Are You Alone on Purpose? (7 page)

“I'll think about it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shandling,” said Rabbi Roth. “I appreciate it.” He looked at his watch, and rose. “Well. I'd better be off. They keep strict visiting hours at the rehab unit.”

“I'll see you out,” said Mrs. Shandling. “Adam, say good-bye to Rabbi Roth.”

Rabbi Roth waited. Nothing. “Good-bye, Adam,” he said finally. “I hope to see you soon.” He reached across the table and, very gently, took Adam's hand from where it rested beside the plate. He shook it and put it back down. “Good-bye. And good-bye, Alison.”

Alison nodded back. She watched Rabbi Roth and her mother leave the kitchen.

Rabbi Roth thought Harry's accident had happened because God wanted Rabbi Roth to know he'd made the wrong decision about letting Adam go to Hebrew school.

Alison had wondered, herself, if God was punishing Harry for persecuting her. That had been an awful enough thought. But, in it, at least Harry had actually done the thing he was being punished for.

Rabbi Roth thought Harry was being punished not for his own actions, but for his father's.

It was a far more awful idea.

Alison wondered if Harry knew what his father thought.

H
arry was in his chair in the rec room, practicing lifts and watching
1010 Brookside
on television. At first, he'd sneered at his roommate when Zee turned on the afternoon soap opera, but he'd been watching it with Zee most days for nearly three weeks now, and it was pretty interesting after all. There were some gorgeous babes. Right now Anna, who was some kind of secret agent, was on a stakeout. Something to do with drugs. Anna had a gun, an accent, and a lot of long dark hair that hung over one side of her face. Zee preferred Cecilia, but Harry couldn't see it.

Buzz.

His watch alarm was set so low that only Harry could hear it. Automatically, he tightened his hands on the armrests and lifted his body, shifting his buttocks slightly on the chair's cushion. Lift up, over, down, release. It took only a couple of seconds, and you'd have to watch closely to see that he was doing it. Harry knew that for sure because he'd watched himself in the mirror at the gym.

“Hey,” he said to Zee, “move your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zee grimaced and did, ostentatiously. “Happy, little boy?”

“You want to get sores like Doherty, that's your business,” said Harry, offended. “It's your ass.”

“You'd better believe it,” said Zee.

Harry turned his attention back to the soap, where some guy was sneaking up on Anna from behind. Zee wasn't too regular about his lifts, Harry had noticed. He'd only been trying to help. Well, he wouldn't again. He watched Anna get hit on the head and slump to the ground. So much for her gun.

Buzz. Harry did a lift: up, over, down, release. He had a sudden vision of Doherty's pressure sores, and did a second lift, just for luck.

Eileen Costas, the physical therapist, had made Harry and Zee look at Doherty's sores. Doherty had been flat on his stomach at the time, hospital gown parted so they could see his buttocks. Harry had only just managed to keep from throwing up.

First of all, he'd been embarrassed and humiliated for Doherty. He was a grown-up. How did he feel, lying there, helpless, exposed, a lesson in what not to do? How could Eileen do that to him? How could Doherty let her?

And then there were the sores themselves. Okay, Doherty was a quad, and couldn't use his arms for shifting. Still, though, he should have done something. It was his responsibility. Doherty had even said so himself when Eileen got through lecturing. He'd gotten careless. Eileen said he'd take months to heal, and that was if he was lucky. If not, he'd need surgery. And what if it happened again?

Harry didn't plan to get pressure sores. He didn't plan to have his ass look like that—or be on public display if it did. He had set his watch alarm to go off every five minutes during the day. After a week, Harry figured the shifting would be automatic. If it wasn't, well, he'd go back on the alarm until it was. And then he'd find some way to contend with regular turning in bed at night. By himself.

“What a great idea!” Eileen had said about the watch alarm that morning, had said loudly, enthusiastically. Eileen was always loud and, when she wasn't issuing dire warnings, enthusiastic. Somehow she had found out what Harry was doing. He really didn't know why people couldn't just mind their own business.

But, since the accident, he'd found that people had absolutely no concept of what was and wasn't their business. Take Eileen. She was supposed to do what she was paid for, tell him about pressure sores, exercises, stuff like that. He understood that. And he needed her. He understood that too, even if he didn't like it. But when they were working in the gym, why did she have to answer his questions in such a loud voice? Why did she have to tell other people what he was doing, how he was doing, why he was doing? Why was his body suddenly everybody's business? Why was Doherty's? And even if it was, even if they really did have to know (and he didn't see why all of them had to know everything), then why were they all so determined to make sure he knew they knew?

Harry sighed.
1010 Brookside
was almost over. Anna had been tied up and carried off. It was a funny thing. He felt like Anna. Someone had snuck up behind him and hit him over the head, and now he was tied up, a helpless prisoner. Buzz. A prisoner who had to do lifts. He did one.

A prisoner who had to go and see Dr. Jefferies. Dr. Jefferies was a psychiatrist. Harry had to see her twice a week. Dr. Jefferies was even worse than Eileen. At first she had been useful, had answered many of his questions without his even needing to ask them, had even given him two or three books that'd been kind of helpful.

But lately she'd been trying to get into his head.

Harry wheeled himself out of the rec room and down the ward corridor. He stopped for a second at the nurses' station to let them know where he was going—as if he didn't do the same thing every Tuesday and Friday!—and then pressed the button for the elevator. His watch buzzed while he waited. He did his lift.

“Good job, Harry!” he heard one of the nurses call. “Keep up the lifts!”

Harry winced. He didn't reply, he didn't turn. How could they tell? They shouldn't be able to. He would practice more with the mirror.

At last the elevator arrived. He wheeled in. There was a couple inside, wearing street clothes. They were blocking the buttons.

“Press seven, please,” Harry said. He occupied himself in wheeling around so he was facing forward. Maybe he should have rolled in backward. He'd forgotten about that.

“Sure,” said the man, a little too heartily. Harry could feel his eyes. Looking at the crippled kid. Looking away from the crippled kid. Looking again.

Asshole.

The couple got off on six. An orderly with a patient in a wheelchair—a patient who didn't really need one, Harry noted—got on.

Seven. Harry wheeled out and followed the green painted line on the floor down a couple of corridors and into the next wing, to Dr. Jefferies's office. The door was open. Good. At least he could get the appointment over with on time. Sometimes the previous appointment ran over a little and Harry had to wait. Harry's own appointment never ran over. He watched the clock to make sure of it.

He sighed. He went in.

“Hi, Harry,” said Dr. Jefferies. She was a tallish, thinnish woman with brown eyes and thick gray-brown hair worn in a messy bun. There were age spots on her hands. She had on an oversize white cardigan with big wooden buttons down the front and the name tag KARIN JEFFERIES, M.D. pinned slightly askew on the sweater near her collarbone.

Harry nodded. He wheeled himself to his usual corner, next to the old wooden chair with frayed orange cushions that Dr. Jefferies always sat in. He'd been very surprised by that, at their first meeting. He'd thought she'd sit behind her desk. He had said so, and she had wanted to talk about that for the longest time. But she still sat in the orange chair.

She sat there now, pulling it a little closer to his than he would have liked. Not that he would say anything. He knew better now.

“How are you today, Harry? How are things on the ward?”

“Fine.”

“Have you got anything special you'd like to talk about today? Or ask?”

“No.”

There was silence. It stretched for a full minute before Dr. Jefferies spoke. “Well, Harry. Tell me a little bit about your mother.”

“My mother?” said Harry, suspiciously. “Why? We never talked about her before. Anyway, she's dead. Didn't you know she's dead?”

Dr. Jefferies nodded. “Uterine cancer, wasn't it?”

Harry didn't reply.

“When did she die?” Dr. Jefferies asked.

“Over four years ago,” Harry said, after a pause. He had to answer. It did no good when you didn't answer Dr. Jefferies. She just kept right on. It was exhausting.

“You were eleven? Is that right?”

After another pause, Harry said, “Yes. Well, no. I was almost eleven. It was right before my birthday.

“How close before your birthday?”

He shouldn't have said anything. “The day before.”

“Your mother died the day before your birthday ?”

“Yes.” For no reason, he added: “September twenty-seventh.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Jefferies. She looked thoughtful. “Then her funeral would have been the very next day, the twenty-eighth, on your birthday. Is that right? Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry. It had had to be. His father had said so. It was what Jews did. The funeral had to be right away, within twenty-four hours. Unless it was the Sabbath. You didn't bury anyone on the Sabbath. On your son's birthday, yes, but not on the Sabbath.

“Ah,” said Dr. Jefferies again. “Do you remember the funeral, Harry?”

“No,” said Harry. He wasn't going to tell her about that.

Dr. Jefferies nodded. It was impossible to tell whether she knew he was lying. “What was your mother's name?” she asked, tapping her pencil against her hand. She did that, played with a pencil. She never wrote anything down, at least not while Harry was there. He worried sometimes about whether she did later, whether there was a file somewhere, on her computer maybe, that was full of his personal business. If he wasn't careful, pretty soon they'd have enough information on him in this place to start a library.

“Margaret,” he said.

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

“I have a picture.”

“Do you remember her yourself?”

Sometimes, he thought. Sometimes when I'm about to fall asleep at night. If I don't try too hard. And that time at the supermarket, when I called, when that woman turned around, if it had really been her I would have known. I would have recognized her. I would have remembered what she looked like.

But there were many Margarets to remember. The laughing one, before she got sick. Then the thin, tired one who held him too tightly and scared him with her talk of death. And then, finally, the one his father still talked to when he thought no one was listening.

That one was not his mother. That one belonged only to his father. He hated that one.

Dr. Jefferies had been silent, watching Harry's face. He knew she was waiting for him to answer. He knew he couldn't. He looked away from her. He looked down at his hands, at where they lay on his lap, on top of his useless legs. They're ugly hands, he thought. Ugly legs.

“Does your father ever talk to you about your mother?” Dr. Jefferies asked.

Harry looked at his watch. There were eons left of the fifty minutes. He looked at his hands again. He didn't care what she did. He wouldn't answer.

Dr. Jefferies was tapping the pencil again, silently. “Your father never talks about your mother with you, does he?”

He wouldn't answer.

“Nod if that's right, Harry. Just nod.”

After a minute, Harry nodded.

“Do you know why he doesn't, Harry? Just shake your head yes or no. Do you know why he never talks about her with you?”

Yes, Harry thought. He doesn't need to talk to me. He talks to her. He stared at Dr. Jefferies. He said nothing.

“Do you ever wish he would? Even once?”

Harry swallowed. He kept his eyes on his hands. They were fists. Finally he nodded.

“Have you ever asked him anything about her, Harry?”

He shook his head. No.

“Why not? Did you think that he didn't want to talk about her?”

A nod. Yes.

“You didn't talk about her because your father didn't want to talk about her?”

Yes.

“Do you know why he didn't?”

No.

“Do you talk with anyone about your mother?”

No.

“Does your father?”

Harry shrugged. He doubted it. He tried to take a deep breath. To relax his shoulders. His hands hurt from being clenched. He flexed his fingers.

“You don't know?”

“No,” said Harry aloud. His voice sounded creaky. He cleared his throat. “No,” he said again. That was better. He wasn't going to cry. He looked up at Dr. Jefferies. She was watching him steadily. He looked down again. He wasn't going to cry. She had enough in her files about him.

“Did you love your mother, Harry?”

All the air left Harry's lungs. He felt like Dr. Jefferies had just punched him in the stomach. He stared at her, speechless.

“You loved her, didn't you?”