Caleb continued. “But then, I saw that was a lie. Because what comes after? Nothing. And nothing’s worse than at least fighting. Fighting whatever demons.”
Phoenix laid back and closed his eyes. Shit, he was on their side, too.
“Part of me thinks your accident was my fault. Like the universe making you save someone because someone saved me.”
“Nah, stop it,” Phoenix said, his voice hoarse.
“Maybe I’m wrong to tell you this. Mom probably wouldn’t want me to talk about it at all. But listen, if fucked-up me can make something of myself, well, look at you, with your degrees and brains and all those badass ad ideas. You’ve got more going on than ninety-nine percent of the population who have their legs and arms.”
Phoenix rolled over, pressing into his pillow, throat closing in on him. His mind was a jumble, the meds he needed making it even more confused. He couldn’t see Caleb’s perspective. He saw a wheelchair, obstacles in every staircase, rotating door, and curb, stares of pity and horror, and the pathos of not being able to look at himself.
Caleb kept talking. He persuaded. He cajoled. Phoenix couldn’t listen.
Intheevening, Sascha replaced Phoenix’s brother. She sported flamboyant red latex Saran-wrapped around her short, curvy figure.
She sat on Phoenix’s hospital bed instead of the vinyl visitor’s chair which would probably adhere to her plastic-wear. The thought made him laugh. The sound, erupting with air like a choke, was rusty, unheard of in the past dark days.
“So, luv,” she said, cupping his cheek to kiss it. “Sorry it’s been rough.” Her light touch smoothed a little part of the hurt inside.
She produced neatly folded clothes from her shiny backpack. With her head-to-toe synthetics, she’d stay dry in a monsoon.
“You’ll feel better in these,” she said, shaking out dress pants and a dark linen button-down. He didn’t take the familiar articles from his wardrobe. “You want a hand, or do you want me to give you some privacy?”
He stared at her. “You’re smarter than this. You think clothes are going to make a one-handed guy better?”
“It’s not for you. It’s for me. I like going out with a well-dressed man.”
He turned his face away, the thought of going out anathema.
“Aw, honey, try for me, okay?”
He lay still, eyes closed, for long minutes. He tested the paths of his thinking. There was no flaw in his conclusion. No one needed him. Most days, the pain was unbearable. There was no point in pressing himself, no point in forcing others to try to do for him. He got that other people in his situation needed to keep going. They had children, responsibilities, people who counted on them.I have no one.
Then Sascha laid a warm hand on his. She applied a little pressure.Hey, I’m here, the friendly motion seemed to say. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.
He felt his lungs fill and empty in a pattern that said in no uncertain terms that he was still alive. Even a train couldn’t kill him. Little by little, Sascha’s connection brought him from the dark path of his thoughts to the concrete present, into the room that was his prison.
Phoenix had always had a soft spot for Sascha. The pit in which he languished had no foothold up. Yet for her, he opened his eyes.
“Can I do anything for you?” she asked, hazel irises piercing his. Her dark gaze reminded him of Orchid.
He pushed to a sitting stance. Maybe action would erase the memories. “Help me with the buttons, okay?”
“Sure, luv. You want your leg?” she asked, pointing at the temporary prosthesis next to his bed.
She helped him with everything, from liners to leg, buttons to belt, until he felt nearly whole—only seated.
“You know I’m not allowed out? I’m on a suicide watch.”
She shot him a pointed look. “Promise me not to do anything rash and I’ll sneak you out the service elevator. I’ve got the place scoped out, and Caleb’s told your mom I’m watching you.” With her there, taking charge, putting him back together, his rash impulses simmered rather than raged.
“You are something,” he said.
In between shifts as the nurses talked, around the corner out of their sight, Sascha guided Phoenix to the right, away from their station. The two fugitives rode down the padded elevator and wheeled out the wide revolving door.
“See? No problem, and there’s no lie. I am watching you.” Sascha bent to whisper in his ear, voice giddy from their successful escape.
The night air kickstarted his brain. He’d forgotten there was anything other than the repetitive struggle of rehab, living in an institution, and his family treating him like bone china in bubble wrap. Here shined the contrast of streetlights against dark skies, and yellow taxis against neon-signed storefronts. He stood and slid into the front seat of her Fiat, just as Nadine had taught him. Sascha folded up his chair and whisked it away into her trunk without any questions.
