completely sleeping.
“Tell me something I don’t know,”
I urged.
“Play the game.”
We played this game
all the way through elementary
and into middle school.
Our own version of truth or dare.
Because I knew
everything about her
and she knew
everything about me, the
tiny things we divulged in the dark
were scraped from the sides
of our thoughts. We liked to say
they were the things
that grew our brains
together.
A stolen answer
on a vocab quiz.
An orange penis
discovered in her parents’ dresser drawer.
Songs whose lyrics
we ached to think
might one day
be about us.
The thing we wished we’d said
to some jerk,
instead of the thing
we did say.
The shocking discovery of the belt
that went with the penis.
Lying together in the
dark. The walls
as familiar as our skin,
and the warm air a soft cushion
on which to place the
somethings we didn’t know
so that everything was
known.
Everything.
“Come on, Lid,”
I complained.
“Play.”
Watching her sleep, all
beating heart and breath—free
from being capable, sensible, punctual
Lidia—she became even more beautiful
than she already was.
“Lid,” I tried
hopelessly.
“I love you, Eve,”
she whispered
through a final sleepy yawn.
I sighed.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Just Like It Always Was
THE FOUR WALLS OF MY BEDROOM ARE SOMEPLACE. Although where and when seem beside the point. I linger, nested in my bed between my collages. Listening to cars. Listening to birds. Listening to Lidia.
“So,” she says, leaning back in my desk chair. “You outta bed yet?”
She notices my Roxy bottle still in my hand and reaches for it. I immediately drop my hand to my side.
“What is it?” she asks. “An antibiotic, or a vitamin to help your spine grow?”
I squeeze the plastic protectively.
“My spine isn’t growing,” I say, blinking lazily over at her. “It’s hardening.” I can’t believe I’m speaking to her about the surgery. Finally.
“How do you bend after it hardens?” she asks.
“Well, I guess I don’t. Or at least not my spine anymore. But they had to glue it together to keep it straight.”
“How does the glue dry if it’s inside you?”
“It’s not really glue. It’s the bone from my ribs Dr. Sowah sawed off because they were crushing my heart and lungs. He ground up my rib bones, took out the disks in my spine, and stuck the bony paste in there. Then he attached it all to a couple of long bars with screws as big as my thumb and bolted this whole contraption to a round metal plate attached near my hips.” Talking to her about this feels… amazing. Like taking a long hot shower, something I wouldn’t be allowed to do for almost four more weeks.
The pain stirs.
“That’s gross, Eve,” she says. “Are there pictures?”
“There are X-rays somewhere.” I open my bottle.
Lidia jumps out of the chair to help me sit up.
“No, don’t. It hurts.”
“How long do you have to wear this one?” she asks, gesturing to my spinal brace. “It’s a lot bigger than your last one.”
I shrug like I don’t know. But I do know. Sowah said I needed to wear the hard-plastic shell wrapping me from clavicle to hips for four to six months. I haven’t figured out whether the time is too short or too long, and so I keep the estimate to myself.
I roll onto my side, wincing.
Lidia moves to grab the water glass on my bedside table.
“Don’t bother. I’ve swallowed it already.”
She sighs, shaking her head and looking at me.
My eyes start to water again. I can’t stop them.
“Lidia,” I whisper.
“Your hair is really greasy,” she says, frowning. Ignoring my plea… ignoring the past few horrible weeks.
“I haven’t washed it since before the surgery,” I confess.
“That was like a month ago,” she shrieks in horror.
“Yup,” I say, giving her a sleepy smile.
“What about a shower?”
“Nope.”
She grimaces and then laughs.
I’m happy to have grossed her out, happy to make her laugh. It’s just like it always was.
I settle onto my pillow. I like this part, where I can feel the Roxy in there, battling. I’m panting. And wet with sweat. Though I know soon… very soon… the drug will win.
“How about I get a pot of warm soapy water and wash your hair?”
“It will hurt.” But then I give a little snort through my nose because the Roxy is winning, and I know that it won’t hurt. Nothing will hurt.
“I’ll be careful,” she says. “Afterward I’ll dry it, and maybe braid it so it doesn’t look so messy.”
She scooches her chair closer to my bed, chattering on about my hair. I close my eyes and listen, the sound
of her voice
opening inside me
like a beautiful flower in
one of those time-lapse videos.
She is here. With me.
Lidia.
And me.
Me and Lidia.
Me and Lidia
I am dreaming
of the place
where the forsythia grew
lush and green,
branches curving to
create an
entire world.
Our world.
Lidia and me.
Me and Lidia.
Under the forsythia.
Where we
dragged old rugs,
small tables,
cups,
plates,
and anything else no one
would miss.
Where we breathed
each other’s air
inside our prehistoric cave,
our hobbit hole,
our home.
Pretending to sleep.
Pretending to eat.
Really eating.
Really playing, checkers,
house,
spy.
In this world
we were the dappled shade, the
sunny yellow blooms, the
soft, brown dirt.
Guarded by the
bending branches from the
curious stares, the
fixed gazes, the
superficial smiles, and
so many trivial, rambling words
whipping round and
round, like wind over mountains,
eroding us.
Under the forsythia,
it was me and Lidia and
me and Lidia. Me and Lidia.
Me and Lidia. MeandLidiaMeandLidiaM
eandLi
dia.
Your Decision
LYING ON MY BACK ON THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR, I ATTEMPT to lift my foot from the yoga mat to meet Nancy’s hand for the millionth time. My toes hover a few inches below her fingers and then drop to the mat.
Who knew physical therapists came to your home, ripped you from bed, and forced you to exercise?
I do.
Now.
“Come on, Eve. Give me one more.”
I close my eyes and groan as I lift my fo
ot an inch. It’s as much as I can do. It’s as much as I want to do. Nancy frowns. I know this even though my eyes are closed. In the quiet moment before she speaks, I actually consider the chance that she may have magically disappeared as per my telescope.
“All right,” she says, crushing my fragile hope. The woman’s from Medford, not Minnesota. “Let’s get you up.”
This hour goes on forever.
Rolling to my side, I bring in my knees and arms the way Nancy taught me, like a baby curling up in a crib, and then climb to all fours. She places my walker in front of me, standing behind it for support. I use it to climb to my feet.
Once I’m up, she looks me over. She does not approve.
“Have you been eating?”
“Yes.”
I have not been eating.
“Taking off your brace once a day?”
“Yes.”
I’ve never even considered removing it.
“I know you can’t shower yet, Eve,” she says, glancing at my grease-matted hair, “but spraying in a bit of dry shampoo, changing into clean pajamas, washing your face. Small efforts at self-care. These are important. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?”
The question stings. No. No, I have not. I have not looked at myself in a mirror. And I don’t plan to.
“I mean, gosh, look at your toenails.”
Out of instinct, I look down at my toenails. The word scuzzy comes to mind.
“But I can’t reach them anymore,” I say, which is the truth, though I’d never thought to try.
She nods. And I can see she feels a bit sheepish for pointing it out. “Well, we can talk to your mom about them. Have you been practicing laps with your forearm crutches?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Yes.”
It’s another lie.
“Let’s try it together.” She hands me the crutches and we walk around the dining room table like it’s the track that circles the football field at school. The laps quickly take their toll and I struggle to disguise my ragged breath while hoping she doesn’t notice the sweat running down the sides of my forehead, both indicators of my extreme sedentary existence.
Nancy is quiet while we walk. Like she’s thinking. And that can’t be good for me. I need to get her off my back. Literally.
“Next week we start stairs, right?” I ask, breaking the quiet and giving myself a chance to gulp in some much-needed oxygen. “I suppose we’ll be taking it one step at a time,” I add, attempting to break her concentration.
It works. She cracks a rare smile.
“Just be thankful your apartment is on the first floor, and you’ve only got three steps to the front door,” she says, leading me to the couch.
I have no interest in the front door. Except to see Nancy use it as soon as possible.
After almost an hour of pulling on colorful exercise bands and trotting about the house, my energy level is below empty. The plate, bars, and screws bolting me together may all be made of titanium, a low-density metal, but right now it feels as if Sowah used a few of those U-shaped bike locks to fuse me.
My mother sweeps into the room. She tries to give me a warm pat on my arm, but it comes out more like she’s pressing a button for an elevator. At least she’s holding a glass of water.
It’s Roxy time.
“How’s the patient doing?” she asks.
“Well, Susan,” Nancy says. “The truth is, Eve hasn’t been progressing as fast as I think she should be, and I’m concerned about her personal hygiene.”
I roll my eyes at poor Nancy’s attempt to engage with my mother’s question. My physical therapist still doesn’t realize my mother is never looking for an answer—the question is the beginning and end of her effort.
While Nancy yaks away, my mother stares at her moving lips with raised eyebrows and wide-open eyes. This is how my mother impersonates “listening.” She can’t do the real thing, not that Nancy notices; no one ever does. My eyes lock on the forgotten orange bottle in my mother’s hand.
“So… I think we should increase my visits from two times a week to three times a week.”
My groan of despair is so loud it surprises even me, and I grab my rib cage as if it was the source of my grief. The sawed-off ribs do hurt like hell, so this one isn’t a complete lie.
My mother’s eyes light up. I can tell she sees my suffering as an escape from Nancy.
“Oh, sweetheart, give Nancy another minute and then you can settle into bed and rest for a while,” she says, lobbing the ball into Nancy’s court. Will my therapist allow me to wallow in anguish just to finish her report? I see now that it’s probably the whole reason my mother brought my Roxy out here in the first place—to dangle my pain in front of Nancy so she’d leave—because it’s Thursday, and that means my mother has her weekly dinner with Mary Fay.
“No, no,” Nancy says, tucking her tablet away and bending to collect her tools of torture—the bands from hell and her giant red ball. “It’s time I hit the road.”
My mother opens the orange bottle, and my heart warms.
“Soon you won’t be needing that,” Nancy says, nodding her chin toward my Roxy. “See you Tuesday.”
I choke down the pill as she closes the door.
Soon? How soon? Two months? One?
Not that soon.
I want my bed.
I think about washing my face or changing into clean sweatpants. But not really. Really, it just feels good to be angry at Nancy for making these suggestions, and the anger gives me the energy to clomp across the living room toward my bedroom.
“I’ll be home by ten,” my mother says. “I left the second bottle of Roxanol next to a glass of water on your nightstand. Call if you need anything.” She doesn’t say Call if you need me. Anyway, she knows I won’t call.
“You good, Eve?” she asks.
I stop at the door to my room. I know she isn’t looking for a real answer, but I can’t help myself.
“I don’t know? Nancy seems to believe I’m not progressing. Maybe we should talk about it.”
“Well, your physical therapist can show up two times, three times, or even ten times a week, but your personal effort is the key. And that’s your decision, isn’t it?” Speech over, she leaves.
My decision.
My mother decrees everything my decision. I can remember being four years old and hearing that how many cookies I ate was my decision. My decision was a lot of cookies. At six, quitting dance at Miss Elaine’s was my decision. The amount of screen time I engaged in? My decision. How late I stayed up? My decision. Sleepover on a school night? My decision. Grades, sex, drugs? Really just grades and drugs but, still, all… my decision.
Fuck her for always putting everything on me.
I fling my walker into my desk and it knocks shit everywhere. I roll onto my bed, defeated.
Those cookies were my last good decision.
Something I Already Knew
That night
half asleep,
Lidia told me
something I already knew.
“I want a hand,”
and my decision
was to say
nothing.
But I wasn’t
doing nothing,
I was doing
something.
I was hoping
that in the silent passing seconds
she’d actually fallen asleep.
“Sometimes,” Lidia
said, followed by a
swish of covers—she was
not asleep—
“I feel it.”
She stared up
at the ceiling. The moonlight
shining through the window,
casting a shadow—her eyelashes
dark and feathery
against her bedroom wall.
“You know?”
she whispered.
I didn’t answer.
But I did know.
Having
t
hat second hand.
Having
that straight spine.
Looking
like everyone else.
Being
like everyone else—some days
it all seemed like it should be so
simple.
“I’m going to put it on my Christmas list.”
Funny. A hand on a Christmas list.
We were almost thirteen, and
no longer believed in Santa.
But I didn’t laugh.
I didn’t do anything, and all the things
I wasn’t doing, wasn’t saying
added up, and she
scooched closer,
our noses inches apart.
“They won’t get me one.
They said some online
rubber hand is silly, and
I don’t need it.”
They were her parents.
Her eyes asked,
What do you think?
I think…
Lidia’s parents were being just like
Lidia:
practical.
Although with this hand thing,
Lidia wasn’t being very
practical.
“Eve?”
“Sorry,” I said, closing my eyes,
so I couldn’t see
hers,
accusing me of being
just
like
them.
Parents.
Doctors.
PTs.
Everyone with hands.
Everyone who wasn’t her.
And through the quiet,
I felt it.
She was thinking
about my spine.
My eyes flew open.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Something,” I said.
She tossed her body to face away
from me and pulled
the covers up over her shoulders.
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