“It’s La Mer. It’s my favorite cream.”
“Is it expensive?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I lie.
I lie because he would die if he knew I was putting two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce cream on his feet. This is my secret and I will keep it to my dying day.
“Your feet deserve nice lotion. When the feeling comes back, and it will come back, your skin is going to be absolutely incredible and you’re going to thank me for it.”
I saywhen. Notif. I say it on purpose and he hears me.
“The moisturizer stays with you.” I point at the bottle. “I’m leaving it here. I’ll do this every time.”
The tears are drying on his cheeks. His eyes are red and his face is a mess. But he’s smiling at me.
The nurse knocks to run me out. “Sorry! Visiting time is over for the evening!”
“Text me when you get home,” he says. “You have my number now. Be careful and watch out for the cops.”
“Don’t worry, I always watch out for those little shits.” I wink at him to show him he’s not included in my cop rant.
“See you tomorrow,” I say. “Same time. Same place.”
I leave, go to my car and immediately pull out my phone. Then I send him a text.
Benji:I’m in the parking lot. Not home yet. You made a big mistake giving me your number. Just thought you should know.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Mickey:Drive safe. Text me when you get there. Watch out for alligators.
Benji:OMG! Is that what the swamp fences are for?
Mickey:I’ll never tell. Do you have a phone holder in your car?
Benji:Yes. Why?
Mickey:Want to keep talking on your way home?
Benji:God, yes.
I snap the phone into the cradle on my dashboard and hit his name. It rings once before he picks up. The sound of his voice through the car speakers is different than it was in the room. It is lower and more intimate, like he’s sitting in the passenger seat instead of lying on his back in a hospital bed.
“Okay,” I say, shifting the car into reverse and pulling out of the spot. “Now, where was I?”
Chapter 13: Mickey
The next morning, the doctor pulls a chair over beside my bed instead of standing. That’s how I know this isn’t a quick update.
“Okay, Mickey,” she says. “I’m going to talk to you straight.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“As we’ve discussed before, you have an incomplete spinal cord injury,” she says. “That means the cord wasn’t completely severed, which is important. The swelling is still interfering with the signals between your brain and your legs. That’s why you’re not seeing movement yet.”
I nod once while tracking every word.
“The fact that it’s incomplete gives us reason to hope,” she continues. “We see patients with injuries like this regain function. The fact that you’re stable and the cord wasn’t severed puts you in that category. But I need you to understand, we don’t know yet how much function is going to come back, or how quickly. The next phase matters. Rehab is where we start pushing the system, retraining the pathways, and seeing what your body can recover.” She pauses and holds my eyes. “You’re not at the end of this, Mickey. You’re at the beginning of it.”
