Life Happens Next

by Terry Trueman

  Paul smiles at her and says, “Howdy, Tex.”

  Debi answers “howdy” right back.

  Paul asks, “You rustling cattle out on the ranch?”

  Debi smiles. “You funny, B-B-B-Baul. You should be comedy man.”

  My reaction to her wardrobe is a little less charitable than my brother’s. I’d like to say to Debi, “As a person with Down syndrome already, overweight, stubby, obviously a couple sandwiches short of a picnic, could you possibly make yourself look any more ridiculous?”

  After Debi’s bus arrives to take her to the Learning Skills Program, Paul and Mom talk in the kitchen before he leaves for school.

  Paul says, “I’m thinking a little bit about Stanford, more as a baseball school than for football or hoops.”

  Mom answers, “It’s a great school.”

  Paul starts saying, “I know it’s expensive but—”

  Mom interrupts. “Wherever you decide to go, sweetie, you know your dad and I will do all we can to help. We’re both so proud of you.”

  After another mind-numbing school day, Mom picks me up and parks me by the window. It’s not raining today, and in Seattle at this time of year, that’s a minimiracle. Plus the sun is out and there is no wind to speak of, just a soft breeze. I can see the willow and locust trees in our yard, their little leaves mostly motionless and the sun shining on them. A few clouds, puffy, like cotton balls, sit in the bright blue sky. It’s almost spring. But I have a hard time feeling very happy about it.

  I’m thinking about Mom and Paul’s conversation from this morning. I guess I’m feeling torn. Torn between pride for all my brother’s accomplishments and for all the opportunities they are bringing him, but I feel angry too. I try to bring myself back to that positive place where I can remember a few good things about my life, but I can’t. All I can think of is why? Why couldn’t I have gotten just some of the things he’s got—legs that run, an arm that throws, a girl like Ally? Heck, any girl.

  I can’t seem to shake these thoughts as I hang around waiting for Paul and Cindy to get home from school. But before I know it, it’s that time. Paul is the first one home.

  After letting a bunch of bitterness rise up in me today—today? Let’s be honest, for many days—if there was any hope of seeing Paul and letting my pride and love for him take over, that hope is squashed when Ally walks in with him, her arm woven around my brother’s arm, like some kind of ridiculous flesh pretzel, their hands touching.

  Paul whispers something to her, too soft for me to hear. Ally laughs and pulls her arm away from him and punches his shoulder. He laughs too.

  “Hi, kids,” Mom says.

  Both Ally and Paul say “hi” together, and look at each other and laugh. What’s so funny about saying “hi” at the same time? I’ll tell you what. Nothing.

  Mom gets up and says, “I’m gonna go up to my room and work. If you need anything, just holler.”

  Paul says to Mom, “We’ll keep an eye on Shawn.”

  Mom, already walking toward the upstairs staircase, says, “Thanks, kids, that’d be great.”

  Paul asks Ally, “You hungry?”

  Ally answers, “No, I’m fine. I had three tacos for lunch.”

  Paul teases, “Pretty girl, count calories much?”

  Ally answers, “Pretty boy, who is eating two hours after lunch and an hour before dinner?”

  “Touché,” Paul says, going to the pantry while Ally takes a seat behind the countertop.

  I’m stuck here listening to this lovey-dovey bull-pucky. It’s like they’re an old married couple already, kidding around, so comfortable with each other. My head shifts and I’m facing Ally’s direction. I can’t will myself to turn my head, but once in a while, it moves where I want it to look and sometimes, like now, it moves where I kind of wish it wouldn’t.

  I see Ally, not all of her, just her head and shoulders over the top of the counter, in profile to me, like a cameo—perfect and lovely. My heart jumps and sinks all at once. Her hair, long and light brown, shines in the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window. Her skin is so smooth, it looks like alabaster or pearl. Her expression matches the sound of her voice, happy and relaxed.

  Now I see Paul, who walks toward the counter from the fridge, carrying a jar of mayonnaise, a packet of lunch meat and cheese, some mustard, a tiny jar of creamy horseradish sauce, and a loaf of bread. He balances all of it so easily, without any effort, as he unloads each item onto the counter. He’s soooo Mr. Cool, soooo Mr. Perfect.

  If I could speak, what would I say? “Hey, Ally, I know Paul is a great athlete, but I have perfect auditory memory and remember everything I’ve heard, so I’ll bet I’m way smarter than him.” As it happens, though, Paul gets straight As in school. He’s no slouch himself. Plus he’s in advanced college prep classes while I’m in special education where, despite the hardworking educational staff, I haven’t been able to repeat one single word back to them, or learn how to use the toilet or how to tie my shoes. Maybe comparing my intellectual achievements to my brother’s would not be the best way to go. So maybe I’d say, “Hey, Ally, no one could ever love you as much as me, I guarantee it. I mean think about it, if you loved me half as much as I love you, I’d never take it for granted.” But is this the kind of “love” Ally, or any girl, wants? “Love” from a guy in a wheelchair who everybody in the world thinks is a total imbecile, worshiping her but unable to do anything to prove it?

  I watch them both more closely. I hate to admit it, but they’re so perfect for each other. More perfect, even, than Ally and I ever seemed to be in my best dreams about us. She’s gorgeous. He’s handsome. She’s a bit quiet and serious and shy. He’s confident and strong and bold. She can help Paul control his anger and temper. He can help her learn to have fun and take a few risks. I mean they are like every perfect couple you ever see in movies and on TV shows. The way they balance each other out, they’ll be better people for it. Excuse me, can anyone please direct me to the nearest vomitorium?

  As I’m thinking all this negative crap, I overhear Ally say to Paul, “I can’t wait to meet Debi.”

  Paul laughs and says, “Yeah, she’s a trip all right.”

  Now Ally pauses a few seconds before saying, “I think it will be neat for Shawn to have a friend like Debi.”

  Paul says, “You think?”

  Ally sounds so sincere. “Absolutely, having someone who is more like him, a companion who’s more on his level. I’m so happy for him.”

  What!

  Oh, man!

  Debi and me? Is that Ally’s idea of a great match? Debi is a forty-one-year-old, five-foot-two, eyes-of-blue, 220-pound lady with Down syndrome and the mind of a five-year-old. And I am, by all outward appearances, the drooling fourteen-year-old idiot in the wheelchair wearing a diaper. Sounds to me like a marriage made in developmental disability hell.

  If I could talk, I’d scream, “Damn it Ally, it’s you I want!” If I could grab a butcher knife, I’d slit my throat. If I could get myself to the top of the Space Needle, I’d take a header down to the concrete, seven hundred feet below. But of course I can’t do any of these things. All I can do is sit here and, against all odds, actually feel worse than I did ten minutes ago.

  10

  A couple more miserable days have dragged by. It’s almost 7:30 in the evening. Dinner is over. Cindy and Paul are upstairs in their bedrooms, supposedly “studying” although I hear a lot of music clashing up there, Mozart from Cindy’s room and hip-hop from Paul’s. Mom is still messing around in the kitchen.

  Debi is sitting in the family room staring at me. And I mean staring. I never see her blink even once. It seems like Debi is trying to figure something out. Her focus is amazing. But I’m not sure if it’s intentional or just random staring, whether I am in her thoughts or if she is in some sort of strange blank zone. It makes me wonder, what’s up with her?

  After about half an hour of this weird gawking, Mom comes into the living room and says, “Hi, Debi.”


  Debi’s concentration breaks. She looks at Mom and answers, “Dat’s my name, don’t wear it out,” and laughs.

  Mom laughs too and now reminds Debi that her dog is coming tonight.

  Debi looks at Mom and says, “Yeth, Wusty,” turns, and walks into the foyer and plops herself down on the bench in front of the door.

  Thirty minutes later a car pulls into the driveway.

  Debi yells, “Wusty’s here!” My mother helps her unlock the door.

  “WUSTY!” Debi yells.

  I hear a growl and a ripping sound and now a man’s voice. “Gosh,” he says apologetically, “Sorry about your screen door.”

  Mom quickly answers, “That’s all right, it needed replacing anyway—”

  Her words are cut off as Rusty tears into the house, claws clattering on the hardwood, whining and barking like a maniac. I can barely even make out the thump of Paul’s feet hitting the stairs as he comes to see what all the commotion is about, or his voice calling over the chaos, “This must be Rusty!”

  The man says loudly to Paul, “I wouldn’t pet him until he has a chance to—” He stops in midsentence, and I hear Paul’s voice, “Rusty boy, who that good boy?”

  The man speaks again. “Wow, he seems to like you.”

  I can hear Rusty’s collar jingling and tail thumping on the hardwood. Paul laughs, slapping the dog’s sides and talking to him. “Who that good boy? You that Rusty boy!”

  Mom says, “Hi, Rusty.” And now, again, the sound of the dog’s claws as they clatter, scratch, and claw over the floor in his effort to run.

  Debi cries, “WUSTY, SIT.”

  But I can tell by the noise that he’s sure not sitting.

  The man says, “Calm down, Rusty,” but the dog seems to ignore him, too. The man explains, “He’s a smart dog, but he’s got a bit of nervous aggression and doesn’t take to new environments or new people all that well.” He adds, “I’m surprised he likes this young man so much.”

  Mom says, “My son Paul.”

  The man says, “Jack Yurrik. Nice to meet you both.”

  Paul answers, “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “WUSTY,” Debi cries again, and now the sound of Rusty’s claws grows closer to me.

  I happen to be staring down toward the floor at the foot of my wheelchair when I hear a loud, angry bark. I’ve watched enough Dog Whisperer episodes to know that this bark sounds different than the dog’s excitement of a few moments ago. This barking is angry, scared, and is followed by a low, deep growl, a clear warning sound. Suddenly my wheelchair jerks. The growling sound is right next to me. My body tenses up involuntarily.

  “No! Rusty!” the man yells.

  Mom hurries to my side and tries to shoo Rusty away.

  I hear Paul, close by, laugh and say, “Never seen a wheelchair before huh, buddy?”

  “Be careful,” the man says as I feel my wheelchair jerk again.

  But Paul speaks calmly and firmly to Rusty. “It’s okay, buddy,” he says, almost whispering, “Sit. See? It’s okay. We don’t bite wheelchair wheels around here. Just sit and stay.”

  I’m so rattled that I’m shaking, and I realize Rusty can’t control his fear any more than I can control mine. It’s kind of a downer to realize that I have so much in common with a dog.

  Sarcastically I think, “Welcome to my world, Rusty.”

  11

  The phone rings and Mom picks it up. After saying hello, she says, “Hi, Syd.”

  It’s my dad calling. My dad is the poet Sydney McDaniel, author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning book Shawn, his version of our lives, of my life with him. Shawn tells the story of what he went through after I was born brain injured. The book made him rich and famous.

  I see the tension in Mom’s face as she listens to him, and I hear how uptight she is when she replies, “No, Debi moving in isn’t about the money—”

  Dad must have interrupted, because Mom gets quiet.

  Now Mom says, “No, honestly, we’re doing fine. We’re giving this thing with Debi a trial run to see how it works—”

  She listens a moment and answers, “Yes, of course Paul and Cindy agreed—”

  Another pause. “Well, the dog is a handful, but Paul seems to have his number already.”

  A laugh from Mom. “No, you’re right, Debi’s not exactly a great dog trainer.”

  They talk for another few minutes and finally Mom says, “Okay, see you then.” She hangs up the phone.

  Hearing Mom talking to Dad reminds me that I hardly think about his mercy-killing plan anymore. It’s not that this wasn’t important to me, but now that I don’t have death hanging over me, I have so many other things on my mind.

  I suppose if you are a normal person, a person who takes everything about your normalcy for granted, it would be impossible to understand how a guy like me feels about life in general and my life in particular. The truth is that I’ve been mostly happy. But since that near-death thing with Dad, I’ve also wondered, what does my life mean? Being brain injured the way I am, unable to walk, talk, or communicate in any way with anyone, I wonder, why was I even born?

  People talk all the time about having some purpose, some God-given reason for being alive. On TV shows like I Survived, people who had close encounters of the scariest kind, horrible near-death events, often say, “It just wasn’t my time to die,” or “God has plans for me.”

  So what is God’s big plan for me? Why am I alive if no one can ever know me? There are about seven billion of us on the planet now. We are eating, pooping, arguing, sleeping, waking up, robbing banks, dressing little kids to send them off to school, reading, watching TV, blowing up things, praying, laughing, planning murders, planning families, passing the sugar or pulling the trigger on a shotgun—how do I fit into all of this?

  After what happened with my dad, I have felt this need to make a connection with someone. And that’s part of the reason—other than her pure, utter hotness—that my crush on Ally overwhelmed me. I wanted to find some way to know her and be known by her. My dreams helped me pretend that I was in love with someone and being loved in return. Without that ever happening for real, what does my life mean to anyone? To Mom? Dad? Paul and Cindy? Ally? Heck, I don’t even know what my life means to me now....

  … but all my deep philosophical thoughts are interrupted …

  … by a low growl....

  Okay, God, answer me this one, what does my life mean to Rusty with his huge fangs and wolf’s eyes? And don’t tell me that it means he’d love to eat me for dinner—I’m scared enough of him already!

  12

  Cindy and Ally are hanging out in the family room. Paul and his best friend, Tim Gunther, come through the front door, joking around about something. Paul spins a basketball really fast on the tip of his finger. I’d love to be able to do cool stuff like spinning a ball or juggling. I think jugglers look super cool handling three, four, maybe even five or more flying objects, one hand to the other, and the risky things like flaming torches, knives, and chain saws are even more awesome. I’d also love to learn how to put my fingers in my mouth and whistle loud enough to blow out your eardrums. You see, when you can’t do anything, you have lots of time to think about all the stuff you wish you could do.

  Walking into the kitchen, Tim notices Cindy and Ally first. He seems to blush a little as he says, “Hey.”

  Paul looks away from his spinning basketball, tosses it into the air off the tip of his finger, grabs it, and says, “Hi.”

  Ally smiles and says hi back. Cindy doesn’t say anything.

  Paul asks, “Whatcha doin’?”

  Cindy says, “We were gonna watch a movie.”

  Paul asks, “Oh yeah, which one?”

  The storage area of the cabinet on which our big-screen TV sits houses hundreds of flicks.

  Ally answers, “We’re thinkin’ maybe Rain Man.”

  Paul laughs. “I’m an excellent driver,” he says, imitating and quoting a line from the character R
aymond, the autistic man in the movie who is every bit as addicted to driving his dad’s 1958 Buick Roadmaster as Debi is to saying, “I like McDonnos.”

  Cindy and Ally laugh at Paul’s excellent mimicry of obsessive Raymond. Rain Man is a favorite around here; we have lots of movies about messed-up heroes. Although Rain Man is probably number one on our disability hit parade, there are plenty of others. Most are about brain-damaged types: My Left Foot, I Am Sam, Riding the Bus with My Sister, To Kill a Mockingbird (“Hey, Boo Radley”), Regarding Henry, and even the much maligned Tropic Thunder (“You went full retard, you never wanna go full retard”). I personally believe that Mom wants to educate the world, one DVD viewing at a time, about people like me and now people like Debi too.

  As I watch from my spot across the family room, I see something I’ve never noticed before: Cindy and Tim are an item too. They keep trying not to stare at each other, but they can’t stop themselves. Every time they make eye contact, they both blush and quickly look away, only to come back to gazing into each other’s eyes a few seconds later. Paul and Ally do this whole gazing thing too. But, like I said before, they act like they’ve been together forever. I don’t know for how long Cindy and Tim have felt this way about each other, but it’s clear to me that they want to keep it a secret.

  Ally asks the guys, “You want to watch with us?”

  Paul says, “Nah, we’re gonna shoot some hoops—” He pauses and asks, “Sorry, Timbo, do you wanna watch Rain Man?”

  Tim hesitates a moment before he answers, “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Really?” Paul says. “My mom would shoot you! If you’d rather watch, we can—it’s a great movie.”

  Tim asks, “You sure?”

  “For sure,” Paul says. Now imitating Raymond’s flat, emotionless, weird way of speaking again, he says, “Qantas … Qantas has never crashed.”

  “What?” Tim asks.

  Paul laughs. “You’ll see.”

  Cindy spins my wheelchair so that I can see the TV too. They move to the kitchen and grab some snacks, and Paul slips me a bite of potato chip and pours a sip of Coke into my mouth. Most of this food and drink dribbles down my chin. I’m glad that Rusty is in the backyard—otherwise he might eat my head. What dog could resist the temptation to chow down on a potato-chip, Coke-soaked snack of retard face? Sheesh, for a guy who wanted to juggle chain saws five minutes ago, I sure can turn into a wimp fast.