Underneath

Helen’s book slid off the bed as she adjusted her dead limbs beneath the duvet. Ugh! C’mon!! She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in slow motion. Leaning over, she could see the navy blue hardback at the foot of the armchair, staring up at her. Stupid book! She eyeballed it, annoyed that she was actually enjoying chapter 5. She lifted her gaze to the bedroom door that stood ajar; she could bark for help, but that would mean 3 too many minutes of constipated dialogue. I’m cripple, not dying. Nope! Helen swung her upper body over the side of the bed, believing that her lifeless bottom half would anchor her as she reached a wide open palm to grab the book. A tingle of pride crept up her arm as her fingers caught the corner of it. She was helping herself – solving her own little problem - when she noticed the heap underneath her bed.

Shoes!

Neat sandals and viciously sequinned pumps tumbled over bulky athletic sneakers and practical flats. Helen recognised them all, each holding a memory of her former mobility. Chapter 5 quickly slipped from her mind. She hung off the edge of the bed, unable to feel her slack legs as they began to skate downwards. She longingly eyed her Italian leather boots. A first date favourite and the best addition to her wardrobe, the bronze buckles mocked her now.

Let’s go on a date, Helen. Take me dancing.

She saw the red russet high heels she wore to her defence presentation, where Dr. Finbar discredited her theory of recall. Her research was since published and had multiple citations. Helen saw the muddy cleats she’d wear to women’s soccer each week. Her mother always thought that a contact sport would be the culprit, stealing her graceful gait – not the accident. Wrong again, mom. Her feet came down heavy and loose, reverberating through the upstairs. Helen watched her legs fall like oversized egg noodles, feeling nothing but a slight bounce off the cherry wood floor. It had been 23 weeks since the car collision, her doctors still hopeful that she’d at least hobble again. Fucking false hope dealers, all of them. These days, the funnest part about physical therapy was reduced to her counting how many hands carted her miserable remains around from sun-up to bed time.

Flat out on the floor, Helen continued to scan the clutter beneath her bed, waiting for the panicked voices down the hall to get closer. She looked harder, squinting through the low lit space, the fluff of nostalgia now weighed down with despair. Her frisbee. The only welcomed interruption from laying splayed on a towel perfecting her tan. Summer was a handful of weeks away, she counted. And like glue, July and August bonded everyone together with shrimp salad and lounge chairs and sun screen. Whatever winter stole away, summer happily replenished. Not this summer…not any summer…no more. Helen rubbed her fisted hand across her nose, her knuckles smearing the tears into her cheeks, as her mother bounded through the door.

“Helen needs help,” I don’t need help, she could smell the stiffness in the drink her mother was clutching.

That night, Helen barely slept, feeling buried like the memories underneath her bed.

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“Do you want to join us for breakfast, darling?”

Mrs. Barry’s thorny question would come through the door each morning before she did. And then she glided into the bedroom, her usual polished smile accompanying her. The smile never could hide her sympathy, though, as she changed Helen’s urine bag and adjusted her catheter.

“In bed… I’ll have lunch in bed.” Helen couldn’t look at her mother, her shattered ego kept her eyes averted as her mother tucked her legs back under the blanket. Helen fixed her gaze on the bookshelf across the room. At least she still had books. “No breakfast.”

“Helen …” Mrs. Barry hated to admit that sometimes she just didn’t have the words. Didn’t know what her daughter needed to hear. Didn’t know what her daughter needed. She held her hand for a moment longer, her mom jeans gathering at the hip as she sat at the edge of the bed. They looked a lot like, Helen and her mom. Bright brown eyes and full lips, and delicate hands that gave Helen’s a little squeeze as she stood up to leave.

“Whatever you decide.” Her mild response hung low in the room as she left. Whatever I decide. Some days, Helen had decided that surviving the crash was the real accident. And she suffocated on the fear that maybe her mother had days like that too.