Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 20

I hear the door slam shut; father is going to work. August should be leaving for school shortly. In the meantime, I have to wait for mother to finish preparing his lunch—most likely peanut butter and jelly with an M&M cookie for dessert—before she can come in and help me out of bed. To be fair, I'm not normally up this early. Why would I be? There's nothing to do once I'm up, not a whole lot to live for anymore. If I'm asleep, then at least I'm not aware of my disability. Sleep is my drug.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and send mother a text message letting her know that I am awake. About ten minutes later, she raps her knuckles against my bedroom door, then shuffles in. Our eyes lock together for a moment; guilt and sorrow mask all other expressions on her face. I can only imagine what's going through her head. There's only one thing harder than suffering from paraplegia—watching someone you love suffer from paraplegia.

She moves over to the window and draws back the peach-colored curtains. "I'm thinking today is gonna be a bum day; television and junk food. Whaddya say?" She puts on a smile as she says it, but it quickly droops; her lips form into a flat line.

I nod weakly at her proposal, not feeling like using words to respond.

She tucks a hand behind my neck and another under my back, huffing as she drags me off the bed and onto my wheelchair. My bottom lip quivers with suppressed anger. Mother isn't that strong; she's barely able to get me out of bed by herself. How long will it be before she gets tired of this daily routine?

You're such a burden, McKenzie.

Once I'm seated comfortably, I wheel my chair into the bathroom where I drain the ostomy bag in the toilet, then fasten a fresh one to my waist, pulling my green Henley shirt down over it so it's hidden from view. Though, even after doing so, there's a noticeable bulge from underneath the shirt.

What has my life become?

Mother is now in the kitchen pulling strawberry Pop-Tarts out of the toaster. They smell a little burnt. August always likes his that way. He calls it "crispy"; says it caramelizes the sugary fruit inside. I call it what it really is—burnt. The truth is I don't think he even knows how to properly operate the toaster, which results in a burnt Pop-Tart every time.

I park my chair next to the couch and mother brings me a plate filled with two extra crispy Pop-Tarts. I end up peeling off the burnt edging, but they still taste good.

After watching our third consecutive episode of Chopped in honor of Aurora, the doorbell rings unexpectedly. Mother hops off the couch to answer it and I clear the dirty dishware and place them in the sink. I'm barely able to reach it from this seated position, and sort of just drop the dishes inside—they clank loudly as they hit the bottom of the sink. When I return, I'm completely stunned at the person I see standing in the room.

It's Xander!

Mother looks over at me with a sheepish grin. "Honey, look who was at the door."

As if I hadn't already realized that on my own, mother. I'm paralyzed, not blind!

My palms moisten and my heart begins to pound.

What is he even doing here? I thought Xander had already left for college. I'm not dressed appropriately, my hair is a total mess, and I have no makeup on whatsoever. I can't let him see me like this. Why is he even here? He shouldn't be here.

I place my moist hands over the wheels and move to the darkest corner of the room, hoping the shadows will act as a veil. "X-xander. What, um—what are you doing here?" I nervously clear my throat. "I thought you left for Duke last week?"