"Rehab? For what!"
"Five percent."
"What about five percent? Mom, you're not making any sense!"
"The doctors said there is a five percent chance you will walk again, and I'm not about to give up!" She says those words with such passion and confidence that it nearly allows me to overlook the massive amount of agony in her glassy, teal colored eyes.
I suddenly sober up to the reality of what I'm doing, and that eighty foot drop appears more frightening than it did two minutes ago. "Five percent doesn't allow much room for a fighting chance."
"But there is still a chance, no matter how slight." We each take a long look over The Bluff, letting the intensity of our emotions wane just slightly. "We'll do everything we can, I promise. Rehab, surgery, therapy. Anything! We'll talk with the doctors. We'll get you the best neurosurgeons in the world. I can't promise you your legs back, but I can promise we will give you that fighting chance, Kenzie!"
I'm not sure what hurts more, knowing I'll never see Aurora again, or staring into mother's shattered eyes and telling her I can't bear to live like this. She makes it sound so easy: go through surgery, go to rehab, get better. I know it's not that easy. Surgery is going to be excruciating, recovery is going to be extensive, and rehab will embarrassing. I'm not an addict of some sort; I shouldn't have to go to rehab! I'm just . . . different. That's all.
Out of nowhere, mother says to me, "What would Aurora want you to do?"
She knows very well the answer to that question, as do I. If we were in a burning building, Aurora would make sure I made it out before her. If we were on a sinking ship, she'd fasten my lifejacket before her own. She was just that type of person. She lost her life because of me. I guess I owe it to her to make the most of my life, or what's left of it at least, no matter how hard it gets moving on without her. I owe her that much.
I pull myself away from the cliff.
Chapter 15
I'll never walk again.
Or at least that's what I believe. I don't care what the doctors say; five percent might as well be zero. There's no coming back from an accident like this. And I don't mean just physically; emotionally, too.
The courtyard before me is scattered with different ones rushing to their next destination, each one going their separate ways to and fro without a care, without thought; taking their freedom for granted.
I envy such people.
The rain won't stop. It's rained almost every day since Aurora's death. Even now, I sit here staring out the elongated windows, watching thousands of droplets pelt the panes, gathering into pools and sliding down the window. The sky is dark and dreary, just like my heart.
My legs have turned an unsightly pale color. I've worn nothing other than sweatpants since the accident. I can't bare to look at them. They're like a scar, ugly and decrepit looking; a vile reminder of what happened that day and everything it took from me.
The day after I decided not to kill myself, mother and father checked me into White Guard Rehabilitation Center. Pretty much all of the residents here - which is a kind way of putting it; residents, more like prisoners – are from as young as five years of age to thirty. It's a nice place, I guess. As nice as a prison can be. The staff here is too friendly, though. Like, annoyingly so. I was watching television in the lounge earlier and three different nurses within a ten minute time-frame asked me if I wanted to change the channel, like I wasn't capable of wheeling myself over to the remote and doing it myself. Just let me watch my Downton Abbey in peace!
Upon being admitted here, I was given the option of being a permanent resident like most people are, or retaining the freedom of continuing to live at home with the written agreement that I would come in to the facility at appointed dates. Naturally, I chose the freedom of living at home. It's pretty much the only freedom I have left to my name; though, part of me expects them to take that away from me in due time. But for now, I have to come in three days a week for walking therapy and activity education, along with a bunch of other idiocies I've already forgotten about. One of these so-called "classes" teaches me how to effectively navigate using my wheelchair. It's supposedly different than your average wheelchair; one designed specifically for plegics such as myself. Throughout my childhood, I anxiously awaited the day when I would take driver's ed. But never did I think I would have to take wheelchair's ed.
I just wanna scream right now!
I feel so trapped. I can't move on my own anymore. I can't get out of bed on my own. I can't go to the bathroom on my own, and I kind of have to pee right now, but I don't what to use the ostomy pouch because it's so embarrassing. It's fairly discreet looking and small in size, but I have to keep it strapped to my waist unless I am at home where I can use a real bathroom. Even yet, it's all so hard for me to process everything that's happened. It still feels like this life of mine isn't, well, mine.
I pull myself away from the window and navigate through the ghostly halls of this facility. This place is so brooding. No one laughs, no one smiles, other than the forced smile displayed by all the nurses, and no one is happy. Understandable so, but still, it's like this place is one ongoing funeral or something.
I lazily shove my wheels in the direction of the library, avoiding eye-contact from those that pass by. Nowadays, everyone stares at me. It's like people have never seen a girl in a wheelchair before. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I don't know. It just seems that every time I lift my gaze there's someone staring back with sympathetic eyes. I don't want such treatment! It makes me feel like I'm different. Oh, who are you kidding, McKenzie; you are different.
When I arrive at the library, there's no one there except one person in the far dark corner of the room, a boy, who appears to be only slightly older than me; though it's hard to get a clean look at him. He doesn't pay attention to me entering the room, so I position my wheelchair next to a bookshelf near the door. I'm glad. I don't feel like talking. Though, to be fair, I haven't felt like talking for awhile now.
There's a book on the shelf protruding out beyond the others beside it, so I reach for it and open it to a random page somewhere in the middle. My vision traces the first few sentences on the page. I have to keep re-reading them over and over because my thoughts continue to thwart my focus. Soon, I give up trying to read and just stare at the page, hoping that if a nurse passes by in the hallway, they won't bother asking me if I need anything.
I wonder how James and Parker are coping with the loss of their daughter? I haven't been able to see them since before the accident. There hasn't been time, really. Between being confined in the hospital for two weeks and then not killing myself, an opportunity hasn't arisen for me to see them. Last time I saw them was at the cookout – the last time they saw their daughter alive. My heart writhes at that thought. I'm not even sure I want to see them. How will they react? What will they say? I think I'm going to be sick. Don't get yourself worked up, McKenzie. Breath. Just breath.
I shove the book toward my face with anticipation that it might soon get splattered with this morning's breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, but the nauseous feeling quickly passes. The boy, however, looks up in concern. That's when I notice these dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. He's practically sitting in the shadows. It's kind of creepy. Who is he? And why is he wearing sunglasses in such a dimly lit room anyway? Has he been watching me from behind those shades this entire time?
After being caught in an awkward stare-down, he nods his head ever so slightly, as if to answer my mental inquiry, then lowers his gaze back to the book in his lap. His fingers move across the page, almost like he's using them to keep track of the sentence he's reading.
That was certainly strange. I ponder whether I should remain here, or relocate elsewhere. If I leave the library I'll no doubt have to find some other quiet place to hide, not that there are many in a place like this, and there's the possibility that I may get hounded by more overzealous nurses. So I make the decision to remain here and give creepy sunglasses boy over th
ere the cold-shoulder.
I continue thinking about James and Parker. I can't imagine the torment they're going through right now. They probably hate me so much. I wouldn't be surprised if they blame me for what happened to Aurora. I wouldn't blame them if they did. They've tried escaping financial crisis their entire adult lives and I just hurdled funeral costs at them.
I wonder if anyone is thinking about Aurora. Anyone from school or perhaps a friend she had in her neighborhood. She never seemed to hangout with anyone other than me. Not even with some of the girls on the squad. It just seems wrong that there's so few to mourn her passing. Tears stain the page I'm helplessly staring at. I wipe them, smearing their existence over the inky letters.
The faint echo of heels clinking atop the worn linoleum floor approaches from the hallway. A few seconds later, a warm hand glides across my left shoulder. "McKenzie, it's time, sweetie." I look up to see mother looming over me. She seems so tall anymore, but I know it's not her who's changed – it's me. I feel so short curled up in this chair. Everything is beyond my reach, other than selective items that are a couple of feet off the ground. Mother wraps her fingers around the rubber handles, "Let's go," and guides me out of the library.
The hallway is lined with a large stained-glass window every fifty feet or so. It's this long hallway that seems to go on for hundreds of feet. As we finally reach the end of the hallway, it broadens into a large rotunda-like room where prisoners – err, residents – are being tended to. To my left, there's a little boy no older than eight years of age, being taught how to open a door. It's a shocking sight to see both his arms gone and two little nubs wiggling at the ends of his shoulders. My heart goes out to him. That's gotta be difficult.
I turn my head the other way and see a women walking with a cane in her hand; her right leg looks to be made from some sort of titanium metal. I can tell she's kept herself in shape, her physique is well-built with broad shoulders. Former military perhaps? That would explain the missing leg. Maybe she lost it in the line of duty?
How long have these people been admitted here? A year? Two years? Ten? I'm drowning in fear just thinking about how long someone like me could be stuck here. I might not ever make it out of this place. I could grow old here, all shriveled up, alone and unmarried, vulnerable to the memories of my past that are sure to come haunting me, waiting for the day when death takes its revenge on me.
My hands are shaking. I can't think about such things. Not now. I can't. It's too much. I throw the hoodie over my head and drop my chin to my chest, desperately trying to ignore the ambient voices around me.
Chapter 16
Jamal Kuno is the president of this rehab center. He's this huge Jamaican dude, who has to be at least seven feet tall. Okay, maybe not that tall. My newly abased position in this chair makes everyone seem at least a foot taller than they actually are, but nevertheless he is very tall. And the grip behind his iron handshake makes me feel more weak and feeble than I did before. Apparently, he wanted to make my acquaintance after hearing of me being admitted here. I guess mother informed him over the phone of my recent backstory on how I became a plegic and the correlating details therein.
Mother and father chatted back and forth with Mr. Kuno for almost forty-five minutes. I mostly stayed quiet, nodding once in awhile when something was asked of me, but that's pretty much it. They initially started talking about me, then the conversation slowly transitioned to our family's medical history, then ultimately about golf. It seems Mr. Kuno is an avid player, and has actually played at the golf course we live on. Ugh, golf. Why golf? Anything but golf! If I wasn't bored before, I certainly am now.
About ten minutes later, Kuno stands from his chair and shakes mother and father's hand once again. A nurse then opens the double offices doors and leads us back to the rotunda room. My arms are starting to ache from pushing these wheels forward. I'm still not entirely used to it yet. This new fangled shmangled wheelchair better be easier to use, that's I'll I have to say. Mother must have noticed me struggling to keep up, because she gets behind me and pushes me the rest of the way.
The nurse leads us over to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard, then leaves us. No one is down there in the courtyard at the moment. It actually looks quite lovely, basically the only perk about this place that I've seen so far. There's a hedge maze about ten feet in height, which, providing you follow the correct pattern in the maze, leads to a flower garden area with a fountain in the very center.
Mother crouches beside me and stares out the foggy window. "Isn't this exciting? A wheelchair specifically designed to fit your needs." I just shrug, not letting my gaze drift from the window.
The nurse returns a few minutes later pushing a wheelchair, different from the one I'm sitting in. The only reason I've kept this one for so long is because it is the same wheelchair the hospital sent me home in. Father loops his forearms under my arms, and the nurse and mother each grab one of my legs; together, they lift my frail, crippled body from the old wheelchair to the new one.
The nurse grins widely, displaying a row of off-white teeth. "How do you like it?"
I look up at the nurse with a raised eyebrow. "You're kidding? You do realize it's a wheelchair, not a Ferrari, right?"
"McKenzie! Be nice," mother's scolding tone comes from behind my ears.
The nurse laughs dismissively. "It's quite all right. But you never know; there's plenty of other residents here who have a sharp set of wheels of their own. You may find yours is more of a Ferrari than you originally thought."
"Are you implying I should like, have races with the other residents or something?"
"I would never imply that you should do such a thing," she says those words with a blue-eyed wink before leaving to tend to another resident - a boy with a set of crutches beneath his arms and an aquacast around his right leg.
Mom bends over, eye-level with me, resting her palms on her knees. "Well, how about it. You think you're ready to take some of those classes?" Her chipper tone is really starting to get old. I know she's just trying to be encouraging, but it's not helping!
This new wheelchair feels lighter in weight, and seems easier to move about. The wheels themselves aren't near as bulky either. They curve inward at the top; helps with tighter precision handling, I guess. The aluminum bars are pink in color and very eye-catching. At least they made it fashionable. I lean back in the seat, considering mother's question. The backrest is a lot lower the the other one; it only goes about halfway up my back. "I'm kind of tired right now, mom. Can we start tomorrow?"
"I'm sure that will be alright. Do you need a push?"
I spread my fingers over the edge of the wheels, first oscillating forwards then backwards to test my strength. "No. I think I got it."
Just before we leave, I notice someone standing in a dark corner of the circular room, watching intently. It was the boy that was in the library earlier. And he's still wearing those black glasses.
The drive home is quiet, mainly because August is at a friend's house for a sleepover, so we don't have him constantly talking our ears off and complaining about how mean his second grade math teacher is. I would give anything to go back in time and be the same age he is now. I'd have a life again.
Mother turns me. "McKenzie, your father and I feel we've allowed enough time to pass; we're going to pay our respects to James and Parker tomorrow after your class." My heart instantly gallops to my throat, and I feel my head tremble from side to side. "I know you're scared, sweetie, I do, but you weren't able to be there for Aurora's funeral. It's for the best we pay them a visit, okay?" Father studies me in the rearview mirror, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down. I don't know what he's looking for. Terror? Tears? He just continues to stare; they both do.
"They hate me," my words come out a strained whimper.
Father speaks up. "I spoke to James personally at the funeral; he said he didn't hold you responsible in the least. But you do need to pay your respects." His tone is firm. "I know it'
s not an easy thing, seeing them again, but doing the right thing rarely is easy. And I'm sure it will mean a great deal to them if you do. They're grieving. We need to be there for them."
I know he's right. Every word. But there isn't a single fiber in my being that wants to see them. Not after what I've done. They might not hold me responsible for what happened, but I do.
Father steers the big van up the driveway and into the garage, parking it in the spot where my Mustang once sat. He told me that the crash rendered it completely totaled. No surprise considering what happened. I don't remember a lot about that moment, very little actually. Just blips and images, but the damage was massive; the front end of the car was smashed inward, glass and metal littered the ground, and I'm pretty sure I recall seeing one of the wheels a short distance away from the vehicle itself. Needless to say, it was beyond repair.
Father presses a button on the steering wheel and the rear doors open and the metal ramp descends with a low hum, allowing me to exit. I take my time going down the ramp. I really don't wish to have an embarrassing replay like before, so I keep my fingers loosely clasped over the wheels. A sigh of relief escape me as I make it down successfully. It feels good not needing assistance, even if it was just a simple task. It's a start.
Mother walks me around to the front door. Before I became a plegic, accomplishing something as elementary as stair climbing was fulfilled without a thought. Now, it's an impossible challenge. Father had called some construction company to come and install a ramp next to the stairs in order for me to make it up the stoop without them having to carry me each time. I guess it was installed when I was still in the hospital, because when I came home there it was. Seems like wheelchairs and ramps are all my life consists of anymore.
Mother sets her purse on the kitchen counter. "I'm going to start dinner, McKenzie. Anything you'd like to request?"
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