Machine Man - Max Barry [7]
“I’m hot.”
“No you’re not.” Hospital people walked by, entered the lobby doors. Dave sucked in breath. “Three more.”
“This isn’t helping.”
“It’s not helping because you won’t let it help.”
“It’s because I’m missing a leg. Breathing doesn’t help with that. It doesn’t help at all.”
Dave’s eyes held no pity. “Feeling sorry for yourself?”
Dave was wearing shorts. I had been trying not to let that bother me, but he was wearing shorts, with two fit, tan legs bursting out and running down to socks and sneakers, and wasn’t that a little unfair to a guy in a wheelchair with a bloated, mutant, itching stump? I didn’t want to be that guy. That angry cripple guy. But I was a cripple and Dave’s legs were making me angry.
“Just another chapter, buddy,” said Dave. “A new chapter in your life waiting to be written.”
“It’s not a chapter. It’s a loss. It’s a regression.”
“All in how you see it.”
“It’s not. It’s objectively verifiable. I’m less.”
Dave squatted. He put a hand on my left wheel. “Let me tell you about a guy who came through here about five years ago. He’d had an industrial accident just like you. Lost both legs. Right up to the hip. Used to be a water skier. Professionally. But day one, when he came out of surgery, he decided, That was my old life. He said, Now I start my new life. I told him to write the next chapter, man, and he did. You know what he’s doing now?”
I pushed Dave’s hand off my wheel, got my hands on the grips, and shoved myself away. People stood aside to let me wheel by, one furious revolution at a time.
“He’s winning medals!” Dave shouted. “In the Paralympics!”
I WOKE from an afternoon nap to find a woman in a chair beside my bed. The chair hadn’t been there before. She had brought it. She had a large black case, like a portfolio. She was neat and corporate. Her facial bones were prominent and symmetrical. She was blond. “Hey, you.” Her lips twisted sympathetically. “How are you?”
“What?”
“I’m Cassandra Cautery. From the company.” Her head tilted. “We miss you, Charlie. I hope they’re taking good care of you. Are they? Your comfort is my priority.”
“Um,” I said.
“Good.” She smiled. She was very attractive to be giving me this much eye contact. I felt strange, as if I had been mistaken for someone else. She handed me a business card. It said, CASSANDRA CAUTERY. Crisis Manager.
I said, “It was my fault. The accident.”
“Would you mind signing a statement to that effect?” She flipped open her portfolio and handed me a paper. It was a letter, from me. “I’m sorry. This may feel abrupt. It’s just … well, as you say, it was your fault.” She popped a pen and offered it to me.
I wondered if I should get a lawyer. It felt like that kind of situation. But the letter was true. I raised the knee I still had, positioned the paper, and signed.
“Thank you.” She made it disappear into her portfolio. “I appreciate that. Now let’s talk about you. About what you need to get back on your feet.” Her smile wavered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“That slipped out.”
“It’s …” I shrugged.
“Ramps. Leave. We’ll make it happen. We’re that kind of company.”
“Okay.”
“Are you sure everything here is perfect? There’s nothing at all?”
“No,” I said. “Well. I don’t like my physical therapist.”
I NEVER saw Dave again. That afternoon I was visited by Nurse Veronica, who fiddled with the flowers by my bed. “Would you … what would you like to do this afternoon, Charlie?”
“Stay here,” I said.
“In bed?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said.
I DIDN’T get up for two days. I’m not counting bathroom visits. I did have to leave the bed for those. I had to shuffle into my wheelchair, steer onto the tiles, and drag myself onto the toilet. Then there was nothing to do but look at my stump. The stocking was off and the draining tubes removed. I no longer leaked. I was nothing but pink skin and black stitches. I didn’t like the bathroom visits because I didn’t like the stump.
But in bed, things were okay. I had my phone. I had wi-fi. I logged on to my work account and wrote notes.