then reach over and tap his leg.
Brendan, jeez, he says, sitting up so suddenly he bumps his head on the headboard of his bed. What’re you doing here?
I look at him closely.
Whoa dude, I heard you lost an eye.
I did, Felix says. He points to his right eye. It’s acrylic.
That’s freaking amazing, I say. Think I could get some acrylic legs?
He smiles, but like most of my attempts at
handicap humor it’s followed by an awkward silence.
So do you still smoke weed? I ask.
Not so much, he says. Kind of lost the taste for it.
Yeah, I know. I’m not too into drinking anymore.
I don’t tell him that drinking alcohol
pretty much sucks,
since it means using the
catheter a hell of a lot more.
Plus it’s much easier to pop a pill
than pour a drink when you’re in a wheelchair.
So why are you here? Felix asks.
Uh, I begin, I guess I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.
He looks at me, shaking his head,
but I forge on.
Yeah, I’m sorry about what happened, to you, to everyone. I was a dick, and if I could take back . . .
Felix interrupts me.
Shut up, Brendan, he says. You weren’t the only one. We all messed up, and a bunch of stuff happened, kind of like a chain reaction. Or one of those Rube Goldberg contraptions.
I have no idea what the fuck
he’s talking about.
My face must’ve showed it,
because Felix laughs.
Okay, so you remember that old board game that was popular when we were kids, called Mouse Trap? I nod. Well, that night was like Mouse Trap. Yeah, you were a dick, I was too stoned, Chloe was a klutz, and Emma, well, Emma was Emma. And then there was a crazy dude with a shotgun.
I stare at him, then suddenly smile.
Nice. Way to sum up, I say.
Thanks, says Felix. Feel like some guacamole?
Sure, I say.
It’s the weirdest thing, he says leading me down the hall. But ever since I woke up I’m always craving guacamole.
He clears a chair from the kitchen table
so I can pull my wheelchair up to it.
I watch while he halves
a couple of avocadoes.
And then he starts smashing them into a bowl,
squeezing lime into them.
He looks like a real pro, chopping jalapeños
neatly dicing a large red onion.
It’s so flipping weird to have only one eye cry, Felix says, wiping onion tears from his left eye.
He opens a bag of tortilla chips
and pours them into a bowl.
My parents are getting divorced, Felix says out of the blue.
I don’t know what to say.
That’s a bummer, I finally manage.
Actually, no, it’s a good thing, he says. My dad is pretty fucked up.
Been there, I say.
Yeah, I know, he says.
He pushes the bowls of guacamole
and chips toward me.
I take a big scoop
and stuff it in my mouth.
Holy shit, this is great, I say.
I take another big mouthful
and smile.
Best damn guac I’ve had, I say. You should open a restaurant.
Maybe I will, he says. I’ll call it One Eye Cry.
Excellent, I say.
Thursday, January 6
CHLOE
“And the Question Is: Why Do I Care?”
My dad has been calling me
a lot more regularly, which is
really nice.
He even invited me to California
for spring break
which seems like a long way away,
but I’m psyched.
He also texted me a picture
of my little half sister,
who is actually really cute,
and said she’s excited to meet me.
He asks a lot about working
at the hospital. And I tell him stories,
like the one about an old lady
named Iris who’s so sweet,
but usually thinks I’m either
her daughter or Hillary Clinton.
I mean, Hillary? She might, at least,
think I’m Chelsea. Which makes Dad laugh,
and then I couldn’t believe it,
but out of the blue he suggests
that I think about applying to nursing school,
instead of Illinois State.
That he thinks I’m smart
pretty much blows my mind.
Then I tell him about this friend
of mine who I’m not that close to
but who I’m worried about,
worried that he might be
abusing drugs.
So my dad asks a few questions
And gives me some advice.
Mostly it helps just to talk about it
with someone.
But I’m still worried.
Monday, January 10
BRENDAN
I’m in my room, at my desk,
trying to concentrate on homework.
All my teachers came up with packets of stuff,
so I can graduate in June.
Math I can do, straightforward, uncomplicated.
But it’ll be a miracle if I pass English.
What am I saying? It’s not like anyone is
actually going to fail the crip in the wheelchair.
There’s a knock at the door
but before I can say anything,
Dad walks right in.
He’s got a piece of paper in his hand.
Good news, son, he says. Just heard from Sanford Weems, my buddy on the board at Princeton. Says here that as long as you can muster a 3.5, you have a decent chance of getting in.
I stare at the paper in his hand.
You did remind old Sanford that I’m not quite as good at lacrosse as I used to be? I say.
He gives a grunt.
Mitigating circumstances, he says. Fortunately you test well, like me.
I take a deep breath, set down my pen,
and clear my throat.
I’m not applying to Princeton, Dad, I say.
Of course you are, he says.
No, I’m not. I’m applying to schools in Colorado and whichever one takes me, I’m going.
Dad looks at me,
his eyes boring into mine.
Listen son, I didn’t raise you to be a quitter. Keep your eye on the prize and you can accomplish anything you set out to.
I’m not quitting anything. I just want to go to school in Colorado.
Because it’s easier, because you can get by on minimum effort, he says, moving closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. Listen up, Brendan. Here’s a quote by an athlete who lost a leg in a roadside bombing in Afghanistan. “You are only limited by the limits you put on yourself.”
I nod.
That’s a great quote, Dad. Inspiring. But I’ve made a decision. I’m only applying to schools in Colorado.
You’re going to Princeton.
I’m not, I say.
Then you’re doing it on your own dime.
Fine. I’ll get student loans.
We are only about two feet apart
and I can smell his rage.
He wants to hit me so bad it’s killing him.
But he can’t.
Because of the
wheelchair.
Fine. Pay for Colorado yourself. I’m done, he spits out.
And he stalks out of the room,
slamming the door behind him.
Friday, January 14
MAXIE
They say it is the coldest winter in
eighty years.
And I believe it.
Colorado is cold,
but in Colorado
you’d get
12 inches of snow
and subzero temps
and the next day
it’d be
40 degrees
and sunny.
This January in Illinois
the bone-chilling weather is
unrelenting.
Gray frigid day
followed by
gray frigid day.
One day it even plummets to
25 degrees
below zero.
Wind chill
70 below.
They close the public schools
and people are cautioned
to stay indoors.
The North Shore Channel,
a drainage canal
built at the beginning
of the century,
which runs all the way from
Wilmette Harbor
to the
Chicago River
in the city,
freezes solid, the first time
that has happened
in anyone’s memory.
In the days that follow,
when the temperature
rises by a few degrees,
but is still double digits
below freezing,
a Mr. Artie Phelps
gets the idea
to set up ice-skating on the
North Shore Channel.
Mr. Phelps is the type of
fanatical dad
who fills his backyard every winter
with a homemade
skating rink,
for his kids and all the kids
in the neighborhood.
So he takes his mini Zamboni
down to the North Shore Channel,
smoothing
and grooming for a
good
long
way.
My dad is friends with Artie Phelps
and has always been crazy about
ice-skating,
so on a Friday night
he convinces Mom and me
to come check it out.
One of the haiku that
Zander gave me
is about
winter and
cold and
ice,
so even though I’m not a
big ice-skating fan,
I say yes.
A frozen night
skating the North Shore Channel
is about as far as you can get
from a hot summer night
of guns and blood and horror.
And at this point
in my life,
that is a
very
good
thing.
BRENDAN
One of the less obvious and unexpected drawbacks
of being paralyzed is how mind-blowingly cold you get.
Especially when it’s
freaking 25 degrees below.
The key, I found out in chat rooms for
us spinal cord injury folks, is layering.
At least three layers,
and I’m talking about indoors.
I’ve also learned fun stuff like where to keep
my wallet, the best way to insert a catheter,
how to avoid pressure sores,
and if I’ll ever have an erection again. (No.)
My dad isn’t talking to me much
since I said no to his alma mater.
But my mom surprises me
one afternoon during the cold snap.
I’m in the kitchen, having a sandwich,
when she comes in from bridge.
Instead of giving me the usual kiss on the forehead
and gliding on by, she stops.
She sits at the table with me
and in a soft voice tells me there is money.
Funds in a family trust that have been set aside
for education and she is the executor.
It is yours if you need it, she says, no matter where you choose to go.
I am in shock and don’t even have a chance
to respond before she stands,
kisses me on the forehead,
and glides out of the kitchen.
On Friday night I’m working on the application
for University of Colorado.
Suddenly Bobby appears in my doorway,
dangling a pair of ice skates in his hand.
Did you hear about the North Shore Channel? he says.
I shake my head.
It’s frozen solid and some guy took a Zamboni out on it. Let’s go!
Sorry, bro, I say, not meeting his eyes, but I’ve got these applications . . .
You promised, he says. Besides, he adds with a big grin, I’m pretty sure it’s National Take Your Little Brother Ice-Skating Day.
And even though the last thing I want to do
is make a fool of myself,
Okay, I say.
MAXIE
I’m amazed by
how many
people there are
gathered at the
frozen channel.
Word must’ve spread
and the whole thing
has turned into this
impromptu
winter festival.
Someone has set up benches
and there are
torches
as well as a bunch of
bonfires
lining the sides
of the canal.
There is even a
little stand selling
doughnuts
and watery
hot chocolate
with mini marshmallows.
The Bahai Temple,
which during the day
looks like a garish
alien spacecraft
that has landed
in the middle of the Chicago suburbs,
tonight looms over the channel—
a magnificent
and exotic
fairy-tale palace,
all lit up,
white
and
gleaming.
We three skate for a while
and then Mom and I
take a breather.
We are standing by a bonfire
crackling in a large metal garbage bin.
I take photos
of skaters,
with the temple
in the background.
I see Chloe Carney,
pink-cheeked and radiant,
glide by with
a few of her friends.
Dad skates over,
bringing us hot chocolate
and I’m blowing
on mine,
to cool it down
a little,
when Brendan Donnelly
whizzes by.
He is being pushed
in his wheelchair
by a younger guy
who looks like
his little brother.
It is too dark to read
Brendan’s face in
the flickering light of
bonfires
and
moonlight,
but his head is thrown back and
he looks different.
Happy.
I hand Mom my hot chocolate