Traffick (8 page)

all for the sake of circulation. Too bad

I can't feel it. Ronnie used to do that

for me, and boy, did I love . . .

Next thing I know, I'm sobbing.

Suddenly, my right foot jerks. Ouch!

But, wait. Movement? “Hey, what

was that?” Does that mean more

brain connection than we supposed?

The action was involuntary. Federico,

it seems, missed it.
What was what?

“My foot just twitched. Hurt like

hell, too. That's a good sign, right?

Like, maybe you're all totally wrong

and my spine just had to heal more?”

But Federico shakes his head.

That's called spasticity. We've been

wondering if it would affect you.

It usually doesn't first occur until

several weeks post-injury. See,

your muscles have memories, and

even without an intact circuit board,

they try to repeat learned behaviors.

The bad news is, it can be painful,

or at the very least, annoying.

The good news is spasticity

can actually be helpful with bowel

and bladder behaviors, and many

SCI patients utilize it to help them

stand and even walk. One day

at a time. If it becomes a real

problem, there are drug therapies,

so be sure and let a team member

know if the pain is too much.

Team member: one of the nurses,

doctors, physical therapists,

psychologists, and social workers

assigned to my case, just a number

among many on their busy lists.

Federico waits to see if I'll spasm

again, but when that doesn't happen

right away, he spreads the sheet

back up over me. “So, if spasticity

is nothing but my foot remembering

how it used to move, and I'm still

paralyzed, why could I feel it? And

how could it possibly be painful?”

He shrugs.
With incomplete

injuries, it's always possible some

feeling will return. Besides,

the brain is an incredibly

complex machine. Sometimes

its will trumps common wisdom.

Burst my fucking balloon.

The truth is a sharp pin,

and I tumble back down

to earth. “Hey. My brain

tells me I'm hurting. Can

you give me something

for that? You must've

worked me too hard. Or

maybe it's just spastic me.”

He looks unconvinced,

but then he decides,
Tell

you what, Cody. I'll send

in a nurse, but only if you

give me your word that

tomorrow you'll cooperate

and help me get you sitting

up. We've got a long way to go,

and it starts with you upright.

I'd say anything for the key to

oblivion, and besides, as my Kansas

kin might say, my word ain't worth

a pile of manure, so it's a no-brainer.

“I solemnly swear if you eradicate

my pain I'll try to sit up tomorrow.”

Who remains my favorite filly

in a stable of Thoroughbred

caregivers, tries to rip me off

at first, offering acetaminophen,

but I'm not going for that.

Federico isn't overseeing,

so I'll use my latest, greatest

excuse. “Please, Carolyn.

Did Federico tell you? Spasticity

has reared its nasty head, and

I'm in a lot of pain right now.

I need something stronger

than Tylenol!” I wait for her

stern face to soften, and it does

almost immediately. Score.

Oh, all right, as long as

the on-duty physician concurs.

I'll check and be right back.

She isn't gone long, and

when she returns it's with

a healthy (or not) dose of codeine.

Dr. Cabral gave the okay

this time around, but there are

better pain management methods.

I understand spasticity can

cause quite a bit of discomfort,

but so can opiate dependency.

As your rehab progresses,

I'm sure your doctor will

recommend alternatives.

Pill swallowed, agreement

is easy. “I understand. Thanks

for caring, Carolyn.” I reward

her with my very best smile—

the one that swears all will be

well, though that, of course, is a lie.

Okay, then, I'd better get back

to work. You aren't the only

needy patient around here.

As she leaves, the codeine kicks

in and I find myself inexplicably

drawn to the pendulum of her narrow

hips, thoroughly disguised by baggy

powder-blue scrubs. “You're an idiot.”

I scold myself for the transference,

which is also impotent transference.

Obviously, the will of my brain

is trumping its common sense.

In the cradle of the poppy,

all the bad feelings slip away.

Why am I lying here again?

Where am I, anyway? White.

Everything's white, and quiet,

like a winter-quilted mountain

meadow, except it's warm. I like

it warm, and now I know this

can't be snow, because the air

doesn't sting my nose. Inhale.

No sting, but there is perfume.

Apples. That's it. Baked apples,

rich with cinnamon and brown

sugar, and I realize I'm dreaming.

Weird, when you're aware

you're not treading time in the real

world, but rather wandering

another dimension. A drift of apples

fills my nose, and a satin caress

(surely not Federico's!) slides

along the skin of my legs. Legs.

Why does that word bother me?

Not important. What is worthy

of my attention is the force field

rising up around me, a halo

of well-being that can only be love.

I search for the source. Nearby,

she must be nearby. My rock.

There, in the mist, a shadow,

approaching, and growing as

it nears, solidifying. “Ronnie?”

It's no more than a whisper, and

escaping the fog, comes an answer.

I'm here, Cody. I waited for you,

but almost gave up hoping that

you'd come back to me. Wake up.

Her voice is smooth and rich

as frosting. But I still can't see her.

Now she urges,
Open your eyes.

I do and the dream dissolves.

Bedside, in the flesh, is, “Ronnie.”

I start to throw back the sheet,

remember where I am, how I am,

who I've become. “Go away. I

don't want you to see me like this.”

Too damn bad. I have no clue

why you decided to throw “us” away,

Cody, but I won't let it happen.

Every dream does,

but hope saturated this one,

and a tiny piece

of me tries very

hard to

believe my cards

have been re-dealt.

The thought of nurturing

an innocent soul makes love

rise

in me like nothing else

ever has before, not even

lying next to Ginger, wrapped

in the warmth of her sighs.

I am lifted high

above

the landscape of my life.

But now I fall again, desert

scrubbed of sustenance,

without the promise of

my baby, who chooses

surrender

in favor of time with me.

Here at House of Hope,

where everything is regimented,

little variation to any given day.

They say that sameness

is necessary to meeting

expectations, that it's good training

for real-world situations like

keeping a job. Up at six thirty a.m.,

dress for the day, make our beds,

straighten up our rooms. Breakfast

at seven, finish by seven thirty.

Load the dishwasher, if it's your day.

If not, lucky you, fifteen minutes

to read or stare into space before

chapel, where you'll stare into

space even longer. House of Hope

is a Christian home, and morning

prayer meeting attendance is mandatory.

Saving souls. That's what they believe,

and hey, if it works that way, more

power to the Power. The concept

of God is foreign to me. Not even

Gram subscribes to the notion,

at least, she's never mentioned it

to me if she does. Personally,

I'm just happy House of Hope

has rescued my body from abuse.

If there's anything resembling a soul

residing inside me, it probably

does need a little assistance, but

I'm pretty sure listening to Pastor

Martin yak at us won't make

that happen. Doesn't matter.

It's easier than scrounging a living

taking my clothes off, and for the girls

who somehow still
do
believe,

his words seem to offer comfort,

don't ask me why. He sits on

a stool in front of the group, as if

standing would be too much effort.

The amazing thing about our Lord,

Jesus Christ, is his bottomless

supply of love, and all you have

to do to receive it is ask.

That doesn't sound so bad, but he

won't stop there. He never does.

Because, although he would argue

this, Pastor Martin's all about judgment.

First, he straightens his back,

builds himself real tall, tilts

his chin toward his nose. Red

alert: serious stuff headed this way.

Now, you probably think

you've experienced love,

but unlike the men many

of you have known, Jesus

doesn't ask for favors in return,

at least not
that
kind of favor.

All he requires of you is to

accept him into your heart,

and to pray for forgiveness

for your sins. You can do that,

can't you?
The robots group-nod.

Then let us pray. Heavenly Father,

please search our hearts, and

find repentance there. We admit

we have sinned. Forgive us and

allow us to walk forward cleansed

of our transgressions. Infuse us

with your light. Fill us with your

love. In Jesus's blessed name, amen.

We. Us. Our. All-inclusive.

On lumping us all together

under the “troubled youth”

label? I guess our stories

might sound similar,

but to us, they are unique

and personal, despite

the ugly things we have

in common. Most of our

childhoods were marred

by rape, often by older men.

But those might have been

a stepfather, grandfather,

older brother, neighbor,

teacher, priest, doctor,

foster parent, policeman,

or complete stranger.

Faces. Bodies. Odors.

Skin textures. Voices.

Mannerisms. Methods

of attack. All different,

and scratched into our

memories and, worse,

our psyches. We are who

we are because of them.

We attend classes. I balked

at first, knowing I'd be leaving

House of Hope before I'd complete

a semester, but my counselor

did her job and convinced me

I shouldn't get any more behind

than I already am. She even got

hold of my high school in Barstow

and found a way for me to finish

up the classes I was most of the way

through when I ran away last spring.

I worked a little magic.
That's how

she put it when she told me I could

complete geometry, world history,

and sophomore English and receive

credit for them. When I go home,

I'll take online classes, work at

my own pace and hopefully complete

my junior year pretty much on schedule,

or at least by the end of next summer.

I could then, if I wanted, go back

to high school for my senior year

and graduate like a regular kid.

But how do I pretend to be normal?

I've never exactly felt “normal,”

thanks to the circumstances

of my life. And, to be even more

honest, I actually feel more

normal now, knowing how many

other girls' lives don't fit the usual