Are You Alone on Purpose? (5 page)

“Uh-huh,” said Alison.

“Jake,” Alison's mother said, “Gloria seemed pretty certain Harry wasn't going to recover. Something about the exact spot on his spinal cord that was affected. She said he's lucky that he'll have sensation above the waist.”

“Oh,” said Alison's father. “I see.”

Alison felt the beginnings of a headache. She wished they would stop looking at her. Harry. Paralyzed. She felt numb herself. She tried to collect her thoughts. “When did you say this happened ?” she asked.

“I didn't,” her mother said. She looked uncomfortable. “Actually, it happened last Wednesday.”

Alison began to feel a little sick.

Her father frowned at her mother. “The same day you went to talk to Roth about Adam?”

“Yes.”

A sentence swam into Alison's head and attached itself like a barnacle.
I wish your son were even more handicapped
. Her mother had said it that day, in the grip of her righteous wrath.

Alison shuddered.

“Alison.”

Alison looked at her mother.

“I've been thinking that I owe you an apology. For that day.” Mrs. Shandling waited. Alison was silent. “I shouldn't have taken you with me. But I was so angry I couldn't think straight. I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't seen me like that.”

It wasn't the first time, thought Alison, pragmatically.

“Alison? It's just that I was so angry at that man. That excuse for a rabbi.” Mrs. Shandling shrugged a little, embarrassed. “I guess I still am. This—Harry's accident—doesn't change that.”

“You were mad at Harry, too,” Alison said. She stopped, shocked. She wasn't sure where her own comment had come from.

“Well, of course,” said Alison's mother. She frowned. “Weren't you? Aren't you still, really?”

“Yes,” said Alison. She felt confused. I need to be alone, she thought. I need to think.

“Well,” said Mrs. Shandling. She exchanged a glance with her husband. “I was thinking,” she said. “Maybe we should talk about Harry. About his accident. I know part of me . . . well, I know it's awful, but part of me can't help being a little glad.” Mrs. Shandling's voice stumbled, and recovered. “I just wondered, Alison, if maybe you'd want to talk about this a little bit.”

No, thought Alison. The word shot into her mind like a bullet. She looked at her father.

“You know,” said the professor, “Harry probably won't bother you again, when he goes back to school. He'll have other things to think about.”

“How do you feel about that?” asked Mrs. Shandling. “Alison?”

Alison stared at her mother.

I wish your son were even more handicapped
.

No, thought Alison. The pounding in her forehead picked up in tempo. No. No. No.

“You must feel something,” her mother insisted.

Tentatively, carefully, Alison asked, “How do
you
feel about it?”

Mrs. Shandling looked surprised, then relieved. “Well, naturally, it's a terrible thing. He was—is—a nasty boy, and I hated that he was so mean to you. I wanted that to stop. But not this way. But I'm also relieved that we won't have to worry about you anymore.”

Good, thought Alison, through the pounding in her head. Don't worry about me.

Alison's father was nodding.

“That's what I think too,” said Alison hastily.

She had to get out of there.

 

“Wow,” said Paulina, much later that afternoon. Alison had told her everything. They were at the de Silvas', upstairs in Paulina's room, lying on the double bed and looking up at its canopy. It was a ridiculous bed, with its extravagant pink ruffles and white frills. But Paulina loved it. “You say he'll never walk again?” Paulina continued. “And your mom—”

“It's just that I keep hearing her saying, ‘I wish your son were even more handicapped.' And then Harry's accident happening the same day.” She didn't mention what she herself had been thinking. She didn't say that she'd been hoping something would happen to keep Harry out of her way.

“Wow,” said Paulina again. She was silent for a time, clearly deep in thought. “Chocolate?” she said finally, reaching over and pulling the rewrapped half of a big Cadbury bar from the nightstand. She undid the foil to expose sixteen little squares.

Alison took a square to be polite. “Okay.”

They chewed. “So,” said Paulina after eating three squares very slowly, “wham. Wheelchair city.”

Alison sat up and leaned against the headboard. Paulina stayed flat on her back, one arm flung over her eyes.

“D'you think your mother's a witch?” Paulina asked, conversationally. “D'you think she cursed Harry?”

Alison nearly choked. “Paulina!”

“Just asking,” said Paulina. She slanted a look up at Alison. “It's a pretty incredible coincidence, don't you think?”

“Yes. No. I don't know,” Alison said. “Look. I guess I'm still just stunned. I mean. . .well. . .”

“It's not that I believe in witches and curses and stuff,” said Paulina. “But you never know, do you? Maybe your mother doesn't understand her own powers.” She sat up. “I saw a movie like that once on TV. This girl got really mad 'cause these other kids ruined her senior prom? She wasn't a witch, exactly, but she had these powers, and then—”

“This isn't a movie, Paulina.”

“I know that,” said Paulina, with dignity. “Look, I was there too, and your mother was pretty mad. I wouldn't have wanted her cursing me.”

“She just gets like that. Especially about Adam.” And me, Alison added silently. It was about me, too. “Look, I'm sorry. I don't believe in that magic stuff. It's all just an incredible coincidence.”

“Maybe,” said Paulina. She leaned forward. “But you know what?”

“What?” Alison said automatically. She thought talking to Paulina had probably been a bad idea. Her head wasn't any clearer. It probably was just a coincidence. And even if her mother...

But Alison's mother wasn't the only one who had wished Harry Roth ill.

“I understand if you don't believe in magic,” Paulina was saying. She took another chocolate square and bit off one small corner. “But listen. Do you believe in God?”

“What? Why?”

“Harry deserved it,” said Paulina meaningfully. “And Harry got it.”

Alison stared at her.

“Divine justice,” said Paulina, almost smugly. “You didn't think of that, did you?”

“Actually,” said Alison slowly, “I think maybe I did.”

“There you go, then.” Paulina settled back on her elbows. “I guess the Lord does answer prayers. Makes you feel good, doesn't it?” She reached for some more chocolate.

No, thought Alison, it doesn't. She watched Paulina eat.

She felt very alone.

 

On the first day of ninth grade, Alison's homeroom teacher assigned seating alphabetically. “Roth,” Mr. Grandison called, when he reached the fourth desk in the fourth row. “Harold Roth.”

Harry didn't swagger to his seat. He didn't mutter, under his breath but loud enough to hear, “That's
Mister
Roth to you,” as he'd done the previous year. Instead, there was an uneasy, embarrassed silence. To Alison, the classroom, empty of Harry, was suddenly full of him.

“Harold Roth.”

No one moved.

“Does anyone know Harold Roth?” Mr. Grandison persisted.

The silence elongated. Alison looked around the room. One or two of the people Harry used to hang out with were here. Why didn't they say something ?

And why didn't Mr. Grandison already know? What was with this school? Hadn't Rabbi Roth phoned in?

“Well, okay,” said Mr. Grandison finally. “I'll find out about Harold. We'll skip his seat for now.” He moved to the fifth desk in the row. “Shandling, Alison.”

Alison wondered why she wasn't surprised. “Here,” she said, moving toward the desk.

Mr. Grandison marked his ledger, frowned. “Alison, I see that you were at the same middle school as Harold Roth last year. Do you know him?”

Alison's stomach lurched a little more. Did she know Harry? What an incredible question. She wet her lips and tried to smile. “Yes,” she said finally. “I know him. Not very well, though.” That was true, she thought.

“Do you know if he's coming to school this year?” Mr. Grandison persisted.

I don't know, Alison thought. I really don't. “No,” she said. “I don't know for sure....” Her voice drifted off.

“Well, Alison,” said Mr. Grandison, looking impatient, “you seem to know something about Harold. Why don't you just tell me what it is and I'll check it out.”

Alison took a breath, let it out, squared her shoulders, and looked straight at Mr. Grandison. “Harry was in an accident a few weeks ago. He hurt his spine pretty badly, and he's still in the hospital. I don't know when he'll be well enough to come to school.” There. She'd said it quite easily after all.

“Oh,” said Mr. Grandison. “Well, I'll check into that. How awful.” He flushed a little bit. “They should have told me at the office. I don't know why they didn't tell me. Well.” He looked at the empty desk, Harry's desk.

“Alison, if Harold Roth isn't attending this year, then of course you'll move up into his seat.” He smiled briskly. “We can't have a hole in the middle of the room, can we?” He moved on. “Fifth row, first seat. Shelby, Patricia.”

Alison was left staring at the hole in the middle of the classroom.

“
S
o what happened to you?” asked the teenage boy in the wheelchair. The nurse who had transferred Harry from his own wheelchair to his new bed at University Hospital's rehabilitation ward had just left.

Harry looked up warily. He was tired, and he didn't see how a quick introduction (“Harry, that's your roommate, Paul Zabriskie. Zee, say hi to Harry Roth”) meant you were instantly best friends with someone. Or maybe they figured fellow cripples would just hit it off automatically, have a great time.

“What do you care, bozo?” he said.

“Oh, I don't, little boy,” drawled Zabriskie. “I just like the sound of my own voice.” Paul Zabriskie was a lanky, narrow-shouldered sixteen-year-old with dead-white skin, a shock of thick, straight black hair on his head, and an amazing expanse of beard shadowing his bony jaw, chin, and cheeks. His legs—scarcely more than bones—stuck out of a pair of shorts beneath a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Harry averted his eyes from them.

“That's good,” he said, after a moment, “because I bet no one else does.”

“Ooohhh,” said Zee. “It's mean.” He worked his mouth and spat, expertly, in the direction of the room's sink, twelve feet away. The spittle arced up and then landed in the corner sink with an audible plop. “He sees his chance,” said Zee. “He aims. He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

Harry grimaced. If he'd felt better he would've spit right in Zee's face.

“You bring anything to read?” asked Zee, wheeling over next to Harry. “There isn't a lot to do in this place. And they've restricted my TV hours. They say I watch too many soaps.”

“Closet,” said Harry. “There're comic books in the milk crates.” He smiled to himself, sardonically.

“Great,” said Zee. He headed for the closet, where nearly every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comic book in existence was stacked in chronological order in two large plastic milk crates.

The collection had been a gift from Harry's father just hours before. In the four weeks since the accident, Rabbi Roth had scoured Boston and Cambridge looking for back issues. He'd then spent many more hours, when he couldn't be at either the hospital with Harry or at the synagogue, putting the comic books in careful order. He had given them to Harry today, on the occasion of Harry's transfer to the rehabilitation center.

“Whoopee,” Harry had said that morning, seeing the milk crates. After examining them for a moment, he had added: “Right. I remember these things. I thought they were really cool—when I was eight. What'd you think—I should read them again now that I'm a mutant too?” Clinically, he'd watched his father pale and turn away. He had hurt his father badly just then. He knew it, and he was glad.

This morning they had attached a catheter drainage bag with tape to Harry's stomach, just above where he'd lost sensation. Harry didn't like it this way. The tape itched. It might be better on his leg where he wouldn't feel it. But would people be able to see it there, bulging through his pants?

He lifted his shirt and looked down cautiously. The bag was getting pretty full. He wished someone would come and change it. He had nightmares about it filling up and bursting, splattering him and God knew who else with urine. Or leaking pungently through his clothes. Or what if the bag was full and didn't burst? What would happen to the pee inside him? Would it back up? Would his bladder explode? No one had said, and Harry couldn't ask.

There had to be information about it on the Internet, or in a book somewhere, but how was he to find it? Even if he went to the hospital's library and used their computers, he wasn't sure he knew how to search properly.

They'd gone on a field trip to the Boston Public Library last year, and the librarian had explained how to use the computers to search for detailed, complex information, the kind you might need for a research paper. There were all kinds of search engines on the Internet, different ones for different kinds of searches. There were also ways to search the library catalogs for books. Of course Harry knew how to find simple things on the Internet, and how to locate a particular book title. But a complicated search like the one he had in mind—where would he even start?