Paraplegic

by Troy Dearbourne

  Aurora's sullen tone breaks my mental reading. "McKenzie, what did I just say?"

  "I know, I know. Just give me two seconds. Xander invited me to the party at his college, can you believe it? A party! It's next Saturday night."

  "Next Saturday night! Kenz, Duke university is in North Carolina. Thats over a thousand miles away."

  "I know, I know, but Xander said he's leaving tomorrow morning and offered me to carpool with him. I just need to write a quick reply." I know I told myself I wouldn't, but I'll make it quick.

  I begin my reply, fingers flying over the touchscreen, thanking Xander for the invite and letting him know that I, of course, would love to go to the party with him, while consciously checking the road every couple of seconds. I can hear Aurora's breath stiffen. She's such a baby. It's not like I'm going to let anything happen. I'm a good driver.

  There. That should do it. Wait. I'll put a cute winking emoticon. There. Done. Now I just gotta hit send and-

  "Watch out!" Aurora's panicked cry startles me.

  The red glow of taillights zooms toward us. I slam my foot on the brake pedal, the brakes lock up, tires squealing, the steering wheel twisting and jerking itself, trying to wriggle free from my grip. The fender of my car misses the car in front of me by what can't be more than just a couple of inches. The phone is thrown from my hands and hits the floor somewhere by my feet. The tires continue to squeal. I struggle to keep the steering wheel under my command. I feel it slipping. My heart throbs against my rib cage. As if it has a mind of its own, the car veers off the road and onto the grassy sideline. The soft turf is even slicker than the asphalt. My feet rapidly switch back and forth from the break to the gas pedal in attempt to regain control. That only makes things worse. As soon as the tires hit the grass, the front end whips to the right. Aurora screams in terror. I find myself struggling to contain my own fear. We're helplessly tossed around, seat belts clamping down over our chests. We're gonna die. We're gonna die! I'm panicking. Don't panic!

  The rear end of the car spins around, the entire earth swirling rapidly. Fat raindrops viciously attack us from every angle, splattering every window to the point of no visibility.

  Somebody help us!

  The grass dips down into a rut, the car bounces jerkily in sync with the unlevel terrain. Metal grinding against metal echoes through my ears - its sounds like the suspension is cracking. Suddenly, the veil of raindrops folds back for a split second as the image of a tree hurdles into view. The nose of the car stops instantly as we crash into the base of it. The impact sounds like a gunshot. My whole body is thrown forward, and then yanked back as the airbag collides into my face.

  I can't think. I can't - I can't. Wh-what happened? My head - it hurts. I can't see. I can't - I can't see. Rora? Aurora? I can't - I can't move . . .

  Chapter 12

  Voices echoing. Male? Mature. I'm floating. No. Pain. Yes. Yes, pain. I'm moving. Sleep. I want sleep.

  Eyes open. Light? It's gone. No light. There's blue. And red. Flashing. Light. Floating? No? Yes. Voice: Everything's going to be alright, miss. Man? Yes, man. Young? Touch. Cold. I'm cold. Hands. Firm. Pain. Eyes closed.

  Bumpy. Moving. Siren? Slam. Thud. Moving. Faster? Yes. Voices. Scared! Dizzy. I'm dizzy. Head hurting. Touching. Hands touching. Cold. More voices: Heart rate is dropping! We're losing her! Woman? Aurora? Charge at 100. Clear! Tingly. Pain. Nothing. Man. Charge at 200. Clear! Woman. More tingly. She's back! Can't think. Mind foggy. Pain . . .

  I open my eyes; it takes a moment for my vision to sharpen, and glance around, first by trying to move my head. I quickly discover that doesn't work. Why can't I move my head? It feels like someone has their hand wrapped around my neck, preventing me from moving. Instead, I move my eyes. It looks like I'm in some sort of room, small room. The walls are white. And the floor is this grey speckled looking color. There are some cabinets next to me, a stainless sink built into the countertop. Pieces of paper are taped to the cabinet doors and have something written on them. I can't read what it says. The ink is a deep blue, black maybe, but the handwriting is sloppy. A single window is at the end of the room near the corner. No light is coming in from outside. It must be nighttime. What in the world happened to me?

  I glance over at the other side of the room. My vision falls upon a familiar face - it's mother. Her eyes are closed, head dropped down, chin to chest. Father is sitting next to her. His eyes are closed, too, slouching against the backrest of the short, uncomfortable looking office chair, mouth left open just a little. They're both wearing different clothes than what they were wearing at the cookout. Father's square chin is dark from a steady growth of stubble. He's never kept that much beard before. And mother's hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She isn't wearing any makeup either. Her face is pale, almost a sickly green, like she's been on edge about something, and her brow is in a permanent state of depression, skin wrinkling as it droops toward the bridge of her nose.

  I try to speak, but it sounds more like a drunkard mumbling. I try again. Same result occurs. I'm suddenly hit with an excruciating pain in my head. It sends shock waves of pain from my brain down to my fingertips. I can't help but to jump just a little, breathing choppy, trying to gasp for breath. I'm exhausted. What happened? Where am I?

  I see movement in my peripheral. Father moves his head slightly, rubbing his lips with his fingers as he wakes. His eyes flutter open a tiny bit as he turns to me, then burst open fully. "McKenize! You're awake. Thank you, God!" He shakes mother's shoulder excitedly. She stirs, then has the same reaction as him. They rush to my side. That's when I realize something else - I'm lying in a bed.

  "Oh, sweetheart, you're okay. I'm so glad you're okay." Mother just keeps repeating those words, stroking the side of my face every time. What's got them so passionate?

  There's this annoying beeping sound, almost like it's coming from behind me. It's constant, like it's recording something, beeping at set intervals every second or so. I attempt to move my head again. I do so, not much, but I do so. It hurts, so I stop, but not before seeing a computer screen hanging from a white pole. Is that a heart rate monitor? But – but that doesn't make - no, that makes perfect sense!

  I feel my heart quicken in beat, as if it's trying to escape my body. The beeping becomes more frequent.

  I gaze into my parent's eyes; they stare back with utter empathy. "Where am I?" My voice is weak and groggy. I can barely form the words. I already know the answer to my question, but for whatever reason, I need to hear them say it, I need to hear it spoken.

  Mother sits down on the edge of my bed and loops her fingers through mine. "Sw-sweetie," her voice cracks and a tear slides down her cheek. She looks away, as if she can't give me an answer, as if it's too much for her to say.

  My heart's beating so fast it hurts! The beeping is nearly non-stop now.

  There's white medical tape on my hands and forearms, keeping IV tubes from moving too much. It feels like there's a neck brace around my neck, though I can't say for sure. I can't exactly see it. But that would explain why I can't move my neck that much.

  Father crouches to my eyelevel, gently swiping a finger up and down my cheek. "You're my baby girl, you know that? You always have been." They make it sound like I'm dying!

  "Mom, dad, what's wrong? Where am I?" Deep down I know something is wrong, very wrong; I just can't bring myself to accept it. They turn to look at one another again, not answering me right away. Mother breaks down into heavy sobs, so father is the one to answer.

  "McKenzie, you were in a car wreck - but you're going to be okay." He adds that last part quickly, like it's supposed to cushion the blow of the first part or something.

  Mother gets up from the bed and paces the room, trying to stop her crying. Father just drops his head and stares at the sheets. No one speaks for a few minutes. The silence is killing me, but I'm too scared to speak. I don't even know why, I just am. I know where I'm at. I know it! But I don't want to. I want this to be a dream, some sort of
sick, twisted nightmare committed by my subconscious. I want to wake up now. Please!

  Mother stops her pacing and turns to face me. "You were texting?" her voice is hushed, yet quickly shadowed by disbelief, almost hurt.

  "Trish!" Father sternly interrupts her. "Not now." But she keeps on.

  "You know better, Kenzie. Why, why, why would you do such a thing?" her words are louder this time. She just stares, looking at me with expectant eyes. I don't want to stare back, but I can't bring myself to break away from her gaze either. Her eyes are bloody and watery. She doesn't look like she's slept well in almost a week.

  I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes forth. Mother's about to say something else, but father quickly gets up and moves over to her, bringing her in close to his chest. He holds her for awhile. They whisper something to each other. I can't hear what it is over the noise of the rapid beeping. I feel cold. I'm shaking. I think I'm going to pass out.

  A nurse rushes into the room and over to the monitor screen. The numbers on the screen display my heart rate is in the high 130s. There's a rack of bags full of this clear liquid stuff hanging down, each one branching off into smaller tubes, which then connects to the IVs in my forearms. The nurse hangs another bag on the rack and connects it to a tube. Soon, the numbers on the screen back down, and I feel my rapid heart rate slowly abate.

  The nurse smiles at me. "How are you, dear? My name's Agatha. Are you feeling okay? Comfortable? Can I get you anything?" I weakly shake my head. My lips feel dry, but I don't ask for water. I'm not even sure I could stomach it. "Alrighty then," her voice is chipper and calming, "if you need me, I'll be out in the hallway. Okay, dear?" She smiles again, then leaves the room.

  Mother breaks away from father and dries her eyes with her sleeve. It's this bluish-purple color V-neck with a see-through floral design lace behind the V part. It looks good on her. We were at the mall when she bought it. I don't know why I'm suddenly thinking of this. Maybe it's because I'm trying to run away from what's happened, run from my father's words, run from my mother's heartbroken face, run from myself – just to run.

  Mother shuffles over to me and repositions herself at my bedside again. She takes a deep breath then releases it. "McKenzie, sweetie, things are going to be" she pauses, and for a moment I think she might break down again, "they're going to be a little different now."

  "Different? Different how?" I try sitting up, but I'm unable to for whatever reason. Why can't I move?

  Father comes in behind mother and places a hand on her shoulder. She reaches up and clasps her fingers around his. The drugs are starting to kick in. I can feel my anxiety attempting to elevate my heart rate, but all it's doing is making me more fatigued.

  "You should get some rest for now, McKenzie. We'll be sitting right next to you, kay?" She smiles, but I can tell it's forced.

  How could this happen to me? I'm in a hospital! The last thing I remember is . . . is - it's all so fuzzy. I was in my car. I lost control. Xander had texted me. I knew I shouldn't have answered. McKenzie, you're so stupid. Then there was a tree. It gets really fuzzy thereafter. There were these voices, and lights, and a loud noise. At one point it felt like I was floating. I guess that was the paramedics pulling me from the wreckage and securing me to a stretcher-

  Aurora!

  My heartbeat spikes at the thought of what's happened to her. "Where's Aurora? Is she hurt? Is she okay?" My heart starts pounding again. The drugs aren't working hard enough. "Answer me!"

  Mother and father look at each other once more. A lump rises in my throat. I swallow it back, but that doesn't help. Mother's hands start trembling. She grips the armrest of the chair she's sitting on, but they continue to shake. She breaks down into sobs, hard, loud sobs. Her outburst catches the attention of other nurses and patients in the other rooms. But I don't care. I just want them to answer me. Why won't they answer me?

  "Kenzie," father breathes my name. He quickly dodges my gaze and looks up at the ceiling, hiding the tears welling in his eyes. I think this is the first time I've ever seen him cry. The tension in the room is incredibly thick. Mother collapses her head against his shoulder, her wailing cries muffled in his shirt. He lets his head fall on top of hers, kissing it. There's something they're not telling me!

  "Please! Please! Just tell me! What's happened to Aurora?" The stress building inside me is too much; I start to cry, too.

  Father turns back to me. "Kenzie, baby, I-" his voices breaks, "I'm so sorry." My whole body immediately goes numb.

  No! No! He's not saying - it can't be - she isn't - no!

  I scream through a veil of tears. "No! I don't believe you! NO!" Father just stares at me, almost through me. I remain frozen in shock, in pain; confusion swarming my mind. His words ring in my ears, chanting each syllable in a ghostly tone.

  "I know, baby. I know. I'm so sorry. The paramedics did everything they could, but she was already gone by the time they arrived at the accident scene."

  My heart throbs in agony. It feels like someone is driving a knife through it.

  This isn't true. No! It's not! It can't be. "You're lying!" My words come out a whimper.

  This has to be a dream. It's all just a dream, a horrible nightmare. This isn't real. None of this is real!

  I try opening my eyes hard, forcing them wider, a desperate attempt to wake myself, but to my utter dismay, nothing changes. I'm still here. I'm still in this hospital room, here in this bed.

  But I've heard more than enough! I need to get out of here. I need to leave, run, go somewhere – anywhere. Just escape! I rip the IVs out of my arms, the heart rate monitor falls into one continuous beep, and throw the sheets off my body with anticipation of rushing out of this room and fleeing this dire place. But nothing happens. Why can't I get up? I want to leave. But - I can't. What's wrong with me? I can't move. I can't feel. I can't feel them.

  I slowly lift my head, my heart pounding so hard I think I might puke, and look at my parents. Their faces are grief-stricken. Mother buries her face back into father's shoulder, her howling cries uncontrollable. He forms his lips as if he's about to say something, but then stops.

  That's what they weren't telling me. This is real. I can't move. I can't get out of this bed. And I know why!

  My throat turns dry. "Mom, dad; I can't – I can't feel my legs!"

  Chapter 13

  Two weeks later . . .

  Confinement. I now understand the true meaning of the word. Unable to venture out on my own. Unable to be free. Unable to walk.

  How could this happen to me? Me!

  I once stood tall at the top of the cheer pyramid, but now . . . crippled. All I want to do is cry. Cry until the tears run dry, then keep crying. I can only sit here, confined to this chair, like a slave to its master. It feels weird . . . not feeling. Every time I look down at my legs, it feels like I should be able to move them. Nothing. I can't even wiggle my toes!

  Aurora's grave lays before me. I cringe every time my vision passes over her headstone, worse than cringe. More like violent shudders. It still doesn't feel real. She was with me, and I was with her just a few days ago. She can't be gone!

  There was a funeral a couple days after the accident. I wasn't able to attend. The doctors wouldn't release me from the hospital until just yesterday. The last time I saw Aurora's face was just before the accident; her young, petrified face. That image, her face, it's burned into my mind. She was so scared. I can still see the fear in her eyes as we were helplessly tossed around the car. I jerk my head, hoping to shake the memories from mind. It doesn't help.

  The autopsy report showed she suffered extreme head and spinal injuries. I don't know to what degree, the doctor's were deliberately vague, but they said the tree limb sailed through the windshield and through her torso. I tremble at the thought, combating the welling tears, but quickly give up the fight - they cascade down my cheeks.

  I feel nauseous, enraged, shattered, and desolate all at the same time. It's my fault she's gone. My
fault! Why did you do it? You knew better! It was just a text message; a stupid, stupid text. You didn't need to answer it. She would still be here if it weren't for you!

  It's been two weeks since the accident. The doctors told me I was lucky I made it out alive. I don't feel very lucky. They said that my T-10 and T-12 vertebras were shattered in the crash, resulting in paralysis from the waist down. They went on to tell me that it wasn't likely I'd ever walk again. I don't remember the conversation all that well, my mind was still foggy and I was jacked up on morphine, but they said there is a less than five percent chance that I will ever get my legs back. Funny, I remember that part very clearly. I would say that was the worst day of my life, but that doesn't even begin to describe it. I woke up from a three day coma to find that I'm not only paralyzed, but I'm responsible for my best friend's death.

  WHY DID YOU DO IT, McKENZIE!

  I lurch forward, feeling the slimy sensation of vomit slide up my throat, but it doesn't come out. I swallow it back. Bile burns my esophagus. I'm so nauseous. I can't accept what's happened. I keep hoping and praying that this is all just some sort of nightmare and I'll wake up any moment. But it isn't. This is real.

  The crack of pine needles being stepped on comes from behind. Mother's hand slides over my shoulder. She doesn't say anything, which I'm glad for. I really don't want to talk right now. I don't want to live either. I don't want to do anything. I halfway expected her to start consoling me, telling me that everything will be alright, but she doesn't. We just sit here - well, I sit, she stands - in silence, gazing at the ghastly sight of Aurora's grave.

  The thing that's most shocking to see is the death date engraved into her headstone. I know we all die at some point, but there's just something so foreboding about seeing a death date, like you're being reminded that your time is coming, and that death is waiting for you, ready to take you away from this world at any given moment. When you're young and carefree, you don't give thought to such things. Why would you? You have your whole life ahead of you. That's how it should have been at least.