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“You know, I’ve been trying to prepare myself for this conversation, but I didn’t know how to bring myself to do it,” I reply, considering a forced tear or two and deciding against it. I’m no actor.
“It’s not an easy transition for anybody. Hopefully, she’ll blossom into another version of herself that you’ll love all the same,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
He leaves, and it takes me a good two minutes to steel myself before entering River’s room again. She’s already upset with me for not feeding her delusions about walking. I’d love to see what else she’s got for me today. It’s been nothing but nonstop scoffing and eye rolls for the past few days.
I open the door, and River is sitting near the window expectantly. “So, what was that all about?” she asks in an airy voice.
“I just wanted to go over some of the payment stuff with him. It’s not a big deal. I didn’t want you to feel like you were being held hostage for that conversation,” I reply, evading her completely.
Her eyes soften as she turns her chair towards me. “So, if I can walk again soon like he thinks I’ll be able to, do you think we could try going out together? I really need to talk about this, Adas. I need to feel like there’s hope.”
I brace myself for the coming impact.
I exhale deeply, doing my best not to roll my eyes. “Baby, I just don’t think it’s a good idea to take you out right now. It’s not just your wheelchair. It’s the fact that you’re still a target in a dangerous game. You still don’t trust me the way you need to. I know we had sex and everything, but you’re being too impatient.”
She grabs the nearest heavy projectile, a decorative ceramic bowl, and hurls it at the wall. “You’re just trying to keep me as a fucking prisoner! I bet you love that I can’t just get up and go wherever I want anymore! You love keeping me as a pet, and now that you’re fucking me again, you just want a sex doll! I bet that this accident was the best thing that ever happened to you, you fucking sick freak!”
I’m shocked by her sudden outburst, though I’m not too naïve to know that it’s been in the cards for quite some time. Her condition, along with our argument, has been picking at her nerves endlessly. Expecting someone with a traumatic brain injury to behave consistently and with grace towards every situation is unfair. Even most healthy people can’t do that.
“You’re still not thinking clearly,” I warn. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you. I was literally just talking to your doctor about it.”
“I thought you were just talking about bills!” she shouts, grabbing the next item to her left, which is fortunately just a plastic cup of water. She predictably throws it at me, knowing it won’t hurt if it hits me with the full knowledge that it will send her message loud and clear.
“Fuck you, Adas! I’m not your fucking house pet!” she spits as she wheels herself out the room, practically tossing the door open in her rage. I’m impressed that she can even lift the door open in her wheelchair, and it’s terrifying that she can get angry enough to make it look like it weighs four pounds.
Alone in her room, I can’t help but look around at all of the medical equipment surrounding her bed from when she first got here. It’s hard to look at even for a few moments without feeling a little depressed. I can’t imagine how she must feel looking at it constantly.
If she’s going to leave the house, she needs to at least show me some kind of initiative.
I’m just not sure what yet.
14
RIVER
I’ve run off to the garden again, which has quickly become my sanctuary from everything that could ever bring me grief. So far, the only thing that’s done that has been Adas and my broken body. They’re really the only two things I have in my life right now, which makes me feel extremely guilty when I look at everything I get to have in this house.
It feels doubly unfair that the only two things I have after surviving such an accident have to cause me so many fucking problems. What’s the point of a body that doesn’t work? What’s the point of a house I can’t enjoy?
What’s the point of a husband who treats me like a coworker?
All I can do is stare out into the horizon and seethe. I don’t want to read, and I definitely don’t want to listen to any music that Adas insists that I used to love. It feels like he doesn’t know me at all.
Sitting alone in the garden with so many emotions at war makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. Throwing that bowl at the wall was a great release, but it wasn’t enough. No amount of broken ceramic will remedy what’s going on inside me.
Just as I couldn’t be less excited to see him, Adas joins me in the garden.
“Go the fuck away. I really don’t want to see you right now,” I hiss.
“No, just listen to me. I was thinking about what you said, and I agree. It has to be hard as hell to live in a chair every waking minute of your life. I’ll take you out on a date, but only on one condition,” he says, deliberately sitting across from me so that I can’t avoid him.
“Ugh, what is it?” I say, exasperated and still a little enraged.
“If you’re going to leave the house with me, I need to know that you can fire a gun. I need to see you do it confidently. That’s all you need to do.”
At first, the request feels like a joke, like he’s mocking me.
“What about all that other shit you said?” I reply with agitation.
