Traffick (26 page)

work on floor-to-wheelchair transfers?

“Really? That's the best you can do?

Aren't you even going to ask if I'm okay?”

I'm not really pissed, and he knows it.

Will that make you feel better? Okay,

you okay, Cody? Now shut up and get

to work. Pull the chair up behind you,

and lock the wheels this time. Right

hand on the chair frame, left flat on

the floor. Remember, the farther

forward your head goes, the higher

your ass goes. One. Two. Three.

That's it! First try. Now, the other way.

For ten minutes. Floor to chair.

Chair to floor. When he says I

can quit, my arms are sore and

I'm winded. “Damn, man. I need

aerobic exercise. I feel like a smoker

on a bad air quality day in Beijing.”

I hear that's every day in Beijing.

Until you get there, you'll be able

to work out your lungs at the new

hospital. By the way, I went to school

with one of the PTs there. Mandy's hot.

I figured you'd appreciate it if I made

sure you'll get to work with her.

She doesn't take shit, either.

You're a match made in heaven.

“Are you saying I give you shit?

Okay, maybe I do sometimes.

But no more than you deserve.”

Federico tsks.
Listen to you. That's

the thanks I get for the vast amount

of hard work I've invested in you?

“Dude. Who's doing the work here?”

Wow. Despite his grumbling,

I think I'm going to miss this guy.

Carolyn comes in dressed in zebra-

striped scrubs. “Interesting pattern

there. Enough to cross my eyes.”

I thought it might distract you

while I take out the Foley. You

still want it removed, yes?

I nod. Since I've been here,

a Foley catheter has resided

in my penis, automatically

draining urine into a bag beside

the bed. After an SCI, two things

can happen to your bladder. Either

it will empty itself, all on its own,

and whether or not you want it to

(jeez, just picture
that
, out on a date

or something!), or it doesn't know

when
to go, and you've got to remind

it. After a thorough workup, my doctors

concluded my bladder is the second

kind, and I've got to encourage it to

empty several times a day. I want to be

mobile, which means I'll have to insert

a tube into my joystick (not that it's so

joyful anymore) so I can use a toilet

instead of wearing a piss bag on my leg.

At least, I'm going to give it a try.

Carolyn extracts the Foley. Not sure

if it would hurt if my urethra could

feel something, but it can't, so there's

zero pain. Once, the process would

have embarrassed me, but I've kind of

gotten used to health-care professionals

poking, prodding, manipulating,

and otherwise studying my not-so-

private parts. Once upon a time,

that might have turned me on.

Maybe it still does, not that I'd know

without looking, and that would be

perverted. Carolyn gives nothing

away.
Okay. Now I'll show you

the do-it-yourself routine. Always,

always, wash your hands before you

touch anything. That's good advice

for everyone, but for you, it's imperative.

Last thing you want is an infection.

As always, she is matter-of-fact, and

that's exactly how she demonstrates

intermittent catheterization.

So much to understand

about the myriad ways

my life has changed.

I'm still swinging between

denial and acceptance, but

the former comes less often.

Before the incident, I knew

a little about SCI—I watched

Superman movies when I was

a kid, and heard the guy

who played him fell off

his horse and wouldn't ever

go flying again. Now,

the Christopher & Dana

Reeve Foundation is a font

of information on SCI, not

to mention a funding stream

for nonprofits that provide

services to people like me.

So thank you, Superman,

for your personal sacrifice.

I've learned a lot from

the foundation's website

and others like it, and what

the best of them offer

is not only resources, but

the knowledge that I'm not

alone, and that other people

with injuries much worse

than mine have risen above

denial, and even acceptance,

all the way to proving common

wisdom about spinal cord injury

wrong. It was Ronnie who

introduced me to them. Ronnie

who brought me a laptop

to investigate them. I'd pawned

my own when things began

to cartwheel out of control.

I asked if she didn't need

her laptop for school.

She said not to worry, her dad

would get her another one.

Wonder if he'll get pissed.

Wonder if he knows what

happened to the old one.

Wonder if he knows

what happened to the old me.

To check on out of here—my hospital

home away from home for months.

Ronnie comes in with some clothes.

Got these from your mom. She'll be

here in a while to sign you out.

She would've brought them herself . . .

“Is there a ‘but' attached to the end

of that sentence?” Ronnie moves

closer, looks at me with concerned

eyes. Eyes the shade of . . . violets?

“Purple contacts? That's, um, unique.”

Ronnie changes eye color regularly.

She grins.
Yeah. They make me look

exotic, don't you think?
Now she grows

serious.
Anyway, I guess they're releasing

your brother from detention. Your mom

had to take care of some paperwork.

Meanwhile, I can help you get dressed.

Cory. Man. I've been so focused

on myself, I've hardly even thought

about him. “Jesus. Has it been that long?

Poor Mom. Like she deserves something

else to worry about.” Hospitals. Lockup.

Paperwork. Bills. Her job. And now,

trying to keep Cory in school,

and out of the liquor cabinet.

“Mom's going to need my help.”

Yep. And the best way to help

her at the moment is for you to get

dressed and check into the new

facility. This is prime time for you

to get stronger, and they are experts

at that. By the way, Vince dropped

your car off and Leon says he can

have it finished in a couple of weeks.

You'll be on the road again in no time.

On the road. Freedom. A measure

of independence. Except . . . “Ronnie,

I don't know how we'll pay for it.”

Don't worry. It won't be that much,

and I've been looking into grants.

If all else fails, we'll crowdsource it.

“Have I mentioned you're an angel?

A stubborn, demanding, purple-eyed

angel? And have I told you lately

how very much I love you? More

and more every day. Kiss me. Please?”

My angel kisses like she's possessed.

I'm out of the ridiculous hospital

gown and comfortably dressed,

Mom hustles in, worry evident

on her face. “Everything okay?

What's up with Cory?” Ronnie

excuses herself in case the conversation

should remain private. Mom waits

for her to go, then says,
He's out, in

an intensive supervision program,

meaning he has to wear a monitoring

device and submit to regular drug tests.

To qualify, he has to reside within

GPS range and attend school at

the detention center, plus there's

a community service requirement,

so it looks like you're safe from

Kansas, at least for the near future.

I don't know, Cody. Cory's distant.

Sullen. I'd hoped the experience would

make him appreciate what he has,

but I think it only made him colder.

Yeah, lockup will do that to a kid.

“Give him time, Mom. He'll come

around.” I hope. “Where is he now?”

Home with his ankle bracelet.

I asked if he wanted to visit you,

but he said no. He's scared to see

you, not that he'd admit it. Under

that tough exterior, he's a child,

and the idea of your disability

is hard for him to accept. In his

eyes, you've always been invincible.

If you're not, he isn't either.

“Makes sense, I guess.” Little shit.

If I can put up with it, he'd better.

“You sure he's okay alone?”

Not really. But life has to go on,

doesn't it? Best I can do is support

him, and let him know I love him.

Man, she looks beat down.

I wish I knew how to help her.

“Hey, Mom? As soon as I get out

of the rehab hospital, I'll find

a job. We'll make this work, one

way or another, okay? I want you

to be able to rely on me, the way

I've relied on you.” No pressure

there, Cody. None at all.

By Carolyn, Federico, and Doctor

Harrison, who's taken time from

her busy schedule to say goodbye.

I demonstrate a bed-to-wheelchair

transfer, brakes on, and everyone

seems suitably impressed, including

Ronnie, who has joined the farewell

party. She helps Mom gather my few

belongings as Carolyn hands me

a paper sack.
Disposable catheters

and a cupcake.
I peek inside the bag.

She isn't kidding.
I expect updates.

Federico hugs me.
I'll be stopping

by to check up on you, not to mention

Mandy. Did I tell you she's hot?

“Hey, dude. My girlfriend's standing

right there, you know, and she's got

one hell of a temper.” The mood is light,

but the implications of my leaving

are sobering. I've largely been taken

care of here, and while I'll still have

plenty of help in the coming months,

I have to stand up (figuratively, if nothing

else) and take responsibility for my future.

Who's determined to show me

wheelchair-to-automobile transfers,

I maneuver said chair down the corridor

and through the door into the parking

lot. “Oh, man. It's bright out here!”

I've been under artificial illumination

for so long, my eyes fight accepting

the mild December sunlight. City

fumes hang heavily in the tepid air,

but beneath them is a the smell of

desert, much better than antiseptic.

Mom's cramped car won't accommodate

me comfortably. Ronnie's new SUV

is a better fit, not to mention a surprise.

“When did you get this? It's sick.”

Three weeks ago. Daddy said

my old car was an embarrassment.

What was I going to do, argue?

Federico laughs.
I want a daddy

like yours. Is he into adoption?

He oversees the transfer, watches

me buckle myself in before

shaking my hand.
You're gonna

do great. Go kick some ass.

It's a phrase tossed around

thoughtlessly, but as we weave

through streets, familiar and not,

I ponder it. Cory kicked some

woman's ass for no real reason

other than he could. I doubt

getting his own ass kicked by

the system mitigated the wide

stripe of mean inside that boy.

That bastard Chris kicked my ass

before his bullet kicked it worse.

Kicked it forever numb. Ronnie

pulls up in front of a modern

stucco building, rolls my wheelchair

around the side of her new car.

I manage the transfer unaided

and we go inside, where it smells

like fresh fir thanks to the tall

Christmas tree in reception.

After Mom signs the admission