by Susan Haas
I tried telepathic communication: Once my body comes in, we can give the chair away. Or use it as a coat rack. Or Tucker can have it next time he breaks a bone.
When they were done, Gail held up a brochure and told me I could pick any color frame.
Any color?
I squealed and Mom finally smiled.
The wheelchair arrived on a Friday afternoon in October. My entire family swarmed around the delivery van like they were greeting a new pet. The equipment guy unloaded the chair onto the driveway. Everyone oohed and aahed over the sparkly blue paint that looked just like a summer night sky, and my name stitched on the seat in cursive, pink lettering. Dad loaded me up and took my picture, then Tucker ran with me up and down our driveway.
“You’ll be able to see everything in this!” Kali said.
Mom was sitting on the front porch holding her knees. Dad sat down and hugged her.
“I have an idea!” Dad said. “The Renaissance Fair is in town. Why don’t we go tomorrow so Lexi can try out her new chair?”
Mom shrugged.
“I think I saw a coupon for tickets online. C’mon! It’ll be fun!”
“It does sound fun,” Mom said, but her voice didn’t sound like fun at all.
Tucker rolled me to the porch.
It’s just for a little while. Just until my body comes in.
Mom didn’t look up. Maybe telepathic messages only went through when the sender had complete confidence in their message. I tried again.
It’s just until my body comes in. My body is coming! I just need to find a few more gifts.
Mom slumped over, her head in her hands, and I thought she looked like Governor White returning to Roanoke Island to find his colony gone. His family gone.
CHAPTER 16
Age 13, 16 hours until surgery
I’m in the blood draw room in the lab. My arm is out, my head is turned, and I’m trying hard to control my breathing. But the needle isn’t the biggest pain in here.
Across the hall a boy is screaming, “Don’t poke me, don’t poke me!”
I feel for the kid—I really do. He is not the pain. It’s his mom, whose sobs are drowning out her kid and for sure flooding the whole hospital.
“I’m so sorry, baby boy! I don’t want them to do this to you either, sweet baby!”
Okay, Pro Tip: if you need a blood test and your mom is gonna act like this, send her out for ice cream. Or at least close the door.
“All done,” my tech says, pressing a pink Band-Aid on my arm and tugging off her gloves.
It was my electrolyte balance that had been off in the first test, probably because I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything. Now, since I just had lunch, my veins are nice and fat.
The tech shouts—so we can hear over the horror show across the hall—that my electrolytes are now back to normal.
It’s time to bust outta here.
We roll out into the warm Kansas City sun and past the playground. For a hot second, I want Mom to carry me up the slide and let me pretend I’m a little kid again. But I see a man and a dog walking toward us in the distance.
Dad and Gus both give me a kiss, and I wait for Mom to fill him in on the lab visit. When they’re done, I point to his pocket.
“I didn’t read it yet, just like I promised.”
I want to say, “Start!” or “Read!” but I’ve never been good at s or r. Instead I say “Go!” and he gets it.
He pulls out his phone. My arms flail.
“This one’s from Betty in Charlotte.”
My arms go limp.
“She says, ‘I’ll be praying you don’t get an infection. My son had surgery once, and he got a bad one. Took a year to get over it.’”
Seriously, Betty?
“Lexi, you know don’t have to respond to every message, right?” says Mom.
I stick out my tongue. I don’t know what I would say to this one. I’m sorry your kid suffered through that? I’m sorry that you suffer from such lousy timing? I think I’ll just leave it, but now, my brain is stuck on infection.
It’s a big deal, for sure. You can minimize the risk, but it will never be zero. It happens, even in the best hospitals. And if I’m one of the unlucky people who gets one, it means that all the wires, electrodes, and stimulators will have to be removed. Everything from both surgeries. I would be back at square one.
It’s a huge gamble, but we’ve done our homework. Tucker found a way to pull records online to compare infection rates for hospitals and procedures across the country. This place had one of the lowest rates anywhere.
Mom is looking at me with her head kinda tilted to one side. I’m sure she knows I’m obsessing. She pats my legs.
“Guess what? We have the rest of the afternoon off. Where would you like to go?”
I uncurl a finger and point to a limestone column that towers over the skyline—the Liberty Memorial.
“Go.”
We roll toward the street, and I sink down in my wheelchair.
Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.
CHAPTER 17
Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The morning after my new chair arrived, Dad loaded it in the back of the van, and we headed off to the fair. No one had much to say during the ride except the wheelchair, which thumped and squeaked every time we drove over a bump.
Finally, we pulled into a grassy field that was the fairground parking lot. Dad asked a guy in an orange vest if there was accessible parking. The man pointed toward the fair entrance.
We pulled into a spot up front, and Dad hung a new blue-and-white placard in the rearview mirror.
“Dad!” Kasey gasped. “We can’t park here! This is for handicapped people.”
Mom pulled her sunglasses over her eyes and unbuckled my car seat.
“Mom!” Kali said. “We can’t …”
Dad swiveled to face us. His eyes were filled with unfamiliar harshness. “Drop it.”
Why was everyone so bananas over this whole chair deal?
It’s just until my body comes in. Geez, people, chill.
We entered the fair through what looked like the walls of a castle. Kali had been right. I could see loads from my new seat.
I craned my neck, trying to take in everything at once. A row of shops peddled all sorts of “Ye Olde” stuff—Ye Olde candles, Ye Olde jewelry, Ye Olde pizza.
Jugglers and magicians worked the crowd for tips, and a fortune-teller chanted from behind wispy, red curtains.
My eyes finally settled on a large blonde woman who was trying to draw someone—anyone—into conversation. She wore a long, maroon gown that swooshed when she walked. Her top was laced so tightly that—as Kasey pointed out with a snicker—her boobs hovered right under her chin like two fat sidekicks.
Kali laughed. “She’s an actress playing the role of a wench. But not very well.”
“Excuse me. Haveth you the time,” the wench shouted as a couple walked by.
The couple didn’t look up.
She swished side to side, scanning the crowd.
“Look away or you’ll be sorry,” Kali warned me, but it was too late.
The wench sashayed over and posed in front of me with her arms stretched wide. I now had a clear view of her sidekicks. They looked like they were strapped in with a tiny piece of white fabric and some leather lacing.
“Well, hellooo there youngeth one.”
“Told you so,” Kali whispered.
“I knoweth a secret! Can I telleth you? Can you keepeth a secret?”
Without waiting for an answer, the wench bent over my chair.
Then three things happened at once: 1) my brother and sisters ducked, like you do when you see someone about to get hit with a pie; 2) my parents lunged forward and tried to stop the inevitable; 3) my arms flew out, and the fingers of my left hand became tangled in the leather lacing that was holding up the sidekicks.
The entire event was over in seconds, but even now, years later, the replay in my head
is in super slo-mo. I tugged and writhed while the wench struggled to free herself. My parents stood by helplessly, knowing there was no way they could reach in there.
In the end, my hand won, flying free while still clutching the fabric and lacing. The two sidekicks saw their chance and made a run for it.
I don’t know what happened to the wench after that. Mom grabbed my arm, which was waving the fabric and lacing like a victory flag.
Dad wheeled me away, dragging Tucker behind us as he protested, “But I wasn’t done here yet!”
The rest of the afternoon was a regular day at the fair. Kali and Kasey browsed Ye Olde shops while Tucker and Hannah played games. Dad held me on a merry-go-round powered by five hulky guys.
Late afternoon, as we rolled toward the exit, a jester jumped in front of my chair, blocking our path. He was dressed head to toe in green and wore pointy shoes with bells on the toes. He didn’t speak but waved a fat, gold coin in my face. With an exaggerated twist of his arm he fanned out his fingers to show they were now empty. Then he reached behind my ear and pulled out the coin.
I yawned and stared past him toward the parking lot.
The jester turned to my family. “I just blew her little mind!”
Suddenly, I was wide awake, gulping in deep breaths. No. You. Did. Not! I wanted to belt it out, word by word. Instead, I lost it.
I held my breath, kicked my legs, and flailed my arms. In a flash, my family surrounded me.
Hannah leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry Lexi. He’s the one with the little mind.”
A girl walked by, holding a lady’s hand. She twisted around to look at me.
“That girl in the wheelchair—what’s wrong with her?” she asked.
“Well, Lydia, it looks like she’s upset,” the lady said. “I’m sure she’ll be okay.”
“No! I mean why is she like that? What happened to her?”
I stopped holding my breath. My arms and legs flopped.
“Why is she like that? What happened to her?” What does that mean?
We hurried out of the fair, and Mom lifted me into my car seat. She wiped my sweaty, dirt-streaked face and kissed my forehead.
I pretended to sleep all the way home, but my mind was racing.
“Why is she like that? What happened to her?” Where is my body? Where are my gifts?
CHAPTER 18
Age 5, The Year of the Buttered Cat
The week following the Renaissance Fair dragged by. Even school felt hard. I struggled with questions, new and old. What happened to me? Why am I like this? When will I find my gifts so I can get my body?
One thing was for sure. If Lou was out there looking for my missing things, he needed to step it up.
On Thursday morning, Mom drove me to the farm for horseback riding. She loaded me in my chair and wheeled me to the barn. At the dismount area, six empty wheelchairs sat waiting. The teams had been out on the trail, and I could see them trudging back up the hill. The riders slumped in their saddles.
I scanned the empty chairs. These weren’t tiny or sparkly blue like the night sky. They didn’t say Lexi in pink cursive on the back. But other than that, these wheelchairs looked exactly like mine.
I screeched and flailed. Mom inspected me, like she might see a bee fly from my shirt and a welt appear. When she couldn’t find an obvious explanation, she rolled me to a quiet area away from the barn.
“What’s up with you, Lexi? You’ve been off all week.”
I wouldn’t look at her.
“Don’t you want to ride today?”
Ggguuhhh.
“But you love riding. I don’t get it.”
Harry came over and tried to make me laugh, but I wouldn’t look at him either.
“Maybe she’s coming down with something,” he said. “Take her home and let her rest. We’ll ride next week.”
On the drive home, I thought about my wheelchair and those wheelchairs.
It’s not the same. My body is coming in. Soon. Please let it be soon!
I leaned hard in my car seat and scanned the sky. Please hurry, Lou, please.
To this day, I can’t remember what happened over the next month. Crazy, right? Me, the girl who remembers everything. I know by the calendar that we had Halloween, and I guess I went trick-or-treating, although I don’t know what costume I wore. I don’t know if anyone called about The Cat, or what we studied in French. On any given day, I couldn’t even tell you what day it was. Tuesday? Friday? Whatever.
My attention had taken a detour as the new questions took over. What happened to me? Why am I like this?
I was tempted to ask Mom during my spelling sessions, but I could never get up the nerve. What would I say? What if she told me, and it was really, truly horrible? Could I handle that? After all, once I knew, I could never unknow it.
One morning, I was sitting on my beanbag, half watching Mom work with Tucker. She had a gauze bandage on her wrist, and Tucker seemed more interested in how she burned herself than in his spelling list.
A faint cry came from the back porch. Luke sat up and barked.
Tucker ran to the back door, and a gray streak flew inside.
The Cat figure-eighted Luke’s legs, purring loudly. Luke lay down and licked his cat with the passion of a kid who had been handed a ginormous ice cream. The Cat was thinner and covered head to toe in a greasy film, but other than that he seemed healthy.
It only took a minute for the smell to fill the room.
Hannah pinched her nose. “What’s he gotten into?”
Tucker pulled his shirt up over his nose. “It smells like … like buttered cat.”
I’ve heard that our sense of smell is closely linked to memory. If we smell something distinctive and familiar it can transport us to another time. I guess that’s what happened because, suddenly, I was watching Luke push away butter wrappers and vegetable peelings to reveal a tiny, gray kitten. The air had the fresh warmth of early spring. Mom was wearing old pink running shoes. Tucker was laughing and jumping up and down.
I could see it all. Every. Single. Detail. Like it was happening at that very moment. It was no longer a fake memory. This was the real one.
“What crazy, perverted person woulda buttered The Cat?” Tucker asked.
“He probably just got into someone’s trash because he was hungry,” said Mom. “Luke doesn’t seem to mind.”
That was an understatement. The two lovebirds spent a cozy afternoon curled in the den. Luke cleaned every inch of The Cat’s little buttered body for the second time.
The smell lingered in the house and in my memory. As the afternoon wore on, I developed a plan. Before, I thought my complete set of memories began when I was two, but the buttered cat memory suggested they were all there. I just had to figure out how to get to them—at least some of them—and then I could connect the dots of my past. Maybe, just maybe, knowing my past would solve the mystery of my missing body.
If memory really is your gift, then use it. Obviously.
But knowing my memories were there and finding them were two very different things. Familiar odors might bring them on, but that wasn’t practical or reliable. Instead, I waited until nighttime, when I’d lie in bed with my mind completely free. I closed my eyes and thought back as far as I could, then tried to push further. I worked off bits and pieces, emotions, smells, and sound bites. Slowly, over several weeks, I saw slivers of my past, but nothing connected them. I revisited them over and over anyway, hoping they would eventually fit together like shards from a shattered mirror.
The first memory was of me sitting in Mom’s lap as she worked at her computer in the middle of the night. The soft, blue glow of the screen created an island of light around us. The house was dead quiet except for the clickety-clack of her keyboard. She would type, stare at the screen, then stop and rock me back and forth. Type, stare, rock.
I soon realized this wasn’t a memory from a single night or even a single house. Some of them were from our
house in Virginia, where I was born, and some were of our house in Chapel Hill, where we lived when I was a baby.
I’ve been told that I didn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time until I was two years old, so I guessed that these were memories of Mom working through the night, trying to keep me quiet so I didn’t wake everyone. In some of these memories, I was on Mom’s lap and in others I was on her shoulder or in a baby sling. But always there was the clickety-clack, clickety-clack, stare, rock, rock. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, stare, rock, rock.
Next was a daytime memory. Mom was holding me in a front pack, face out so I could see. Tucker was clinging to her leg. We were standing in our driveway in Virginia. A man in a grease-stained jumpsuit was loading our car onto the back of a flatbed truck. Mom was trying hard to smile, but I could see she was crying a little. Our neighbor leaned on the wood fence and asked if we were okay. Mom waved and told him we were fine.
After that, Mom was carrying me in the front pack through our empty house. All the furniture was gone, all the mess and the chaos were gone, and it was just emptiness. Emptiness that echoed with every footstep. Had we been robbed? Was this the theft?
Mom slammed the door behind us hard, and it rang out with her frustration. She ran with me fast down the hill and into the field where our swing set stood, also empty.
Then Mom did something weird for someone who had just been robbed. She sat down with me on a swing and pumped her arms and legs. We swung higher and higher until I could see past our garden and field, over the trees, and to the mountains in the distance.
The last memory was again a series, probably four or five. In each, I was naked on a table in a doctor’s office, only it was never the same table or the same doctor. But they all did the same things. They moved a finger or a pen back and forth in front of my eyes and shone a light in them. They held me in their arms and tickled my spine and feet. They asked Mom questions.
Lots of questions. Until I fell asleep.
