Phantom Limbs (5 page)

Sure. I’ll do that. Right after I kiss my balls goodbye.

“If you’d let me get my license,” I said, pulling my jacket on, “I could drive myself.”

She went back to her papers. “When you get your fifty hours behind the wheel, you can get your license.”

“Nobody cares about that stupid log!” I’d turned sixteen in October — more than six months ago — but the combination of my training schedule and my mom’s reluctance to let me drive in winter conditions meant I still had no license.

“
I
care.” She gave me a pointed look. I met my dad’s eyes; we both knew it was futile to argue with my mom over anything related to child safety. “Keep me posted on where you are,” she said, glancing around for her phone.

The smell of the lilacs hit me as soon as I stepped out into the warm evening. It wasn’t even dark yet; a last remnant of orange glowed at the horizon. Some kids down the street were shooting hoops and trash-talking in the waning light of dusk. It was almost summer.

Lou Reed’s distinctive voice emanated from Dara’s car — one of those poetic, stoned-sounding Velvet Underground songs. We were in the 1960s or 1970s tonight.

Dara sat in the passenger seat, her head tipped back, eyes closed. I peered in at her through the open window. “So what’s going on here?”

“You’re driving,” she said without opening her eyes.

“How come?”

“Guys should know how to drive a stick.”

There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

“The manual transmission is practically obsolete,” I informed her.

“
You’re
obsolete,” she mumbled.

I rolled my eyes and walked around and opened the driver’s-side door. I fastened my seat belt and looked over at Dara. Her head lolled against the window, her eyes still closed.

“Are you drunk?”

She lifted a shoulder.

I gaped at her. “And you
drove
here?”

“God, would you relax? I didn’t drive
you
, did I?”

“So? You could’ve hurt someone!”

I’d seen her drink a beer on countless occasions, but usually just one. I hadn’t considered that maybe it was just the only one I
saw.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Just drive.”

I eased out the clutch as I backed up. I didn’t have a lot of experience driving a stick shift, but Dara had given me a few lessons after I’d gotten my permit. One night last summer, she drove us to the Ascension Cemetery and Mausoleum — thankfully, not the cemetery where Mason was buried. “Cemeteries are perfect for learning to drive,” she had explained. “No one’ll ride your ass for going slow, and you don’t have to worry about hurting anyone — everyone’s already dead.” I struggled with that damn clutch for what seemed like hours, jerking us backward and forward and killing the engine more times than I could count as we both alternated between hollering and laughing hysterically. I wish all of my memories of Dara were as good as that one.

I drove down the street and came to a complete stop at Willow, looking both ways before proceeding. Dara mumbled, “You drive like an old lady.”

“Why’d you leave practice this morning?”

“Oh God. I was freaking out.”

“Why?”

“I think Abby asked me on a date.”

“What?” I tried to keep my eyes on the road. “Why do you think it was a date?”

“Well, duh! Because it’s Abby.” She put her bare feet up on the dashboard. “She asked me to go to a movie, and we’re not even that good of friends. And sometimes she . . .
looks
at me in the locker room. And she always wants to help me with my goggles. And my cap, at meets — she’s always the one to put it on for me.”

“But that’s how she is.” Abby was sort of the mom of the team. I’d always figured she was just being nice to Dara, not that she actually liked her. Liking Dara could be a tall order.

“Also, she touched my left arm.”

I raised my eyebrows. “She touched your stump?”

“Not on the stump, but here,” she said, touching her upper arm. “But nobody’s ever touched that arm except you. And the doctors.”

“What about your dad?”

“Please. He doesn’t touch me,
period
.”

I hated that man. Russian-speaking, mustached, and barrel-chested, he seemed to go through life managing to avoid eye contact almost completely. I mean, I felt sorry for him, losing his wife and all. But, Jesus, Dara lost her
mother
. Man up! He was all Dara had. Except for me, I guessed, but I was hardly a fit parental substitute. Half of the time I couldn’t even figure out how to be her friend.

“Well,” I said, remembering to clutch as I braked for a red light, “maybe she’s just hoping. Or maybe she just wants to be better friends.” I was being circumspect. Of course what I really wanted to know was could Dara be interested in Abby? But I couldn’t ask her outright. At best she’d ignore me, and at worst I’d be holding an ice pack to my nuts all night. “Anyway, you’re graduating in a week,” I pointed out. “Who cares anymore?”

“I don’t want everyone remembering me that way when I’m gone! ‘Dara the dyke’— I can hear it now.”

“It would take the focus off your stump!”

She took a foot off the dashboard and kicked me hard in the arm. “You’re a real asshole, Mueller, you know that?”

“Jeez,” I said, rubbing my arm. “Sorry. I just know you hate being defined by your — by being an amputee.”

I wanted to glance at her to see if I was in for another physical assault, but I had to concentrate; the light was about to turn green, and we were on a slight incline. But she laid her hand on my arm where she’d kicked me and said, “You’re not an asshole. You just know me so well. Sometimes I forget.”

I was so surprised I couldn’t think of anything to say.

The light changed, and as I struggled to find the balance of clutch and accelerator, the car rolled backward. I cursed and sent the car shooting forward by letting up on the clutch too fast. Dara laughed.

“Where am I even going?” I asked.

She shrugged.

So I just kept driving aimlessly, past the library and the fire station, down the stretch of McCormick with all the fast-food offerings, and then up Forestway, which ran along the nature preserve. “What did you say when Abby asked you?”

“I said I was busy.” She shifted in her seat to face me. “Hey. Let’s just go to my house.”

She reached out and laid a hand on my thigh, sliding it upward.

“What are you doing?” I took my hand off the wheel long enough to remove her hand from my leg. Driving a stick was hard enough without having to fend off groping.

“Let’s just do it. We’re both virgins. We could turn that around tonight.”

I looked over at her, baffled. “Are you for real?”

“I just want to know what it’s like! Come on — it won’t take long.”

“Hey,” I said, mildly insulted. “What makes you think —?”

“Once when we were playing the question game, you told me how long it takes you to —”

“Okay, never mind!”
Ugh.
Now that Meg was in the picture, the wickedly private things Dara knew about me made me feel sort of sick. During that same round of our game, Dara had asked what I did with my other hand when I jerked off — sort of a cheap question, since it couldn’t be reciprocated. But I’d answered it. I wished I hadn’t. I wished I could turn back time and take all that private information back.

“Look, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t do it when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk. Come on, we should just do this. Not to point out the obvious, but this”— she waved her stump at me — “is not exactly a dude magnet.”

“Oh, please. It’s not your stump that keeps people away, Dara. It’s you. I mean, you’re cute and pretty and your ass is legendary, but, to be honest, you’re kind of a bitch!”

“Yeah, but that’s not the reason. Do you really think anyone would go out with me with this?” She gestured toward the stump. “People can’t handle it.”

“How would you know? You’ve never given anyone a chance.”

“Well, here’s your chance.”

“I don’t want a chance!”

A small voice in my brain knocked, asking if I was out of my fucking mind, turning down sex. Wouldn’t it be good to have some clue what I was doing, for possible future situations? For an instant I imagined a skilled, confident version of myself bringing Meg to quaking heights of ecstasy with my staggering arsenal of lovemaking skills. But nothing — not my hormones, insecurities, or general cloudy judgment — could talk me into thinking sex with Dara was a good idea.

“Anyway,” I said, glancing over at her, “if you’re going to do it, you should do it with someone who knows what he’s doing. I don’t exactly see a lot of action.”

“Other than with yourself.” She had a way of teasing — part cute, part loaded gun — and I never knew where the balance was going to tip.

“Other than with myself,” I conceded, “and even I don’t think I’m that great.”

That wasn’t true. When I had the privacy, time, and ambition, I actually found myself to be quite excellent. But I didn’t want to talk to her about that stuff anymore. Suddenly it felt . . . inappropriate.

I pulled over onto a side street, parking in front of a string of cookie-cutter McMansions with ridiculously manicured and lit-up lawns. I flicked the gear into neutral, then pulled up the parking brake. “What’s this all about, Dara? Really?”

Instead of answering, she leaned over and grabbed me, pulling my face to hers in a hard kiss.

“Stop it,” I said softly, pulling back.

“Who’s gay now?” she said, enveloping me in a plume of alcohol fumes.

“Right. I’m gay. You found me out.”

She moved back to her side, staring out the window. Her face was ungodly pale in the light of a streetlamp. She closed her eyes. Holy shit, was she about to cry?

I had never — not once — seen Dara shed tears. Not even in the throes of phantom limb pain so bad that
I
could hardly stand it.

I hesitated, then decided to take a chance. I reached out to her across the gearshift, half expecting her to punch me. But she leaned over and collapsed into me, pressing her face into my chest.

We sat like that till Dara suddenly hiccupped violently, which got us both laughing.

We went to El Grande Taco — a cheap, dimly lit, hole-in-the-wall of a Mexican restaurant, and I took advantage of Dara’s preoccupied and semi-drunk condition by ordering a giant chile relleno burrito that oozed with so much cheese it made me giddy. Dara ordered a Dr Pepper and nachos and proceeded to eat salsa verde straight, dispensing it from a squeeze bottle onto a spoon.

This was yet another in a series of simple motions requiring colossal effort for a one-armed person. She propped the spoon on a few carefully arranged tortilla chips, then squeezed the salsa onto it. She then set the bottle down, lifted the spoon to her mouth, and repeated. Because she still had the hiccups, occasionally the whole spoonful sloshed onto the sticky vinyl tablecloth before it could make it into her mouth.

Watching was painful. I’d tried being one-armed a few times in the privacy of my home, just to see what it was like — doubling my arm up in my sleeve so I couldn’t use it — and it was just a matter of minutes before I felt like shooting myself.

Our waitress reappeared as we were finishing up. “Can I get you anything else?” She wore a snug, low-cut T-shirt that framed her magnificent cleavage. They were a sight to behold, those breasts — jostling and beguiling whenever she poured water or set something down.

“Uh, no, just the check,” I said, staring hard into her eyes to prevent my gaze drifting south and scorching my retinas. Dara’s eyes, however, were glued to the splendor, at which point I found watching Dara more interesting than watching the breasts.

When the bill came, Dara pushed her purse at me. I opened it, and as usual it was a mess of crumpled bills — even some hundreds. She had no shortage of cash, that was for sure — something you’d never guess by the car she drove.

On the way home, she fell asleep in the car, despite my jerky driving. I walked her up the front steps and let her lean on me as she punched in the security code and opened the door. I handed her the car keys and gently pushed her inside. I’d have to walk home, but it was nice enough out that I didn’t mind. And I could probably use the help digesting the metric ton of cheese I’d just consumed.

“Mueller?” she said suddenly, swiveling back around and leaning out the crack of the door.

I waited, but she didn’t say anything. “You want me to come in?” I asked.

She glanced down and lifted a shoulder. Her version of
yes, thank you.

“Okay,” I said, stepping inside. “But behave yourself,” I added, in case she had sex on her mind.

She rolled her eyes, closing the door behind us. She dropped her keys next to a marble sculpture of some dude’s head on a polished mahogany table in the foyer.

Dara’s house reeked of wealth. It was modern — lots of shiny surfaces and abstract art — and sometimes there were cleaning ladies working. My modest split-level house was small by comparison — cozy, my mom called it. And it was kind of outdated — midcentury modern, my dad called it. And my mom did the cleaning (except for the laundry and ironing, which was my dad’s inexplicably happy domain), although about once a month Mom went ballistic and made us all do “deep cleaning,” which meant organizing closets or shampooing carpets and stuff like that. When she got this way, my dad would say to me quietly, “The smart money’s on shut up and do it.” He didn’t have to tell me twice — not when Mom was stomping around talking about not being our goddamned personal servant and reminding us what century this was.

I followed Dara into the kitchen, which was lit only by the light of the hood range over a granite island the approximate size of Manhattan. Empty beer bottles littered the counter, and next to the sink sat a half-eaten frozen dinner, which made me feel awful. My mom was a great cook, and her part-time work-from-home job writing a medical newsletter gave her plenty of time to pursue her culinary interests. And here my motherless friend was home alone eating TV dinners.

Dara took a can of soda out of the fridge and opened a bottle of pills.