Scar Tissue(13)
Pamela stood on the very edge of the bridge, arms out, chest forward, blue horizon behind, nothing but the breeze and my prayers between her and a thirty-foot plummet to the brown river below.
Like she were cut from the sky.
#
"Of course I remember." My voice sounded harsher than I meant for it to. But lots of things don't turn out how we intend.
Pamela acted like she hadn't heard, her eyes locked on the river below. She squatted, then sat on the edge of the bridge, her legs dangling. "It was a beautiful day. Spring."
"I know." My hands shook, and I wasn't sure if it was due to effort or memory.
"It was like something from a myth." She reached in her pocket and took out her cigarettes. The smoking was new. I hated it, but under the circumstances, I couldn't begrudge her. With her right hand, she snapped a lighter, held it to her cupped palms. Took a deep drag and then blew a stream of smoke. "We burst out of the forest to this place, and it was like nothing else existed. Just you and me at the end of the world." She shook her head, took another inhale. "You came up behind and put your arms around me and pulled me away from the edge. We made love—" she looked around, pointed, "there, right on the tracks. Waiting to feel a train coming. You had gravel burns on your back for a week. And when we were done, you asked me to marry you. You remember what I said?"
I choked back battery acid. Looked down at my hands, folded in my lap, atop my ruined body. "I remember."
#
We'd been married for almost a year. The morning it happened, we had been screaming at each other. We didn't fight often, but when we did, you could have sold tickets.
It made sense. All we wanted was everything all the time.
I slammed the door as I left for work, but the battle kept raging in my head. I marshaled arguments to defend myself, launched the imaginary salvoes I thought most devastating. I was right in the middle of saying how tired I was of her divorce issues when the number seventy-two bus sheared off the back half of the Chrysler.
It's not like TV, with attractive doctors and snappy banter. In truth, I don't remember much. The rotting-flower stink of antiseptics. A bright light and a sense of motion around me, like a rock in the midst of rapids. Opening my eyes to see Pamela in a cracked orange chair at the foot of the bed. Her fingers squeezing my toes, eyes a million miles away. And then noticing that I couldn't feel her touch.
Funny thing is, I don't remember what we'd been fighting about.
#
I could still have a fulfilling life, the doctor told me. True, I would be in the wheelchair. I'd lost my spleen and one kidney, but my lungs, my heart, they were in fine shape. My dick didn't work and my legs never would. But I had the use of my arms, my mind. There were people worse off.
I said, aren't there always? Is there one poor, crippled, disease-ridden bastard out there that suffers worse than everybody and is allowed to be pissed about it?
The doctor's lips went tight as he said that bitterness was a natural part of the healing process. Then he checked his watch, wished me luck, and held the door for Pamela to wheel me out.
"We can make it, baby," she whispered. But I swore I could hear a question mark at the end of her sentence.
#
This is the bad part.
Before the accident, our world had a population of two. You know those disgusting couples that just draw into one another, that don't seem to even realize other people exist? We were them. And I'm not talking about the early flush of the first months. I'm talking about two solid years. More.
Funny thing about words. You always think you know what they mean, until life kicks the context out from underneath you. Same way every pop song turns into poetry when you're in the middle of a breakup—you see all that pain that you never connected to before.
Take the phrase, "I need you." There was a time those words might kick off a romp that could get us arrested in some states. We said "need" when we meant "want." Same as the kid looking for a new stereo.
It was only after the accident that I learned what "I need you" really means.
#
I need you to tie my shoes.
I need you to drive me to work.
No. Please no.
I need you to help me off the toilet.
#
Here's an ugly little home movie I'd rather not remember.
Establishing shot. A man sits in a wheelchair. His fingers clench nervously.
A door opens. A woman in a parody of a nurse's uniform struts in. A preposterously short white skirt reveals pale lace stockings. She closes the door with a theatrical flourish. "Good morning, Mr. Johnson."
His expression twists with desire.
She sways over and puts a hand against his forehead. Zoom in on her blouse, barely buttoned, breasts straining against the fabric. "Oh, Mr. Johnson. You're burning up!" Makeup exaggerates her pout. "I need to cool you down immediately."