Page 57 of Brain Damage

“This does not reassure me,” I say. “You know that having a gun in the house puts members of the household at higher risk for being shot themselves, right?”

Clark rolls his eyes. “It’s not like we’re a couple of redneck idiots. We’ll be careful.”

I look over at the weapon in his hand. The idea of being so close to a gun makes me ill. I don’t want it in my home.

“Honestly,” Clark says, “I can’t believe you never bought a gun yourself. I mean, you’re a single woman, living all alone right by the park. You don’t even have a doorman. You really ought to have a weapon.”

“I have knives.”

Clark raises his eyebrows. “You really think you’d stand a chance during a break-in with a knife?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Clark, I’m not shooting anyone. I don’t even know how.”

“It’s easy. You just point the business end at the person you want to shoot, and pull the trigger. It’s not brain surgery.” He grins. “Or dermatology.”

I don’t return his smile. “You know, that drawer doesn’t even lock.”

“So we’ll get a lock,” Clark says. “It’s not like we have a kid who’s going to stumble across the gun.”

“What about Kitty?”

Clark stares at me. “Are you saying you think your cat is going to open your desk drawer, take the gun out, and accidentally shoot us?”

When he says it that way, it doesn’t seem incredibly likely.

“Look,” Clark sighs, “you didn’t want to go to the police when you got that threatening letter. I’m just trying to help here.” He pauses. “I think you need to give the gun a chance.”

“Fine,” I say.

I am getting rid of that gun. As soon as I figure out how to dispose of a gun and work up the nerve to actually touch it, that gun is gone.

39

AFTER

Today I’m doing physical therapy in the hallway with Natalie. I’m sitting in my wheelchair, and she’s standing in front of me, her hands on her hips and her shiny brown hair pulled into a high ponytail that swings behind her head. Natalie is skinny but she’s very strong. When she helps me walk during my Walking Group, the wiry muscles bulge in her arms below her scrub top.

“Today,” Natalie says, “we’re going to work on wheelchair mobility. I’d like you to get better at pushing your own wheelchair. That would be better for you than a power wheelchair.”

Natalie looks very young, but she seems so confident all the time. Like she’s been doing this for a million years.

“Why do we need to do that if you’re teaching me how to walk?” I ask.

A tiny crease appears between Natalie’s eyebrows. “Walking is good exercise,” Natalie says, “but you have to realize, Charly, you’re not going to be walking well enough when you leave here. You’re going to be primarily using your wheelchair to get around when you go home. Probably for a while. You know that, right?”

“Oh.” I didn’t know that. I try not to let on how much this disappoints me. Despite how awful I’ve been doing in my Walking Group, I still assumed I’d be walking at the point that I left here. “For how long?”

Natalie shakes her head. “I can’t predict that.”

At least the answer isn’t “forever.”

Natalie straightens up and gets real close to me. “Okay, Charly,” she says. “Put your hands on the push rims of the chair.”

I do as she says.

“No,” she says. “Put both hands on the rims.”

“I am,” I insist.