his eyes on the other. Alison hoped he would not take it into his head to begin spinning around and around. Sometimes Adam would do that. He never seemed to get dizzy.
“Well,” Rabbi Roth said. “Alison. Adam. Welcome.” He smiled at them uncertainly.
Alison smiled back. “Hello,” she said.
Adam said nothing. He put down his foot. Then he raised it again and stamped it down hard. And then again.
Uh-oh, thought Alison. Quickly, loudly, she said, “Orange juice.” She looked at Rabbi Roth.
Adam had paused in his stamping.
“Orange juice?” repeated Rabbi Roth.
“One half,” said Alison firmly, just as loudly.
It worked. Adam giggled. “One half,” he shouted. “One half!”
Rabbi Roth looked bewildered. “I think I do have orange juice,” he said, as if it were unusual. “In the kitchen.” He gestured.
“Fine,” said Alison. “Thank you.” She followed Rabbi Roth into the kitchen, Adam trailing her.
Rabbi Roth poured juice into two glasses. Alison took hers. “Adam?” Rabbi Roth said, holding the other glass out to him.
“One half,” said Adam. He giggled. He kept his hands behind his back.
“Half a glass,” said Alison to Rabbi Roth, patiently. “It’s a one-half day for Adam.”
“Oh,” said Rabbi Roth, uncomprehendingly. He looked at Alison and then at the full glass, as if uncertain what to do with the extra orange juice. Finally, he poured half the glass back into the orange juice carton. Then, tentatively, he held it out to Adam.
Adam took it, without looking directly at Rabbi Roth. He examined the juice closely, sniffing at it for an entire minute. Then he drank half of it.
“One half!” he repeated. He held out the one-quarter-filled glass again to Rabbi Roth. Rabbi Roth took it.
“He’ll do that no matter how much you pour in,” explained Alison, sipping at her own juice. “Because today’s a one-half day.”
“Uh-huh,” said Rabbi Roth. He put down the orange juice glass. “Well,” he said.
Alison felt a little sorry for him. Her father was right. Rabbi Roth didn’t really know what he was doing. He probably didn’t even realize what a nasty little scene Alison had just averted.
She wondered if she should tell the rabbi that on a one-half day, Adam might try to do exactly one half of everything he was told to do. Like go halfway into a room. It could be pretty annoying. She opened her mouth, but the rabbi spoke first.
“Make yourself at home anywhere, Alison. Adam and I will be in the study.” He held out his hand, carefully, to Adam, who looked at it but did not take it. “The study is down the hall. Why don’t you just follow me there, Adam?” Rabbi Roth started away, slowly. Adam looked at his sister.
“I’ll be here, Adam,” said Alison. “You can follow the rabbi. He’s going to teach you some Hebrew, remember?” Good word, “follow,” she thought.
“One half,” said Adam.
“You can’t do one half of follow,” said Alison. Adam thought about that. Alison hoped that Rabbi Roth would take her hint; it was all in what you said. She watched Adam turn and go down the hall, slowly, after Rabbi Roth, hopping on one foot after the other. The one-half walk. They went into the room at the end, and Rabbi Roth closed the door partway behind them. After a minute, Alison could hear his voice talking to Adam, but not what he was saying.
She sighed, relaxing a little and looking around. So this was where Harry lived. It really was a small house. Here in the kitchen, for example, there was barely enough room to walk around the table. How would Harry manage in a wheelchair? And what about the front steps? Wouldn’t they need a ramp?
She had better go and read. Alison put her empty juice glass down in the sink, hesitating a second before washing it and Adam’s glass out carefully and placing them in the dish drainer. Then she walked back to the living room and sat down on the couch. Too much furniture in here, too, she thought, for a wheelchair. And the carpet should go. She opened her book.
Alison wasn’t exactly enjoying The Two Towers. Right now Frodo, the Ringbearer, was day by awful day inching closer to the Dark Lord’s tower. He hoped to elude capture and destroy the Ring. But the Ring was evil and it was replacing Frodo’s will bit by bit with its own.
The Ring was stronger than Frodo. And Frodo knew it.
It was too terrifying. Alison dog-eared her page and closed the book. She looked at her watch. There was half an hour before her mother came back. And it sounded like the lesson was going well. She could hear the murmuring from the study. Rabbi Roth’s voice, singing. She recognized the melody of the Sh’ma.
Harry’s father. A rabbi.
What was he doing here with her brother? Shouldn’t he be with Harry?
How was Harry, anyway? Weeks and weeks, and no one had said. At school it was like Harry had never existed.
Alison thought of him every day.
She wondered where his room was. It had to be one of those two closed doors in the hall. Maybe she’d just peek in at the nearest door.
It was Harry’s room. She stepped just inside the threshold, poised on the balls of her feet, one hand behind her on the knob.
It was small, maybe ten by twelve feet, but extremely neat. The furniture was all dark wood. The twin bed was meticulously made with a blue and beige bedspread, the nightstand next to it was bare except for a red windup alarm clock that had stopped and a lamp with a blue shade. The dresser across from the bed had an empty goldfish bowl on it. A white rag rug had been laid beside the bed. The closet was closed. A small three-shelf bookcase was full, but, unlike Alison’s larger one at home, not stuffed.
The rest of the small house wasn’t neat at all. There were piles of things—books, newspapers, and just plain junk—everywhere. But this room was very tidy. Did that mean Harry was neat?
Alison could still hear the voices from the study. Adam’s now, for a second, singing a little. She stepped fully into Harry’s room, closing the door behind her. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She opened the closet and peeked in. Clothes were hung on a double-tier rack to the left. Shelves had been built in on the right. There were games there and toys. She noticed a big, worn, stuffed tiger. You belong on the bed, Alison thought. She closed the closet and went over to the bookcase. Her mother always said you could tell people by their books. Harry had a lot of comic books. Alison didn’t know much about comic books, though Paulina liked the love ones. He had a lot of books about sports. And he had a few novels. A well-worn copy of The Three Musketeers. That was a good book; Alison had read it. And there was J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. It, too, looked read.
Alison touched the book’s spine. She wondered if Harry had read the sequels, the trilogy she was reading right now. Maybe he had also thought that Frodo didn’t have a chance. Maybe that was why he was always so mean. Maybe he thought evil always won.
She wondered if that was right. Paulina would have said that good won when Harry had the accident, but Alison knew that wasn’t true.
She went over to the nightstand and pulled its single drawer open. It was empty except for a picture frame, turned facedown. She reached in and turned it over. It was a woman’s face, a young, pretty woman with dark hair
drawn back from her forehead, and brown eyes with thick, definite eyebrows. Harry’s eyes.
Harry’s mother. Suddenly, Alison felt terrible. She had no business here. She replaced the picture carefully and closed the drawer. She had better leave before she was caught.
She returned to the living room. It was noon now. Soon her mother would come. And she could go home, have lunch, and then go over to Paulina’s.
But it really did sound like the rabbi’s lesson with Adam was going well. And, if so, she’d be back here next week. Back in Harry’s house.
HARRY
February
Only one more session with Dr. Jefferies, Harry thought between dribbles, and that’s it. Thank God. Balancing the basketball in his hands, he sighted carefully and shot. Too low again, damn it. He wheeled himself in pursuit of the ball, which was slowly bouncing, and then rolling, off to the side. He grimaced. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with this stupid little half-size court if Zee hadn’t been such a maniac about one-on-one. Or if there was anything else decent to do in this place.
But Zee had already left, and today was Harry’s own last day in the hospital. His father would come to get him tomorrow morning, and after that, while he’d be returning on an outpatient basis for physical therapy with Eileen, he wouldn’t have to see Dr. Jefferies. Insurance didn’t cover psychotherapy after a certain number of sessions, and when his father had asked him if he wanted to continue anyway (“It’ll be difficult to afford it, but if you think it would be helpful, then of course . . .”), Harry had said no. He meant it too. He had just barely managed to keep Dr. Jefferies from getting too deeply into the topic of his mother, and then she had started in on his father, and Harry’s “relationship” with him. Unbelievable, that woman. Really.
Today would end it.
Retrieving the ball, Harry hesitated, grimacing. He still had forty minutes to kill before he had to go see Eileen, and then, after her, Dr. Jefferies. He could go on practicing foul shots—and chasing the ball all over creation after every one—or he could practice dribbling. He’d gotten better at maneuvering the chair with one hand while dribbling with the other. His father had paid for a special chair that was supposed to be okay for sports. Of course it was pretty pointless without Zee there to guard against.
