by B. E. Baker
Geo shakes her head. “You could help during the ceremony, but the flight over and back, even if you escort her, will be brutal. She’ll be stressed and confused, and you know she gets angry when that happens. She can only get one injection the entire weekend. Hauling her out there, well, it was selfish of me.”
“So she’s going to miss your wedding?”
“The nurses have offered to set up the wireless streaming video and make sure she gets her injection just before so she’ll be lucid to watch it.”
“That’s a smart compromise and a sound plan. I think you’re being wise about this.” I lean toward her this time, and put a hand on her shoulder. “But I know it sucks your mom won’t be there in person. I’m sorry. Face punching of the groom aside, you know you’re my sister in every way I can imagine other than blood. I can walk you down the aisle, if you want.”
A tear forms in her eye. “That was my next question.”
I pull her close for a hug, and I realize I don’t feel a single twinge of jealousy, regret, or sorrow. I’m genuinely happy for Geo. She deserves all the good things the world has to offer, and although he’s flawed like the rest of us, Trig loves her and he never gives up.
Which is probably part of the problem with how he treats Brekka. Hopefully he’s figured that out.
Geo pulls back and stands up, spreading her hands down to smooth her pants. “I am sorry I can’t stick around, but I’ve got so much to do.”
“Work?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Fun stuff this time. Last minute wedding plans.”
Only an event planner would consider anything she’s doing a month out ‘last minute.’ “Well if I can help, please don’t tell me.”
Geo giggles. “Yeah, I’ll be sure not to call.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Looks like we’re on the same page.”
“Go slow with her, Rob.”
I swallow at the sudden change of direction from the plan I developed with Paisley. “I will.”
“I’m serious. She’s … delicate.”
“I know she is, but she’s stronger than people give her credit for, too.”
Geo bobs her head. “You’re right, I’m sure. Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.”
I walk Geo out, and then I remember I left Brekka hanging on the text chain. And after her flirty text.
SORRY, GEO CAME BY, I type. Then I wonder whether that will make her feel bad. I delete it. What can I say to excuse my lag?
BRAIN COMPLETELY SHORTED OUT AT THAT IMAGE. FINALLY REBOOTING.
Laughing emoji. I KNOW YOU’RE BUSY. YOU DON’T ALWAYS HAVE TO REPLY RIGHT AWAY. NOT EVERYONE IS STUCK IN A HOSPITAL BED.
HOW’S THE RECOVERY?
IT SUCKS. I KNOW YOU WON’T SAY I TOLD YOU SO, BUT…
I’M SORRY IT ISN’T FUN. I HAVE CERTAINLY BEEN THERE.
IT’S HARDER THAN I EXPECTED, she texts.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND STRONG.
I’M NOT STRONG RIGHT NOW. Sad face.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND STRONG.
YOU ALREADY SAID THAT.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND STRONG.
ROB? I THINK YOUR TEXTS ARE FRITZING OR SOMETHING.
NOPE. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. YOU ARE STRONG. NOT AN ACCIDENT. I’M GOING TO KEEP TELLING YOU UNTIL I KNOW THAT YOU BELIEVE ME.
No response.
YOU HAVEN’T ANSWERED MY CARD INVITATION, EITHER. WILL YOU BE MY DATE TO THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR?
No response.
BREKKA? YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND STRONG. PLEASE BE MY DATE. PLEASE.
I AM GOING TO NEED EVERY BIT OF THE NEXT FEW WEEKS TO PREPARE FOR THE WEDDING. AND I’VE GOT AN INVESTMENT WE ARE FINALIZING AT WORK.
IS THAT A NO? YOU CAN TELL ME. I’M NOT BEAUTIFUL, BUT I’M STRONG ENOUGH. (I’M NOT PROMISING IT’LL BE THAT EASY TO GET RID OF ME, BUT YOU CAN BE DIRECT IN YOUR EFFORTS.)
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL AND STRONG, ROB.
THEN WHY WON’T YOU AGREE TO BE MY DATE?
I’LL BE YOUR DATE IF YOU PROMISE ME SOMETHING.
ANYTHING.
YOU WON’T FLY OUT AND SURPRISE ME. YOU WON’T SEND ME GIFTS AND FOOD.
CAN I TEXT YOU?
Heart eyes emoji. YES.
BUT I CAN’T CALL?
YOU CAN CALL TOO.
I dial her number and she picks up.
“Hello?”
“So your offer is,” I say, “that you’ll be my date at the wedding, for all three days of the trip, but I can’t fly out to surprise you or send you gifts before then?”
She giggles. “Yes.”
“But I can call you.”
“Yes.”
“And I can text you all day long.”
She giggles again.
“Then it’s a deal.”
We talk for three hours. When she finally gets off to pay some attention to Trig, I send her a text message.
ALL DAY LONG. YOU PROMISED.
She texts back an emoji that’s rolling its eyes heavenward. YES, I DID.
This time, I’m the one who sends the heart eyes emoji.
19
Brekka
My T10 break is rare. Typically the rib cage provides some protection to the thoracic area. And if being in a rare location wasn’t enough for me, my break was also incomplete.
Usually incomplete is a word reserved for bad things. You didn’t finish your coursework in a college class? You got an incomplete. You didn’t explain yourself well? Your explanation was incomplete. You never finished your project, or a race, or a piece of art? Your attempt was incomplete.
But a complete break in neurological parlance means the patient has lost all sensory, motor and autonomic function below the level of the break. Up until my recent surgery, I fit neatly into the category of an incomplete break. I had limited sensory and autonomic function below T10. I even had limited motor function on good days. Some days I could stand unassisted for almost a minute.
I haven’t felt my toes on the left side of my body since the stem cell procedure. I haven’t felt my calves. I haven’t felt my thigh. Not one single time. When the nurse poked me with a needle yesterday and the day before, I felt no pain.
“Just poke me really hard and get it over with,” I say. I’m sick of telling my physical therapist ‘no, no, no’ over and over. “I can’t feel anything.”
“We need to check it every day,” Linda says. “You’re lucky you haven’t lost bladder control. Or the ability to sit up easily.”
I don’t feel lucky.
“Maybe I should do a commercial or something,” I say. “For kids, to encourage them to wear their seatbelts. It practically writes itself. ‘Hey kids! Wear your seatbelt! If you don’t, you could end up like me. And I’m one of the lucky ones who doesn’t need diapers. Never mind that I can’t feel my entire leg.’”
Linda is exceptionally well trained, because she doesn’t even scowl at me. “Are you ready for the treatment?”
I nod, and she hooks the electrodes up and down my leg. Before she turns it on, I ask her. “Do you think we’re wasting time?”
Linda won’t meet my eye. Because she does. She doesn’t think I’m getting any more feeling back.
The doc said it could come back for two to three weeks post surgery. I cling to that timeframe. Eight days isn’t three weeks.
I grit my teeth and signal her to turn on the shocks. I can’t feel anything in my leg, but I can feel the electrical current in the rest of my body, pulsing and buzzing like angry bees. The electrodes are working the muscles I can’t in the hope that I won’t lose what little muscle tone I have.
It may be a giant waste of time, but I really hope it’s not.
I didn’t think being able to stand up and shift my legs a little, even if it wasn’t much and wasn’t consistent, was a big deal. Until I couldn’t do it anymore. And the loss was for nothing. The treatment didn’t help at all. My spine is apparently chock full of scar tissue, which will probably preclude any stem cell benefit, at least, without a lot more scar cell sc
rubbing, and that would likely cause more damage.
It’s been eight days and I’m doing physical therapy twice a day, and I haven’t had a glimmer or a spark to console me. Thanks to the loss of sensation, I can’t stand up at all, and my exercises with my right side are harder than they were before. My left side was always the stronger side too, which is the sting in the tail.
At least I manage to wait until Linda’s gone this time before I turn onto my side and cry.
My phone rings and I answer without thinking. I need to hear Rob’s voice. It always pulls me together. I can’t have him thinking I’m depressed, especially when he was so opposed to the surgery in the first place.
“Hello,” I say without a trace of tears or even hiccups.
“Brekka,” my mom says.
My heart sinks. I should have checked the screen before answering. “What’s up, Mom?” I hope she can’t hear the note of disappointment in my tone.
“I’m just calling to tell you that I pulled the trust documents as you asked. I wanted you to review Section seventeen, subsection c. If you don’t ever produce a biological child, and you go through with your plan to transfer half of the trust back to your brother’s children, they would inherit everything. A blood heir takes precedence over an adoptive one if they’re in the chain of succession.”
My heart sinks. “You’re saying if I return Trig’s share to his kids, my future kids could be disinherited? That makes no sense.”
“It is nevertheless true. If you would like to rethink the transfer, I’ll tell the lawyers to put it on hold.”
“Can’t we change that?” I ask.
My mother clucks. “It requires the vote be unanimous.”
“Right, and right now, that’s you as acting Trustee, Dad, and me.”
“That’s correct.”
“So?”
Mom sighs. “Nothing with your father is simple.”
“You think he’d block me giving his son’s kids their money back while preserving my share for mine?”
“I think he might object to changing the rules to give preference to adoptive children.”
“I’m sorry, did you say preference?”
“Well, treating them as though it’s the same as a blood related child.”
My heart freezes. “It is the same. Adopted or not, they’d be my kids. Your grandkids.”
“Depending on the circumstances,” Mom says.
“I don’t even want to know what you mean.”
“Adoptions can take place as adults, or when the children are older. They’re not always what you might think, and it’s a slippery slope to just allow anyone to adopt an heir and have them be treated the exact same.”
So it’s not Dad who will be the difficult one, or at least, not just him. I wish I could throw something just to hear it shatter.
“Did you really just say an ‘heir’?” I ask. “We’re not discussing the throne of England here.”
“They don’t have nearly the kind of liquid capital we do, you’re right.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll look over the trust, okay?”
“You do that and get back to me.”
Once I’m off the phone, I look over the clause and she’s right. I have no idea whether I can have kids, if I ever even meet someone who’s fine with the prospect of having children with me. I won’t be able to easily chase a toddler, or manage a baby if I want to go out and about. I’m a useless lump, and I’m even worse now than I was before. Hearing that if I can’t physically create kids of my own, my children won’t even be eligible to inherit anything from my family hurts. Knowing my mom is fine with that hurts more.
I click attach to the family trust file and send it to lead counsel for Nometry. I mark the email CONFIDENTIAL.
Laney:
I know this is outside of the scope of your employment, but I’d like to retain you personally. Please review this trust and tell me if there’s a way to get around section 17 sub c. I’d like to revert half the trust back to Trig’s kids, but I can’t do that without disowning mine, if I ever adopt any. Trig doesn’t know any of this. Please keep it that way.
B
I stare at my ceiling for a few minutes. Then I tap out a text to Rob. MISS YOU. I delete it without sending.
It’s too pathetic. Besides, what’s my plan here? If the wedding goes well and he likes me, then what? If he wants me to move to Atlanta… the thought of moving horrifies me. I’ve lived in Denver my entire life. My business is here. My parents, at least during the summer and part of ski season, are here. And I love the mountains, the crisp air, and the restaurants.
But Trig dropped everything and moved without batting an eye. He’d be okay with moving Nometry, that’s for sure.
I shake my head. It’s a pointless thing to worry about now.
But since I finished my work for the day, and I don’t have my second round of physical therapy, I have nothing else to focus on. I close my eyes and think about how Rob carried me at the beach, and how he’ll carry me again. He didn’t care who stared or whispered. He paid attention only to me.
I remember the feeling of my legs against his back. A feeling I’ll probably never have again, at least not on the left side. A tear trickles down the side of my face. Linda’s been harping on me to practice my car transfers and wheelchair transfers, now that I have no feeling or control on that part of my body.
I decide to try it. At least it gives me something to do. I push myself up into a sitting position and grab Gladys. Her brakes are on, and I shift my right leg over the side of the bed. Then I use my arms to shift my left leg over, hating that it feels like an alien limb. I used to have no feeling by bedtime most nights, but now it’s all the time and for some reason that’s different.
I breathe in and out of my nose and shift over to my chair. Then I place my right foot on the footrest, and use my hands to position the left. I wheel my way out to my car and open the door. I ought to be trying this with my Mercedes first since it’s lower and easier to transfer into, but I’ve always tackled the biggest problem first. I go for the harder transfer. The tallest car I have is my Range Rover.
I push the door open all the way. I hit the right side brake on and press the button on the car seat so it moves to the back most position. Then I shift my right leg into the car, which I didn’t used to need to do. It should help me to drag my left leg easier, I think. Then I reach up, grab the seat, and haul myself up toward it. Except my left leg catches on the handle and Gladys spins. I should have put both brakes on.
I swear under my breath. It’s too far for me to reach her easily. I shift halfway out of the car, my left side dangling off the seat. I hold on to the armrest with my right hand and swing out toward Gladys, but she rolls even further away. I lunge for her, unwilling to admit I’ll need to crawl across the floor to reach her, and my right hand misses her by a millimeter. I fall to the ground, knocking the air out of my chest.
How can I be struggling to do something I’ve done now for four years? I’m lying on the floor of my garage like a toddler, and something inside my chest breaks. I realize that I don’t even want to see Rob at the wedding.
That’s a lie.
I am desperate to see his gorgeous face, his beautiful body, and his winning smile. I just don’t want him to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me, not anymore. Not like this.
I know Rob will be nice about it, patient even. He’ll help me like he helps Clive, like he helps his family, like he helped Geo. He’ll do what he does with everyone in his life. He’ll nurture and tend to things. I love that he cares for everyone around him. I love that he tapes up torn things and glues together shattered ones. I really do.
I want to be different, though. I don’t want to be a project to him.
And if I see him at the wedding, that’s what I’ll be. He’ll feel obligated to date me, like he’s obligated to go to Clive’s every Friday, even if he wants to go on a date, or take a night off. Because that’s who he is. Steady as a roc
k, kind, caring, and giving.
Before I can talk myself out of it, while I’m still lying on the floor of my garage with tears streaming down my face, I whip out my phone and text Geo.
I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO MAKE IT TO THE WEDDING. PLEASE DO ME A FAVOR AND DON’T LET TRIG OR ROB KNOW UNTIL THE DAY BEFORE. I KNOW THAT’S A BIG ASK, BUT THEY WON’T UNDERSTAND.
Geo doesn’t reply, but the text shows as read.
Will she just ignore me? Will she tell Trig? I want to text her again, but I don’t want her to think I’m being a big emotional baby. I don’t want her to think she can talk me out of it, either. But really, if I can’t even drive to the store to go shopping without having to crawl across my garage floor to get back to my wheelchair, I shouldn’t be going to a wedding.
Even Trig’s.
The thought of missing his wedding tears my heart in half. But Geo mentioned they’d do a live feed for her mom, who’s sick. I’m sure I can piggyback off that feed, and it’ll be like I’m really there. The more I think about it, the more right it feels.
By the time I’ve finished my second round of physical therapy and dealt with a barrage of emails, I feel better about things. If Geo was going to tell Trig, he’d have called already. It’s been hours and hours since I texted her. Maybe she’s just trying to figure out how to respond. Surely she’ll understand my wishes, or even if she doesn’t, honor them at least. That’s always been one of the things I love about Geo. She gets me and my reasoning, and so far, she’s never pushed me past where I can handle. In fact, with her history and her former fiancé, if anyone will understand I have limitations, it’s her.
A ring from my doorbell surprises me.
When I open the door to Geo’s smiling face, I have no idea what to say.
“Good evening, Brekka.” Her eyes widen slightly when they take in the pasta sauce stain on my shirt and the dirty yoga pants I haven’t bothered to change since I went facedown on the garage floor. “How are you feeling?”
