Ghosting

by Edith Pattou

  then reach over and tap his leg.

  Brendan, jeez, he says, sitting up so suddenly he bumps his head on the headboard of his bed. What’re you doing here?

  I look at him closely.

  Whoa dude, I heard you lost an eye.

  I did, Felix says. He points to his right eye. It’s acrylic.

  That’s freaking amazing, I say. Think I could get some acrylic legs?

  He smiles, but like most of my attempts at

  handicap humor it’s followed by an awkward silence.

  So do you still smoke weed? I ask.

  Not so much, he says. Kind of lost the taste for it.

  Yeah, I know. I’m not too into drinking anymore.

  I don’t tell him that drinking alcohol

  pretty much sucks,

  since it means using the

  catheter a hell of a lot more.

  Plus it’s much easier to pop a pill

  than pour a drink when you’re in a wheelchair.

  So why are you here? Felix asks.

  Uh, I begin, I guess I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

  He looks at me, shaking his head,

  but I forge on.

  Yeah, I’m sorry about what happened, to you, to everyone. I was a dick, and if I could take back . . .

  Felix interrupts me.

  Shut up, Brendan, he says. You weren’t the only one. We all messed up, and a bunch of stuff happened, kind of like a chain reaction. Or one of those Rube Goldberg contraptions.

  I have no idea what the fuck

  he’s talking about.

  My face must’ve showed it,

  because Felix laughs.

  Okay, so you remember that old board game that was popular when we were kids, called Mouse Trap? I nod. Well, that night was like Mouse Trap. Yeah, you were a dick, I was too stoned, Chloe was a klutz, and Emma, well, Emma was Emma. And then there was a crazy dude with a shotgun.

  I stare at him, then suddenly smile.

  Nice. Way to sum up, I say.

  Thanks, says Felix. Feel like some guacamole?

  Sure, I say.

  It’s the weirdest thing, he says leading me down the hall. But ever since I woke up I’m always craving guacamole.

  He clears a chair from the kitchen table

  so I can pull my wheelchair up to it.

  I watch while he halves

  a couple of avocadoes.

  And then he starts smashing them into a bowl,

  squeezing lime into them.

  He looks like a real pro, chopping jalapeños

  neatly dicing a large red onion.

  It’s so flipping weird to have only one eye cry, Felix says, wiping onion tears from his left eye.

  He opens a bag of tortilla chips

  and pours them into a bowl.

  My parents are getting divorced, Felix says out of the blue.

  I don’t know what to say.

  That’s a bummer, I finally manage.

  Actually, no, it’s a good thing, he says. My dad is pretty fucked up.

  Been there, I say.

  Yeah, I know, he says.

  He pushes the bowls of guacamole

  and chips toward me.

  I take a big scoop

  and stuff it in my mouth.

  Holy shit, this is great, I say.

  I take another big mouthful

  and smile.

  Best damn guac I’ve had, I say. You should open a restaurant.

  Maybe I will, he says. I’ll call it One Eye Cry.

  Excellent, I say.

  Thursday, January 6

  CHLOE

  “And the Question Is: Why Do I Care?”

  My dad has been calling me

  a lot more regularly, which is

  really nice.

  He even invited me to California

  for spring break

  which seems like a long way away,

  but I’m psyched.

  He also texted me a picture

  of my little half sister,

  who is actually really cute,

  and said she’s excited to meet me.

  He asks a lot about working

  at the hospital. And I tell him stories,

  like the one about an old lady

  named Iris who’s so sweet,

  but usually thinks I’m either

  her daughter or Hillary Clinton.

  I mean, Hillary? She might, at least,

  think I’m Chelsea. Which makes Dad laugh,

  and then I couldn’t believe it,

  but out of the blue he suggests

  that I think about applying to nursing school,

  instead of Illinois State.

  That he thinks I’m smart

  enough to go to nursing school

  pretty much blows my mind.

  Then I tell him about this friend

  of mine who I’m not that close to

  but who I’m worried about,

  worried that he might be

  abusing drugs.

  So my dad asks a few questions

  And gives me some advice.

  Mostly it helps just to talk about it

  with someone.

  But I’m still worried.

  Monday, January 10

  BRENDAN

  I’m in my room, at my desk,

  trying to concentrate on homework.

  All my teachers came up with packets of stuff,

  so I can graduate in June.

  Math I can do, straightforward, uncomplicated.

  But it’ll be a miracle if I pass English.

  What am I saying? It’s not like anyone is

  actually going to fail the crip in the wheelchair.

  There’s a knock at the door

  but before I can say anything,

  Dad walks right in.

  He’s got a piece of paper in his hand.

  Good news, son, he says. Just heard from Sanford Weems, my buddy on the board at Princeton. Says here that as long as you can muster a 3.5, you have a decent chance of getting in.

  I stare at the paper in his hand.

  You did remind old Sanford that I’m not quite as good at lacrosse as I used to be? I say.

  He gives a grunt.

  Mitigating circumstances, he says. Fortunately you test well, like me.

  I take a deep breath, set down my pen,

  and clear my throat.

  I’m not applying to Princeton, Dad, I say.

  Of course you are, he says.

  No, I’m not. I’m applying to schools in Colorado and whichever one takes me, I’m going.

  Dad looks at me,

  his eyes boring into mine.

  Listen son, I didn’t raise you to be a quitter. Keep your eye on the prize and you can accomplish anything you set out to.

  I’m not quitting anything. I just want to go to school in Colorado.

  Because it’s easier, because you can get by on minimum effort, he says, moving closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. Listen up, Brendan. Here’s a quote by an athlete who lost a leg in a roadside bombing in Afghanistan. “You are only limited by the limits you put on yourself.”

  I nod.

  That’s a great quote, Dad. Inspiring. But I’ve made a decision. I’m only applying to schools in Colorado.

  You’re going to Princeton.

  I’m not, I say.

  Then you’re doing it on your own dime.

  Fine. I’ll get student loans.

  We are only about two feet apart

  and I can smell his rage.

  He wants to hit me so bad it’s killing him.

  But he can’t.

  Because of the

  wheelchair.

  Fine. Pay for Colorado yourself. I’m done, he spits out.

  And he stalks out of the room,

  slamming the door behind him.

  Friday, January 14

  MAXIE

  They say it is the coldest winter in

  eighty years. />
  And I believe it.

  Colorado is cold,

  but in Colorado

  you’d get

  12 inches of snow

  and subzero temps

  and the next day

  it’d be

  40 degrees

  and sunny.

  This January in Illinois

  the bone-chilling weather is

  unrelenting.

  Gray frigid day

  followed by

  gray frigid day.

  One day it even plummets to

  25 degrees

  below zero.

  Wind chill

  70 below.

  They close the public schools

  and people are cautioned

  to stay indoors.

  The North Shore Channel,

  a drainage canal

  built at the beginning

  of the century,

  which runs all the way from

  Wilmette Harbor

  to the

  Chicago River

  in the city,

  freezes solid, the first time

  that has happened

  in anyone’s memory.

  In the days that follow,

  when the temperature

  rises by a few degrees,

  but is still double digits

  below freezing,

  a Mr. Artie Phelps

  gets the idea

  to set up ice-skating on the

  North Shore Channel.

  Mr. Phelps is the type of

  fanatical dad

  who fills his backyard every winter

  with a homemade

  skating rink,

  for his kids and all the kids

  in the neighborhood.

  So he takes his mini Zamboni

  down to the North Shore Channel,

  smoothing

  and grooming for a

  good

  long

  way.

  My dad is friends with Artie Phelps

  and has always been crazy about

  ice-skating,

  so on a Friday night

  he convinces Mom and me

  to come check it out.

  One of the haiku that

  Zander gave me

  is about

  winter and

  cold and

  ice,

  so even though I’m not a

  big ice-skating fan,

  I say yes.

  A frozen night

  skating the North Shore Channel

  is about as far as you can get

  from a hot summer night

  of guns and blood and horror.

  And at this point

  in my life,

  that is a

  very

  good

  thing.

  BRENDAN

  One of the less obvious and unexpected drawbacks

  of being paralyzed is how mind-blowingly cold you get.

  Especially when it’s

  freaking 25 degrees below.

  The key, I found out in chat rooms for

  us spinal cord injury folks, is layering.

  At least three layers,

  and I’m talking about indoors.

  I’ve also learned fun stuff like where to keep

  my wallet, the best way to insert a catheter,

  how to avoid pressure sores,

  and if I’ll ever have an erection again. (No.)

  My dad isn’t talking to me much

  since I said no to his alma mater.

  But my mom surprises me

  one afternoon during the cold snap.

  I’m in the kitchen, having a sandwich,

  when she comes in from bridge.

  Instead of giving me the usual kiss on the forehead

  and gliding on by, she stops.

  She sits at the table with me

  and in a soft voice tells me there is money.

  Funds in a family trust that have been set aside

  for education and she is the executor.

  It is yours if you need it, she says, no matter where you choose to go.

  I am in shock and don’t even have a chance

  to respond before she stands,

  kisses me on the forehead,

  and glides out of the kitchen.

  On Friday night I’m working on the application

  for University of Colorado.

  Suddenly Bobby appears in my doorway,

  dangling a pair of ice skates in his hand.

  Did you hear about the North Shore Channel? he says.

  I shake my head.

  It’s frozen solid and some guy took a Zamboni out on it. Let’s go!

  Sorry, bro, I say, not meeting his eyes, but I’ve got these applications . . .

  You promised, he says. Besides, he adds with a big grin, I’m pretty sure it’s National Take Your Little Brother Ice-Skating Day.

  And even though the last thing I want to do

  is make a fool of myself,

  Okay, I say.

  MAXIE

  I’m amazed by

  how many

  people there are

  gathered at the

  frozen channel.

  Word must’ve spread

  and the whole thing

  has turned into this

  impromptu

  winter festival.

  Someone has set up benches

  and there are

  torches

  as well as a bunch of

  bonfires

  lining the sides

  of the canal.

  There is even a

  little stand selling

  doughnuts

  and watery

  hot chocolate

  with mini marshmallows.

  The Bahai Temple,

  which during the day

  looks like a garish

  alien spacecraft

  that has landed

  in the middle of the Chicago suburbs,

  tonight looms over the channel—

  a magnificent

  and exotic

  fairy-tale palace,

  all lit up,

  white

  and

  gleaming.

  We three skate for a while

  and then Mom and I

  take a breather.

  We are standing by a bonfire

  crackling in a large metal garbage bin.

  I take photos

  of skaters,

  with the temple

  in the background.

  I see Chloe Carney,

  pink-cheeked and radiant,

  glide by with

  a few of her friends.

  Dad skates over,

  bringing us hot chocolate

  and I’m blowing

  on mine,

  to cool it down

  a little,

  when Brendan Donnelly

  whizzes by.

  He is being pushed

  in his wheelchair

  by a younger guy

  who looks like

  his little brother.

  It is too dark to read

  Brendan’s face in

  the flickering light of

  bonfires

  and

  moonlight,

  but his head is thrown back and

  he looks different.

  Happy.

  I hand Mom my hot chocolate