Bionic

by Suzanne Weyn

  I tell him all about Electric Storm playing Terminal 5. “That’s so cool!” he says. Then a sad expression overtakes him just for a flicker and vanishes.

  “Why were you in the city?” I ask.

  “I had a doctor’s appointment. I’m seeing a specialist.”

  He no longer has his cane. It’s been replaced by two bright blue plastic forearm crutches that he’s leaned against the seat in front of him. His legs seem thinner than I remember; there’s a withered look to the way they bend. For the first time I realize he’s slumped into the corner of his seat. I gaze up at him, my expression full of questions.

  “Becker’s muscular dystrophy,” he explains.

  I’ve heard of muscular dystrophy, though I don’t know what this variety of it is.

  “I got diagnosed when I had medical tests after the car accident,” he says. “They checked to see why my leg wasn’t supporting me even though the bone had healed. Turns out my muscles have been slowly growing weaker because of the disease.”

  So that’s why he’s been breathless and sitting, when he used to stand. Even though I noticed it I’ve been so involved with my own stuff that I didn’t pay much attention. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Do the guys know?” I ask.

  Niles shakes his head. “Don’t tell them, okay? I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me.”

  There are so many questions I don’t know how to ask. Can he recover? Will it get worse? Will it kill him?

  “Need a ride home? I could drive you. My car’s parked at the station,” he offers.

  “You can still drive?”

  “So far,” he says.

  That means eventually he won’t be able to drive, which answers my first two questions. “All right. Thanks.”

  We zoom along, silently watching the scenery pass; first, apartment buildings, then lower buildings. The Hudson River shimmers in gold ribbons under the pink clouds of the setting sun.

  “How do you like that new arm?” he asks after we’ve passed about three stations.

  “I love it. I have even better sensation than before. I can feel everything the same as I do with my left hand.”

  He takes hold of my bionic hand, squeezing lightly, affectionately. Shutting my eyes, I inhale. His warm skin caresses my palm.

  “Is it all right that I’m holding your hand?” Niles asks. His voice is all tender concern.

  My eyes still shut, I nod. It’s so all right.

  “Mira, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been a jerk.”

  “No, me,” I say quietly, looking at him once more. “I’m sorry. You were getting sicker and sicker right in front of me. I wasn’t even paying attention.”

  “I shouldn’t have pushed you away like I did. I guess my pride was … I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me as weak, especially when you’re getting stronger and stronger.”

  “So this is all some macho guy thing?” I ask.

  “In a way, I suppose so,” he replies. “I told myself I’d disappear, cut everybody off.”

  I can relate. When I first came out of the hospital after the accident, that was how I felt.

  “Niles,” I scold mildly. “Didn’t you think your friends would miss you, that I would miss you?”

  The train rumbles on, filled with passengers. Even though there are people all around, to me, we’re in a bubble of our own, just the two of us. “Did you … miss me?” he asks.

  “Don’t you know the answer to that question?”

  “Not really. Did you?” His expression is so vulnerable. I feel as though I’m gazing right into his heart.

  “I missed you more than I can tell you,” I say. As soon as I speak I know my words are true. He’s my true companion, my real friend; the boy whose kisses thrill me; the one who holds my hand so tenderly.

  “Me, too,” Niles says. “I missed you.”

  Lifting his hand, I press my lips to his knuckles. He leans closer and we’re kissing each other. I inhale his woodsy smell.

  Two things happen inside me at once: I’m crazy happy. My Niles is back. We both made mistakes but we’ve gotten past them. Is it fate? Is it luck? Did some force from another dimension arrange for us to be on this train at the same moment and reunite? Whatever the reason, I’m so grateful.

  But in the same instant, I feel completely split from those feelings. I don’t feel the happiness—or the joy or the gratitude. I want to so badly, but this isn’t emotion. It’s intellect. I know I should be happy. But I can’t feel it.

  I don’t like this business of not feeling one bit. It scares me deeply. Terrifies me.

  Niles stops kissing me. He gazes into my eyes with a worried expression. “Are you all right, Mira?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m so happy.” I kiss him lightly. “Really, really happy,” I say.

  How can I say I feel nothing right now? He wouldn’t be able to understand that. No one could. I can’t even understand that.

  Is it possible that what people seem to think about me is coming true? Could I really be turning into a cyborg?

  When Niles drops me off in front of my house, I realize that my head is pounding. I find an over-the-counter pain reliever in the medicine cabinet and wait for it to kick in. It doesn’t. All the lights suddenly seem way too bright. I’ve never had a headache this intense.

  Zack sits in the living room on the couch watching TV. “I’m going to take a nap,” I call to him, knowing Mom has just left for work. At the top of the stairs, I’m seized with horrible nausea and I make it to the bathroom just in time to heave my guts into the toilet bowl. With my head still pounding, I get to my bedroom but don’t turn on the light. Instead, I lay in the dark, feeling miserable until finally I sleep.

  When I awaken, I check my phone to discover it’s three hours later. But my headache is gone. I wash up and then head down to check on Zack. He’s still in the same spot in the living room, still watching TV. “Want some grilled cheese?” I ask.

  “I made myself a grilled cheese already,” he replies.

  I look at him, impressed. “Shouldn’t you be doing homework?”

  “This is homework,” he replies. “It’s for Dr. Gersey.” Dr. Gersey is the therapist Zack sees. She specializes in working with children on the autism spectrum.

  Bending, I pick up the mail that’s been left on the coffee table. A lot of bills for Mom but nothing for me except a postcard from the veterans’ group I visited that day in the hospital. I vaguely remember adding my name and address to a sign-up sheet that was circulating around the room. It’s an invitation to a holiday party somewhere in the city. Everyone in that group seemed so nice. Maybe I’ll go. I stick the card in my back pocket to think about later.

  Taking a closer look at the TV, I realize that the screen Zack is looking at shows a man from the shoulders up. Below him are written various emotions: happy, sad, frightened, worried, and confused. “I have to press the box next to the emotion I think the man is feeling,” Zack explains. “When I get it right, another person comes on.” I know that Zack has difficulty reading the expressions on the faces of those around him. Dr. Gersey likes him to practice with workbooks she gives him. This program is new to me, though.

  Zack decides that the man looks worried. He uses the cursor on the screen to check the worried box. The man smiles and gives a thumbs-up before sliding off the screen to be replaced by the face of a woman. Zack has to decide if she’s angry, suspicious, concentrating, or disgusted.

  I decide she’s angry. Zack selects disgusted. He gets the smile and thumbs-up. “How are you supposed to know the difference between angry and disgusted?” I ask.

  “Can’t you tell?” Zack asks. “I thought normal people could tell.”

  “You’re normal,” I say defensively, “just different.”

  “Like you?” he says.

  “No, not like me,” I say automatically. I’m not on the autism spectrum.
<
br />   “We’re both different now,” Zack insists.

  “Let me try this one,” I say, taking the controller from him. A man slides onto the screen. It seems to me that his expression is blank. I select the box that reads confused because it’s the only one that seems possible. A honking noise indicates I’m wrong. Next I click on fatigued. Wrong again! My next two answers are also incorrect. It turns out he’s supposed to be pleased. “That guy does not look one bit pleased!” I complain.

  The next face that comes on looks frightened to me, but the correct answer is apparently worried. “Ha!” Zack laughs triumphantly. “I’m better at the game than you are.”

  Handing the controller back to him, I get off the couch. “This thing makes no sense,” I grumble.

  Emma’s name comes up on my phone as it buzzes. I pick up the call.

  “Hey, Emma!”

  “My tickets for tomorrow just came in the mail,” she says. “I was so worried they wouldn’t arrive.”

  “I would have gotten them for you.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d gotten my text, and I figured better safe than sorry. But tell me about practice! I saw that video of the fire.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” I tell her. “Nothing really happened, but my agent posted it anyway. But the ride home from the city was weird—what do you know about Becker’s muscular dystrophy?” I tell her everything about meeting Niles.

  “Poor Niles,” she says. “How are you going to deal with this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got Becker’s muscular dystrophy up on my screen now,” she says. I’ve never met anyone faster on the computer than Emma. “He’s going to be in a wheelchair by his twenties.”

  The image of Niles in a wheelchair forms in my head. “It might be different for everyone,” I suggest.

  “Sorry, Mira, but I don’t think so. Becker’s moves slower than regular muscular dystrophy, but it does get worse and worse. It says so right here.”

  “Is it … fatal?” This isn’t easy to ask but I have to know.

  “Let me see.” The line is silent while Emma searches for the answer. “He has time,” she finally tells me. “Forties.”

  Forties is a very young age to die, I know. Right now, though, it seems a long way off.

  “How would you feel about living your life with a guy in a wheelchair? Is that a life you would want?”

  “We’re not getting married, Emma,” I say.

  “Not yet,” she replies, completely serious. I suppose it is a serious question. I don’t want Niles and me to ever break up.

  “We’ll deal with it as it comes, I guess,” I say.

  “This is terrible news,” Emma says. “It’s good that Niles has you.”

  I realize I haven’t eaten, so I say good night to Emma and head downstairs. I’m surprised to see Mom on the stairs, heading up.

  “There weren’t many customers, so I got off a little early,” she explains. “Zack tells me you can’t pass the emotional intelligence test program.”

  “It’s stupid,” I say, hurrying past her.

  “Slow down!”

  “I’m hungry!” I snap.

  Mom changes direction and follows me into the kitchen. “Why do you think that test is stupid?” she asks.

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” I say staring into the refrigerator. “One person might express an emotion one way and another person would express it differently.”

  “True, there’s a range. But most people can tell the differences.”

  “So what are you saying?” I turn to face her. “Do you think I’m autistic now, too?”

  “Of course not! But lately I’ve felt that you’re not yourself. Something’s going on with you and I’m worried.”

  “Stop being so worried all the time, will you? I’m fine.” Even though I’m worried about myself, I don’t want to talk about it. This accident and having to rebuild our lives has caused her enough stress.

  “You’re not yourself, Mira!” Mom insists, standing.

  “I’m aware!” I’m in no mood for this conversation. “I’ve changed a little, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “You’ve changed a lot, lately!” she comes back at me, raising her voice. “The only person who matters to you is you!”

  “That is so not fair!” I say. Grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl, I leave the kitchen and go back up to my room. I’m sick of her constant nagging. So what if I can’t pass a dumb face test? Emotion is overrated, anyway. Emotion only gets in the way of what a person needs to do to get ahead.

  Tonight at the theater we connect with the audience from the start. Our sound is a little thin without Niles. If he doesn’t return we’ll have to replace him. The audience doesn’t seem to care or notice, though. Tom and Matt and I bring the energy like never before.

  My new leg is so strong that I can actually leap in the air while I play. My bionic super hand races up and down the strings of my guitar in a blur of motion. I’ve never played as well before. The clang of my final chords reverberates throughout the theater.

  The audience is on its feet, shouting with the thrill of being lifted by the music. I look out over the audience. They’ve brought the house lights up just enough so that I can see their faces. I pick out Niles. Emma is there with Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz. Mom and Zack sit in the first row. Cell phones are held high, recording everything.

  We wave good-night and turn toward the stage wings.

  “One more song! One more song!” the people chant over and over. “One more song!”

  The thunderous approval from the crowd deafens me. We count to twenty out loud together as we’d planned, hoping for this reaction. We return to the stage to perform our encore, an expanded version of “Urban Creep” that continues for a full five minutes.

  When we finish, the audience goes crazy. They stomp on the floor and whistle, clap, and shout. We actually want to play longer, but it’s against some rule of the theater. As we leave the stage once more, the techs bring the house lights up completely, signaling that we won’t return again.

  In the stage wings, Matt and Tom leap with joy, high-fiving and fist-bumping. “You were awesome tonight, Mira!” Tom says.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You all rocked!” I should be beaming, ecstatic. But it’s more like a dream, something that’s happening around me, not to me.

  “Hey! Show some excitement, Mira! Tonight you became a true-life rock star,” Matt says.

  I’m pleased that we did well. It’s always good to be successful. I know that.

  “Big smile for the camera!” The photographer’s flash blinds me. “Can you look happier, Mira?” he says. “They loved you out there!” I force a smile.

  Niles stands in a corner by the curtain. I left word with the stage manager to let him back, along with Mom, Zack, Emma, and her parents. It’s strange to see him so bent on his crutches. Matt notices him standing there. “Niles!” he shouts, waving him over. I’ve told the guys about his condition so they’re not shocked. They punch him lightly on the back and tell him to return to the band.

  He turns to me and our eyes meet. “That would be a great idea,” I say. Only I hear my own voice as though I’m in a tunnel. My words echo in my head and I’m nauseated to the pit of my stomach.

  Mom and Zack stand side by side, gazing around like lost lambs. I hug them. “You were great!” Zack says. He wears the wide smile I should have.

  “Really terrific, honey,” Mom says close to my ear.

  I thank her, then tell her not to wait for me because I have to help pack up the van.

  “Anything the matter?” Mom asks. “Something’s wrong.”

  “No, nothing,” I tell her. “Tired, maybe.”

  Worry clouds her face but she nods. “All right. Don’t stay out too late. Tell Matt to drive slowly, it’s supposed to rain.”

  Next I see Emma, who is elated at how great the show went. As soon as she hugs me she can tell I’m not into it. “What happened?”
she asks.

  “Nothing. This is all wonderful. It doesn’t seem real, though.”

  “You’re in shock,” she decides. “You’ll snap out of it. Give it some time.” I don’t want to tell her that this has been going on for a while. She’ll only worry.

  I return to the stage where the guys are unplugging equipment. Stagehands who work for the theater are doing the heavy lifting and moving. Niles sits on a stool, coiling a thick wire. He smiles when he sees me approach. “You okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “Just going to change before we leave.”

  “Okay.” I’m heading for the dressing room, where my regular clothes are stashed, when Niles calls out to me. “You were really awesome tonight, Mira. It was amazing to watch you.”

  “Thanks.” In the dressing room I pull on my jeans and realize there’s something in my back pocket. It’s the postcard I got from the veterans’ group. I’d forgotten about it until now. JOIN US AT OUR HOLIDAY PARTY. It’s being held at a place on the lower level of Grand Central Terminal, in one of the restaurants there.

  I throw the card away and continue getting dressed. In the mirror I see I’m still wearing the heavy makeup I needed so I wouldn’t appear washed out by the bright stage spotlights. In this lower lighting, I’m freakishly overdone.

  The reflection of my face is so harsh it frightens me. Then I realize it’s not all makeup. Blood is running out of my nose and I’ve smeared it across my cheek. With my head down, I hurry for the bathroom to get toilet paper to stem the bleeding.

  In the bathroom, I wad toilet paper, holding it to my nose, smearing my makeup even more.

  What have I become? Mira, the hard-hearted cyborg clown?! Smeared blood covers my face and hands. My eyeliner and mascara have turned into a sort of raccoon’s mask around my eyes. How can I go back out there looking like this? I can’t!

  Getting away from the theater becomes my only thought. It’s suddenly as necessary as breathing. I have to get out of here. There’s not enough air in the room. If I don’t get out, I’ll die.