“Save your talk for your other guy. I can’t feel anything. It doesn’t work.”
“Have you tried?”
“How am I supposed to try? Ask my mom? Or a nurse?” She’s making me mad. “You want to rub my dick so we can see what’s up?”
Victoria doesn’t insult easily. “I wasn’t suggesting that. But have you tried thinking sexy thoughts? Imagining someone beautiful?”
“Nothing happens.”
“Are you sure?” she asks.
She’s pissing me off. “Look,” I say in as controlled a voice as possible, “I am done with sex. I can’t do anything. I can’t feel anything. No one is going to drop out of the sky to fuck me.” I wish my mom would come back and tell her to leave.
Victoria says, “I’m going to stretch your ankles in the chair. Then we’ll get you into bed to stretch your legs and arms.” She drops out of sight. I think she’s done lecturing, but no. No. I’m trapped in the chair—Sex for Crips 101. “Frank, a lot of guys with quadriplegia start out thinking they have to punish themselves. But they’re wrong. You can have a sex life. There are things we can discuss with your doctor—erectile drugs—one may work. My other guy gets his girl to inject vasoactive drugs into his—”
“Inject?”
“Yeah. Inject. Or if you’re squirrelly about needles, your partner can try using a vibrator. Or you can go for the vacuum-induced erection. The pump literally inflates your—”
“Okay. I get it.” Freeberg would love this girl. “But you keep forgetting one thing. I can’t feel anything.”
“Frank, sexuality is not just about feeling your dick. Yes, you can’t feel it. That’s a drag. You’re probably not going to be able to have much of an orgasm either. And you’re going to have issues keeping it up. But love and affection can be expressed in lots of ways. You might find that your earlobes become very sensitive. Or your scalp.” She waits for me to demonstrate shock or enthusiasm.
But all I am is mad and frustrated. “Who’s going to date me?” Really. Who? Between the chair and the smell and the obvious mobility issues, I’m gross. “I need help doing everything. No one is going to want to talk to me, let alone get naked and put a vacuum around my dick and pump.”
“You don’t think so now. But once you’re used to things, we can go out on the town. Meet people. Next time you’re on your computer, I’ll show you some SCI chat sites. You’ll learn a lot.” She stands up so I can see her wink.
She doesn’t get it.
“I’m not going to be your little science project. In case you’ve forgotten, this is my life. And it’s a non-issue. I don’t want to talk about it. No one is going to go out with me. I killed two people.”
She follows me to my room, and transfers me onto the bed. I smell like bad meat.
“You know, I read a lot about you in the paper. A few times, I posted on one of those sites.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re Anonymous.”
“No, but I agree with her or him. The paper was pretty harsh, the way they treated you. I mean, they can’t exactly take care of you in jail, can they? I mean, even though you are guilty.”
“Can we change the topic?”
“Really, who’s going to shift your weight? And they’re not exactly going to give you the right bed. Seriously. They can’t provide enough.”
“Can we—”
“And your poor girlfriend … Do you miss her? Do you think about her? Did you love her?”
“No, I didn’t love her.” Victoria’s face drops. Wrong answer, clearly, because she says nothing else. “We had just started dating.”
Victoria nods, but when she begins to stretch my deadwood, she still looks disappointed. I want to shout, “Why is it so important that I loved her? Does it make my story better? Will someone go out with me? Will I get the erection, the great new life, or at least the mercy fuck? If I loved her, do you like me more?”
If I loved her, will everyone leave me alone?
I didn’t love her. But I did like her a lot, a whole lot. Her liking me felt like a reward for being the nice, smart, rule-abiding person that I had always been. Finally—the nice kid won. Justice. She was like an unbelievably pleasant dream.
She should have been a fun chapter in my book of life. We could have kept in touch, hooked up on school breaks. You hear about people like that.
If I hadn’t gone to the party, maybe we’d still be okay.
Victoria finishes stretching my legs. She puts me back in my chair in time for the nurse to deal with my excrement and body fluids.
I wish I had loved Meredith.
Mom is on the phone with the hospital. She has detected the beginnings of a bedsore on my upper right thigh, outer not inner, doctor, and she wants someone to look at me. No, she can’t wait until Sunset comes tomorrow. Yes, she stretched me. Yes, she did not keep me in the chair all day. Yes, she is worried. No, it is more than pink. It is red. “Red!” she yells. “Red! His ass is red, goddamnit!” Send a doctor, her baby is dying. She should only be so lucky.
* * *
My inbox is empty. The George Washington science club’s site is outdated. They haven’t posted anything new for two weeks. Quadking, however, is current. Harry was right, it gets a lot of hits.
Check out this link to an interview with one of Frank Marder’s occupational therapists. Learn what he regrets, what he misses most, what he says about Meredith Stein.
This is such bullshit. I never talked about Meredith to anyone.
Mark92: WTF???? Y is FM still free? FYI, my mom’s cousin is a judge in Az. He said that NFW would he let someone like FM pass go.
Joann888: PMFJI, but who cares what he misses most! He’s a jerk and a killer, and it MAKES ME SICK that he is living at home, in his nice house, in his nice neighborhood, and she is DEAD!
Anonymous: Do you really think Frank Marder has gotten off free? He is paralyzed from the neck down. If that isn’t jail, I don’t know what is. Why are people so concerned about him? His life is ruined. Leave him alone.
Anonymous may be the last person in cyberspace who understands me. From the next room, my mother continues to freak out about my skin. “I don’t know how long he’s been in the chair. Yes. He spent an hour in the bed. Is that enough? What are you saying?”
The front door slams shut. Dad is home. He comes straight here. Smart man. “Hey, Frank, how’s it going?” He loosens his tie. “Tell your mom—”
“Tell me what?” She’s got the best radar on the planet. The phone is probably still hot in her hand. Dad takes the full drink from the other. The ice tinkles.
“Big meeting tonight, Rosemary.” Never a good sign.
She barricades the door. “Hal, you’ve got to take a look at him. Now.”
My mother is still clutching the phone in her hand. He downs his drink in one gulp and slams the empty glass onto the dresser. More tinkling.
“Okay, let’s take a look.” The phone rings. Before Mom can answer, he grabs that, too. He stuffs it under his arm and reaches over my head to heave me forward out of the chair, just the way Cecilia used to. He’s got his knees bracing my legs, his shoes are untied. Ring, ring. He holds me there, looking, smelling. My ass, my back. Ring, ring. He snorts. Stagnant skin stinks. He smells like cologne and alcohol. He’s never done a skin check before. When the ringing stops, he puts me back in the chair.
It always takes a moment for my head to feel right.
“What do you think?” My mother taps her foot while he makes a call.
“Yes … yes … this is Hal Marder. Uh-huh. He’s fine,” he says. “A little pink. I think I’ll put him back in the bed early. Is that okay?” He sounds credible. He does not stutter. No ums or pauses. He speaks in simple terms, and unlike my mother, he listens. “I’ll ask Sunset to take a look at the chair tomorrow. She can make sure everything’s in place.” He puts the phone down hard on the table. Next to the glass.
Two days home and already she is calling the hospital, worrying about the chair, checki
ng for skin problems. He untucks his shirt, takes off his tie and drapes it over the dresser. Two days home and he is out of here. “You look fine, Frank. Rosemary, you can’t panic like this.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I gotta go. Can’t be late.”
“What if you’re wrong?” she asks, scooping up the tie, rolling it between her fingers until it is a tight ball in her hand. “What if he gets a sore?”
“Then he’ll go back to the hospital.” My father’s voice sounds tense; he does not like missing dinner meetings.
“Look again,” she says. “Maybe I didn’t shift him enough. Maybe we should bring him in. You know what they said.” She throws the tie on the floor.
Yeah. They said it would be good for me to go home. That it would boost my morale. They said I would be more comfortable at home.
Bullshit. Sitting in my house all day, waiting for the therapists, looking at my television instead of the hospital set, is not better. They should have said it would be good for them. Because it’s not good for me to be stuck here with my neurotic mother and distracted father.
Dad picks up the tie and stuffs it into my top drawer. “I’ll be back late,” he says, sliding past my chair, waving, walking out, not touching. My mother follows him. Since I can’t see my thigh, inner or outer, at this very moment, I refuse to get sucked up in this hysteria. Quadking stares at me. Since my dad got home, two more people have posted. One thinks I’m faking.
Mom calls, “Frank, let me know when you want some dinner.”
The other post has to do with God and original sin and whether or not I am the devil himself. I recheck my inbox. Still empty. “Shut down.” The computer responds. Maybe there’s something good on TV. Maybe I’ll e-mail Harry tomorrow.
Mom has the remote; she is struggling to set up her new DVR. Today Sunset showed her how to record her soaps, but already, she is confused. When the show is finally rolling, she notices me. “Want to eat in here?” Halsted, the lifelong matriarch of the show, just found out her long-lost daughter is none other than Tiffany Reese, the slut who just bedded Halsted’s son.
Escape reality.
Dad heads for the door. “Don’t wait up,” he says. Slam.
Mom brings dinner to me. “It will be fun to eat while we watch TV.”
Escape. “Can you believe that Tiffany Reese is Halsted’s daughter? This show is so unbelievable.”
Tonight, I don’t complain about the food.
week two
You would think that sleeping would be the one thing a crip like me could still do, but believe it or not, it’s not easy. My room is too dark, too quiet. The shades block out everything, even the streetlights. In the hospital, the room was bright and noisy. Even at night, there were lights and sounds, people walking down the halls, talking and laughing. I knew where I was all the time.
Here, my bed could be a coffin. Underground. It is late. No one is awake but me.
The blackness covers me, squeezes me. Panic. I feel nauseous; I need some light. Lying here in the nothingness, I can’t make out anything, not the ceiling or the side of the bed or the landmarks that prove this is my room. Mom should have left the hall light on. She should ask me before leaving me like this. There should be a sliver of light—one sliver. One goddamn sliver.
Someone should at least come in and check on me.
One, two, three. I count to ten, then fifteen. Maybe if I count to one hundred, my eyes will get used to not seeing, the way my body is used to not feeling. Twenty, twenty-one. My head will not stop spinning. Thirty-five, thirty-six; my mom needs to sleep. The intercom is on. If I yell, she’ll come down. She’ll turn on the lights.
Even the appliances don’t tick.
Victoria comes at nine in the morning, occupational therapy’s at ten. Sleep is imperative. The blanket under my chin is soft. Meredith kisses me on the forehead. “You are too uptight,” she whispers. “Relax. Enjoy the darkness. Hold my hand.”
Early September, we went to the movies. Her head was on my shoulder, her hair tickled my neck, her shoulder touched mine. My thigh did not move. I could not risk my thigh touching hers. We were not yet a couple. I liked her, but I thought she was just being friendly. Harry disagreed. He said Meredith told him I was cute.
“Not hot?” We laughed.
“No. Cute. And funny.”
Did not.
Did too.
Did not.
Girls like her do not like boys like me. Girls like her like guys with muscles, hairy chests, and strong arms. Boys like me do not talk to girls like her.
Girls who like boys like me are smart. They’re in the drama club, they’re the substitutes on the debate team. Girls who like boys like me do not carry condoms. They walk down the halls without being recognized. They do not look anything like Meredith Stein.
Do too.
When the movie ended, she didn’t leave her seat. She stared at the screen. “Every one of those people helped make that movie,” she said, “but nobody cares. Nobody even bothers reading their names.”
“Absolutely. Nobody cares.” I tried to sound indignant. There was no way I wanted to get up yet.
After the last credit, the room became quiet and dark. She grabbed my hand and kissed me on the lips. My tongue found hers, or maybe hers found mine. Her hand reached around my neck and massaged my head, twirled my mess of curls. She said, “Frank Marder, you have beautiful hair.” I felt a knot in my stomach.
“Meredith.” She is gone.
In my room, in the darkness, I try to feel that moment, that knot, the thrill. Maybe the blackness of the room can offer me memory.
My mother turns on the light and walks in, frantic. “Are you okay?” she asks. “You were yelling, crying out.”
“Too bright, too bright.” My overhead lamp shines in my face, blinding me all over again.
She holds back her tears. “Frank, you were yelling her name.”
She says, “Shhhh, Frank, it’s okay,” like I’m a baby, until my eyes are closed and she thinks I’m asleep. “That’s right,” she soothes, “relax, Frankie, relax. My poor boy.” She turns the light off, closes the door, and walks away.
I look into the space and try to reclaim Meredith’s hand on my thigh. Thigh, wake up. You were touched. Amputees feel old limbs. Why can’t I feel a dead girl’s touch? I try again. Her hand. On my skin. Her hair. On me. Her body. Where is it?
I am still awake when my father gets home. Maybe they will share a drink. Maybe they will really talk.
Mom says, clear as a bell, “He will never stop dreaming about her.”
Neither of my parents can say her name. When they refer to the accident, they use mostly pronouns: she, her, sometimes his girlfriend. Once, Mom called her that bitch.
My father speaks slowly. He says something unintelligible, maybe, “That’s the least of his problems.” He talks too loud. He is obviously drunk. It’s too late at night for him to be anything else. I wonder if he thinks about my accident before he gets behind the wheel after downing a few. Weird, if he doesn’t.
“I am tired,” my mother says.
My father says nothing.
“I am tired,” she repeats. “He is so heavy. I barely got him into the bed tonight. He is so…” Silence. Dead silence. Fill in the blank:
Pathetic.
Helpless.
Useless.
My mother cries. “You should see what they’re saying about him. Everywhere … first it was the TV, then the radio. Today I read something about him on that damn computer.” Silence. Steps. Up and down. “It’s never going to stop. They will never forgive him. All these people … they want him to go to jail. Or worse. They talk about her like she was some kind of saint.”
“You have to stop reading that shit, Rosemary,” my father says. “What do we care what those losers think about Frank? The talk will die down. It always does. His case did not set a precedent. Leave it be.”
“He was supposed to go to college. He had everything to look forward to.” Her
voice goes up an octave. “She was a slut.”
“Rosemary, it was an accident. A terrible tragedy.”
That’s what Judge Martin O’Connor said, too. “This is a terrible tragedy.” Google him and find the link that tells you all about His Honor and the many important decisions he’s made.
All of the pertinent information regarding my case is in a benevolent-decisions file.
I had just been transferred to rehab. Meredith’s parents were begging the judge to do something, anything, please. They were quoted in the paper: “Frank Marder is guilty of vehicular manslaughter, driving while intoxicated. His Honor can’t ignore two dead bodies. He may be injured, but he’s still alive. His Honor must know she was our only daughter.”
My dad’s lawyer approached the Steins with tender looks and long handshakes. For two weeks, he filmed my rehab, documented my schedule of care. We viewed it together: the judge, the Steins, my parents and me, and Drock. I stared at myself being moved and stretched and cleaned. That was me. My body. My arms and legs, moving through space. I opened and closed my eyes, the way you watch a slasher film, waiting for the gory parts to be over.
The ruling took place on a Monday, Judge’s usual day off. We gathered in the patient lounge. “That is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard of,” Freeberg said. “There’s no fuckin way they are putting you away.” He popped a wheelie. “You aren’t going to hurt nothing never again. You are already in jail.”
Chad Downey, my lawyer, wore an old suit and a shirt with a butter stain on the collar. His papers were overflowing; when he went through them, he dropped the whole mess on the floor. “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” he said. Meredith’s family lawyer was just the opposite: organized and professionally dressed, with fire-engine-red hair and a conservative black suit that Meredith would have loathed. Judge stood between them in a long black robe.
I wondered what he had on underneath. Tennis clothes? Pajamas? Nothing at all?
A lady in the corner set up a laptop and took notes. Judge Martin O’Connor banged his gavel on the snack table. “These are extraordinary circumstances, and for that reason, I’ll hear arguments.” It took hours. He looked, he asked questions, he talked to the therapists. He investigated every aspect of my sorry life before declaring me “punished well beyond the statute of the law.” I was sure Meredith’s dad was going to spontaneously combust, but the judge wouldn’t hear any of it. Judge Martin O’Connor banged his gavel one more time and proclaimed that my disability would forever be a reminder to people that justice was real. “Society, Mr. and Mrs. Stein, is better off having this boy in their midst as a living reminder of what can happen when you do something as stupid as drive while intoxicated.” He issued a similar statement to the press. “When people see Frank Marder, they will remember that carelessness kills. They will be reminded not to drink and drive. They will look at him and understand, this is what can happen if you do.”
Head Case Page 7
