“No, I just don’t want to see—”
“You look fine,” she lied. “You’re still you,” she insisted. He was in too much pain to argue.
She looked like hell. Caleb looked even worse than when Dad died. Which meant Phoenix’s half-state between life and death was worse than death.
His mother and brother spent the day taking turns bringing him any small measure of comfort. They helped Phoenix adjust his position, poured him cool drinks, and encouraged him to eat. His mom punctuated the periods when he was awake by reading aloud his correspondences. She skipped business emails to share personal notes from friends and colleagues. Sincere if stuttered expressions of sympathy, especially the impossibility of “get well soon,” left Phoenix feeling worse. It reminded him of a world that kept going, even if he might never rejoin it.
Mom skipped from emails and texts over to photos on his phone.
“Who’s this?” she asked, showing him a selfie that Orchid had taken of the two of them.
They looked happy. Ignorance is bliss.If only she knew, what would she think?A lump rose in his throat when he didn’t want to feel anything.
“Who is this?”
“Orchid,” he said.
“Is she a friend?” Mom’s eyes scanned the pic again.
“Someone I know from work.”
“She looks like more than a co-worker,” she said, squinting at Orchid’s dimpled cheek pressed against his.
“At one point, it looked like that might be the case.”
“Does she know about your accident?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Do you want to call her?”
“No.”
Mom leaned back at the sharpness in his tone. “Text?”
“No. She’s in China,” he said, as if that were an adequate excuse.
“You sure?”
“I’m positive. And I’m tired.” He turned, closing his eyes. Would there be more reminders of Orchid?Hope not. There’s no point.
Aknock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
A sturdy woman in dark blue scrubs entered, pushing a wheelchair.
He couldn’t help but stare at the hulking contraption.
She introduced herself with a firm handshake and explained she’d come to help him to the bathroom and would first remove his catheter.
“Is that something I could do . . . myself?” he mumbled.
She beamed. “Nope. My specialty.”
Caleb led their mom to the window, giving Phoenix a small measure of privacy.
The nurse pushed the bed’s plastic handrail down out of the way. She smelled like antiseptic soap and talked as she worked.
“This wheelchair is a one-handed model,” she explained. “It’s set up as an amputee chair, weighted so that it won’t tip back.”Amputee chair? Does she have any sense how much it sucks to need a wheelchair, much less a one-handed amputee one?
