Scar Tissue(14)

Red fingernails unbutton his shirt. He touches her neck, traces the curves of her chest. Hoists himself up enough for her to tug off his pants.

"I should give you a sponge bath." Close-up of her nibbling on the tip of a finger. "But I forgot my sponge. Whatever will I do?" She begins kissing her way down his torso. He can feel the light pressure of her lips, the warmth of her breath. So sweetly familiar. It's all he wants. He can feel it at his collarbone. At the hollow in his chest. At his navel.

And then he can't.

To her credit, she spends a long minute trying anyway.

When she looks up, he realizes he's not the only one crying. There's a terrible moment when they stare at each other, and then she covers her mouth with her hand, jerks to her feet and rushes for the door.

The camera pulls out slow on the man alone in his chair.





#





The blood-red in the sunset had given way to the pastel colors of those candy hearts you see around Valentine's Day.

"You said that if we were married, it was all or nothing." I took a deep breath. Afraid of what was coming. "That you didn't want to go the same way your parents had."

She nodded, still not looking at me. With a flick of her forefinger she sent the cigarette spinning bright into the shadows below.

The muscles of my chest tightened. All I'd wanted, and I'd had it for so short a time. "Has that changed?" I bit my lip, took a breath thick with fecund river smells. "Do you want a…a…" I couldn't say it. That word, it's like a home invader, a ski-masked freak in your living room. Once the possibility has been acknowledged, it never goes away. It becomes part of your reality, and you wake up sweating at night sounds forever.

She spun. Her eyes flashed, and I could see beads of sweat on her upper lip. "No. I don't want a divorce. You know better than that."

I let myself breathe. Our relationship had been forged of desire, a fantasy kingdom of want. But since the accident, we'd lived in a world of one-sided need. Selfish or not, there it was. "Look. This place…it hits a little too close to home."

She shook her head as if to clear it, and moved behind me to take the handles of the chair. "Maybe it'd be better if I did want a divorce. Easier on both of us. But I'm," her voice caught, "I'm just not wired that way."

"Me either." Was I telling the truth? Would I stick with her if our roles were reversed? I really don't know. I just know I was relieved.

"Do you love me?"

"Of course." I struggled to turn around and touch her hands. The easiest way to see someone pushing your wheelchair is to tilt your head backwards, but there's no dignity in it. You're always staring up their nostrils. "Of course I do."

"I love you too, baby." Pamela smiled at me, that secret laced with darkness, the secret she never shared. Then she took a deep breath and shoved the chair towards the edge of the bridge.





#





On our wedding night, the bed rocked and shuddered halfway across the room.

When we were done, Pamela flopped on top of me, her dark hair draping my chest. I lay motionless, still inside her, feeling her every breath like it was me drawing air. Our skin pressed tight, our sweat ran together, our bodies connected, and I literally couldn't tell where I ended and she began.





#





Gravel popped as my chair lurched forward. "Stop!"

The front edges of the wheels hung in open air. Vertigo squeezed my stomach. Thirty feet below, the concrete base of the bridge struts loomed. Even if I missed them, the water was deep. I couldn't keep myself afloat, not with half my body waterlogged and useless.

Behind me, I heard her sob as she bent forward, braced herself, and pushed.

The chair jumped four inches before my flailing hands found the tires. Hardened rubber burned my palms. Gravel slid over the side, hung in silence, and then clattered against the concrete below.

"Stop!" My fingers locked like steel clamps. "Jesus!" The breeze seemed to tug at my dangling feet. My arms were strong from months of maneuvering the chair, and I forced the wheels to reverse, but they skidded ineffectually in the loose ballast.

Fuck dignity. I looked backwards, staring at her upside down, trying to understand what was happening, hoping for some answer in her eyes, some hint this was a joke.

People talk about love at first sight, but what they really mean is recognition. You look in someone's eyes, could be anyone, a childhood friend or a stranger waiting for the bus, and in an instant, things are different. Like they've pulled aside a curtain and let you look deeper than flesh.

What you see depends on who—and where—you are.

When I saw what was in her eyes, I let go of the wheels.

In the sudden absence of resistance, we leapt forward, the chair cresting over the rim of the bridge and starting to fall, the river rushing upwards. Just as it went over, I thought, forgive me, baby, and then I twisted my torso as hard as I could and flopped sideways out of the wheelchair, my body slapping against the bridge edge like meat.